What S/Heen has been up/down to lately

What Sheen has been up to lately


I have spent so much time on getting this blog up and running, I haven’t had time for anything else these last few weeks, nay, months, but here goes, anyway:


Last Saturday I bought the cutest blouse you ever did see. It’s sort of lilac. I got it at Zara. I went there with my friend Soraya. Soraya also thinks the blouse is cute and she wanted to buy one just the same but she couldn’t afford it so I laughed inanely at her misfortune and promised I’d bequeath her mine when I die.


I went to my basket weaving class on Monday, as usual. I don’t mind going, but I know I’m not getting much out of it. However, the social worker will get mad at me if I drop out, just like I’ve dropped out of every class, course, school I’ve ever been in. They say basket weaving is good for the mind. I asked them if they really meant it was good for the brain and they said, No, it’s the mind.


Heen and I fought on Tuesday (again!) We often fight – I think that’s normal between twins and we take it in turns to forgive each other. So as I was bandaging his arm I said, “Sorry” and he smiled and said, “That’s OK”.




What Heen has been down to lately


I’ve just read what Sheen wrote and I must point out that certain parts are not entirely factual. I reckon I’ve done at least 62% of the work getting this blog started; she has spent far too much time with that loser Soraya in my opinion. (Actually, I quite fancy Soraya).


I spend a lot of time devising schemes to save money. Sheen and I came into a modest fortune some time ago and we calculated that, if we were reasonably prudent, we could invest it and live off the interest without having to work for a living. So this week I ditched some cereal stock and bought a few more Canadian government bonds. I’m in two minds about investing in copper.


Somebody told me about this band called Calexico. I emuled it. Hmmmm.


By the way, Sheen’s blouse is lavender, not lilac.





What Sheen has been up to lately


I have a recurring dream. When I wake up in the morning I can remember it vividly and I say to myself, “Hey, I’ve had this dream before”. I’ve probably had it dozens of times, it’s so familiar. But then, by mid-morning, it’s almost completely forgotten. It starts to fade as soon as I wake up, I guess. I know there’s an old shiny black car in it, but I don’t think I’m in the car. I don’t know. I ought to pay more attention, maybe write my dreams down as soon as I get up.


I had a psychologist once who asked me about my dreams. I liked her. She didn’t have much idea about being a psychologist, though. I think she just wanted me to talk; I told her about my childhood and my family and my friends and my job, and then when we’d gone through all that, she started  on my dreams. It was easy at first, but then I had to invent a different story every time and I got bored and anyway, I’m sure she knew I was making it all up.


I don’t see a psychologist any more. I’ve had three or four and they were all nice people but I don’t know if they really helped me. When the judge decided I could just see a social worker and not bother with medication, psychiatrists and psychologists, I felt curiously abandoned and relieved at the same time. But I think I’m getting better. I’ve got some good friends now, the social worker really takes an interest in me and hey, I’ve still got Heen.




 What Heen has been down to lately


What I most like doing is going for a walk next to a river, any river, really. To get the most out of the walk, there are a series of requirements, let’s say conditions, that have to be met. First, it has to be a place I’ve been before. I’m not good at new places, I get confused seeing so much new scenery and my brain has to file away a lot of data that it hasn’t really decided if it wants or not. But if I go to a familiar place, I feel much more comfortable. Another requisite is that I have to have read a newspaper or watched a documentary just before the walk. This way I sort of mull over or thrash out the things that are fresh in my mind as I walk along the banks of my familiar river. If I don’t have any fresh material to go over, sometimes I sweat and panic and worry that I haven’t got anything to think about and I start thinking weird things about God and Death and Sin. I get scared when I think about these things. Maybe I ought to work on these issues.


Another condition of my perfect walk is that I have to feel a bit hungry. Not ravenous, just enough to heighten the sensation that comes to me as I walk – the smells, the wind, the damp, the light- All of this is more attractive if I’m feeling a bit peckish. Late morning or early evening is, therefore, the optimum time for my walks.


And of course there’s another thing. I can’t bear walking with other people I don’t see the point, I mean, if you want to talk, sit down in a house or a bar or a restaurant or a doctor’s waiting room, have a drink, put some music on, light some incense, whatever. But if you’re out walking in the countryside, conversation is a no no. I sometimes go for a walk with Sheen, and that’s OK, usually, except when she wants to fight. I don’t mind walking with her, because she doesn’t talk much anyway, and at least this way I can sort of keep an eye on her. She knows I’d rather be on my own when I’m walking, but she’s quiet and doesn’t get in the way. Sometimes I feel a bit guilty so I speak to her; I try to involve her in the conversation I’m having with myself in my head. I know she likes that, and she tries to join in. But, as a rule, I go for my walks alone. That doesn’t mean I always want to be alone all the time – far from it. I like to talk to people, I like listening to ther people’s opinions and sharing ideas. I think I understand myself better when I’ve talked to somebody else about what’s on my mind. But it depends who.  

One response to this post.

  1. “Dear Susi, dear Paul” by Christine Nostlinger. My friend Paula used to read this book over and over again. She let me borrow it once, we must have been in primary school still. I liked it, it felt like a grown-up kind of reading, a timid initiation to those romantic comedies with Sandra Bullock for 11 year-olds. I liked it, but I had completely forgotten about it. Till now. It’s weird how the mind works. And I’ve just realized I am old enough now to have a past. I wonder when I’ll find myself remembering this and being startled by it.


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