Tlönista

I’ve got a new place, a room in a council flat out in the East End. The sky is dominated by the glittering towers of Canary Wharf and the stark Hawksmoorean bulk of St Anne’s Limehouse. The water’s edge is never far away, whether it’s a sleepy canal bordered by long-neglected towpaths or the swank bar patios of West India Quay. It reminds me of Harbourfront. I feel very much at home.

My roommates are an Irish couple and an Australian girl, all around my age, primarily concerned with scraping by, going out, and saving up to travel. There is a miniscule balcony which is half taken up with a barbecue, a basket of scraggly red geraniums, and a pigeon’s nest with one egg in it. They’ve named the pigeon Pepper.

I took my last week off work. I can’t seem to get through a week without Crashing – that is, a bout of depression. I am supposed to be finding a new job but lately I find it enough of a challenge to get out of bed and get moving in the morning. I sink into a cold drowsy torpor and can’t get anything done. I am hard on myself for not getting it together, but Ben says to work on the little things first. On Monday it took me an hour to wake up, walk across the street to the convenience store, and buy bread. But yesterday I went to the Jobcentre and printed out listings, and got out to the Asda to stock the cupboard and buy a few things to liven up my room: candleholders, a lamp. This morning I slept in for hours, but surprised myself by making a nice breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, and cottage cheese. It felt as if it took no effort at all.

The chestnut trees are starting to bloom. I think longingly of L., the girl back in Forest Hill. I want to see her again but shouldn’t I wait till I’m at least decently functional? It’s been weeks, surely she’d have gotten in touch if she’d wanted to see me. Oh, fuck it…

Slowly, slowly, a bit at a time. One of my problems is that I’m so damned impatient, when things end up happening in their own good time anyway.