i’d had this rule with heroin ever since i was a teenager. i’d try it, but only ever in one v. specific scenario: somehow i’d come into posession of it, but had no idea how to acquire any more.

later on i’m twenty something. the summerhouse with nothing but a piano and a bed. but then fiancee, inevitable, and the leaving suddenly in the dark of night with grandfather’s whiskey. but there’s a party in the big house with the girls from the charity. i’m working my way through a line of coke and that extremely tall loud software engineer that josie likes comes in the room and tells me amy winehouse died.

at the end post wind down, there’s josie out on the steps leading up to the door. we sit beside each other for a while and look up at the stars. we kiss a little and say “this feels terrible” and “can we not do this again?”. i tell her i have nowhere to live and she invites me to stay in the room above her mother’s kitchen with nothing but a cello and a bed.

and i walk through the city as the sun starts to rise. “can i borrow your phone mate?” a guy on the corner of the street. he tells me im tryna call a guy to see if his wife’s gone so i can drop by. so i asked what he was buying? heroin. how much does that cost? he makes the call. took my cash, up the street and back with a bag and some advice: don’t take it.

and back to josie’s house and it’s a small room but warm and sometimes her mother comes in and teaches me a little cello. here’s how to hold a bow, how to turn it when you pull. i like the cello. i spent a few days snorting h, making websites for my first real web dev job, reading books and playing cello. i gathered my things and got on a plane to chicago where i would embark involuntarily upon the dark quinquennium. but yes, i can see the appeal. no pain, no anxiety, no world around at all, no fear, in heaven phasing through memories and imaginary worlds and always where you are, but chitter chatter with little sepia ghostlies as you maybe-here-maybe-don’t and all the while it’s like she’s holding you. at some point i threw up in a pizza box. papa john’s.

this week, though… i worked a lot. talked to some people. wrote little bits of songs i can never commit to record at least until they aren’t true anymore. i’m taking the next few days off to get every little thing in boxes. the kitchen’s pretty much done now. just need to trash one cupboard of trash. i am gonna have a lot of boxes. most of the apartments i’ve found so far may be too small to fit the boxes. i said, she said. eyes wet, cheeks red. goosebumps, deep breath. scruffy angel on, yes, the chopping block. bless her cotton socks. get the coffee pot, set your pocket watch, let a bottle rocket off. unless you lost a lot, i guess you walk it off. skyyyyrockets in flight, afternoon delight. of course that’s your contention you’re a first year hospitality student just got through eating some gastronomical schnitzel, cordon bleu probably. thrift store hunting, little driver seat, cooper, self preservation society, like homecoming, eurostar “get it?” like quantum physics (in your window). like quiet party, jerry springer messy— black and white, under water, up in the sky. jack up, rose up, car crash, hook line and sink and a day later, weak forty eight, two hours and forty drenched, but we’ll be okay, we can wait, eighty-eight and twenty-three (and three), ADH and LSD and R-QP. an hour a day five days a week keeps the doctor at bay, silent, asleep. quiet and sweet. try it and see. i’d like to be under the sea in an octopus’s garden in the summerhouse with nothing but a piano and a bed.

the rest of sunday, after publish, i stayed up late talking to the girlies. someone said “it’s so obvious” and i thought about that. i’m still thinking ‘bout that. we hugged goodbye. too much, not enough. bade farewell at the locked chang-chang metal in the doorway. thanks for welcoming me in.

early monday marcel and me and mimi jump into a taxi. hello madrid and we put marcel on a train. hello madrid and we have our breakfast. mimi says “Oh. My. God.” when i take the first bite of the whole mozarella ball at the exit of the lidl. a few minutes later she inquires, with a certain amount of trepidation, where is the cheese? eyes darting at my pockets in desperation. with a still face and a minute shake of the head i express the cheese is gone, it has been eaten, please don’t ask any further questions about the cheese. she says “Wow.” with a tone that does not entirely convey approval.

a coffee shop fix up. information hierarchy. tostada, salad. nice place. good beans. and gently so gently, and back to the station and we put mimi on a train.

and i against the wall, on the floor, write down on the computer about this and about that. and off to the upstairs platform, and i put chee on a train.

marcel missed his connection by a minute.

his new train is tomorrow. same train as me and mimi. he gets a room at the hotel on top of the station. i’m nearby, the two of us meet up and eat tacos.

a man in the street tells me that i am looking beautiful, and tells me to lick my lips. i say no thank you. he calls me a bitch, and tells me i’m a man, and calls me a bitch, and tells me i’m a man.

back at my hotel (the moxy where the pillow casings say “i woke up like this”), i make arrangements with cherene to have breakfast in the morning.

sunset.

daybreak.

i wake up in my boots.

i don’t remember ever falling asleep in my boots before 2025, but since september i’ve woken up in a bed in my boots three times or more.

