My internet is extremely sporadic, so I'm rushing to write a post before it dies again.
I've made progress today, I think. Things are tidier and I have a better sense of what I'm doing, at least in the short term. (Now I can't think of what else to say about this that's short and stands a chance of me beating out internet death. Those two lines clearly aren't a post in and of themselves, but if I start writing about lists and priorities and meditation and health and support then I run the risk of taking several hours, thereby missing both the short window of working internet and my daily blogging deadline.)
(I might be feeling like I'm making progress, but I have as yet not discovered how not to be incredibly neurotic about everything.)
Sunday, 5 April 2015
Saturday, 4 April 2015
a short song about The Rock
This is The Rock's diet plan. And now this is all I can hear is:
"No one eats like The Rock
Gets through meat like The Rock
No one eats seven meals and no sweets like The Rock..."
The Rock is, after all, roughly the size of a barge. I'm trying my best not to rewrite the whole thing, but...
"No one shouts like The Rock
or works out like The Rock
No one steers clear of salmon and trout like The Rock
I use white cod in all of my overfishing!
My, what a guy!
The Rock!"
(In case you were wondering, this is what the inside of my head looks like most of the time. Oh hey, a thing happened? Let me rewrite a song to be about that. What? No, can't talk now. I'm thinking of things that rhyme with cod. What do you mean, why? Why aren't you thinking of things that rhyme with cod?)
"No one eats like The Rock
Gets through meat like The Rock
No one eats seven meals and no sweets like The Rock..."
The Rock is, after all, roughly the size of a barge. I'm trying my best not to rewrite the whole thing, but...
"No one shouts like The Rock
or works out like The Rock
No one steers clear of salmon and trout like The Rock
I use white cod in all of my overfishing!
My, what a guy!
The Rock!"
(In case you were wondering, this is what the inside of my head looks like most of the time. Oh hey, a thing happened? Let me rewrite a song to be about that. What? No, can't talk now. I'm thinking of things that rhyme with cod. What do you mean, why? Why aren't you thinking of things that rhyme with cod?)
Friday, 3 April 2015
scenes from the middle class relationship
Him: How about truffle pasta with asparagus for dinner?
Me: Sure.
Him: I'm on a massive asparagus kick lately. Which is strange, because I'm normally quite seasonal with my veg and asparagus really isn't in season at all.
Me: That's one of the most middle class things I've ever heard.
Him: I met Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall once.
Mum: I'm not sure I can cope with this thing where he doesn't like Wetherspoons. Can you train him to like Wetherspoons?
Him: This area doesn't really have a local paper. So if I'm feeling posh I can read Ham and High, if I'm feeling a bit more riot-y I can read the Wood Green one.
Me: You indulge your riotous impulses by reading a slightly more downmarket local paper?
Him: Yes.
Me: All of this is getting written down.
Him: I know.
Him: It wasn't really about Christmas presents when I was little. If I'd been good all year, my dad would take me to the West End to see a show and go to the really nice cheese shop.
Me: Oh my God.
Him: Hey, I'm not the one constantly ranting about inferior types of pecorino.
Me: Seriously though, pecorino romano? What the hell is the point of pecorino romano?
Him: Ahem.
Me: I stand by that.
Me: Sure.
Him: I'm on a massive asparagus kick lately. Which is strange, because I'm normally quite seasonal with my veg and asparagus really isn't in season at all.
Me: That's one of the most middle class things I've ever heard.
Him: I met Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall once.
Mum: I'm not sure I can cope with this thing where he doesn't like Wetherspoons. Can you train him to like Wetherspoons?
Him: This area doesn't really have a local paper. So if I'm feeling posh I can read Ham and High, if I'm feeling a bit more riot-y I can read the Wood Green one.
Me: You indulge your riotous impulses by reading a slightly more downmarket local paper?
Him: Yes.
Me: All of this is getting written down.
Him: I know.
Him: It wasn't really about Christmas presents when I was little. If I'd been good all year, my dad would take me to the West End to see a show and go to the really nice cheese shop.
Me: Oh my God.
Him: Hey, I'm not the one constantly ranting about inferior types of pecorino.
Me: Seriously though, pecorino romano? What the hell is the point of pecorino romano?
Him: Ahem.
Me: I stand by that.
