TPR
I feel in need of a satellite navigation system for life at the moment - little bit dazed and confused. Freedom is never that iridescent green thing it seems from beyond the fence. It has potential, though, if I can avoid becoming too dispersed in ever-expanding shapeless days, edges of which melt and meld into a vast jelloid glop. Tactic currently being employed, which does NOT work, is to haul myself up every few minutes and remind myself I should be doing Something with my life. Nothing like that imperative to kill the moment, and everything else in a wide radius.
Communications continue with t’training body. Seems they heard me and they’re assuring me they will learn from my experience with future intakes, but truth is, I ain’t feeling that charitable and the waste of my own 7 years is the sort of painful I’m not sure yet what to do with. (Syntax? Be buggered).
All sorts of bits and bobs of the leaving process keep surfacing - it’s like an illness that has to work through many different flowerings of itself. First there was the need for weekly trips to the osteo and massage shop to de-clench a neck so knotted it clicked every time I moved my head and hurt like a steel cage had been fitted over my skull. It was almost as if all those years in a straight-jacket had finally worked themselves to the surface, and were manifesting in some weirdly concrete muscular dance. My temperature is also rising towards normal, which is good, but I feel cheated of the drugs I was going to have! Temper is a quick-boiling thing still, just below the surface, but gradually de-crinkling (as far as it ever de-crinkles in these irascible parts) and sleep is returning for the first time in forever and that, in itself, is worth much.
When I first staggered away I felt like a starving thing, starving for the sensory rather than food, and spent a month cramming myself with visual images and colour and texture, pouring it into my eyes and down my screech as if I had been in a sensory deprivation chamber for years. Which, I suppose, I had. I remember sitting across from someone in a seminar who, in that drab and earnest sea of beige, was wearing a vermillion shawl. I fell hopelessly into the pool of it, like an insect into nectar, and didn’t hear a word that was spoken. After the bingeing of images came the ferocious urge for makeymakey and I now live to go to pottery on Mondays and make my lumpen shapeless creations. An interesting thing, to love something and to be bad at it. I have the sea of many coloured latex too, and have been fiddling with my tiger corset to unravel the mysteries of underwiring and bra cups. They suggest you start with tops and skirts, simple garments with a couple of straight seams, but if I wanted to wear generic rubber I’d buy it in the shops.
And so there are things. Small movements. Like some chronic invalid, I feel, or some recently-released prisoner, who is eversoslowly groping their way towards the light.
But writing though. Ah. That’s like a very tired old woman bending to dip her ladle into a broth so thin and so meagre that it’s almost not worth the effort of bringing it to her lips. There dark clouds and thunder lie.
Communications continue with t’training body. Seems they heard me and they’re assuring me they will learn from my experience with future intakes, but truth is, I ain’t feeling that charitable and the waste of my own 7 years is the sort of painful I’m not sure yet what to do with. (Syntax? Be buggered).
All sorts of bits and bobs of the leaving process keep surfacing - it’s like an illness that has to work through many different flowerings of itself. First there was the need for weekly trips to the osteo and massage shop to de-clench a neck so knotted it clicked every time I moved my head and hurt like a steel cage had been fitted over my skull. It was almost as if all those years in a straight-jacket had finally worked themselves to the surface, and were manifesting in some weirdly concrete muscular dance. My temperature is also rising towards normal, which is good, but I feel cheated of the drugs I was going to have! Temper is a quick-boiling thing still, just below the surface, but gradually de-crinkling (as far as it ever de-crinkles in these irascible parts) and sleep is returning for the first time in forever and that, in itself, is worth much.
When I first staggered away I felt like a starving thing, starving for the sensory rather than food, and spent a month cramming myself with visual images and colour and texture, pouring it into my eyes and down my screech as if I had been in a sensory deprivation chamber for years. Which, I suppose, I had. I remember sitting across from someone in a seminar who, in that drab and earnest sea of beige, was wearing a vermillion shawl. I fell hopelessly into the pool of it, like an insect into nectar, and didn’t hear a word that was spoken. After the bingeing of images came the ferocious urge for makeymakey and I now live to go to pottery on Mondays and make my lumpen shapeless creations. An interesting thing, to love something and to be bad at it. I have the sea of many coloured latex too, and have been fiddling with my tiger corset to unravel the mysteries of underwiring and bra cups. They suggest you start with tops and skirts, simple garments with a couple of straight seams, but if I wanted to wear generic rubber I’d buy it in the shops.
And so there are things. Small movements. Like some chronic invalid, I feel, or some recently-released prisoner, who is eversoslowly groping their way towards the light.
But writing though. Ah. That’s like a very tired old woman bending to dip her ladle into a broth so thin and so meagre that it’s almost not worth the effort of bringing it to her lips. There dark clouds and thunder lie.