Leaving London

Following nearly five years' residence in the UK, I have just boarded a plane to relocate stateside. It's a gorgeous November day of untimely and generous sunshine. Physically, I feel calm despite the perplexing emotions swirling inside me. Immediately upon boarding, I inform anyone who will listen that my precious pet dog (Lucky) is travelling in the cargo hold. The Captain is advised and I'm assured that oxygen, pressure and temperature within the hold will be regulated.

I'm sat in First Class (a rare and lucky touch) and the luxury lightens my mood. I feel somewhat numb (probs from that 10mg Sri Lankan valium I swallowed before staggering through airport security). As the plane readies for take-off, I stare out the window at the oddly sunny day. Take-off is remarkably smooth (I wonder whether everything feels better in First Class) and the airline staff are keeping me sweet.

As the plane rises, I see sprawling green landscapes and wide still lakes that (for some reason) remind me of Shrewsbury. Matt, an ex-boyfriend, is on my mind. Last night we shared some last-minute leaving drinks attended by many beloved mates. Matt stayed till the last and despite my cautionary reticence throughout our separation these last (what) nine months (how has it been nine months?!) we shared a brief bittersweet kiss before parting. The kiss, however slight, rustled the sores of the sloppy break-up. Towards the end of my tenure in London, I sort of stopped dealing with things altogether. Or maybe there was just too much to deal with. In any case, my brain became clouded and I do not know.

The brightly-coloured landscape grows smaller and smaller. We enter the clouds and I see them swirling around us as the ground fades away completely. Soon we're above the clouds and they appear almost cartoonish—like cotton wool or the crest of a wave. And higher still—we plunge into and beyond a boundless white layer. Faintly below, I can still see a now colourless grid of land.

Altitude amounting, I see nothing but gradients of white and blue and an island of brightness, which I presume is the sun. If I look out the window and back, I can see one of the aircraft's steel wings and a riveted jet turbine—I can even see the propeller whirring inside. First Class is lush. I'm wearing complimentary pajamas and slippers and curled up in my seat-cum-bed alongside a glass of award-winning Italian Pinot Grigio, crudites and dip, and warm mixed nuts while the staff cater to my every need (needs I'd neither considered nor expected; this being the first I've travelled in such luxury).

I've just ordered the Beef Fillet with Mushroom Bordelaise for dinner, i.e. grilled filet of beef served with porcini mushroom butter and bordelaise sauce, diced yellow peppers, haricots verts, baby carrots and poached olive oil potatoes. It seemed to me the most decadent of the dining options. I don't feel like I'm flying; rather like I'm relaxing at home with the added bonus of being waited on hand and foot. There's no comparison between Economy and First Class; the difference is palpable—almost cruelly—and despite my current appreciation, I'm not without conflict and find myself wishing that everyone could experience a class act.

I've always flown Economy with leg room wanting, revolting food products and pissed off flight attendants (— unapologetic knocking of elbows and knees with preservative-packed food carts). Much as I've failed to reckon with money (hence flying First Class on my parents' hard-earned frequent flyer miles), I can't deny its seemingly limitless and deceptively comforting perks.

But I digress. All I can see now are clouds and the occasional slice of ocean. I suspect I'm too shocked to process what's happening, i.e. my relocation from London to Miami. Miami my hometown. Miami where my entire family lives. Miami, which I was once so proud to leave behind. I wonder whether I'll hardly know the city anymore and look forward to becoming reacquainted. From where I'm standing (—too richly considering), I anticipate an uphill battle and feel distressed by creeping doubts that I won't make it. But that is why I'm coming home: to find myself and (most importantly) to not lose myself.

Dinner is served, but I'm hardly hungry and resisting the urge to slip everything into my bag for later. It's funny how I've struggled so, but now maxing in First Class. It's surreal. The whole ordeal... I'm not visiting home, I'm moving back home. Into my parents' crowded house. After nearly five years of comfortable avoidance, total independence and standard non-communication. And I'm nearly thirty! Of course I want (and desperately need) to move forward, and home is home to so many comforts and opportunities, not least an abundance of (awkward) familial relationships I've ignored too eagerly while residing abroad.