Thursday, 2 April 2015
adventures in housing, part eight
[Previously in this series: invasions, evictions, and something else that sounds snappy. Let's finish this thing.]
We started searching for our next home. I had dreams of moving back to the area where this story started, the area I'd lived in comfortably for two years, that had everything I needed and felt like home to me. At first my flatmates were willing to indulge me, and we looked at a few things around there. We got unreasonably attached to a flat we called Robert which they wouldn't let to us. We tried to make an offer on a place in a beautiful building with a lovely kitchen, but the lettings agent repeatedly refused to call us back after we expressed interest and let it to someone else instead. We saw a maisonette with an enormous roof terrace and beautiful living room, which came with a slightly terrifying landlord, a third bedroom barely big enough for a dog bed, and a single-person kitchen with no oven. We debated for days over taking a ratty little flat on an estate which stretched the upper limits of our budgets because I was so excited about proximity to a Zone 1 tube in the area I loved. After that, the other two gave up on my dream and started looking elsewhere.
The house we were leaving might have been owned by a crazy person, but it did have a clean and spacious kitchen and bathroom, and it was hard to go from that to the kinds of things that were on offer in any places that were even vaguely accessible. Sinks missing vital components, ovens that rattled ominously when anyone came within seven feet of them, toilets that appeared to contain the aftermath of someone setting fire to a crocodile. My flatmates, who didn't have quite the same dance-focused transport-dependent schedule, started looking further and further out to find nice places within our budget.
Them: What about this place?
Me: It's in Leytonstone.
Them: But it's so cheap!
Me: There's a reason.
The first Leytonstone place was easy enough to reject. It was a long way from the tube station (which was a long way from anything I considered to be civilisation), it was dark and cramped and unpleasant.
Estate agent: [pushes door open] This is the master bedroom.
Me: Huh.
Mostly-naked man on bed: Uh, hi.
Estate agent: Of course there's more light in here when the curtains are open.
Me: I - hmmm.
Mostly-naked man on bed: [nods to me and covers his lower half with duvet] Yep.
Me: OK, I think we're done here.
The second one was harder to turn down. It looked large and well-maintained and pretty in the photos, it was under budget, and it was three minutes' walk from the tube. We sat outside in the heat (hey, remember that? When it was all hot last summer?) waiting for the estate agent.
Me: Guys, I really don't want to live in Leytonstone.
Them: But it's really pretty and cheap!
Me: I go to a lot of late-night social stuff and getting back here would be an absolute nightmare. It would take hours.
Them: Well, we stay in a lot, so we want somewhere nice.
Me: I get that, but literally the one thing I said I wanted was somewhere accessible.
Them: But it's pretty and cheap.
Sitting outside that house, I felt dread build up in my stomach. I can't live here, no way. But if it's as pretty as it looks in the ad, they're going to want to take it, and I'm going to have to say no and then there'll be fights and they'll hate me. We waited, and I panicked, and we waited, and I panicked, and we waited, right up until the estate agent called my flatmate to say that one of their other properties had exploded and they wouldn't be coming after all (yes, there are two exploding properties within one year of housing drama. At least this one worked a tiny bit in my favour).
We stopped looking in Leytonstone, but time was running out yet again. We started looking for rooms on our own in case we needed a back-up.
We got another viewing. The house was on the side of London none of us had lived in. It was old fashioned and the landlord was slow-moving to the point that I thought he might have been doing it on purpose as a psychological experiment. But it was a house, and there were two full bathrooms between three of us, and fruit trees in the garden, and it was inconvenient but manageably inconvenient, and we would get a proper tenancy agreement, and we were the first people to see it and the slow-moving landlord liked us.
My flatmate was conflicted. She hated it. She couldn't even pinpoint why, except that it smelled funny. She really didn't want to live there, but we only had a week left until moving day. There was almost no chance we'd find somewhere else where we could all live together. She decided she couldn't take the risk, and we made the snail-landlord an offer. He accepted us.
We packed up for the move across London. Convinced that our ridiculous landlady or her proxy would comb the place looking for reasons to deduct from our deposit, we hired a cleaner then cleaned the whole place again twice after she'd gone. I broke a glass and panicked that she was going to charge £300 for it. We worried about the state of the pans, the bathroom grouting that wasn't done properly in the first place, any scuff or scratch mark we hadn't documented when we first got there. We were convinced we would be living in abject poverty for months while we tried to recover from the loss of our deposits.
