It’s getting harder than ever to come up with new ideas to write about. My old plan – that I would write a new blog every week, rain, hail or shine – pretty much went down the toilet with the car crash, and in any case, I was in hospital for five weeks and hence unable to blog, so why does it matter? At least the whole accident and rehabilitation drama gave me a good month’s worth of entries, I guess. How does Stephen King do it? I guess, where he’s concerned, it’s better to bail out from writing early than stamp it into the ground, broken and bloody and covered in dust and pebbles ‘till it becomes a worthless and shallow shadow of what it once was. I don’t know, though. I still thought Dr. Sleep was pretty good.
My caffeine intake, six months ago, was pretty extreme. Whatever; it got me through my higher education so far, I guess. It wasn’t as bad, thankfully, as 2011, where I’d wake up in the morning with a caffeine withdrawal headache from my eight hours of coffee-less sleep, but it wasn’t great. A positive side effect of my week-long coma in early September was that I think I managed to push through the caffeine addiction while unconscious, so I missed all the usual withdrawal signs (or was subsequently drugged out of said withdrawal signs). One day, after breakfast, Jeremy walked in to discover me with a filter coffee in a sippy cup crammed in hand and a very sheepish looking nurse standing next to me.
“He – he asked for it,” she’d said.
I suppose I can add to my list of things I’m afraid of, “getting drunkenly hit by a car in Berlin”. Of course, the stars sure will have to align for that to happen again. I haven’t been allowed to cross the road by myself yet on doctor’s orders (like I won’t be paranoid and hyper-conscious and sober when I do it), but I think I’ll need practice – since the break I’m not sure how my crossing skills have held up and I’ve never played Frogger.
Zero interest puff pieces lifted from social media, 2:
“That’s awesome” (re a friend’s profile picture of herself hugging a monkey)
“MAKE SURE YOU DON’T MISS OUT ON OUR NEW SHOW JOIN THE EVENT KEEP UPDATED GET PRESENTS GIFTS YES GIFTS YOU GO GO GO NOW NOW NOW CLICK CLICK CLICK FUNNNNN TIMES YES YOU”
“Todd McKenney also pitched a TV show called ‘It’s A Date!’ but it was just half an hour of him pointing at his ring.”
“good news comes in small packages of contempt”
There is a tiny part of me that thinks that somehow I’m still in Berlin; that this is all a huge fake-out; someone’s sick joke, and I’ll wake up one morning not in my own bed but still stuck in hospital, learning to walk again and chowing down dry and tasteless abendbrot. It’s like those endings to the cheesy Sci-Fi films of the 50s – the beautiful blonde space-pilot, tossing and turning in a bed that doesn’t look like it’s from the year 3024, but instead looks mighty like a single bed from Middle American suburbia, circa 1951. The camera zooms out further and we see that space pilot (pilotess, I guess; ‘cos it’s the 50’s, so everything has to be gendered) is but a 17-year-old girl, practically our age! Finally, her mother, clad head to toe in silk and wearing a facemask for some reason, comes in.
“Elsie!” she barks; the mask cracking with her frown. “Elsie, wake up this minute, damnit! It’s time for school!”
“Gosh,” Elsie says, sitting up and rubbing her perfectly made up eyes. “Cool it, Mom. Why you so frosted for anyway? It’s 7AM; everything’s copasetic.”
That feeling where you feel like you need to explain things to people but they’re in another state won’t go away (it’s a really specific feeling, actually). Like a bar dealing with recent “no smoking” regulations, it’s time to clear the air. I feel weirdly like Cady Heron in Mean Girls at the end of the film. At least I made like Regina George and got hit by a moving vehicle, I guess.
Tumblr post. All the food I’ve eaten today has had phallic appearances. HASHTAG including dick.
Five more text messages selected at random:
“OH GOD IT STARTED AND I AM CRYING”
“Packaging peanut kitty”
“Thanks for your hospitality and caffeine, such a lovely afternoon. Good luck not getting survivor-banged by most of Melbourne x”
“OHHH haaay! That’s great news! Eat it up, lady. This festival is amazing. We are killin it 🙂 here’s to finding u sooner than later x”
“Are you OK???”
Sometimes, I think, the answer is simply too involved for a text message. Especially now that my fine motor skills aren’t up to scratch.
I understand that generally people with brain injuries don’t recover as quickly as I’m doing, but it aggravates me that a select few of my therapists refuse to believe that I’m as okay as I am. You’d think that their response would be “that’s amazing!”, not, “oh… are you suuuuure?”. Yes. My feet are still attached to me, actually, so I’m pretty sure I’ve been doing an hour’s exercise bike ride each day.
For the longest time I was horribly concerned about the back of my head. I never had the patience to grow my hair after shaving it, but, funny thing, when you’re in hospital, hair styles tend to lose their importance. Until this week I had three jagged lily white scars across the back of my skull, but today I’ve realised they’re slowly growing back with hair. Patience, it seems, is a virtue. Now that I’m back in Australia, one of my recent missions was to get a haircut that I deemed fashionable – in South Yarra, filled with hipsters and tiled surfaces – and, as a sort of reclaiming of my body (or at least my scarred head) I got my hair cut the way I’d do it. The way I used to do it. Whatever else, I am sick of patience – everything that’s majorly wrong with me at this juncture (mercifully physical) seems to require a tonne of waiting and medical guessing. My eye? “Oh, let’s maybe try patching it, we can look at corrective glasses later on. It might get better on its own.” It might, but so might Christmas.
I’ve written two plays since returning to Australia – neither of which managed to tire me out, but simply holding a conversation, in certain situations, can. Being predominantly a writer, I’m clearly majorly successful at meaningful interactions.
Sometimes there’s too much and you’ve gotta let it out.
Sometimes, if you do, you’ll discover things about yourself and the world that surrounds you.