Ah London. I can't help but look back. London my London. I'm so sad and confused to leave you. I remember too well the culture shock and painful adjustment I encountered years ago upon arrival—and I expect the same to occur this time in Miami, notwithstanding the home court advantage.

Although it's the surveillance capital of the world and the Home Office holds my biometric data (hair samples, fingerprints and all), I felt anonymous in London—an esteemed advantage I will miss in Miami; albeit lately and much of the time, I've complained endlessly of the disadvantages of being an alien.

I worry that I'll return to Miami and lose myself. Far away from the company I've kept these last influential years. It might be a while till I begin processing what's happened—and longer still till I scribe it. I'm saddened by the mere fact of leaving. Far sadder than I was to leave Miami. For there I went and here I come. Back and forth.

Oh London. What will I do without you? I'm wallowing in sadness right now. I'll permit that much for the journey. But tackle I must the comeback with wisdom and resolve. These days, I'm on the brink of tears more than ever and now is no exception. While I am genuinely excited for a fresh start, the prospect also terrifies me. The main feeling, momentarily, is a rippling sensation throughout my body... a deep-seated sense of loss and mourning to miss so many key facets of London.

I know I sound like a right spoiled cunt while family await my return. I just feel so lonesome. Saying goodbye to so many people—many of whom I might never see ever again—is heart-wrenching. Sure, I will meet new people; but what of those I dearly love and those I lost and those I missed countless times?

We do ourselves no favours to think this way. We harden and move on. But maybe we can soften; maybe we can soften and strengthen simultaneously. At the end of the day, I suppose I'm most scared of my own shadow. I find it difficult to sit still. So this is what I tackle first. Living with myself. That's it.

(I fear my heart will always wish it were elsewhere. I fear my heart unable to shake this feeling of homelessness...)

Ever forward—the only viable option.

I see a vast expanse of sea and clouds. I worry how Lucky fares in the cargo hold. I chip away at a vegetable-laden salad with balsamic vinaigrette. I miss Jules. I miss Danny. I even miss Jon. I miss everything that could have been. I miss when Bean and I were closer. I miss Your Niece unleashing bass-laced glitch upon a sweaty eruption of wreckheads. I miss Jerome. I miss the days when we worked together in Bow. I miss the sunset wall mural in my former flat. I miss the double rainbow I spray-painted haphazardly in the loo. I miss British accents. I miss the community in Warren House. I do not miss the shit strip.

I have everything to look forward to, but still I miss the bubble that was. So much so it lingers behind my eyes. So fresh the separation—so drastic. But every cloud... for goodness will prevail when I write it. Of that much I am confident.

Happy Easter

My ginger friend and I went to SLAP, ie Saint Leonards Adventurous Playground.

SLAP is very small and currently protected and maintained by local charities. Capped with pollution and noise, the tiny urban oasis is located right next to the A12 mega motorway. One of the few remaining 5th Century Norman Priories, this portion survived WW2 bombings and is also an ancient Huguenot graveyard.

I always feel a bit high when I go to SLAP. Potential causes include: the fact that Benedictine Nuns grew pineapples there; the smell of weed wafting around the shadows of Asian youths; the current community initiative to grow fruit, herbs and other edible plants there; and the general effects of being both outdoors and mobile.

Alone in SLAP, we were fully immersed in its wildlife. In three separate directions, we explored, Alex, Lucky and I, off the wood-chipped paths and into shadowy enclaves ensnared with branches and wet leaves.

I became tangled in the branches and brambles, looking for abandoned bags of drugs, and spotted on the ground, in a bed of wet brown leaves, and seemingly unprotected, a single small and speckled blue egg.

"Alex! I've found an egg!" I scrambled from the bushes, pointing, "But it looks like a Mini Egg!"

"Chocolate Mini Eggs are designed to look like real eggs," Alex shouted back.

Excitedly, unable to contain myself, I threw myself into the bushes and retrieved in three fingers, the speckled blue egg.