The landlady's husband came to see us out. He seemed normal. He had completely normal conversations with both of my flatmates, but treated me like a slightly dangerous dog, trying not to speak to me or make eye contact or attract my attention with sudden movements. I wonder what she'd told him about me. Maybe as far as he was concerned, I was some kind of ghost that had acquired the ability to communicate with the living and get a bank account. We loaded up our van, said goodbye to the house and the street and the whole of South London and left forever. To my utter astonishment, my full deposit landed in my account several days later.
Me: She's given it all back!
Flatmate: I know. Don't ask any questions.
Me: But we broke a glass! And we replaced the mattress protectors with Primark ones.
Flatmate: Shut up! She might be listening in somehow.
Me: How?
Flatmate: Maybe she bugged us.
Me: She certainly bugged us.
Flatmate: Shut up.
We settled in to our new home (after cleaning the smell out), and eight months later we're still here. We've not heard anything from our landlord since last year, and are working under the theory that he's dead but because he moves so slowly nobody's noticed yet. It's OK here. I miss convenient bus routes and wooden floors and the ridiculous fuck-off living room in the mansion and kitchens with space in them, but it's OK. My room is my room. I've been able to settle in and spread out and accumulate crap. It might be a long journey home, but I know where I'm going. The landlord might be slow, but the novelty of having a landlord stay the hell out of the house still hasn't worn off. I'm comfortable, and comfort is something that's been missing for a long time.
So concludes my adventures in housing. It's been interesting, going back over it all and writing it down and remembering everything. I almost enjoyed it. But that's enough. It's done now, right? This is all the housing upheaval I've been budgeted for this lifetime, and I'm looking ahead to decades of really, really boring house moves and living situations. I'm sure that's it.
The End. (Please.)
We started searching for our next home. I had dreams of moving back to the area where this story started, the area I'd lived in comfortably for two years, that had everything I needed and felt like home to me. At first my flatmates were willing to indulge me, and we looked at a few things around there. We got unreasonably attached to a flat we called Robert which they wouldn't let to us. We tried to make an offer on a place in a beautiful building with a lovely kitchen, but the lettings agent repeatedly refused to call us back after we expressed interest and let it to someone else instead. We saw a maisonette with an enormous roof terrace and beautiful living room, which came with a slightly terrifying landlord, a third bedroom barely big enough for a dog bed, and a single-person kitchen with no oven. We debated for days over taking a ratty little flat on an estate which stretched the upper limits of our budgets because I was so excited about proximity to a Zone 1 tube in the area I loved. After that, the other two gave up on my dream and started looking elsewhere.
The house we were leaving might have been owned by a crazy person, but it did have a clean and spacious kitchen and bathroom, and it was hard to go from that to the kinds of things that were on offer in any places that were even vaguely accessible. Sinks missing vital components, ovens that rattled ominously when anyone came within seven feet of them, toilets that appeared to contain the aftermath of someone setting fire to a crocodile. My flatmates, who didn't have quite the same dance-focused transport-dependent schedule, started looking further and further out to find nice places within our budget.
Them: What about this place?
Me: It's in Leytonstone.
Them: But it's so cheap!
Me: There's a reason.
The first Leytonstone place was easy enough to reject. It was a long way from the tube station (which was a long way from anything I considered to be civilisation), it was dark and cramped and unpleasant.
Estate agent: [pushes door open] This is the master bedroom.
Me: Huh.
Mostly-naked man on bed: Uh, hi.
Estate agent: Of course there's more light in here when the curtains are open.
Me: I - hmmm.
Mostly-naked man on bed: [nods to me and covers his lower half with duvet] Yep.
Me: OK, I think we're done here.
The second one was harder to turn down. It looked large and well-maintained and pretty in the photos, it was under budget, and it was three minutes' walk from the tube. We sat outside in the heat (hey, remember that? When it was all hot last summer?) waiting for the estate agent.
Me: Guys, I really don't want to live in Leytonstone.
Them: But it's really pretty and cheap!
Me: I go to a lot of late-night social stuff and getting back here would be an absolute nightmare. It would take hours.
Them: Well, we stay in a lot, so we want somewhere nice.
Me: I get that, but literally the one thing I said I wanted was somewhere accessible.
Them: But it's pretty and cheap.
