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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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

Ge[or]gina and [the dragon]

Had it really come to this?

Was this what it had come to?

 

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A battle of wits between a soft spongy

space of man jealous of woman

blind to failings and functions of her

other half, no longer bet-

t-

er in any form or shape:

what he’d taken from her past times

and what he’d taken from her joy

and what he’d taken from her capacity

to happily rejoin the species of spicy

people who made her life a life

worth more than sur-

viv-

all;

a revival of sense

is exactly what she was seeing now.

 

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“A touch-

[ch]in

-g up my love!”  It’s what we always

need: it helps the severe pain and dis-

dain of critic re-

main within a soul:

recount, my love;

recant, if you can;

time runs its merry course and

I do not want to see you go on

the golf course of life; leaving us all

bereft of what could’ve been.

 

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And you were created by mad

environments led by mad

people led by crazed

jealousies led by

pipes used to batter out of heads

of helpless childhood the kindness

and love and honesty and integrity.

And the reality suddenly presents

itself quite differently to him:

the dragon he’s been fighting

from within the man he never became

is the dragon she’s been fighting

all her life to properly con-

tain.  And her brain and  her mind

and her heart and her soul

and just being, and her ways of seeing

and doing and wanting

to be done to and seen

were all confused and

mixed up in that sad person she

once was in her shaky inside and

now is clearly becoming

out.

She’s almost completely routed,

and he doesn’t want this;

he doesn’t want to lose himself

but he doesn’t want the dragon

within her to overcome the

good person deep down; the person

he once did treasure so fully

and now can only examine so coolly.

 

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trails of thought

Fictional Us / Decency’s Place

I mentioned the idea that I have a wonderful skillset: to keep tons of data in stasis over a long period of time, until it settles logically into a pleasing or useful arrangement:

I have special skills, this I realise now: a dear person close to me lightly described them recently as being akin to a kind of Sherlock Holmes mind: I curiously maintain in stasis so many apparently disparate pieces of data – sometimes for months – until they suddenly settle into a puzzle-resolving pattern that resolves this puzzle thus laid out.

 

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I’m not saying I am as good as Sherlock Holmes in any way at all – Holmes was after all an invention of fiction, and I find it difficult to conceive I am a fictional character (except where the things I do are influenced and nudged by the events around me: in that sense of character, we are all being bent out of shape; we are all fictional beings to a greater or lesser extent …).

But I do do similar things.  And it’s exhausting.

And I’d like it to be less exhausting.  Which is why I need the release of physical love and affection: the joy, the friendship, the amiableness even.  Just at simple, day-to-day levels.

 

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Can you all understand that?

And in that, like Sherlock Holmes I am not – although I do have a brother much wiser than me with a very particular name; and who may indeed do stuff I have no idea about.  Weird tangential relationships with women have flitted through my life too: again, these mysterious beings have remained mysterious to me.  And in the round, and overall, my life is full of puzzles: the only thing I’ve never done, nor ever wanted to do, is drugs – where not prescribed, you understand – which I get the feeling Holmes found necessary in the absence of an appropriate affective and intimate relationship with anything more than data.

But a final point I’d still like to deal with today, before I finish.

That word “stasis” is defined by my Google (at least) as:

a period or state of inactivity or equilibrium.
“long periods of stasis”

But also in quite a dramatically opposite sense:

civil strife.

How on earth can this be so?  How on earth has a language come to describe within the same space such diametrically opposed concepts?

Does civil strife – not just societal but also marital – come from long periods of inactivity?  Is that what we are learning here?

How the absence of change changes us for the worse.

And if it is the case, what can I do?  Do I need to impose – is that fair or kind?  Or should I continue to run the risks of falling ill again in the presence of sad jealousy caused by childhood trauma?

I want to help, but when you reach out to help and here you are also rejected, where on earth can a decent solution be found?  Where is decency’s place in this whole damn mix?

 

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trails of thought

The philosophy of change

People say it’s better to take a bad decision than no decision at all.

I don’t agree.  Not taking a decision, in the absence of all the facts, is a way of thinking and not a thing to be condemned out of hand as some underlying weakness.

I am not a first adopter, neither in love nor in gadgets – and I don’t think I ever will be.  And if this means I shan’t be queuing up to buy at midnight some famous early morning, so be it.  And if this means love slips me by … well, so it has been all my goddamn life.

People play with me in order to show me playfulness is damaging: and this I have known from the start.  But what none of you understand properly is that my perception of life is that it is so clearly unlovely, unloving and harsh for me that play really serves for me to keep at bay the awful, soul-wrenching truths of reality.

If playfulness is something I also must have excised, then life is something I will not be able to keep at bay any more.  And the terror of life, and the horror of its petty cruelties, and the violence most of us commit – even if only verbally – to each other … well, it’s something I will be utterly incapable of dealing with.

Except …

And here I do not play …

… if I change the nature of the sort of people who I have around me: yes, that is one way.  But even here this kind of change is false, easy and kind of a cop-out: when you exclude people – or include certain others, always with their permission and benevolent connivance – you are actually using them to ameliorate with casually applied behaviours things you are simply not strong enough to face up to.

And it is your job as an adult to do so.

And if I cannot be a playful person, and if I am not allowed this protection, this cocoon, this way of saving myself from further pain, then life will become a dulling object of experience: a round grey pebble which used to skim beautifully across beautiful seas, and now sinks foolishly into the laps of gods who I no longer manage – nor care to – comprehend.

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short short story

Mis[chief]

He’d always wanted to be a boss of something – just never quite got the hang of rubbing people up the right way.

Maybe now he had a better chance, now he’d remembered the whys and wherefores of all the painful mental sores which had eaten away little by little at the heart and soul he’d gone and rolled up in his fairly ill-fated life to that date, as if tied up with string and brown paper of rigour; no alacrity for him; no creativity to recover.

Yet now he was looking elsewhere really quite strange.  And although imaginings still made him think weirdly on occasions, he was finding himself far more grounded in reality: and the difference was simply the reality he was becoming grounded in was pleasurable and loving in its own very self.

This, for him, was oh so very strange.  And he remained a little cautious, and he remained a little wary, and he felt a little like an animal who was out of hibernating burrow – and still a little scared of what might be over the brow of the hill; what might be waiting still to be discovered.

But the fear, at least for now, had a very different flavour.

It tasted of life, not survival.

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