It’s taken a week of fighting the weedy man bugs to get to here. A week of mooching, procrastinating, the very ingredients of sickness itself.
I spent time analysing (I’ve only started doing this since listening to American personal development tapes – evidently I haven’t analysed how trifling the concept of analysis is) how I got sick when I’m surrounding myself with all these positive happy vibes, this new-found gratitude for life.
I’m figuring right now that up until the point when I decided to right the wrongs and to instil momentum in my daily life, I had bottled up a whole lot of negativity and bad vibes. Day by day I was plying off the lid to the tin of worms until whammo: those pesky little crawlers were everywhere, sucking up my goodness and delivering a stark warning not to go back to those dark places without focus, commitment and the sense to find success in my many failures.
Well hopefully I’m free of those worms now (please understand I’m only referring to worms in the metaphorical sense: I have never knowingly ‘had’ worms,and have incredible dedication to hygiene and cleanliness) and ready to continue the journey to absolute wellbeing in mind, body and spirit.
I didn’t exactly cartwheel down the drive this morning; at 6am in utter darkness you never know what your hand will land in. But I did sprint between Northern and Wirral lines at Liverpool Central to do something approaching an Indiana Jones impression to vault through the closing doors to secure a slot on the 7.15 to Chester.
And so while passing anew the trampoline graveyard of Bebington, I remember my plans for last week that have also found their resting place.
I was to begin the week with a revelatory post on setting goals – or rather, finding some to set.
Now here’s where all the theory and principles go to cock. I don’t know about you, but I can speak authoritatively about me and my dad when I say it’s all very well focusing on objectives when you have them.
Up until my bout of manflu – specifically last night about 5pm – I was floating about rudderless in this great ocean of life. It’s scary when you see so much success, so many driven people, and yet you don’t truly know your definite chief aim.
Me and dad are the same in this respect. He’s certainly seen more of life, but lacks that compulsion to act. I want to help him, but if I don’t know where I’m going, how can I?
So that post was going to go in a direction different to anything I’ve ever seen before, and investigate how to go about finding your mission. I feel quite strongly about this so will doubtless resurrect it for your digesting in times to come.
The second casual oratory was to be a confessional on my lack of self control. Quite a brave move for a gobshite.
See I have problems with finishing books, and most projects. I think it’s my attention span but I’m working most hard on this aspect of my persona than any other, since I when I get to Oz I would quite like to be either a. employable or b. successful on my own terms.
Gaining self control is a pig, if you haven’t already got it. It’s the art of the flit. I always think I’m missing something; I think it’s the diva in me that wants to be where it’s at, first. To share my thoughts before the en vogue is no longer, to be well regarded; to be loved.
And let’s face it that’s what it comes down to. Creating affection for self. We all do. And falling short of being the next Mariah Carey with a consort of thousands, what are you supposed to do other than constantly quest to be on top of your game, whatever that game is?
Well to hell with it. I’m never gonna be flavour of the month so I’m going to stick with rum and raisin and find the middle ground. But excellently, always excellently.
And this way I can forgive myself for not finishing that ridiculous Darwin book about species, and simply not ‘getting’ Ulysses.
My two other supposed advances of the week past were to create a Morris Dancing site for my mum’s team. This has at least in part been achieved – www.argarmeles.co.uk is beyond ethereal and now has presence, albeit of one mussel in a very large bucket.
So I defeated the lurghi, and admonished myself for lacking va-va-voom to advance my blogging fortunes of the past seven days.
But I didn’t find anywhere to wild camp in the centre of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. And I have four days to locate it, if it exists, this sweet spot in a city of multiple experiential delights.
Ask your brother, canvass your mother: this spot must be found, and quickly. Can’t wait to hear from ya!