Sitting outside that house, I felt dread build up in my stomach. I can't live here, no way. But if it's as pretty as it looks in the ad, they're going to want to take it, and I'm going to have to say no and then there'll be fights and they'll hate me. We waited, and I panicked, and we waited, and I panicked, and we waited, right up until the estate agent called my flatmate to say that one of their other properties had exploded and they wouldn't be coming after all (yes, there are two exploding properties within one year of housing drama. At least this one worked a tiny bit in my favour).
We stopped looking in Leytonstone, but time was running out yet again. We started looking for rooms on our own in case we needed a back-up.
We got another viewing. The house was on the side of London none of us had lived in. It was old fashioned and the landlord was slow-moving to the point that I thought he might have been doing it on purpose as a psychological experiment. But it was a house, and there were two full bathrooms between three of us, and fruit trees in the garden, and it was inconvenient but manageably inconvenient, and we would get a proper tenancy agreement, and we were the first people to see it and the slow-moving landlord liked us.
My flatmate was conflicted. She hated it. She couldn't even pinpoint why, except that it smelled funny. She really didn't want to live there, but we only had a week left until moving day. There was almost no chance we'd find somewhere else where we could all live together. She decided she couldn't take the risk, and we made the snail-landlord an offer. He accepted us.
We packed up for the move across London. Convinced that our ridiculous landlady or her proxy would comb the place looking for reasons to deduct from our deposit, we hired a cleaner then cleaned the whole place again twice after she'd gone. I broke a glass and panicked that she was going to charge £300 for it. We worried about the state of the pans, the bathroom grouting that wasn't done properly in the first place, any scuff or scratch mark we hadn't documented when we first got there. We were convinced we would be living in abject poverty for months while we tried to recover from the loss of our deposits.
The landlady's husband came to see us out. He seemed normal. He had completely normal conversations with both of my flatmates, but treated me like a slightly dangerous dog, trying not to speak to me or make eye contact or attract my attention with sudden movements. I wonder what she'd told him about me. Maybe as far as he was concerned, I was some kind of ghost that had acquired the ability to communicate with the living and get a bank account. We loaded up our van, said goodbye to the house and the street and the whole of South London and left forever. To my utter astonishment, my full deposit landed in my account several days later.
Me: She's given it all back!
Flatmate: I know. Don't ask any questions.
Me: But we broke a glass! And we replaced the mattress protectors with Primark ones.
Flatmate: Shut up! She might be listening in somehow.
Me: How?
Flatmate: Maybe she bugged us.
Me: She certainly bugged us.
Flatmate: Shut up.
We settled in to our new home (after cleaning the smell out), and eight months later we're still here. We've not heard anything from our landlord since last year, and are working under the theory that he's dead but because he moves so slowly nobody's noticed yet. It's OK here. I miss convenient bus routes and wooden floors and the ridiculous fuck-off living room in the mansion and kitchens with space in them, but it's OK. My room is my room. I've been able to settle in and spread out and accumulate crap. It might be a long journey home, but I know where I'm going. The landlord might be slow, but the novelty of having a landlord stay the hell out of the house still hasn't worn off. I'm comfortable, and comfort is something that's been missing for a long time.
So concludes my adventures in housing. It's been interesting, going back over it all and writing it down and remembering everything. I almost enjoyed it. But that's enough. It's done now, right? This is all the housing upheaval I've been budgeted for this lifetime, and I'm looking ahead to decades of really, really boring house moves and living situations. I'm sure that's it.
The End. (Please.)
Wednesday, 1 April 2015
progress
Three weeks down, four to go. I'm not sure if this is working, but I plan to keep going just in case it is.
Tuesday, 31 March 2015
acrobatics
Following my first ever acrobatics class:
My hips hurt.
My forearms hurt.
My neck and shoulders REALLY hurt.
My quads and hamstrings hurt.
My lower abs hurt.
A bunch of weird little muscles in weird places hurt.
But also two people lay down in front of me and I did a forward roll over them, which makes me practically a stuntwoman or something.
My hips hurt.
My forearms hurt.
My neck and shoulders REALLY hurt.
My quads and hamstrings hurt.
My lower abs hurt.
A bunch of weird little muscles in weird places hurt.
But also two people lay down in front of me and I did a forward roll over them, which makes me practically a stuntwoman or something.
