then a day indoors with the bug and drive / a lurgy day in bed with that sunk feeling

what goes up must come down? i’d been busy clearly, pushing myself hard in my work outs, socialising, caught a bug. i’m just getting over one as i write now actually. it’s been hanging around for ages. almost two weeks of low energy and blocked up tubes.

for me, when i am sick, i get depressed. i am prone to depression anyway due to my autism, and sometimes i won’t know i’ve got a cold (i also have alexithymia) but will just feel really down and miserable. and then it is a relief the next day when my nose is blocked and i realise life will be fine in a couple of days when it passes.

savour the flavour of copper coins on dry tongue / screw a shelf on, climb the wall, nacho un [] upable

i find that i have the appetite for this less and less lately. those workouts that bring the taste of blood to your mouth. i’m in a bit of a slump today as i write this. so far today i have cancelled a vo2 max workout, an easy run, a gentle climb, and tomorrow’s social ride as well. i’ve had the cold for over a week and i’m just done in.

i used to be obsessed with my training program. i kept spreadsheets. i tracked the numbers. a rise in my resting heartrate to 52 would cause panic. i spent a lot of time learning about training zones. heart rate zones. power zones. i became obsessed with the match between the two zonetypes. any drift would cause alarm.

anyway. i guess i decided to write poetry instead of doing that. and, of course, poetry led to learning piano, music theory, videography, instagram, blogging. i have a habit of finding a way to keep myself urgently busy.

so i push through the pain in warm air for a buzz later

we endure pain now for pleasure later. we feel pleasure now for pain later. it’s funny that. are there things that feel good now and lead to feeling good later too? lovemaking springs to mind. as long as the contraception works. and of course things that feel bad and have bad consequences. but why can’t more things be like lovemaking? fun and good for you. i suppose my poetry is a bit like that too.

i used to dream often about delayed gratification. dreams where i would endlessly shop but never check out. or find money on the ground, an infinite amount, and spend the dream picking it up but never spending it.

how do you know when to stop picking up the pennies and to start spending them?

no and today is so much better than yesterday / infinitely, nice things are nicer than nasty ones

this is a reference to lucky jim by kingsley amis. i had referenced his son a week or so prior. two witty 20th century men. they are dying out, the 20th century men of letters. clive james. christopher hitchens. milan kundera are a few i remember grieving. a lot of them died long before i was born though. george orwell. graham greene.

i think the 20th century novel will forever be tempting to me. modern enough that i understand the social relationships. but historic enough that plots don’t have to be squeezed painfully around mobile phones, gps and dna evidence. a simpler time. more scope for (getting away with) mischief.

and the 21st century novel? we will talk of the 21st century women, not men. we will talk of rooney, smith and mantel, not even bothering with first names, because these are important women of letters.

what are you reading?

how can you not trust me after all we have been through? / is this the end for me and you?

this was, is, a blindness of mine. i demand to be believed, loved and understood, but what i say may seem far-fetched, and i can come across as stand-offish and avoiding.

one thing about the daily diaristic element of the love epochal is that on review it’s sort of reassuring to see how often i swing from despair to elation. i take every loss, lurgy or setback hard, like it’s the end of all things. then the next day i’m like “today it was sunny and i had the nicest meal out and saw a deer, life is fucking great.”

do you keep a diary?

an intractable issue that we must address, and i guess the time is nowish

i am a people pleaser. i hate conflict. i have a tendency towards secrecy. it is quite recently that i felt able to talk about how i feel and confront the issues in my life. finding out i am autistic has been quite helpful in that it has given a sort of framework through which to analyse my strengths and weaknesses. but it took a lot of therapy before i was in a place that i was even ready to ask those questions of myself.

i have always hated myself and wanted others to love me. but i am trying now to love myself. to extend the same generosity for my mistakes that i would grant anyone else.

a storm steals my ride so we climb pint eat and breeze (and on, and on) / it’s better to be generous to the best of your means (and on, and on) / (and on and on and on and on and on)

and on and on and on. the monotony of existence. just spinning that wheel a little bit, every day. take the bins out. make breakfast. make lunch. make dinner. go to bed just when you finally got all the chores done and are excited to finally enjoy a world free from deman.

but seriously, as an autistic person who suffers from time to time with pda (pathalogical demand avoidance), it can be hard. sometimes just existing is overwhelming and just one little demand more can push me into meltdown territory.

but usually after a little break, some beta-blockers, some stimming, maybe playing my melodica for ten minutes, i find myself renewed, ready to eat my frog, and grateful for the love in my life, and for the generous people i surround myself with.

when did you last experience another’s generosity?

i turn my snout at regret—the danger made it meaningful / while my teenaged self-destruction echoes on (and on)

TRIGGER WARNING…. self harm.

as an undiagnosed autistic teenager, you may not be surprised to learn i had a troubled time. social skills did not come naturally. i learn by making mistakes. to learn this way – you have to make the mistakes. i have a bad habit of breaking new things. delicate things that don’t belong to me.

i took the pain out on myself. i directed my meltdowns internally. i cut my arms to shreds. i abused substances.

last year i started getting all my self-harm scars covered with tattoos. and now, when i look at my arms, i no longer feel shame. i love my arms. nobody has arms like mine. they are perfect. they tell my story.

are tattoos important to you?

an irrepressible exhibit from the sex museum / the smell of our first kiss flutters by, a primal sense datum

i was walking down the high street near where i live when i caught my lover’s scent in the breeze. i think it was coming from a foreign student who was walking past the pawn shop. i like to look at the jewellery at the pawn shop. i fancy a signet sovereign. the kind of people who buy sovereign rings are, i surmise, the same sort of people who frequent pawn shops. it takes a village i guess. i usually buy my jewellery from beach side tat shops on the med.

oh and the ‘sense datum’ was a reference to bertrand russell, from whom’s book ‘problems of philosophy’ i think i learned about sense data as an undergraduate.

where do you buy your jewellery?

i eek out my whole being in the dance from blue to green / a witching hour meltdown throws her halo from my bed post

i hate primary colours. way too bold for my autistic vision. i’m a soft summer poet. i live between the gaps, and my favourite gap is the teal puddle between blue and green. i guess it matches my eyes.

and the second line is a reference to ‘every morning’ by sugar ray – every morning there’s a halo hanging from the corner from my girlfriend’s four post bed. you know how sometimes in an argument you know you are wrong, but you wish you were right?

in the words of marcellus wallace, ‘that’s pride, motherfucker.’ so fuck pride. now repeat after me:

‘in the fifth, my ass goes down.’

when was the last time you admitted you were wrong?