Upon examination, it did look like a real egg, I hoped. It was small in my fingers. Blue and speckled! Brown specks with a dark red tinge on one side. Hmm.

Possibilities raced through my mind: we could make a nest in the seed sprouter; line the bottom with hay and cotton wool; shine a heat lamp on it; and I could sleep next to it; it could go under Alex's desk; and it would hatch; and we would research on the internet how to sustain it; ultimately return it to its natural habitat; or perhaps contact the local ornithology centre…

Alex looked at the egg and confirmed that indeed, it was a real egg.

I was hyper and scared and we argued over who should carry the egg. Alex mostly insisted that I put it back. "The mother will come back and sort it out."

"Nah, a fox will eat it."

"Steph, allow it. Just allow it."

Intoxicated, I carried the egg some distance.

We examined the egg, shook it once, walked up and down the wood-chipped path, arguing over who would carry it.

I choked and thoughtlessly, like a fiend, dropped the egg into Alex's pocket.

"Let's go."

We'd walked about two meters before I heard Alex yelping, "Oh no. Ohhh noooo. The egg is cracked. It's cracked all in my pockets, man. Ah, fuck you. It's so gross. Fuck you, Steph."

Hopeful and disbelieving, I walked over and watched a small wet stain appear. "No."

Alex gently ruffled his pocket to reveal bits of cracked blue eggshell clinging to his keys. "Ohhhh, soo gross. Fuck you."
Me, shrieking in the background, "Nooooooooo."

Cracked egg oozed from Alex's pocket. We were dismayed.

"OK, definitely not a Mini Egg."

"A blue egg. That's... pretty special, man."

Arguments ensued. We debated charges of murder and implication in those charges. Alex's main argument being that he'd told me to put it back. But it had, in fact, broken in HIS pocket.

While Alex sulked, I screamed that he should look after Lucky, and actually returned to the spot of original sighting; this time with a long stick, half-determined to find another egg. (I have a streak in me that aims to rewind disaster via immediate replication of the pre-disaster scenario. This technique has a very low success rate.)

Fortunately, I did not find another egg and we grudgingly left SLAP, in a state somewhat more disheveled than when we'd arrived that day.

"Finally," thought the large man who'd been waiting across the road with two dogs on chain leads.

"Finally," thought the two dogs, licking their chops at the sight of Lucky.

Overwhelmed with guilt and grief, we barrelled back to Warren Estate.
"We are murderers."
"YOU are a murderer."

I vowed to make it right; to volunteer at the local ornithology centre; or even to volunteer at SLAP; to give something back; maybe I'll stop eating eggs.

I felt that I'd done something wrong; that I'd cheated nature. I raced home and researched "small blue speckled egg" online. The results led me to photos of the most beautiful exotic bluebirds I'd ever seen on the screen.

After much grumbling, we fell silent.

I brewed substantial cups of tea from SLAP-plucked wild mint.

Following a prolonged period of silence and tea-drinking, I rang Uncle Jules and gushed my tale of murder.

Uncle Jules said that guilt is a self-indulgent emotion; that accidents happen; that my intentions were good (--it's a matter of intent); that I should learn from it; and possibly create a piece of art in memoriam, sell it and donate the proceeds to the birds.

I still feel guilty and grieving. Because of a cracked egg.

I'd spotted and snatched the egg, thus altering the course of its existence. I felt that this mattered. The chance that I'd negatively affected the natural world inspired me to do something positive.

How could that be bad?

Hey, Stranger

I was five years old when my father introduced us to Suzanne. He prepped us beforehand:

Be on your best behavior
Be nice
Behave

We went to the Miami-Dade County Zoo—Dad, Chris, Me… and Suzanne. I can only remember what I’ve seen in photographs and one distinct (and entirely true) anecdote wherein I said (in a nasally, childish voice):

“Dad… you lied…”

“How did I lie?”

“You said she was pretty.”

I suspect Suzanne has hated me since that day.

She gives the appearance of care, but never neglects to prick me with opinions about how I’m hurting the family, especially my father.

