trails of thought

A footnote to five months of creative writing …

After a conversation I had with a journalist yesterday – a person whose opinions I value highly – as well other private conversations I absolutely treasure, I have decided that I shall no longer continue to post public poetry or writings for the moment.

I need to sort out my private life before I do anything else.

This will require the greatest concentration and effort on my part.

Writing parallel to that process would not be in good faith any more.

Where change could not take place, and was frozen by an impassive – where not impressive – lack of collaboration on the part of others, I think an argument could be made in favour of my going public – quite out of desperation – re the difficult situation, specifically the lack of physical affection, in my life.

But if I am now to contemplate that such change can take place, and the reason it can is because I am feeling empowered and finally proactive enough in myself to do so, having come to a better understanding of myself and my wants over the writings that have come out of the past five months, then it is no longer easy to justify a free and easy (not easy, but you know what I mean …) public tongue.

I have considered password-protecting the two creative blogs I have written since December, or even deleting them; but I was shown yesterday the zero wisdom in carrying out the latter action of an impulsive nature any time in the near future.  Meanwhile, the former would be foolish: the Streisand effect would kick in, if indeed anything of value might actually be missed.

So the blogs as they stand shall remain online.

I, however, will no longer document what happens in my life until I can reasonably attest to its stable and sustainable way of seeing, doing and being.

I hope you all understand me in this, and appreciate the real love I have sensed out there whilst I have reached this point in my existence on this rock.

And if understanding is difficult to come by, please accept that my real love and affection for those I most treasure – and have done so for years – is far greater than any desire I have for continued misery to be documented continuously, even where (perhaps) an argument could be made that some kind of art was being developed.

So be gentle with me, when you judge my actions.

See you all on the other side, right?

🙂

 

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poetry, trails of thought

Riding, say, “Hi …!”

 

Running like water slipping through

hair; lining your face as it turns to mine,

and eyes remind us of

times’ remembering, as

moments burn holes of wonder

in holes of wondrous

sex.

 

 

Times’ mist and dew of landing, and ages of

forgetting the pain of undeciding,

and all I remember was the nature of your

beauty which mirrored like slivers of

silver backdrop the background of

birches standing up tall and

proud in their belief that this was

exactly

where they belonged.

 

 

And I hide my sadness so bloody often, and it

springs up treacherously at any sign of

redemption, and I so want my life to be re-

deemed in some way as worthy of your

love and affection and touch,

and so much is riding on just saying hello.

 

 

And the circles I failed so badly to square

have made it impossible for me to

square any more: and this is

exactly

why I have excised my life from the life

I was leading, because the life I was

leading had no right to be led.

 

 

Even so, even yet, I hope I may still see the day

when I’ll look into the eyes you look out of

so proudly,

and onto me, too: that grazing flitting laughter of

sombre truth and beautiful soul and the

whole of your stretching me, encompassing me

mindfulness: where the moment

is love

and all I want is to love you

back as much as I can, as much as you

do:

as if rabbit from top hat, by some art of

magick: the pain which destroyed me

only drives me once again to realise that

without you, everything’s

so damn plain: a train of miserable thoughts in

wagons of third class, and there is

only one class I really want now: the one you

impart,

with all your heart, soul and love: the one

you’ve always wanted to teach me so well …

 

… just be yourself!

(And let the rest … go to hell!)

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poetry, trails of thought

Fudge [or nudged and budged (but not yet beloved)]

 

For people of my caste –

and cast I am

on lonely sees

where nothing is herd-

ed to any desti-

nation or state of mine-

d

I know of clearly enough –

the stuff of snuff-

ed existence overpowers my

sen-

sis to the extent that being

an object-

or of inconscience fa-

mi-

lying homily of grate-

r Gouda: the pungency of

food records its pass-

age through time.

 

And a fudged budged nudge

is not only dishonest on your

part: it is also that awful symptom

on my part: my failure to extend

myself honestly without artificial

tool: I can be no individual soul if

all I am is the ownership-

less sum of the support you provide

(neither ownership-

free ever and a day;

never and a day;

no freedom I know of;

no joyous existence I knew of …).

 

And this is why fudged nudge is such

a fiddle for me: for if I can only achieve

what I do by fraudulently, hiddenly,

unattributedly, unauditedly,

riding on your backs, on your wisdoms, on

your beautiful thoughts, on you ingenuities,

on your genius … then what am I

but a …

… cheat?

 

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poetry, trails of thought

Needs / Wants / Freedoms / Endings

I always did use to argue

that needs were more important than wants;

that wants were a luxury; that needs were

a necessity; that your needs should outweigh

my wants.

 

In a sense, however, I now realise I was wrong:

I was wrong as soundly as the sound of a

gong, ringing out brightly above latterday

music, composed to ennoble the streets and the

cities.

