Diary of Lisa Taylor, reluctantly 42 (and a half)

Or.. 'f.ck me I'm forty.. two.. and a half', though can look 38 on a - not so deluded - good day. Or 'How to reconcile a well experienced mind trapped in a still - but for how long? – youthful body.' Don't have the 30somethings angst/problems, neither have the resigned (?) ageing baby-boomers in safe family territory outlook yet. Here's how I cope, one day all sexy women will get old... but never invisible. © Lisa Taylor 2005/6/7/8/9. Jeez.. so much for the 42 and-a-half delusion

Thursday, February 05, 2009

5 February - 9th Symphony & Void

Clearly it is too optimistic to hope for this wave of despondency to disperse on some shore. If you're ever having negative thougths about anything and you get your period then they'll multiply and drown you. Men probably don't have this added... what's the opposite of bonus?

Going to see Beethoven's Ninth probably also doesn't help. The boyfriend asked me if I found it moving? I was speechless. So he said 'rousing?' and I gave him that. The mood I'm in I find everything pointless and irritating and if Mahler thought he was going to be helpful in re-writing it, so be it. The rapturous applause Mr Jarvi got for his contained conducting seems to point to the fact I was the only morose person there but to stay on the subject of the hands, if you can't use them, you can't drive? You can't wash? Eventually I mean. At which point can I start claiming some sort of disability benefit? And what do the hands represent in those interpretations of ailments/illnesses? Is this punishment for having grabbed or failed to grab something, some opportunity?

Yesterday I was probably one of the rare people who completed on a new property in London and since it's been a rotten journey, all friend were congratulating me. But being in a foul mood means that when you get the keys, you can't even be bothered to go take a look. I didn't. A friend who's a care worker for mad people told me that on the monday of the massive NOT snowfall, she was the only one living near the care home and as such was phoned by her boss who ordered that she goes to some housing estate and check on a patient whose own care worker couldn't reach. L. went off slipping and sliding as she doesn't own snow shoes of any kind. When she got there the patient refused to answer the door and just barked at her to go away. I said in which way bark? And L. did me a convincing impersonation of a barking talking dog. Which was hilarious but also poignant as that's exactly how I feel like talking today in fuck off barks. To anyone and everyone. And I'm not even in a home yet.

Poor Toph is about to depart for not so sunny LA for weeks on end and his last impression of girlfriend will be an angry dog. Hardly what we need. He needs to depart on an image of utter loveliness so he'll miss me and behave himself at pool parties in the Hollywood hills. I have 48 hours to sort the mood thing out. But how?

ps was a surprise though to run into former upstairs neighbour at the 9th. He's a hairy hippy young man who plays in a psychedelic folk band. Plays the piano so perhaps he's classically trained and hence he digs Beethoven. I didn't ask.



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