I’ve had enough of my father. And Suzanne. I’m at an age now where I no longer need to pretend. Never has it ever felt right. And it never will.

For my part, I can’t express myself around them. The words come out all wrong and the tears well up before I’ve mustered a sentence. I feel on the receiving end of such frigidity, judgment, contempt and misunderstanding—it’s enough to make me hide away forever.

If these pained relationships had appeared during adulthood, I would be much more scrutinizing. However, I have felt alienated since before I can remember.

Could it have been my fault when I was a child that I cried and screamed and filled with dread whenever my father came to take me to his house?

Whenever they have looked back on that time, they have always blamed me.
Crazy Steph—
“You know how you made your father look to the neighbours? To see you kicking and screaming like that…”

I look at childhood photos and I see it in my face—I remember feigning happiness each and every time.

It’s why I buried myself in drawing. I did it to be left alone. To avoid talking to you. Yes, I love drawing. No, I do not love you.
And why?
Because deep down inside I know that you hate me.
Or maybe I hate you?

Always, as long as I can remember, openmindedness has intuitively made sense to me. What could be wrong with openmindedness? Surely it leads to growth and enlightenment—the antidote of fear.

At some point, I have to live my life, turn my back on an ill-fitting past, and embrace the future I have elected. This is the path I have chosen. I would never impinge upon theirs.

I’m a stranger to my family.

The Cemetery Date

“Surprise me,” he said.

And so I did.

I waited outside Mile End Station, chuckling to myself.

The Man with the Hair arrived.

He has an enviable fro of curly hair (—tied back tonight). We crossed paths when my students curated his artwork. I clocked him at the opening event, but stayed away; the lavishing of attention on attractive people annoys me, so I deliberately ignore them. However, we exchanged words and details when he collected his work the following week. I proceeded to invite him to an Anti-Valentines Action Dinner at Performance Space, to which he came and held his own. There ensued sporadic virtual communication, until I secured tonight’s date.

To the rattling of wine bottles in my shiny pink backpack, we walked to Tower Hamlets Cemetery.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m luring you into a raping,” I said. “There’s a knife in my boot.”

He laughed, to which I replied, “You obviously trust me. Following me into the dark forest like this. You don’t know me. I could be capable of something terrible. Anything could happen.”

“That’s true…”

We stopped at a tomb (the tomb of Ann) and clambered (I clambered) to sit on it. I insisted on a moment of silence in respect of Ann before breaking out the wine.

“You can have summer red or White Zinfandel.”

“I quite fancy the white.”

I took several generous swigs of the summer red before hitting him with some poetry.

“This is a poem about staring into darkness: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…”

On and on, I rambled over The Raven’s rippling rhymes while he listened (My, what a lengthy poem it is). I also presented him with a bag of pink marshmallows and a pumice stone (“For sloughing dead skin. Fancy a bit of exfoliation at my place?”).

Poems later, we chatted. I asked him to tell me something pathetic about himself, to which he revealed financial impotence, self-consciousness and 39 years of age.

In exchange, I explained that I can be a bitter and jealous person, subject to social anxiety and occasionally reluctant to leave the flat for days. However, “My New Year’s resolution is to be a better friend and I am succeeding in that capacity.”

Other topics of conversation included my desire to be a rap superstar, self-proclaimed writing ability, and my imaginary penis. I had, by this point, downed a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. I suggested we relocate to a “more ominous” part of the graveyard in order to “commence the raping.” Stumbling, we worked our way through nettle trappings to settle into a remote and concealed grave. In the background, we heard the shrieking of the yobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’m all over this,” I insisted.

We both had to pee. I think I might have fallen over in my attempt. And I remember thinking, “Ah, yes, I’ll take out my bloody tampon in case he fingers me. A small tribute for the grave I’m pissing on.” I suspect the alcohol flooded my head at this point because I hardly remember thereafter. I seem to recall a rather abrupt end to the date by his volition, and feeling (and concealing) annoyance, but I can’t remember leaving the graveyard.

