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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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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poetry

C[older] / C[oo]l{er} / H[eat]

Age does not pre-

clued the abil-

i-

tie to connect and love and sex-

u-

allies attract, as large holds neck

your beautiful shuddering length

s-

sssh which stripe my sex up and own

like that age-old stick of holiday

rock licked and tongued lon-

gingly, Lon-

donly, aim-

less-

lying beside you and spurt-

in-

gasping squirts of em-

bracing seaside greys and air-

ings: cup-

boarding-

houses and

boarding

planes to strange desti-

nations and states of mind-

less and mind-

ful ex-

stasis: civil con-

flix of balan-

ced and unsaid equilibriums,

where cinema reel un-

spools internation-

ally the coming together of an en-

tyre community of the good:

a rubber Johnny Doe of the uncomm-

on man and woman.

 

 

And how I love yous, dear women,

and dear men

and dear children for this

love: if I am worthy of a tougher

kind of love in the name

I proclaim,

not disdain,

not re-

jecture in con-

jecture where a prior bad faith does

proceed to seed at last all my futures

with good deeds …

 

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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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poetry, trails of thought

Being [be]loved

There is nothing I know

more than what I know now

about how I know all the things I know

about life: about you, about the people

who know so much

and who’ve done so much

to do so much for me.

 

 

And there is nothing I am

more than what I am now

re how I am all the things I am

re life: re you, re the people

who are so much

and who’ve been so much

and are so much to me.

 

And there is nothing more beloved

than how I am beloved now

because of all the things I’m beloved

for: this life, you people

who belove so much

and who’ve beloved so much

and who now belove so much to me.

 

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