Sunday, 2 June 2013

Been thinking on what makes me happy. What makes me happy is being angry, actually. Lately I've been angry all the time. But the jizz is, I am not allowed to be angry; it's impolite. I am more expected to skip that one and go straight to defeated sadness and despondent regrets. The hollow stuff. Not the broken wood stuff.
As emotions go, I am very basic colours. Hysterically so, in fact. I am mostly really happy. I can even be actively content (say, after a meal.) But on the opposite side, the sadness, disappointment and rage run molten. Today I nigh broke my wrist hitting the desk repeatedly. My drawing wrist, obviously. A tendon gave, but the swelling has subsided by now. Two more days.

More importantly, I am building my happy place. So far I only have fragments of the scene, but they are very solid. The ground is the flatland desert, not sand, but littered with those black, iron rich meteorites that are common in Morocco south (and that i have walked up and down profusely.). I am walking there, in good shoes, and it's after sunset, so it's not painfully hot anymore. Or I am sitting down under an improvised tent between my backpack and an umbrella, a tent made of Araby and foil blanket. I am smoking my pipe, writing in my journal. Or I am walking, my hair is long and red, my turban is orange still, billowing in the hot dry wind. That is my most happy place. My desert. NOBODY anywhere. Not even me, almost. I can walk for endless days if I like. I can get lost a hundred times (though not really, because there's a mountain I'm keeping as an orientation and I'm kind of walking around it in a really wide berth.) That is where my sanity feels the most safe.

Or I could just be really corny and climb on top of the General's chest in my mind and hide there. But I am actually not that little.And I do that anyway.