It seems that genetics has coded in me the propensity to write only when my mind or my heart is troubled. Tonight, my hands fly to the keyboard ever faster for the mind is sick, and the heart, black and secret-soaked. To myself, I have been administering all forms of self-cure, from British television to cefaclor to hours of stroking Mowgli my Russian Blue cat, but as they do not directly deal with the malady in question, I remain very much… upset. But surely the hours spent gawking at the new Doctor exploring uncharted plots of space and time, do not prefigure my mental decay or my complete transformation into the two-toed sloth? Television if anything, is keeping me remotely pleasant, but of course my standards of outward pleasantness greatly vary from say. those of the President Barack Obama or the equally enigmatic and utterly un-contactable companions that I hope I have.
I am the wolf-man, le loup garou whose moods and mien change with the presence of my orb or beacon of light, my moon. Confused? No, while my nest-like hair may occasionally prove to be stuff of nightmares for those who suffer chaetophobia (for future reference, this is the fear of hair), it is my lack of charm when the occasion truly requires some, that causes me to be spurned by others. Here’s the truth, pure and simple: I am a victim of self-inflicted masochism. Why else on this at-times marvellously de-greened Earth would I have for instance, enrolled myself in a communications course that would expose me to humans and Apple computers? Heck, why am I even writing this at half past twelve in the moonless night? Importantly though, why in the name of any divine deity am I crafted to become this unfortunate blend of impressionable girl and social hermit? I love the moon, a metonym for my unattainable obsession for one person (at at times two). Yet it is precisely the moon that I cannot have. I must be near it, I must see it, I must talk to and love it. And always, I must do so from afar. To feel its light shine upon me from beneath the undergrowth of impressive ferns, to steal a long glance at it from between never-before-open tomes on the Meiji press and phenomenology. This is life, and I long to retire from it.
God I sound like a stalker, but I assure you, dear readers, that I am not. I feel your eyeballs rolling at me. Stop it. Anyway, I know what it is like to be stalked and I would not like my moon to be discomforted by the sensation of being stalked, not least by me! Yes I might prowl my moon’s Facebook page and ring the person enough to cement myself as an overly-attached comrade. I might have even experimented with various religions with the starry-eyed hope that one of the divine heads will grant me a direct flight to the moon, but no I do not stalk.
For I am a root vegetable, silent and suffocating for the most part. I am everything I wish I am not. I am also probably boring you with tales of self-pity and moon-lust.
I am mad for my moon, but summer is near, and my unfulfilling times of one-sided sexual tension with it are coming to a close. I’m to stay in Lyon, France next year. And this is probably a good thing in itself.
I will survive the acne scars, the rocks, and the oncoming moonlight deficiency disorder, as I have survived the Y2K and SARS scares and my eight-year tragicomedy with a significant other who did not think I was significant. Figures. I will also wade my way through my flu with makeshift paddles of Kleenex.
People, this is how I vent my frustration. I hope I have not frightened you. Bring out the daisies, the communists are about to invade my southlands.