trails of thought

From Me To Yous …


This ain’t gonna be flowery words … ain’t going be high falutin’ prose … that’ll come back, I guess; that’s what I’m made to do.  Put words together in the weirdest of ways.  But there do come times when you have to be direct: when the clearest ambiguity needs to be the clearest straightforwardness.

I’m not sure what the future does hold these days, but I do know I want the future to be good: for my family, for my SO, for my kids first of all.  For the people who brought me up in the confused haphazard way that we do.  We all make mistakes; some of us more than others.  Mine was to believe I was mainly a writer who’d one day achieve his dream of feeding his family by writing the words that others wanted to read – not just the words he needed to write.

The past year or so was a nadir of sorts: practically the most creative moment of my life, and yet – as castellano would say – the most malogrado (they translate it as “ill-fated”, but I don’t really agree – I’d say far more for me it means “failed”, as in industrial quantities of failure … which kind of – objectively, not self-pityingly – does sum up the life I’ve shared with those around me).

So my mistake was to believe that one day a writer would become a breadwinner through the art of his writing.

And all this time, I felt in some way that the universe adapted and moulded its nature so that every attempt and connection I made – and I mean here throughout my life – was bound to be inhibited in some deadening manner.  Can you imagine what it’s like to feel it didn’t matter what you did?  And that whatever you did would be neutralised by a cosmos which didn’t care to let you smile, shine or fly?

Is this what depression feels like, my loves?  Or is it a question of a melancholy nature?  Or maybe it’s simply a firmly existential relationship with a reality that escaped us over the centuries – a reality we still strive to ensnare in some useful way, even today … even today?

Whatever the reasons, and I’m so sure now there ain’t one, I do know that all of us – yes, the whole of humanity: whether poet or writer or painter or pianist; whether lawyer or scientist or researcher or engineer; whether journalist or salesperson or CEO or teacher; whether lover or beloved, whether the people I’ve yearned for or those I missed who yearned for me … all of us together must believe we need the same answers to the questions that eternally bemuse.

There is so much power in doing stuff together; so much potential in the kindness of community; so much to be shared by those who understand sharing; and so much good we could do with this currently – confusingly – terrible implementation of human exchange that we’ve always called money, and now surely need to rename.



I’m personally hopeless at managing money.  I’ve never been good at it; in awful moments of my life have even had to accept the gladly given help of others.  And when I say gladly, I’m talking mainly of puzzled family: a family who could never comprehend the universe I saw; a family to whom I was just as much an enigma as to most of you who I figure have followed me thus far will probably also perceive.

So if one day we could of make a book or a film or a video or some digital art, and out of that art create a legacy which might pay for my children’s future studies, for my SO’s relieved happiness, even for my own disconcerting needs for physical affection and daily joy, then I guess I’d be the happiest soul in the world: I guess I’d have the best of everything.

And if it can’t be the case because what I do here is neither fu ni fa, then at least may I register the following thoughts.  I’ve changed these past few months from a man who could not remember the shape of his life and the courage of his spirit to someone else quite different.  Memories and names begin to return to the human being who was a shell of himself for so many years, for such a long time.

And the blame was mine, kinda I guess, for not being up to the job.  Because the job of a man is to be up to the job, and clearly I wasn’t, and so now it’s my job to say sorry.

Sorry to my children, for ripping them away from their country with white lies which became dark, and showed so much selfishness, and demonstrated at the time absence of a heart; sorry to my SO, for never knowing how to allow her to simply be the wife she always blindfoldedly strove to become; sorry to my countries, and others which touched me, for saying the things I said about the things I imagined (in dark and fiercely sad times) they went and did to me – to me and my being and my family and my reality, and to many other things even I no longer recall; and finally, sorry to all the women in my life (or at least the women I consider were in my life – I may have been fairly invisible to most; that’s another part of the reason I need to say sorry), for simply not knowing how to be the man they expected.

And when I’m saying sorry to the women in my life, my sorrow is at its most profound and deepest level.  There are no words I can pull together which do not include all the words I’ve written since December.  What I have done on these pages is because of these women – in particular three women – and they know who they are: and I hope they can forgive me, even if only ever from afar.

Which brings me to one final sorry point.

And then I’ll be finished with the sorrys for now.

