Friday 9 June 2017
Of imaginary Fjalkinge storage units and Eket cabinet combinations.
Sometimes I manage to convince myself that I've got all my shit in a pile. I look around the room and studiously avoid the spots where my shit lies in tangled heaps. Strung from picture hooks and curtain rails. I place my hands over my eyes where I can't avoid the pieces dangling from the light fixture like sneakers hanging from overhead power lines. I ignore it's shattered remnants that lie down the hallway and across the kitchen bench, leading to a haphazard selection of stepping stones trailing out the back door and into the backyard. I zig zag around the pieces and find the spot in the yard where I can fix my eyes on the back fence where no piece of the shit shamozzle hangs.
I sit on the ground and ignore the pieces that jut into my crossed legs and breathe in the illusion of control and organisation. Stare straight ahead. Eyes fixed on the whorl in the grey weather-beaten paling. Trace the lines that never quite connect. Separate dark grey from light. Ignore the piece of spider web that covers the edge. It's all about perspective. Crop the picture in my minds eye. Vignette and Tilt Shift my new best friends.
Ignore the internal shaking that heralds the fall. Ignore the greying vision that sweeps in and out. Unless of course they add to the filter. Inkwell or Willow? Remove the colour, as the colour drains from my face once more.
Exhaustion probably isn't the best lens to look through.
To act through.
I look back at the last few weeks and try to pin point the cause. Is it the new med? I've been slowly titrating my dose. But the side-effects have been creeping up the closer I get to my goal dose. First a whisper and then a scream. I can no longer ignore them or stuff them away. Is it the pain? It's been far worse of late. With the added joys of tweaking my back and screwing my neck in the middle of a cat-cow yoga move that weeks later still hasn't fully let up. Is it the gastric issues? Everything is hurting of late. And nothing is coming out. I dread eating but force myself to fuel the machine. Is it the vertigo that has started with the neck injury? Not shocking but enough that movements feel slow and deliberate all the time. Is it the blood pressure that has been more labile than usual. The overall malaise that suffuses my being. All of it is present and at different times each forces it's way through the crowd to demand the most attention. A constant barrage of complaints with each demanding it's moment in the spotlight, but it's duets and chorus all the way.
And my shit falls from my arms as I try to carry it all. I tell myself I've got it but in reality I haven't. My body is fickle. This disorder, this illness, the genetic shitfight that weaves it's magic through viscera and bone, demands my undivided attention. A toddler screaming in the ailse at Woolies, it wants what it wants and it wants it now. It'll wear me down until I acquiesce.
No matter what I tell myself.
But still I cling to the fallacy.
A selection of Ikea storage solutions dot the rooms of my imagination. My shit is neatly stored in a series of Fjalkinge storage units and Eket cabinet combinations. My floors and walls unmarred by their strewn presence. And all is well with my little world of denial.
I pop on a dress and pretend that an hour out wont set me back further. I recline the chair in the car and drive to the next town to do a spin around Kmart and the purchase of some unnecessary accessories. Sending me to bed to drool comatosed on my pillow for hours.
I take a snap shot and add the filter. I crop and blur. I'll live my life in pieces that'll never meet up.
Because my shit is in it's neat little pile. Can't you see?
Well except for all the times that it isn't.
Listening to a lot of PJ Harvey of late. Playing it loud and singing badly. Apologies to my neighbours.