Consider the following set of rather illuminating statistics on the subject of crying, compiled by the Independent (see here). Apparently, the practice has theraputic effects second only to modern medicine. And here, evidently, is how 'we' go about it:

20% of bouts of crying last longer than 30 minutes

8% go on for longer than one hour

70% of criers make no attempt to hide their crying

77% of crying takes place at home

15% at work or in the car

40% of people weep alone

39% of crying occurs in the evening, the most popular time compared with morning, afternoon, and night (16, 29 and 17 per cent respectively)

6-8pm is the most common time for crying

88.8% feel better after a cry

47: average number of times a woman cries each year

7: annual number of crying episodes for a man.

--------------------

The last time I cried was this evening. I was amongst strangers (why is this SO conducive to honest displays of spectacular and soggy emotion?) and we were watching a documentary film. There will be no review here, because it is too recent, too raw and more than anything else, completely redundant. Those who will appreciate the experience, will find their way to it. Those who will not, will either never encounter it or come away as unscathed by the film as any possible review. Oh - and the documentary I'm on about is Tibet: Cry of the Snow Lion. Watch it with friends around you.

Anyway - so - I was watching it this evening. And at more than one point, I found tears streaming down my cheeks. And I realize now that I made no attempt to mop up, as it were. Now that I see the statistic (which of course, is subject to all the 1000 caveats that each definitive number is subject to), I am surprised at myself. For some reason, it seems shocking. I did cry in public - volubly sniffing and choking back further tears - and made no attempt to cover up.

On the other hand, as if by design, expressly for this post, M. came home after being a chance witness at a quite horrific sounding road accident. I hugged him and waves of (rather perverse?) relief washed over me. And not a small amount of misplaced but retroactive panic - are you really ok? What happened? Wait - you're sure YOU'RE okay? I felt the tears welling up. I choked them back immediately, gritted my teeth and just squeezed his hand and said 'I'm so glad you're safe.'

Hmm.

Aha!!

So, I have been cooking up a storm in the kitchen these past few days. As part of major project to achieve multiple, mutually exclusive and singly unattainable goals, namely:
- Improve relationship (via improvement in general nutrition leading to feelings of personal loveliness leading to significant other noting personal loveliness leading to enhanced cuddle sessions leading to further feelings of loveliness and so on, in an upward spiral culminating somewhere in the stars.)

- Improve academic life (via improvement in general nutrition leading to better ability to sit in a chair and do menial earth-shatteringly large data handling and analysis jobs which require physical stamina!!, grit, determination, clenched teeth and nuclear amounts of energy, leading to stratospheric rise through academia and into above-mentioned stars.)

- Improve culinary skills (via improvement in ability to simultaneously cut, chop, blend, simmer sans singes, leading to acquirement (is that a word?) of basic life skill without which shall starve to death if currently used parachutes (mummy, tesco, bus pass, mobile phone) used to procure food all fail at once.)

- Improve general appearance of kitchen, which seems to work best, aesthetically, when in a state of semi-use (read: washing up done, no cooking at present). It is one of those rooms which, sadly, looks bereft and empty-classroom/train station-ish if you do not use it. So for aesthetic reasons, it must be used.

This project has gone exceedingly well so far.
I have cooked 3 meals, 4 breakfasts and miscellaneous toast-on-cheese sessions (not so good for objective number one, I must admit. )

I will be reporting on progress intermittently.

As proof that this project is in fact starting to show some results, I will report on some success in the area of objective 2: I was up, bright eyed and bushy tailed at 5:30 this morning, with the desire to open up laptop and start work!! On a Sunday! At 5:30! I ask you!! (No, it wasn't indigestion. Many many tins of probiotic yoghurt are being generously used to guard against said malaise.)

It appears, however, that I will need something more. Good nutrition might give one the required energy. However, so far, it has been gloriously mis-spent on blogger, facebook and other related peat bogs for the serious academic.
Ahem.

Explode/Implode

Open/closed, arms open wide, wrapped in a selfhug. Flying, plummeting. Eyes open, eyes squeezed shut. Sexless, lustful. Contemplating Stockholm, running far and fast and still checking my email every ten minutes.
"Do something with your life that does not involve waiting."
Ouch. But only because it's true.

Excited. Sick and tired.
Smiling, sobbing.
Orgasmic. Numb.

Flashback:
We sit at the edge of your bed and I cradle your head against my shoulder, trying my best to communicate, through my arms, that in this one moment, you are totally warm, totally safe, totally connected to me. We rock gently back and forth and I am willing you to relax in my embrace. You do. And something inside me is inflamed with soft warmth.

Want to travel. Want to settle. I've found The One. No One is right for me.
Alone. Connected. In love. Isolated. Misunderstood. Dark. Alone. Illuminated. Ecstatic.

I want everything.
I want to stop wanting.