My SO sharply observed recently that there was a huge gap between my online persona and my face-to-face self.  This in itself could explain – without conspiracy! – exactly why no one ever quite got beyond an initial meeting and getting-to-know-me: yes, they all reacted the same but because the common denominator (ie myself) was much lower than anyone really expected.

I remember a meeting and chat I once had at a large London newspaper, where strange things were mentioned.  And I think – in hindsight – this was clearly because the weird one at the meeting (that one and others, it has to be said) was not really them but actually me.  What on earth did I want?  What on earth was stopping me?  What on earth was the problem that made it impossible for me to choose sides?

I hope in a way, through the writing I’ve done over the past few months and a bit, that the answers to these enigmatic questions may have become a tad clearer.  And if they have become clearer, and that “clearer” is I’m clearly mad, at least let me be mad in the bosom of my family.

But if I am not the mad enigma I once was (and I was!), and this is my feeling as I write these words, even as you may still firmly choose to disagree, then perhaps at last some degree of hopeful utility can be found for the ability I have to put words together, and in some interesting way edit reality.


poetry, trails of thought

Hurting from the start [how I wronged the people I most loved]


I was wrong from the start and that’s why we parted.

I phoned her awfully one day, and this is why I do not phone any more.

And that day we talked about being together.

And we talked that day about how we’d be together.

And I needed for me, not her, to be together in a way that would

mean together like something I’d never done together before.

And she said she had something important to say.

And when she said that important thing she had to say to me, I loved her

so much that I really didn’t mind what she had in mind to say – or indeed

went ahead and said.

And I really did love her, that is truly a fact, but I expressed my love poorly,

and if I had not, we would have spent the past decade still seeing

each other and loving, and fascinating the drawings and thoughts she would

gloriously have, and liking the words and the turns of phrase I’d churn out

with my ham-fisted joy.

But what really went wrong, went wrong at the start.  For I convinced her

in that phonecall, that awful call of foolish nature, to

love me in a way she did not want to love me at all: simply the love that

broaches body and shares almost everything that anyone can


about a person and a being and a wondrous soul.

And although she was adult and older than me, in reality I was stronger

and angrier than her, and I spent that awful phonecall convincing her

and making her and crying her and bewildering her and advantaging

her, and doing all these things I have spent a

decade – and more – utterly ashamed for.  And doing all these things

I can never go back to.  And doing all these things

I should forever hang my head in shame.  And the shame was not

hers but mine.  And the rhyme which vanished from the life I treasured

was the rhyme which vanished from my life forever.

And there are no words I now know to replace the pain of that

time: in my mind; in hers; in those who knew then – and in those

who now know, because

I’m telling you so.


The strongest person you ever do meet is never the one you should

gladly take advantage of.


So if we are no longer together, the blame is all mine.  And if you

ever read these words, and if you ever remember those words,

and if you ever can forgive me both these things, then

do ring the changes on your life; do settle yourself finally down

to knowing it was me who went and did this terrible

thing of taking advantage of a woman of love, and hurting you

like I went and did, my love; and that’s how I deserved exactly

everything I lost.



M[od][us] v[i]v[end]i (I)

He identified strongly with hearts for some

reasons: one, the first, the most elfishly imp-

ortant, was the love they re-

presented every time he saw or touched one.

Second, his heart was white in-

stead, at home, on his hearth: not black by

any means: he never meant that harm that

black cruelly re-

presents in the tongues we kiss and

speak with.

Although black – in other re-

spects – he identified with strongly,

he hunted not, and was no hunter of black.

So a white heart he was: neither black nor red.

Third, he felt that maybe love

was sacrifice after all: a heartbroken heart both

described itself naturally and de-

scribed itself using itself to de-

scribe its very entity.

Fourth, he now needed a mod-

us v-




so much, he was prepared to sub-


e in electronic life, maintain

his being only in that false

world he realised had been

assigned him long ago, and reach plac-



lying agreement to fake what was left

of life:

for what was life if not an act-

ing profession?


As that terrible man so long ago said:

“The art of communication

doesn’t lie in saying what you believe

but in believing what

you say.”  Hey-ho.  Ho-ho.


And he would now communicate this way,

and the modus vivendi would be lies

all the time, and reality

would never quite match the truth, and the

truth – like him, like the love he would

no longer wear as a badge of collect-


ve c-


age – would diss-



e in digital stroking: a stroking of ego

not sex.


And love your memories dear people: for they’re all

we have