yes, it’s the morning. birds are chirping, i presume. i find cherene and we wander around talking until the coffee shops open. he’s going to be a father. after an iced latte, he takes me to his favourite pastry shop where i acquire a pair of xuxos (also spelt chuchos), a sort of cannoncini or corone made of croissant. they look delicious, greasy, i’d like one but it would kill me. one for each of my trainmates is almost just as satisfying. xuxo means mutt. a sparkly eyed dog of mixed ancestry. we have a wonderful chat about arts and theatre and libraries and research, weirdos, alchemy, identity, and promise. and, of course, the computer.

goodbye cherene, and through security. send platform and gate info to my colleagues to lower the background radiation of stress. + marcel arrives, + is issued a pastry and receives it quite gladly. mimi arrives, and is issued pastry, and receives it with a certain amount of trepidation due to the fact she is currently constructed almost entirely from a chocolate cake with no raising agent that lives in the belly like a foot tall brownie.

we board. seated dispersed assorted amongst the two carriages either side of the cafe car. i meet some dogs for a while; they poke their little noses round the corner in front and i boop. the first class cars have little telephone calls booths. i go there and sit and i make a little music for a while. a little later i visit mimi in the coffee queue in the cafe car and we have a little coffee and then we spend thirty or forty. mimi’s pointing out the window and telling me about the birds. i love to hear about all the different birds and how to recognize the different birds by stance and colour. there are a lot of flamingos who don’t migrate anymore because france is warm enough these days all year. instead they stand around getting pale near rice.

marcel comes up to the cafe from the lower 13 and we all have an early lunch. mine is a salad of two eggs on the gratings of a single carrot, soaked in what appears to be the juice of 9 whole lemons. we split up back to our seats, but the aisle seat beside my seat contains a sleeping passenger that i feel no desire to disturb. it’s clear to see, to me, that she needs the sleep more than i need my seat. i return to the first class telephone calls booth and make a little music for a while and write down on the computer about this and about that.

and we arrive in Paris. or, as the French call it, “Lille”. and we find the moisturizer. and we find a late lunch. and we find our tickets and they are miraculously next to one other. you know, we were meant to be in different carriages. and the journey is easy. and quiet. and i make a little music for a while. and chunnel. and goodbye. and home. and meet harry in the hallway. and “the longest week of my life” and “yes in a good way”. and unlock the door and see boxes and boxes and boxes. and fall asleep in my boots.

wake up.

follow the rabbit.

knock knock.

on wednesday i work, unexpectedly. tighten it up, throw things together. hop on a call.

on thursday i work, unexpectedly. loosen up. throw some things together. hop on a call. at night i go out to newspeak house to see agnes cameron and join a group converting psychic damage about the arms industry into wikipedia edits. afterwards i see orion and gamithra and i talk too much about nothing and drain me too. i find myself in that hallway so many now.

on friday i work, and show some of the things off that i’ve been making and it goes quite well. i’m excited about the conversations in the sidebar. the chat had many messages of people saying things that i’ve been trying to say, but they said them much better than i could. several other people demo’d and each one of them was really fucking good. and i hop on a call. and a story i’ve been since 25/46 shows finale, renewed for two more seasons.

the apartment i wanted went to somebody else. i don’t have anywhere lined up yet. might end up putting everything in storage and living as a vagabond. i’m packing it (my life) in boxes. open a cupboard, touch something, flood of memories of who touched it once before—what kind of love led it here to my hand. and all that love is dead now. and all so far away. i don’t remember even being the kind of person who would feel it. thank god i’ll never have to go through all that again. learning someone. being learned.

but for now i’ll be touching a box of pegs in the kitchen and crying. because of the meaning of the pegs. or the chopping board, cassette tape, spiralizer, envelope, little flag, deck of cards, water bottle matching water bottle isn’t here, power cable, saddam hussein tshirt, knock-off danish jenga set, empty camera case, cardboard box with label maker label, vape juice (mango), eye shadow, broken glasses, vases, talavera pussy cat, baseball cap, single sock, tampons, pads, painkillers, gaming mouse, washi tape, masking tape, instant pot (does anyone want a free instant pot? for free, instant pot, barely used?), little wooden animals, whistle, train ticket receipt, magnetic e-ink screen, ladybird egg shaker, thin blue raincoat, cherries sticker, high heel shoe strap. you know, rich and relentless. need rest and recuperation. sentimental convalescence.

a good thing to learn is how to be uncomfortable. to maintain your connection to yourself when the vibes are all the way off. i don’t know any way other than practice. and it’s gonna suck for a while. and you’ll spend some time like the wax a lot. but there are few things that can make you more secure than knowing you’ll be okay when nothing is. and relax, don’t pull, like a finger trap. accept the worst and plan for it and then go for the gold.

cupknight, 
wheel of fortune, 
page of swords, 
ace of wands, 
judgement,
ace of pentacles.

almost too vibrant.

i’m living canadian hours this week, packing boxes after nightfall. happy international ladybird day week to those who celebrate.