 

In terms of physical needs, and survival at the

limit, your needs at first must have priority

over luxury chocolate; my dark and

mysterious liquids; my desire for the unusual,

the unexpected and the de-

natural.

 

But in terms of other emotional realities, if you

are to burningly need me as in romantic

love, the attachment you profess is not a choice

you make but an action you feel violently bounden

to follow; and whilst this is grand, and

whilst this makes love a wonderful unthinking

act of generosity, since tidal wave of emotion

does drive it all, we cannot say you’re

loving me simply because you have chosen

such

a way.

 

And if you are to love me as I would have

you love me, and if I were to love you

as I would have me love you,

then in such a world of ideal circum-

stance, we would want each other always –

never need.

 

There will come a day, a day of helpless

sadness, when the job of a lover will not

be to love with ease, but rather

to spend their significant time, caring for

another who no longer can jump and dive into

love with the grandiose joy of unbridled

life, a reigning over of senses –

a reining in of opportunities –

in a way we never

knew and can no longer recall.

And that day of sad forgetfulness will

pursue us all quite gravely; and the aim of any

love right then will be to assert its sacrifice,

so bravely.

 

But until such a day arrives – if for you and me

arrival doesn’t already begin to present itself –

let us enjoy if not the practice at least the memory

of loves, physically exchanged through touch and

mind, reminding us courageously

of what might once have been.

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trails of thought

On becoming tough enough for everything …

In truth, when you toughen up, you need other people less not more.  And this slow leaking away of dependence, whilst terrifying at first, does mean you don’t have to be with anyone.  Life suddenly becomes simpler as hardness defends, encompasses and grows up around you.  In the face of a solemn and doleful universe, one becomes solemn and doleful oneself.

And that’s what’s happening.

 

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trails of thought

Shards of life and person

 

Morning all (for me, at least; though I resist saying good morning …).

An early start.

Being disabused of many notions is very challenging, not to say painful.  Being taught so many lessons rather than taught to learn the same is so hard.  And the whole process is turning me into kind of a cruel and embittered person.  Which makes me sad, because if I had any virtue before, it was the kindness I strove to express. And when it was kindness I expressed, it was good.

So all that’ll be left, as these shenanigans finally reach their end-game, will be shards of life and a person who must remainder his life as tawdry book: unwanted, unread, undead almost!

I am no longer the person some people loved.  And I will, in the future, be loved by people I fear I will always find it hard to love back.

And so the circle of life does circle like vulture.  And all of us, in the end, become the carrion of an existence, which futilely we attempt to comprehend, and ultimately we fail in every sense.

 

 

And the answer is: no …

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poetry, trails of thought

Vulner[ability]

If vulnerability is no disability, and does not equal

weakness,

why should disability equal disability?  Why can’t it

equally

equal a strength?

And what if someone had the mental ability to turn

off and on at the flick of a

switch (this I think I’ve mentioned previously, but

it bears mentioning again) a particular disability

which allowed for hugely important results

without the downsides of hugely negative

lives?

 

Let me take my case in particular point:

in creating in my mind the conditions for a

flat hierarchy of

data,

I keep in constant stasis the possible and

potential connections that exist.

This is a necessary condition of being human:

all of us do it;

all of us think like this;

all of us can think like this, if we learn to …

 

But in my case it led to mental breakdown,

from which I recovered via medication and

simple time: the time one needs to

heal one’s wounds;

the time one needs to

wheel around;

the time one needs to

re-

turn to prior ways;

the time one needs for time

to have

the time it needs to be as properly as it must.

 

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So in my particular case my ability to turn off

all filter led me to see the landscape as one

huge connected device: not the web, this time,

but the world in 3D – way before 3D virtual reality

ever existed.

 

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So this is a powerful ability: not a disability at all:

except where it makes it impossible to live

my life: except where it makes it inviable to love

my people: except where this thinking stops

its blessed ability to switch off in time.

 

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And so given this ability I think I have quite weirdly,

to see connections, to justify their relationship with

a convincing logic –

whether real or not; whether happened or untrue;

whether something or not which we can compare

and contrast

with each other in affection –

and then disconnect manually the

brain that whirrs behind the connecting and making

of potential links amongst ideas few people

would see connected (without, I am saying, some

much clearer and cogent background information),

so that the person behind all this connecting and

making can separately enjoy a separately fulfilling

and loving

[w-

{l-

ife]},

means that certain implications for

certain mental illness may actually be rather

astonishing and profound.

 

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For I wonder if it’s really possible to suggest

that at the flick of a [brain] switch, the conditions

which make a disability wondrous can be disconnected

with sufficient margin to ensure it doesn’t become

harmful …

 

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