Monday, 30 March 2015
the critical voice, part one
(This is an experiment I'm trying. I don't know how long this series will last or even where I'm trying to take it, but I have a problem I'd like to work out and you can come with me, if you choose to.)
When I was little, my parents sent me to swimming lessons at our local pool. I quite liked the water, but swimming wasn't particularly intuitive to me, and I wasn't really getting it. I don't remember much at all about those lessons, until a few weeks in when the teacher then ordered all but three of us out of the pool and lined them up along the edge.
"Now," he said, pointing to the three of us still in the water, "you watch them swimming, and tell them what they're doing wrong."
They started with me. I don't think they ever got to the other two kids. The teacher called on various children to shout out what I was doing wrong, and since I still couldn't swim at all, there were a lot of things. My four-year-old brain became very quickly overloaded, at which point they all, teacher included, triumphantly chorused that I was putting my feet on the bottom of the pool.
"That's right! You can't swim like that, can you?"
This is still a fairly accurate description of the way the world looks to me sometimes. I'm trying to do something and the whole world is lined up on the edge of the swimming pool, waiting and encouraged to spot what I'm doing wrong and point it out to everyone. An unidentified someone is that swimming teacher, directing everyone's attention to me, telling them I'm probably the one that will screw up the most (I've forgiven most of the people who were callous to me as a child, but if I ever knowingly meet that swimming teacher, I will actually shout at him. Who the fuck thinks that's a good way to get a four-year-old to be a confident swimmer? I didn't learn to swim for another ten years, long after people had stopped trying to teach me). I thought for a long while that seeing the world as that swimming pool was the reason I am so stupidly, unreasonably self-critical, and it's only recently I've started to realise that's not the root of the problem.
A week or so ago, I typed "dealing with the critical voice" into a search engine, hoping to find something a bit more helpful than my therapist's exhortations to "be a bit nicer to yourself". There were a lot of descriptions of the critical voice, all way more nuanced than "kid at the side of the swimming pool". They described a critical voice positioning itself as supportive and encouraging, often saying nice things, recommending rewards, and generally sounding as much like a force for good as anything can.
My critical voice thinks I'm a great person. An embarrassingly great person. My critical voice tells me, with absolute sincerity, that I am incredibly smart and talented and there's nothing I can't do. My critical voice believes in my writing more than almost anyone I've ever met. It's convinced that I have it in me to be exceptional, and often when I read books that voice will be there, saying get a load of this crap. Can you believe this got published? You're so much better than this, when you get your novel written it's going to blow everyone away.
Sometimes I try something and I can't do it. My critical voice, which has already crafted several images of me doing that thing perfectly, says, Hmmm. That was bad. Try again. So I do, and I fail, and the voice says, That's strange. It really doesn't look that hard. I fail again, and it says Really? I mean, really? That's three times. Look how easy it is for other people to do this. You're definitely better than some of these people, but you can't even do this simple thing? Wow.
Eventually, I get upset and frustrated and discouraged, and the voice says, There, there. I'm sure it's an off-day. Let's get you something you like. How about sitting on your own and eating cake? You like those things.
I've written a few things that my critical voice is absolutely 100% happy with. Yes, it says. This, right here, this is the writer that you are. This is amazing. I knew you could do it. Problem is, that thing is usually a few pages of a novel. When I try to add more to it, the voice is sitting there saying no, no, this isn't right. Look at that awesome stuff you wrote. You're letting that writing down with this stuff. No, it's alright, I understand it might take a little while to get into the flow, I'll wait. Hmmm, I thought you'd have it by now. This is still all wrong. If anything it's getting worse. Maybe you should stop, you're obviously not in the right place tonight. Maybe have some cake, replenish a bit, reward yourself for trying.
I hate this bastard voice. It makes me feel like a massive egotist and a complete failure at the same time. This the first time I've tried to define it this way; I've been aware of it for a long time, but I always thought of it as two voices, one trying to be encouraging and the other beating me down. It makes sense that's it's the same voice, the same incredibly reasonable, logical voice, making a case for me to be the very greatest or the most useless, which is it going to be?
Writing my way through a problem has historically helped me solve it at least 90% of the time. But this isn't "we had this fight" or "do I choose this thing or the other thing?", this is a long-standing part of my psyche and I don't think one post is going to do it, unless it were four hundred years long (not including musical interludes). So I'm going to try and write my way through my critical voice over the course of a few weeks or months or however long it takes and see if I can find myself any answers.
