Click your fingers, send me to sleep

I am wondering about hypnosis. Again.

Years ago, when I had the almost fictional job of writing for a glossy women’s magazine, I often interviewed people with atypical jobs. Once, I spoke to a person who performed hypnosis on professional athletes and CEOs. People whose minds needed to be one track. When I worked in women’s magazines, one had to be very interested in CEOs.

This woman and I talked about the benefits of hypnosis in other realms. I asked her about nail biting. She said it would be an ideal issue to sort with hypnosis, which isn’t the movie version of look into my eyes, raise your hand, Saul Bass Vertigo credits. She even recommended some experts who could help.

I seriously considered booking and travelling to see people to fix me. My nails and fingertips back then were particularly horrible. But it was pricey.

My nails are not beautiful now, but they are slightly less flinchy. I still frequently peel the skin, but the days of regular weeping blood and lingering burning pain are gone. Most of that is down to knitting and some dental issues. I wear a retainer a lot because I’m in the middle of a very drawn out plan. The most boring story of my life, despite loads of gnarly looking x-rays. I finally took advantage of my diminished nail-biting habit and booked in for my first manicure last weekend. A real spur of the moment let’s see if this cures me of a low mood click. It was fun. Bright pink. Jury’s still out on the curing.

The thoughts of hypnosis is tempting me again. I’ve a lot to be doing. During lunch I’m emailing places about boring things, chasing letters, making sure I’m eating a balanced meal, sorting out various balances, responding to people, asking others if now is a good time to talk, listening to Beethoven and being told where I am in the queue. I’m taking some leave next month for non-holiday reasons, and lining up everything now. Even when I tick some stuff off the list and feel a little closer to peace and can rest for the evening, it is hard to ignore the background noise. I want a distraction from existing, all that sinew and blood. I want one specific track muted in my mind.

But while I’ll pay to get my nails done, I don’t think I’m ready to submit cash and control to the type of person a CEO trusts. I’ll muddle through. Look at me, I finally got a manicure. The heroine’s journey is streaming live.

P.S.

I read a beautiful and slight (in an amazing way!) essay called ‘The Chairs’ from Tim MacGabhann in a copy of The Dublin Review from last Autumn. It is about the author preparing for an NA meeting. The writing was so deft and human that I wondered why I bother thinking and typing at all. Buy a copy here.

I’m bingeing two shows designed specifically for Teen Jean: The Acolyte and My Lady Jane. The former has a quest in space, the latter is a fun romance in a sort of The Princess Bride version of English history.

Highly recommend falling asleep to a BBC radio dramatisation of North and South. The mam is so annoying in it (in an amazing way!). I’m giddy whenever she complains.

“Why did she say the word “passionate” to him when they were talking? And why did he repeat it so many times, three or even four times? Is the word “passionate” or is it not basically an obscene item of vocabulary? No, it isn’t. But is it like a small bandage placed over an item of vocabulary that is in fact obscene? Maybe yes. A word with blood running through it, a red word. In casual conversation, it’s better to use words that are gray or beige. Where did it come from, then, this word “passionate”? She knows where. From that so firmly suppressed feeling, present all along, that when he looks at her, when he speaks to her, he is addressing not only the superficial but also the deep, concealed parts of her personality—without meaning to, without knowing how not to.” This peek at the next Sally Rooney novel has me excited. I’ve bought shares.