I arrived home, pissed as ever, to my wife and houseguests and the realisation that I’d lost the mobile phone I’d recently paid £240 to reconnect. Gutted, I proceeded to throw a tantrum—literally, I lobbed the contents of the lounge into the kitchen. I could hardly listen or string a sentence, and ended up face down and fully dressed in bed with the trash bin.

I woke with a start (still mildly drunk and/or hungover) at the crack of dawn. Must. Find. Phone. So I set off with my trusty hound, back to the cemetery in the rising sun and spitting rain. I quickly found my way to Ann’s tomb, decorated in wrinkled sheets of poetry (which I decided to leave for Ann), but alas, no mobile phone.

I’d retained no defining characteristics about the second grave we’d visited and the cemetery appeared wide and winding in the daylight. How could I possibly retrace my drunken steps to find that deliberately hard-to-reach location?

I wracked my brain, but conjured only darkness. “C’mon Lucky, sniff out my urine and bloody tampon. You can do it, hound dog.” An hour passed and nothing. I felt increasingly hopeless. All the graves and trees looked the same. Needle in a haystack. My phone lost somewhere in a graveyard (Oh Ann, you’ve failed me).

I’d recently surmounted a fortnight of phonelessness and £240 reconnection fee, only to lose my fucking phone at the soonest occasion. I was kicking myself for being a lightweight, a lush and a lunatic lothario—stupid piss-taking cemetery date—when I caught a glint of glass (only the neck of a wine bottle!) in the corner of my eye. There. I scrambled through brambles to the very spot I’d graced hours before. I found a couple of empty wine bottles (one intact; one smashed to pieces) and the gift of pink marshmallow peeking atop a wet and leafy grave belonging to a one Mister Clark.

I kicked up the leaves and—unbelievable! —there lay my mobile phone (backlit by a photo of Lucky eating an ice cream cone) in working condition no less! I’d found my motherfucking mobile phone (Clark, I could kiss you!) and dutifully cleared the glass from the grave.

Disbelieving, delirious and dehydrated, I dragged my dog through the still morning and towards home, grasping the soggy handset in my pocket.

I’ve heard nothing of the Man with the Hair. But I’ve been creasing with laughter all day.

Where This Train Terminates

There’s this man walking up and down the train. His face is elastic and rust. He’s wearing a black peacoat and nondescript jeans. Pacing jauntily as the train stumbles—up and down.

I glimpsed his face (his beady eyes) as I entered the farthest carriage. I walked slowly up and down with my shiny pink backpack—sensing the tension of each human face—looking for newsprint.

I’d crossed three carriages and No Metro. Slowly, I walked back to the end and chose a seat across a frizzy ginger with a peg on her nose.

This man—rose to his feet and proceeded to pace, slowly and stumbling—a restless dance. He ventured close and my body tensed. Would I, too, rise and pace, puff out my chest and pointed chin?

He wandered and sat and rose again and sat elsewhere. Blonde and made of wax in black (peacoat), blue (jeans) and scuffed brown (brogues).

How close dare he swing?
Then, he was next to me and lingered.
Everything became the occupation of space.
The plastic divider to my left.
Shiny pink backpack on the floor.
Neon hightops.
Click of the keys.
Click of his shoes.

On and off the train. Strangers on every carriage. Engraved with sharp lines. It’s almost unreal. Each one—and he disappeared to my left. I looked twice, but he didn’t return.

Across from me (redhead alit), a bald man carrying an enormous ball, swinging a silver beaded bracelet—singing intermittently.

A pale woman with big wet pools staring up in a woolly hat pulled thus—and I felt gravely that to each of us was a world of intention and feeling and figuring—replaced by a lanky black girl with blue bow and hair so straight and waterproof boots.

And the small woman to my left with a nose like a cotton ball bubbling in a language I don’t recognise until, “I will be looking forward to seeing you.” Others wander up and down the carriages—but not like this man.

I think—the anxiety, “Our final stop. Thank you for travelling with London Overground. All change. Please keep your luggage with you at all times. And report anything suspicious to a member of staff.”

