Don't even bother knocking.

Gray's at work. I've locked the front door. I don't want to talk to anyone. I am having my third day of rest. It's good. I need it. Leave me be, world. Leave me be.

Late night after Monday One.

Everything seems numbered. This is Day 19 of A Secret Plan. This is Monday One (of the Mondays after I have finished Work). This is Day Two (now Three) of Having Quit Work.

Soon I will have more numbers to reduce the dizzying possibilities. Dance schedules and Art Classes. And then more numbers, with which to measure myself.

A is for God Awful.

So, underneath all the anxiety and strange feelings and anger - there are three more days at work - so much I wish I'd done - I wish I'd completely re-organised the filing system for example - I think my fears are mainly that it won't end. That somehow it will go on. All that anguish and unfairness and callous stupidity. And of course it will.
My mother said something kind to us on the telephone. We'd lamented the repetition, fearing it was us. You know - as in 'the only thing all your dysfunctional relationships have in common is YOU' slap-in-the-face school of wisdom. And Mum said that there were many things in common between my old workplace anguish and this latest bout of workplace anguish that had nothing to do with me, and that those factors in a workplace inevitably lead to unreasonable expectations and blame. There's some truth in that.
But why does it have to be so?
How could I have got out of there with some grace?
Have I got out with some grace?

Insert 'insert witty title here' here.

So, just jo says thea should have posted her angst here, but the whole system's a giant muddle anyway. I think it's time we re-designed EVERYTHING. And while we're at it individual icons would be good, and a place to put book and movie and TV reviews. I think we need everything in ONE place, but lots of room for individual expression. Unfortunately, we will squabble over every single detail so it just isn't going to happen. Also, we have no episodic memory. What???
I'm Shell, and here's Just Jo too.
Hi.
Hi.
I can't really see the advantage of changing things again. We haven't really managed to stick to the old plan, what makes you think a new plan is going to help?
I want peacocks.
Yeah. Me too.

Now with twice the angst.

I see my A is for Angst post got printed twice.
Maybe I'll fix that.
Maybe I won't.
I like to keep a little suspense going for you, noble readers.

A is for...

It's crap being multiple sometimes.

The hardest thing for some of us is the relentless patter of little realisations; everyone with its own character; all variations on a theme: the bigger realisation that we can pretty much forget about being known for who we really are or even known in any kind of meaningful way as individuals.

That's so painful it makes me (thea) want to die because I may as well be dead, I say, bitterly to my empty cup, nobody knows me anyway and nobody ever will see me as I truly am.
Of course that's not absolutely true, but it's true enough to ache, constantly.
There, at last, some angst of the sort this journal was MADE for.

A is for...

It's crap being multiple sometimes.

The hardest thing for some of us is the relentless patter of little realisations; everyone with its own character; all variations on a theme: the bigger realisation that we can pretty much forget about being known for who we really are or even known in any kind of meaningful way as individuals.

That's so painful it makes me (thea) want to die because I may as well be dead, I say, bitterly to my empty cup, nobody knows me anyway and nobody ever will see me as I truly am.
Of course that's not absolutely true, but it's true enough to ache, constantly.
There, at last, some angst of the sort this journal was MADE for.

Aubergine Misognyny.

The guy on the phone yesterday (some scam. they've latched onto one of my volunteers, who is only 18, and usually a very sensible lad but gave them his full name, too polite for his own good, etc.) called me a "fucking whore bitch tramp".

It's been a long time since anyone has done anything like that.

Insults have been snide and sidelong, but I don't think I've been called 'whore' or 'tramp' for a long time. At the protests, sure, insults were vicious and frequent - but rarely unexpected.

A car full of army guys in Hometown once yelled out abuse like that at me, as I was getting out of "The Monster" (what a car!) at 318 Stanley St, when it was a wobbly old Queenslander and not a block of flats. I was with Joakim. I still remember my face burning and my stumbling apology (cultural cringe?) to my lover, see .... he is not from here, see, he is from OVERSEAS, you know, from a civilised country... where they don't yell at random women from cars ... perhaps that is what I was thinking... what I remember feeling is ~ ashamed.

Likewise yesterday, on the telephone, hung up. In an empty room, I looked out of the windows and then made myself a cup of tea, and I felt so very ashamed. The insults ringing in my ears, I went to the bathroom and washed my face.
Did you know that after ringing in your ears a few times "fucking whore bitch tramp" can sound a bit like "fucking aubergine".

Sick, sick, quick.

Aargh.
It is such a harrowing time for us right now. So many polly people jumping about. Gray's interview yesterday - no answer yet - everything so uncertain.
No idea what version of rule Polly HQ will be under - this depends on that depends on this and so on like a demented ad for a certain lower middle-class/working class respectable women's clothing store.
Ugh.

Prom night.

Gray has twirled around in five different outfits so far.

We're okay. Just a bit confused about the future.
We're all so much kinder to each other now than ever before.
So there's nothing to fear really.
We'll take care of each other.
This time.

Day Five.

Day Five of the small not-a-resolution thingy we're doing is going well.
Might talk about it at some point.
Might not.

I don't want to hear about your big decisions.

This post is in code.

1. the number three
2. the number one


's okay.

How are you?

Train. Bell.

27 - 3 = 24
Then what???
Trouble's been a good front, I guess. Pretty stable, if a little unfriendly. S/he likes packing lunches the night before. S/he likes numbers. S/he likes making the till balance. S/he's been good. Like most dungeon, she likes being the biggest kid in the pool. Calypso too.
For years we've skated around the idea of Pia returning. Sometimes when writing S. (our novel) we felt her presence in a character. The dream of fish and bean sprouts up on the coast where it's hot, in the shack.... she liked the sound of that. The isolation, the madness, the slight desperation.
Is it our choice? Or is that just a story we tell each other?
Just as a child might believe that the train come because the bell rings.

Crazy.

We quit because we wanted it to stop. But it doesn't stop.

Multiple marriage.

It is so hard to watch him only wanting some of us.*


*ie. not me.