The Submarineasaurus Protocol

Friends,

(And I do mean that; friends. Friends I have, friends with which I wish to turn our giggling creek into a deep and endless ocean, friends I have not made yet. The friends I choose.)

I.









can't.

Health issues have deteriorated so quickly I've been unable to manage my psychological
reaction? balance?
my psychologicals. All of them. I'm not coping.
And this spills out into my flat voice, flat eyes, weak smiles and flaking on too many social funtimes. In the past week, four and a half pikings at very short notice, three of which involved me hiding in a toilet cubicle trying to reteach myself how to cry without making a sound.
I'm sorry, but right now I can't be a good friend. Please invite me still, ask me still, and I'm sorry, do so keeping in mind that I am unreliable. I'm in deep dark waters. The signal strength is weak here.

For now I'll also try to cut down on social media. In this delicate state I'm desperate for golden moments, feelings, distractions, and I've caught myself too often in the past few days both indulging in petty jealousy of a completely irrational and irrelevant manner, and laying out bear traps of self-pity in an attempt to win attention. Fuck that shit.




I'm sorry.

Think Champloo

KONG HEI FAT CHOI. GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI GONG XI etcetera etcetera etcetera...

There are obvious things that are missed when traveling. Less obvious absences make themselves known over time, when you are unprepared for their arrival.

I miss my clothes. Which is more to say, I am getting sick and tired of wearing the same clothes over and over. Three months of two pairs of jeans and rotating six tops. I miss dressing myself up. I miss looking pretty.

(Anyone who leaves a comment that in any way attempts to assure me that I am pretty regardless will have their comment deleted. Not seeking compliments.)

This does in a way feed into mental well being. Poppy summed it up wonderfully in this post;

"When I sit down and go through the ritual of of painting my nails, doing my makeup and hair, and putting on a pretty outfit, I am allowing myself to feel like I am worthy of spending time on myself."

It is nigh impossible to accomplish this when dragging yourself from hostel to hostel with a limited and purely functional wardrobe. It may be mistaken for vanity, but not being able to put together nifty little outfits and step out knowing that no matter how I feel about my body, my clothes look faaabulous does make it a little harder to feel good about myself. As I am now, with my dino chucks, jeans, and a plain long sleeved tee, I'm pretty mediocre.

I miss having a desk. They're under-valued items of furniture and do not feature in any hostels or hotels. Sitting here in Starbucks eating their wifi, and my hands and shoulders are most unhappy with this table. It's even worse back in the room - not even a table to speak of.

I read on the train today. Perhaps I've been in London long enough to feel comfortable knowing where I am, that I did not have to keep observing those around me or checking the next station incessantly. Fear of motion sickness had stopped me from trying before, but I managed it today without nausea, and it was wonderful. Such a normal, ordinary activity. More than opening a bank account, buying bus tickets and organising my mobile, this felt like an achievement. The first cut in carving out this world and making it my own.

There is fresh milk in England. The continent does not seem to do fresh milk, another little thing I took for granted. There is no sour milk either. Beware of sour milk. You will pass through foreign lands and pick up cartons that look like milk, only to find you have poured something that is most of the way toward being yoghurt into your tea.

In Iceland, do not buy the a + b milk.

In the Czech Republic, do not buy the green cartons.

You have no idea the heartbreak. No idea.

It was not as significant a relief as I expected it to be, to finally be in the land in which my native tongue originates and is named after. I can ask complicated questions and understand complicated answers. Hell, even simple questions. I can read all signs. That perpetual self-conscious embarrassment that I am monolingual and force people out of their native tongue in order to communicate me, so heavy and shameful, now gone!

The price being, I can understand everyone. Everyone. All the time. Now, sitting on the train, waiting for the bus, standing in the Natural History Museum, buying a cup of tea, I am surrounded by the everyday conversations of everyday concerns of everyday people, and I cannot keep all these voices out of my head.

Overwhelmed, and so I am fleeing the city. Tomorrow I'm getting on a bus for Salisbury, and from there to Bath, and from there, who knows. All want is a greater presence of quiet in my world. And then, perhaps some colour, something other than stone in all the shades of civilisation.

I will circle around the west, return to London to pick up my National Insurance Number and bank card, and then make my way north, hopefully closer to a place in which I can stop, and space I can call my own.