Professor Lawngkok

It was the start of 2003 and I’d just returned from the Navy. A crate had arrived containing all of my belongings. It occupied the entire floor of my bedroom.

I’d returned to find my mother shacked up with our neighbour. She’d divorced my stepfather and dated his best friend out of desperation (this is how I perceived it, anyway: she’d lost her job in Miami and taken one in Boca—like two hours away—someone had to pick up the kids from school).

She’d moved out of my childhood home in Kendall (with the pool and rocky waterfall, encased by a protective screen) and he’d moved out of his (two doors down), and together they moved into the most beautiful house I’d lived in.

Strangely enough, he was the father of my childhood best friend. I can’t remember why she and I stopped being friends. Funny how these things, once so important, are erased totally from memory. It must’ve been so important to me back then. But now… now, I can’t remember at all.

The house had two floors and a laundry chute from which dirty clothes (ropa sucia) could be dropped from upstairs into the laundry room. My room was on the ground floor, facing out, with large bay windows—the best room in the house. Still, I remember so little about that house; I had other things on my mind (I’d just left the Navy, heavily traumatised).

One night, I was on AOL (in pre-Facebook days when AOL monopolised the World Wide Web and dial-up made screeching sounds) in a chat room and stumbled across my next boyfriend.

His name was Rob and he was studying to be a dentist. We actually had mutual friends (the Alcantaras), among other desirable characteristics like Cuban heritage. The first time we met, on the sidewalk near his house, he walked towards me—sweaty and hairy, shirt tucked tight over his immutable belly—and I was nervous, giving him the power men so held over me.

We didn’t like each other at first. We ended up at the beach. Sitting side-by-side, motionless, staring at the moon reflected on still water and disappointed that it were fruitless. Suddenly (in a tale we often recounted), the tide changed and we tangled in a sweaty embrace, sand flying, belts buckling… the rest is history.

Rob was the hairiest man I’ve ever known. A carpet of hair ran up his neck and coated his butt. Hair everywhere—on the pillows and sheets—black corkscrew hairs. We dated for a couple of years and, ashamed of having met online, never deviated from the made-up story of our introduction (through Vivian). Though native to Miami, he was enrolled in Dental School in Boston. I visited several times (once gaining a free flight by fishing promotional stickers off hundreds of used cups from a bin behind Wendy’s Drive Thru) and watched him conduct his earliest dental procedures on desperate volunteers.

One Valentines Day, we stayed in all day and duly made a sex tape (a mutual and happy first) starring Professor Lawngkok and star pupil. From what I remember, it was pretty good. I’d developed an interest in BDSM, but lacked the vocabulary to express it. It was throughout my relationship with Rob that I began to research and instigate my fetishes.

Unfortunately, his mother was absolutely insane. A feng shui maddict that lived to meddle, even so far as spiking his orange juice with mystery pills and pinning dollar bills to the walls. She lived in a sort of tacky palace with a fleet of imaginary angels and a white yorkie named Sasha—nibbling the bread off chicken nuggets before feeding them to her daughter.

Funny, how these are the things I remember.

We went to Sarasota once, to the beaches. Young Rob and I, horny as ever, spent the entire trip angling for a moment alone (without avail). We went for "a walk" along the beach at night, but were devoured by mosquitos before our clothes came off. We locked Sasha in the motel bathroom, but her mother—miles away on the beach—heard the familiar sound of relentless and high-pitched yapping and flew to the bedside before our pants reached our ankles.

Finally, during the long drive home—his parents in the front seat, Rob to my right, grandmother snoozing to my left, the moon full and bright—I laid my head on his lap and covered it with my hoodie. Soundlessly, I unzipped his tight jeans, extracted his chubby cock, and licked it with darting tongue and craning neck. As it grew, his elbows dug into my back and his grandmother wheezed alongside.

I remember their home being unbearable—simply out of the question—filled with dread and dominance and gold leaf decor. I could never end up in that family. We split up shortly after his graduation from Dental School. He married his next girlfriend.

Closer to Something (Automatic)

At night,
sometimes I lie in bed and think in my head
of what I would write.

