Hell in a pink tracksuit

you know things are bad when you're sitting in a pdust pink trasckwuit wiht Phil COllins going throgh your head.

the above scenario is so ghastly that I have to write it as an abstract conjecture.

I've Had an exquisitely shitty couple of days, that have borught me to a new low ebb.

Last week I had to give a lecture on homophobic violence - performing as the respectable face of queerdom when I'm not feeling very queer at all......

more like queasy

but I managed

managed with the binarised bloody text we had which thank god some student managed to critique as bi-phobic.

Dealt wiht the abjecting sneers of homophobic students staring at me in tutes, and I'm thinking 'god if only you knew'

Then raced through the next days teaching, did yoga, came home exhausted.

Fought with Abel, and then got collected by the consort - for a week's escape, along with ditheringly assembled chattels.

Somehow did my best, fighting fury and panic to work on a scrappy paper for a departmental presentation. I wanted to try out a different chapter strucutre, and tyr out a different ficto cirticla rant that I kind of liked.

well - despite crunching away on it for a day and a night and morning, no, well it floppped really.

shit

I was so tired on friday I could have wept.

consort aand i went tout to some concert - great music, really amazing - then I collapse on his couch befor ebeing coaxed to bed.

saturday was exquisite.

apart from crying, all morning, even during meditation.

Sunday I also cried during meditation. Can't remember what else - oh yeah, wlaking adn swimming wiht a firend, rnning madly to meet the ocnsort ofr an eevning yoga class, hihc left my limbs aching, but kind of limber.

Monday - no meditation, just sobbing, crying crying crying, doing half the manly to spit walk, while tyring to read a Barthes book for the purpsoses of teahcing, book reviewing this week. Crying ad writing mad long love letters to the consort. Met wiht another manly firned, wlkaed, chatted deeply and distractedly.

Left flowers, words and tears at the consorts flat and trudged home wiht some chattels. Exhausted I collapsed.

inside all is hell, outside it's all sweetness and light.

Abel kind of sort of has a possibility of staying in another offiically vacant house in the coop - whihc the incumbent former tenant refuses to surrender tho - so he's squatting there and won't hand over the keys.

so she's crahsing a tthe neighbours, trying to avid me, and I'm here, tyring to make my little next into a safe sweet studious shell.

the coop where I live is a fucking joke. Larz von Triers crossed with Solzenitzen.

Im back there this week. because I need to work, to thingk, to prepare. because it's the only home I've got until next march.

because I'm going overseas in 4 months so don't want to move house beofre.

becaus eI don't want to be anyone's wife. I need my space, my stuff, my centre.

home is a place to dream.

even though I've got insomnia - I can get up, move aorund, sit up and write till dawn like tonight. i'm on my own time here.

I feel like the wheels are falling off the cart.

i'm not coping, fucking up uni, fucking up the thesis, letting things slide.

Feel like i've bitten off more than I can chew with the consort, feel overwhelmed, scared, pressured.
also delighted, trusting, soothed, aroused, healed.

it's too easy for me to collapse in his arms, to run away and hide in his home, to play at someone, somehting new. but it doesn't stop the pain, the hardness the reality of my lonely effort at living and working here.

so I'm retreating from the shit that bugs me, from the coop, from other stuff, fun stuff, gratuitously hanging out with the consort, wasting time because we can. I'm retreating from Abel, because nothing I can do or say will change anything.

trying to eat more salad, keep walking, reading, planning, meditating.