because the sun cannot last

Remember how to drive. Pull out into weekend traffic. Pull out onto the Ring Road. Pull out into rain, and rain, and rain, and rain, and rain. Cannot see the road. Cannot see the side mirrors. Rain, and rain, and rain, and the spray of cars on water. Watch the traffic ahead lift off. Cannot see the hill they climb. Turn the music up louder. Louder. Cannot pull away from Nine Inch Nails long enough to start driving playlist. Rain, and rain, and rain. Hairy moment. Rain. Louder. Hairy moment. Rain. Repeat. Pass Geelong. Follow the Princes Highway to Colac. Still cannot pull away from Nine Inch Nails. Pause at Information Centre to confirm road still open. Still cannot pull away from Nine Inch Nails. Leave the Princes. Chase the 155 down through the Otways. Rain, and wind, and rain, and wind. Too fast on the corners. Water bottle rolls off the seat, side to side in the foot well. Clouds, and wind, and clouds, and wind. Cannot see the drop offs to either side. Cannot see the ranges and valleys. Cannot see the corners as they come. Louder, louder, louder. Free of the old trees and old ferns. Down the hills to the coast. The sea enraged. The coast eats ships. The wind and wind and wind pushes the car. Repeat that song. Take these corners too fast. The cliff tops charcoal from back burning. Ash in the air, smoke on the tongue. No sun seen today. Port Campbell. Five minutes too early for reception. Overpriced cup of tea around the corner. Watch skinny boys come out of the surf. Flash of fish-white buttocks out of the wetsuit. The kitchen hands come out to watch the derby. Milk and butter and a bottle of cider at the supermarket. Hostel is new. Hostel is clean. Hostel is warm, bright, not at all the setting of a slasher movie as the other backpacker joint. Sharing dorm with a chopper pilot. She defies gravity every day. This borrowed car is heady freedom enough. Back out with the last of the light. No music. Loch Ard Gorge. Herbie the Camera out. The wake of fire. Girls stopping their parents to emulate me in the ashes. Down to the gorge. Herbie freaks out in low light. There is no colour. The wind pushes me over. Hands too cold to be steady. Ears ache. Face numb. Retreat. Sit on bunk bed. Choose to read. Choose between two books. Cup of tea. Comfy couch. Warm room. Read. Old comfort. Old delight. Pause. Heat soup. Butter bread. Warm full belly. Cider. Book. Surrounded by tour group. Make my own quiet. Content. Bed. Listen to the wind, the rain, the sea and sky. Wake. Listen to the wind, the rain, the sea and sky. Wait. Doze. Wake. Listen. Wait. Doze. Wake. Listen. Wait. Doze. Listen. Wake. Shower. Downstairs. Warm porridge. Cup of tea. Book. Couch. Read. Listen. Rain at forty-five degree angle. Read. Hostel empty. Read. Warm. Quiet. Read. Warm. Quiet. Read. Rain. Wind. Rain. Wind. Warm. Quiet. Read. Rain stops. Car. Too fast on the corners. Clear air. Loch Ard again. Walk to Sherbrooke River. Photos and photos and photos. Ears ache in the cold. Hands clumsy. Nose running. Lichen. Flowers. Leaves. Grass. Succulents. Distance. Wind. Wind. Wind. Prickles. Water. Tussocks. Trees. Decay. The river is fat. The inlet an apoplexy. A froth of sour milk. Pale air. Waves immense. Vengeance. Foot stuck in clay. Distracted by ant carrying birdshit. Slip on wet rocks. Cannot feel face. Watch the violence. Wait. No silence. Alone. Need toilet. Walk back. Vow no more photos. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Stop at Broken Head. Waves dash so high. The wind carries the spray up over the cliff top. A bird taunts me. Break vow. Break vow. Break vow. Cannot feel fingers. Car. Stop at 12 Apostles. Toilet. Ponder hot drink. Too tired to wait in line. Sit in car. Sandwich of leftovers pilfered from last night's tour group. Apple. Popper. Watch tourists in carpark. Drive. Gibson's Steps. Wind roars at me. Shoves me. Deafens me. Takes my face. Creep down steps. Dead mutton bird at bottom of cliff. Take photos. Given funny looks. Turn around. Snap shots of sea. See shore covered in dead mutton birds. Many photos of dead mutton birds. Sea foam lifted and spun in circles. Like plastic bags in a parking lot. Photos of dead birds. Bottle without message. Photos of dead birds. Dead birds. Dead birds. So many dead birds. Turn and walk away. Live bird next to stairs. Leave live bird alone. Blow back up cliff. Sit in car. Wait for shakes to stop. Drive. Stop. Photos of the wake of fire. Cold. So cold. Drive. Past Port Campbell. First Scenic Lookout on left. Trail head for Discovery Trail. Bugs. Flowers. Stamen to end all stamen. Cliff tops. Wind. Alone. Howl. Unheard. Scream. Lost. Sky swallowed. Spent. Turn around. Go back, down, down, down. Buy milk, hot chocolate, some chocolate-vodka alcopop thing. Shower. Core warm. Cup of tea. Book. Couch. Blanket. Read. Chuckle. Read. Finish tea. Make soup. Butter bread. Read. Read. Warm belly. Make hot chocolate. Spike hot chocolate. Book. Couch. Warm belly. Warm blood. Finish book. Lose quiet space. Bed. Rest. And. Sleep. Wake. Rain. Doze. Wake. No rain. Dress. Pack. Check out. Porridge and banana. Cup of tea. Car. Petrol. Drive. Great Ocean Road. Too fast on the bends. Through Lavers Hill. Through the Otways. Through Apollo Bay. C119 at Skenes Creek. Stuck behind slow driver. Pollute the air with obscenities. Past. Play chicken with the laws of physics on the slopes and bends. Grass parrots play chicken with me. Turn the music up. Turn the music up. Between leaving and arriving. Moving. In control. Free. Equilibrium. Stability. Strength. Breathe. Some semblance of exhilaration. Any excuse to accelerate. Overtake. Overtake. Overtake. Turn the music up. The earth regained. Some semblance of determination. Some semblance of hope. Until the sun comes out. Until the Princes Highway. Until a glimpse of the city. Until the traffic crowds in. Until traffic lights and stop signs and roundabouts and cut offs and car horns and road works and the roar of a different world. Until returned to this life. Until this.

















































