trails of thought

Post 100

 

My Three Laws of Humanity*

  1. I believe in kindness above all – nothing can break this law
  2. I believe in freedom of spirit, being and experience – nothing can prevent this law from being implemented except where it contradicts Law 1
  3. I believe in organisation, structure and efficiency – except where either Law 2 or Law 1 is broken by the way these tools are being used

 


* Now I bet you thought I was going to announce who I really love (which I think is pretty damn clear, so really doesn’t need iterating here any more; it maybe does, however, need a talkward phonecall or a gently prodding email to the person in question – as well as further convos behind the scenes – so we can either sort a modus vivendi couched in real love or permanently continue to be oblivious of each other) – or that maybe my big secret was that I was gay (this would relieve me immensely – the convos behind the scenes would suddenly become so easy; if you do think it’s true, do drop me a line and provide me with the info, the support, the joy and the next steps).

With respect to My Three Laws of Humanity, they are, of course, modelled on dear Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics.  I grew up absolutely enamoured with all his writings; really got my head round an optimistic perception of what technology could do for us, looked to the future through the prism of a quintessentially US do-whatever-it-takes and get-up-and-go approach to life, the universe and just about everything, and basically enthused me to believe in the future.

We need a helluva lot more Asimovs amongst us, if the future is to be something we still want to believe in.

Either way, after one hundred posts on this particular blog, I’ll take a break for the evening as I have other online responsibilities to meet.  Whatever your big secrets, do try and keep them for post 100 (or multiples thereof …!!!).

Do really love you all.  And after over four months of messing about with words, our cups do overflow …

🙂

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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 lifeworklab.uk 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.

 

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poetry

Sk[in] [6]

I wake up in the middle of my night –

so you have me before you; unable to keep at

bay-

ing wolves of fear that pursue

me almost like before.

But then their howls, down

dying their now, remind me I have a choice:

I can run as before

or fight the fear

I contain, which has stained my life

and that of others.

And if the parallel art which speaks

its name, its story and its

terrifying point of view (I fear once

more – so is there no end to fear?)

does damn me as it might, my

fear and disgrace and anger about myself

for having engaged in a battle of wits

I had no right to impose upon you all –

the ones who loved me in the ways they

needed (for that is the essence of liberty, not

my wants) … it shall – this art – be quite com-

[re]plete:

a manner of writing has become

a manner of speaking that life will deny

any manners at all.

And all I ever loved about you was the way

you became happy in my presence: and that,

in the absence of anything I was able

to get from the cupboard of physical

affect that was bare, though not naked

(I fear again!) (but I’m repeating myself:

who cares

about these things which bore you any more?

Who cares that they bore me so hard

in those days

that I still feel a hole drilled through my

whole body from end of time –

from end

of days too?  Is that to be my

terrible fate?) –

and so I also so yearned for your nakedness

and body:

to touch

your breasts gently or fiercely, to feel your

legs held around me, wanting to be around

me … that’s all I wanted:

I only wanted to be wanted, and

all my life I’ve been as if on a weirdly

first

distant

date: hoping only (as one really should) for

a peck on the check

(or did I mean cheque or

did I mean cheek?  Only the Lord knows

now what I mean …), and

a promise understood of more than

a touch on the shoulder of weighty

manhood as given or taken or

lost today: this was the cost of my inability

to say that today is the day we

either do talk or go

walk our separate ways.

But then I ask myself now, as the wolves

do howl, if art in itself –

or even my daily joy – justifies the pain

of hurting others when I know from the in-

side what it is to be hurt: if only we could

be the adults I wasn’t, we could

pick up and find some adult way forwards:

adult in sensibility and equanimity and

favour, but adult in senses and sexes and

fervour, and maybe it’s time I asked the

universe for the guidance

I need:

for the skin I am in

has so little distance from the pain I became

as rain fell on a plain; and I wondered,

even now, if when you say those things

(those things that so easily make me feel

I was a p’raps a tad

more than a tiresome writer of winging words

which draw more attention to their

own dancing flight than

really I was able to add to their meaning –

or even their sheer bestockinged delight!) …

and those things people say lately,

which make me want to weep

because no one says such things

to me any more,

not in a minute nor a day nor in a week …

and you

suggest that I was born to be

loved in that way

you suggest in that way maybe I misunderstand,

and I love the idea behind the

kindness enshrined, but then do wonder fiercely

whether really you are telling me

I deserve to be loved but don’t deserve to

love others.

And maybe you mean my job on this rock

is to change my evil ways and become

the good that broke the

lot those many years ago, when fear

attacked my soul and made me quite incapable

of doing the stuff I now do:

and what I do now … it sincerely isn’t false, but it

wasn’t always like that and I wouldn’t like

at all to give a false impression: a false man

I might be for even trying goodness so publicly,

so brazenly, so obviously, so redolently, so

heavily:

a fallen

man with a desire to be touched in the ugly skin

he’s become, and who’s reached the very end of

a curious story where this being tethered to

a curious owner has led him to

bemuse why love is so complicated:

 

 

and the

funny thing and truth is that

love I have had, from everyone in bucketfuls:

and I guess it’s quite true:

 

but what’s really missing from my life is sex.

 

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Be troo / Be too / Be yoo

 

I was a sad little man in ambition and

fact.

I struggled to express myself in physical

form.

I did have goals and aims –

objectives quite clear.

But my mode of operation appeared

lackadaisically un

dear.  As if I didn’t care or know

what I was doing: yet I did, I promise

you.

My responsibility to offspring and

spouse weighed heavily on

my being.

My sense of in-

te-

gritty led me to struggle against

coffee-

plagued meet-ups which

meant me to abandon

them to their own devices and

gadgets and ameliorations of

superficial society.

But I couldn’t see this happen: I loved

them too much.

My prime directive, as if programmed

by corps, was to do what I could do

to lead them to the independence I knew

they could battle with and take

onboard ship-

wise as if embarking on high-

sea-

d ingenuity to different country and

continent.

And all I’ve ever desired for them

all is the independence I desired

for myself.

Does that make me a selfish being?

Does that make me self-

interested and un-

kindly in my winding road?

Or does it, maybe, allow me now

to see that winding road

goes else-

where the sacrifice no longer needs

making?

 

Yes, I want my clever duplicities but

still do wish to be troo.

I want my independence but

not from yoo.

And I want to be me in everything

I might, but never with yoo

out of my sight.

 

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poetry

Reconsillyation*

 

Our world in its wis-

dom-

in-

ating-

ness clearly states it’s smart to be

smart: well-dressed of course, but clever-

er than wise too: and who’d want to be wise

when you’re able to be smart?

Being silly is for the be-

es and those who believe in mind-

ful-

ness-

es: those who would rescue a life of

confusing graft from the

draught and currents of undertow.*

 

 


* This …

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Modus vivendi (III) (REALIsaTIon)

You make of what you’ve been given, but making

can end: it’s too late on occasions to

change what-

ever may have lasted in previous e-

poxs: illness and happiness in equal pro-

portions are layers of experience

which essence our lives with flavours

and saviours we’d love if we could:

but hubr-

is

is there: in darkness and light, and light

but mainly darkness: th-

is is all there is.

 

REALIsaTIon is tough.

I am not.

I have forgotten what

living in love could be.

And what you forgot really does not

hurt that much: if at all; at all it does

not really hurt.

 

Who are we convincing?  No one,

I guess.  But the necessary mot-

ions must fly apart and attach to other

ways of being that one day

will for-

m: for you and for me, luv.

 

REALIsaTIon is that.

 

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