When I was little, my parents sent me to swimming lessons at our local pool. I quite liked the water, but swimming wasn't particularly intuitive to me, and I wasn't really getting it. I don't remember much at all about those lessons, until a few weeks in when the teacher then ordered all but three of us out of the pool and lined them up along the edge.
"Now," he said, pointing to the three of us still in the water, "you watch them swimming, and tell them what they're doing wrong."
They started with me. I don't think they ever got to the other two kids. The teacher called on various children to shout out what I was doing wrong, and since I still couldn't swim at all, there were a lot of things. My four-year-old brain became very quickly overloaded, at which point they all, teacher included, triumphantly chorused that I was putting my feet on the bottom of the pool.
"That's right! You can't swim like that, can you?"
This is still a fairly accurate description of the way the world looks to me sometimes. I'm trying to do something and the whole world is lined up on the edge of the swimming pool, waiting and encouraged to spot what I'm doing wrong and point it out to everyone. An unidentified someone is that swimming teacher, directing everyone's attention to me, telling them I'm probably the one that will screw up the most (I've forgiven most of the people who were callous to me as a child, but if I ever knowingly meet that swimming teacher, I will actually shout at him. Who the fuck thinks that's a good way to get a four-year-old to be a confident swimmer? I didn't learn to swim for another ten years, long after people had stopped trying to teach me). I thought for a long while that seeing the world as that swimming pool was the reason I am so stupidly, unreasonably self-critical, and it's only recently I've started to realise that's not the root of the problem.
A week or so ago, I typed "dealing with the critical voice" into a search engine, hoping to find something a bit more helpful than my therapist's exhortations to "be a bit nicer to yourself". There were a lot of descriptions of the critical voice, all way more nuanced than "kid at the side of the swimming pool". They described a critical voice positioning itself as supportive and encouraging, often saying nice things, recommending rewards, and generally sounding as much like a force for good as anything can.
My critical voice thinks I'm a great person. An embarrassingly great person. My critical voice tells me, with absolute sincerity, that I am incredibly smart and talented and there's nothing I can't do. My critical voice believes in my writing more than almost anyone I've ever met. It's convinced that I have it in me to be exceptional, and often when I read books that voice will be there, saying get a load of this crap. Can you believe this got published? You're so much better than this, when you get your novel written it's going to blow everyone away.
Sometimes I try something and I can't do it. My critical voice, which has already crafted several images of me doing that thing perfectly, says, Hmmm. That was bad. Try again. So I do, and I fail, and the voice says, That's strange. It really doesn't look that hard. I fail again, and it says Really? I mean, really? That's three times. Look how easy it is for other people to do this. You're definitely better than some of these people, but you can't even do this simple thing? Wow.
Eventually, I get upset and frustrated and discouraged, and the voice says, There, there. I'm sure it's an off-day. Let's get you something you like. How about sitting on your own and eating cake? You like those things.
I've written a few things that my critical voice is absolutely 100% happy with. Yes, it says. This, right here, this is the writer that you are. This is amazing. I knew you could do it. Problem is, that thing is usually a few pages of a novel. When I try to add more to it, the voice is sitting there saying no, no, this isn't right. Look at that awesome stuff you wrote. You're letting that writing down with this stuff. No, it's alright, I understand it might take a little while to get into the flow, I'll wait. Hmmm, I thought you'd have it by now. This is still all wrong. If anything it's getting worse. Maybe you should stop, you're obviously not in the right place tonight. Maybe have some cake, replenish a bit, reward yourself for trying.
I hate this bastard voice. It makes me feel like a massive egotist and a complete failure at the same time. This the first time I've tried to define it this way; I've been aware of it for a long time, but I always thought of it as two voices, one trying to be encouraging and the other beating me down. It makes sense that's it's the same voice, the same incredibly reasonable, logical voice, making a case for me to be the very greatest or the most useless, which is it going to be?
Writing my way through a problem has historically helped me solve it at least 90% of the time. But this isn't "we had this fight" or "do I choose this thing or the other thing?", this is a long-standing part of my psyche and I don't think one post is going to do it, unless it were four hundred years long (not including musical interludes). So I'm going to try and write my way through my critical voice over the course of a few weeks or months or however long it takes and see if I can find myself any answers.
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