Monday 3rd September - Melancholy

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

Feeling desperately melancholic today, so I'm puting pen to paper in thee hope of exorcising the demons. It sometimes helps.

It's one of those days when I want to be left alone, in peace with my thoughts and able to well up or even cry if I feel like it.

The craft fayre plan has hit the rails. I suppose it was ineveitable that the cash flow trickle would dry up at some point. The cinch point came last week. First, an unexpected (foreseeable I suppose) direct debit from the Paypal account for the annual FlickR subscription left the balance barely sufficient to cover the Ebay fees for the month and then the realisation that the upfront costs of attending organised fayres were greater than expected. Most ask that proof of Public Liabilijty Insurance be carried. The cheapest quote I could find was for 60 quid.

On top of that I need another £100 or so to pay for 'essential' items in my Ebay basket; padded envelopes, bracelet blanks, rust paint etc.

On the positive side, the sale of one of the remaining locomotives this morning helps a little. I can meet the Ebay fees for the month. I guess if turnover in the next week or two picks up, some forward momentum might ensue.

Had a mandatory Job Centre appointment this morning for Universal Credit even though I'm not required to seek employment whilst I continue to provide fit notes.

Anglian Water are chasing outstanding bills via recorded nuisance calls and E.On have similarly sent text messsages.

We still await the restarted P.I.P. payments following Dianne's successful appeal against their being stopped late last year. Once they are confirmed a backdated lump sum should allow us to clear the utility bills and I'll be able to instigate a claim for carer's allowance. At that point finances should be somewhat stabilised and maybe we can move forward. However, I'm at breaking point in the meantime; sad, helplessand dwelling on the futility of mere existence without purpose or hope of a bright future.

Sunday 19th August 2018 - The Meaning of Life

[Retrospectively written - copied from handwritten diary]

It always surprises me how much deep thought runs through my mind that I decide can wait until I put pen to paper.

Then, I sit here amongst the breaker rocks on Caister beach on an overcast but warm Sunday molrning and it's all gone. Not forgotten, just temporarily misplaced and waiting to be taken out again like a dust-covered book on a shelf. This should be reason enough to commit thoughts to the page in a more timely manner.

I'm sure I've mentioned before how disillusioned I have become with life in general. Whilst this has always been the case to some extent, I feel it's manifestation now informs everything I think and do. I know that my life has to be different to have any meaning or purpose and to expereience contentment, if not happiness...............

I just broke off writing for about half an hour. The normally slow ebb and flow of the tide had been taken over by a sense of urgency (maybe on account of the strong wind) and the shoreline laps that were 10 yards away when I began jotting were nearing my feet. Whilst I wasn't immediately in danger of an unwanted salt bath, the distraction was sufficient to cause me to move.

Thus, I proceeded along the shoreline for, perhaps, another 100 yards but unusually the sense of despair, frustration, restlessness and foreboding that normally dissipates on a beachcombing trip remained. A wander higher up the beach and a trudge back to the car through clawingly soft sand followed. The search for driftwood and flat stones to carve took me pakst numerous sand hills and circles of nondescript stones left behind by holidaymakers.

The random distribution of small, burnt timbers that are found in some abundance always surprises but probably shouldn't. Presumably, the washed-up remains of reclaimed beach fires. I romanticise about them being the remains of sea-borne funeral pyres, if romanticise is the right word...............

Anyhow, back to the theme I started with. The loss of control, privacy and self-determination in my life is increasingly difficult to deal with. Whilst I can declare that suicide is not the only option under consideration I'm finding homelife more claustraphobic by the day and am beginning to ponder life as a single man again. Whether that involves intentional community living, a home in the woods, roaming the country in an old Transit or some as yet unconsidered option I really have no idea. If I could convince Dianne of the merits of I.C.L. that would still be my preferred option but it appears to be the least likely outcome.

Yesterday, I presented myself at my first craft fayre. The compliments and words of encouragement were welcome and convince me of the merits of pursuing mixed media and jewellery making further. The hard work of the pakst few weeks was made particularly worthwhile by one patron's genuine surprise that such a professional looking stall was a first visit to a fayre.

Having just proof read today's musings I must confess to some disappointment at the brevity of it all. Three pages of an A5 notebook don't seem to amount to much and leave me well short of the stream of consciousness writing that I would hope to achieve in the long run. More practise needed!

I think maybe I should get back to writing my blog. A reader or two might help with another of my dreads, dying in anonymity. This is a strange thing to fear for a private, introverted individual but perhaps ties in with the desire to lead a more purposeful and meaningful existence. I don't know!?