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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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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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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poetry

Your windows on my soul

Your eyes are windows on my

soul: old though it is; older though they are.

And age is perceived by

those who wish to see their death [ap-

{re-

proach]}

that much sooner than May

herds its fragrant blooms across

summer month to

August-time of hay.

And your eyes deepen even more than my soul ever

could: in your eyes I see reflecting my much better

self: and only when I look inside your body,

and touch the juices of your wants, and realise

these wants do include the being that is me,

and then I touch the innermost movement

of your joyous wanton clockwork, as you shout out in

glorious pleasured treasured moments which

mean so much ecstasy: you are my

drug, after all,

dear love.

 

And am I yours, too?

Your drug … and your love?

 

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short short story

Love sucks – but sadly not this one …

Whenever she died a little bit inside, she got up and went out and down by the canal; or maybe the zoo where seals used to bark instead of the dogs you’d normally hear in any normal neighbourhood out on its ear; away from the centres of command and control.

And she preferred this kind of being: the beauty and quiet.  In the absence of her lover, she knew what to do: she knew she could watch the raindrop, or dew, as her desserts – no longer rich – deserted her so sadly.

 

 

And the stars in her head, which made her life almost bearable, and made her absence of love just about understandable, were reflected that morning in the sun in the sky: a sun of majestic cool which now clearly ruled over everything she was, and everything she had ever wanted to be.

Yes.  Love sucked … but sadly not this one.  And so this was how it ended: a long slow sloping crawl to the days of childish return.  And in the meantime she vowed she would never let on.  And in the meantime she swore in the language of her motherland she’d never return to her softer, kinder, opener side.

For this was exactly why love didn’t suck for her.  Nobody needed a woman who cried.

 

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poetry

Sh[ape]s

There’s really nothing more than the shapes of

humanity inte-

grating with the music of

rap-

idity: also frightening velo-

city: yet in the terror of these times we find the com-

bin-

action of virtual rubbishing and

catering to tastes of all such kinds, re helming

minds of choice I mean: no freedoms left it seems,

and yet, even then, hope

re-

main-

streams our de-

sires into re-

al re-

birt-

h.

 

 

I used to love speed so much; I used to drive so fine; I uzed

my machines as obvio-

us ex-

tensions of my pass-

ions – whirling scientifical-

ly inside my breath like great twirling sex.

 

And now, more curiously, I just watch and reflect

and sit and dissect: out of love, under-

stand me: but don’t stand me

up.

 

 

And in shapes we ape what our ancestors did from

rocky cave to cave: a resistance to a brut-

all world: a love of be-

auty: a fight to lite-

ral death, casually ap-

plied and processed by life, and yet we continue

to find beauty in life.

In all its forms and shapes we ape.

In everything we see.

 

Now ain’t that right –

and good?

 

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