I saw the following on 4rthur and had to share. Written so eloquently by sick_boy:
“I like routines. They are comfort in a world where, as an adult, it is not acceptable to carry around a ragged blue blanket and rub it against your cheek when things go wrong. They are also a yardstick with which to measure life’s exceptions and excitement. There is, however, one part of my daily commute that renders me a little uneasy. About half way down Boyne road (a leafy terraced suburban idyll) on my daily constitutional to the station I pass a cat. It is a longhaired cat with lots of patches of colour on its furry little coat. This cat has a routine that clashes with mine. Around 7:45am Mr Cat climbs onto his pedestal atop the brick gatepost and sets about his vigorous daily bum licking exercise. He goes about it with some gusto. He is a very thorough cat.
Every morning (inclement weather asides) our eyes meet, he pauses, blinks, I nod and for one moment there seems to be perfect understanding between man and beast. Albeit a quiet, uneasy understanding where, through my anthropomorphic paranoia, we both know that I wish I could perform the same feat on myself. And so we both set about our ways, though I am sure he doesn’t post messages on a cat message board about a Scottish pervert who pauses to watch him lick his anus each morning.”
Do I even remember that I have a weblog?
I do, but it seems I have writers block. The last few weeks have been pretty much the same as before, I still have nausea and headaches, and I still feel as though I was given a lobotomy in my sleep at some point. I think I’ve put off writing because it’s the same old, same old. It has taken me six weeks to come up with anything, and that ‘anything’ is just me saying I’m still here.
About a million years ago, I worked as an Occupational Therapy Helper in a stroke rehab unit. I remember wading through a textbook one time to find out what something was called, and was most impressed when I found the term “spatial relations apraxia”. I think I have it, although not for the reasons that people who’ve had strokes get it. Basically, it means that when you go to touch something, you miss. (How the hell does one explain this with Effexorbrain?) Someone holds out a pen and asks you to touch the tip. You see the tip, you reach out, but for some inextricable reason, the place where you confidently land is six inches away from the pen. It’s known as ‘past pointing’, and I’m sick of my brain not realising where stuff is. Every damn thing I type needs numerous corrections. Maybe that’s why I’ve stopped posting, because it’s too much of an effort to get the words onto the screen without screwing it up. Every time I screw up, I feel like a failure. It’s all little things, but they add up.
Having said all that, I’m going to have a bash at re-designing the site, so apologies if it looks like shit for a while. I will be back with a shiny new syle-sheet, and a clean contemporary look (hopefully). If not, I’ve saved the style-sheets, and can always try again when someone injects me with brain cells again.