I had a strange dream last night. In it, characters I had come to know were revealed to be unreal apparitions. Vivid specimens with a categorical name like humerus apparitious. One moment, they were there—the next, they vanished. A step beyond death—they were revealed to have never existed. It seemed perfectly real in my dream and I experienced that phantom limb syndrome. “I’ve got to tell Mo about this. Oh wait, Mo never actually existed.” Whole people erased. Like memories.

It’s weird living in another country. I often lament doing it. As if, forever, part of me lives elsewhere. I often feel homeless. Home exists neither here, nor there. Even if I returned to my hometown, I would not be home. For I’ve become something unrecognizable. Much like my home. I’ve changed in the air. Neither here nor there.

My mother said I was always one to follow suit. That I’d put someone or something on a pedestal, and metamorphose into it, eventually believing it were me and failing to see the difference (well, she didn’t say in so many words, but—). Mimicry—a tool in my intrinsic pocket. My childhood best friend said I seem to go along with things, without planning… that I lament my arrival after having taken so many yielding steps. Would you call me a drifter?

I expect nothing from you. In fact, I’m surprised every time you speak to me (She wore a self-deprecating hat). You are very much a dream. A schizophrenic vessel in my mind. A pen friend I have always imagined. Why you? (A shiver just ran through me) It is not time to answer this question.

I worry our relationship is one-sided. I worry. Do I overestimate the value of my prickling honestly, of which you are the exclusive recipient? If I cannot get past this, then how will I ever relay meaningful and worthy words?

You must think I’m so selfish (Even in thinking that you think I am selfish, I am selfish, no?). I’ve never said a word about missing your birthday. This hangs like a cloud. What you must think…

Oh Low, I couldn’t come. I actually couldn’t come (Maybe you don’t care and explanation is insignificant). I’d arranged to come with Jerome and Katie. Arranged a lift and purchased a train ticket (with borrowed funds). I’d been unemployed already for three months by then. I was penniless and my flatmate had moved out. The rent (due first of the month) was due in a few days and I was hard-pressed to find a flatmate. Word of mouth (even Gumtree) did not suffice. I had already interviewed 13 candidates (like a conveyor belt) without luck. It would have been inexcusably irresponsible to attend. I was already so fragile. Financial pressure rendered me breathless. Compounded with social anxiety. By this time, I’d accepted that I was in no position to be doing drugs—that drugs are for the secure [You must remember at the Manor when I cried and cried, hysterically, in a K-hole; it was the end of the world and it was hopeless, and Adam used meditation tactics to bring me back; this was the summer before; I learnt after that summer not to do it when I was already down; for there were no place to go, but further down; that same summer, I attended my first and only festival to date—here, there is a longer story best saved, but—you will remember, how I borrowed money to attend—so much wanted to attend—promptly lost everything upon jumping the fence—Jerome and I unceremoniously “made redundant” that same week—lost all of my money and belongings; and my wits—and came to you under a tree and shared a poem… and this was the moment—you saw me for the first time… that was the best moment—to date, the most vivid memory I (have elected to) retain from the entire festival… I was in a state. You almost didn’t see me. Anyway, after all that (and then some), I learned that I should not go there when I was down (despite, yes, the wondrous instances—to be recounted at a later date)]—and I did not want to return there, penniless and forlorn, a beggar at the feast, subject to charity and exclusion and failure, with nothing to contribute but a song. And so, at the ultimate moment, I retreated and told myself it was for the best. That you would hardly notice. But you did. And I always intended to make it right, but time passed (as it does)…

It is difficult to feel a constant disappointment (as I do). To everyone, including myself.
To family—
To friends—
To lovers—
To collaborators—
To pets—
To me—
To you—
If only I could shake this feeling.

Now, Lucky is restless because I am.
Sometimes I lie in bed and my whole body tingles with words. Usually I suppress them, but tonight I am moved.
There is not time for silence, nor edits. I am realising that words unwritten will disappear. Something (in me) tells me it is imperative—to reserve judgment and just write.