The sky was furious. The sea was furious. The cliffs and the bruised beaten life upon them an implacable wrath. The battery never ended. The howling and roaring beyond sound. The world conspired to be my state of being, and being in that turbulence took the turbulence out of me. Spent. For a moment, I could see a future. For a moment, even the present was okay.

Not enough. Not enough to bolster me. Moments are, by definition, only moments. There are days and weeks and months of this life to come. Sitting here at my desk, there is no wind and rain, only people, I hear people. Perhaps if I'd had longer I could return properly replenished.

But. Why. Why should this wisp of wholeness I find on the edge of the continent be used on you. This cycle always ends with my retreat. Incoherent and disintegrating. Retreating, fleeing and flying from you. Finding some quiet eye in the storm to stand in. To remember how to breathe. To- to come back and have you wear me down again. Flay me raw with kind words, harsh words, no words at all. Until I retreat. Again. And again. And again. Why must I spend the quiet I fight for on wading into your world again.

Why is the price always mine.

Sightings In The Wild

On the train home, sitting in the priority seat by the door, headphones and Imogen Heap on, notebook open, pen vomiting thoughts, I pause a moment, look up and-

ENTER STAGE LEFT: a ginger nut in a grey and red striped top reading the latest issue of Weird Tales.

-total brain freeze.

Do I;

1. Blurt enthusiasm and approval of his choice in reading matter at him?
2. Tell him I'm an editorial assistant and I'm incoherent at the sight of seeing a total stranger reading it in public?

Perhaps this doesn't happen so much in the magazine's home land, but here, I'm the only person who seems to have copies of the dear old rag. I just assume that...well, I just assume.

Oh. OH.

Is that;

1. ...one of the issues I gave away on this here blog?

So then;

1. Does this total stranger recognise me?

Wait. Wait. Hang on. One local I gave copies to indicated he was going to pass them on to others, being an excellent little literary infector cell.

So then;

1. This total stranger could know me from this blog.
2. This total stranger could have no idea of my existence and the source of his reading material.
3. This total stranger could actually have a subscription to the magazine.

So then;

1. WTF do I do?

I could practically hear the adrenaline chutes clang as they opened.

If he knows me, then, to be honest, this is a situation I dread most as the consequence of having a blog. People I don't know who know me, or have the impression of knowing me, or certainly know more about me than has been earned in mutual interaction. Initiating a conversation with a stranger is already a massive leap off a cliff for me. Initiating it with someone who is less stranger than stranger;

1. He might not know me, and then I'd look like a twat.
2. I could simply not question where his acquired the magazine, and just compliment his tastes.
3. Is blurting out "I'm an editorial assistant!" kinda, you know, pretentious wankery oh look at me lah-di-dah pat my head and be impressed?
   

But then what if I did that and he did know me?

Hang on;

1. In every single photo of myself that I post on this blog I look like a bloody muppet,
2. I am in respectable office clothes right now and not pulling faces.
3. Unless my thinking face is funny.
4. It could be.
5. Oshi-
   

Stop. Tessa, you are dehydrated, having a blood sugar crash, and still quite wobbly from this random bout of unwellness. Look at the closed-logic rampage your thoughts are careening around in. You are going to;

1. Keep your mouth shut. You can't even think coherently, let alone form words. No matter what the actual situation is, you are going to make an arse out of yourself.
2. Also, you just left a group because you're an introvert in sore need of some alone time. You can't do social right now.
3. Plus, you're stupid. Remember? You got up this morning. That was a stupid thing to do. Don't bring any more stupid upon yourself. Don't inflict it on other people either.

Head down. Write some more. Keep an eye on the stations passing. Cap pen, close notebook, stand-

EXIT TRAIN DOORS: a ginger nut in a grey and red striped top reading the latest issue of Weird Tales.

-total brain freeze.

The fact that I didn't have far to go was going to be my polite and fast escape if the conversation was a mistake.

The fact that he got off at my stop effectively nutted my Plan B.

...Awkward.

The Moral Of The Story:

1. Hello ginger nut in the red and grey striped top. If you are in fact a reader, dude, you get so many kudos for reading Weird Tales.
   
2. Sorry for not saying hi.
   
3. And yeah, I really am a neurotic anti-social misanthropic introverted cranky hermit crab.