'Did you have a good Christmas Dave?'
Yes, I did. I always enjoy the holiday, but, as ever, it comes at a cost in terms of different emotions and responses to cope with and accustom myself to. So much so that I thought it appropriate to write a piece today about what it is like to enjoy Christmas whilst combatting the twin dangers of my OCD and the ever present threat of depression.
I spent Christmas with my parents, and the day itself we all went to my Aunts for dinner and to celebrate the day (a direct follow on from my childhood when it was my maternal grandparents who always hosted the actual day). Of course being around those you love the best is in the main beneficial, but there is the thorny issue of how much strain I am under to hold things together and, if so, how much I can let myself show them of this without thinking I am spoiling Christmas for everyone (which in and of itself provides a feedback loop of depression and negativity).
Christmas Eve I actually went out for a few drinks, the first time in a few years I have done so (since we all grew up and the annual mash up and hangover mix became a Christmas tradition that had lapsed). My father and I ventured over the road to the hotel, expecting to find the bar packed full of those who were 'getting away from it all' and letting the professionals handle their celebration. In truth, aside from a young couple who nursed a couple of pints of cider for the evening, it was just the two of us. Strangely, it was quite a comforting evening, if somewhat removed from the reality of the busy party season.
That being said, I didn't drink enough to be suffering on Christmas morning and found myself downstairs at a reasonable hour and pleased to find Santa was aware to forward my haul to the parental home. It was OCD that took the first bite. I have an occasionally strong aversion to odd numbers, and a particular fear of doing things only once in my life. As foolish as it sounds to write it down and express it in words, the feelings that go with it are very real, and very strong. I found myself opening the presents and making sure I touched them all at least twice, and an even number of times. Naturally, I know there is no reason to suppose anything terrible would happen should I not, but that is the rub - the compulsion to follow the directive and to do this was then, and will be again, insurmountable. I feel bad when I am acting on a compulsion, partly because it chalks up a win for OCD and partly because I do not want anyone to be aware that I am doing it. It feeds right into the heart of worry that I will spoil Christmas if my parents became aware that during the joyous activity of exchanging and opening gifts, I am wracked by, and a prisoner of, compulsion.
The other attack by OCD came during Christmas dinner. Another aspect of the illness is that when I say I am going to do something it becomes an imperative that I do so. As a result, I oftern overeat. I might say when someone asks if I have enough, or want some more vegetables, meat etc that 'I might have some more once I have cleared the plate' - this becomes a direct instruction to the part of my brain that acts on compulsion to compel me to follow through on the suggested action. Strangely this doesn't always happen, but when it does I am in its thrall. And so it was during dinner. Does it hurt anyone? No. I just eat more than I might otherwise do so, but it adds to the rumblings of discontent within that I am struggling along and am riddled with imperfection which at any moment will bring the seasonal joy crashing to the ground in smouldering ruin. I am somewhat fortunate that my metabolism is not punishing me severely for it.
Depression is a much more difficult beast to predict, and, in many ways, deal with. I used to 'deal' with depression via drink (and yes the quotation marks whould tell you I know that is not dealing at all) - as a younger man, a fitter man, the punishment that heavy drinking does can be contained. Not that we were without close runs with disaster. Mudpuddlers of a longstanding vintage will remember the end of term that I returned home (actually for Christmas) yellow as my liver stuttered along at stall speed trying to cope with the abuse I was giving it. I report it now merely as a fact of what once was, fortunately for the here and now I had at that time the love of both a great family and a good woman who got me, at length and strain, onto a less destructive path. However, that was then, for now I always fear at times of holiday that depression will strike and leave me incapable of enjoying myself and denying enjoyment to those around me.
I had a bad run in to the holiday - despite a great start to December and a lovely trip up to London, I started struggling around mid month. I was still carrying this bleakness (albeit reduced somewhat) into the time at my parents. Christmas is an awful time to have depression because it comes with a seasonal overdose of guilt - I have no right to be down when so much love and kindness if being shown. My depression will bring down the glee of those I love the best - and so on and so forth in ever increasing strangulation. The flipside is that there are enough distractions around to keep the mind from dwelling too long on its 'state'.
This year was a definite tightrope. I have been having difficulty lately accepting where I am living, I am feeling increasingly isolated and exposed and this was bubbling along in the back of my mind all throughout the holiday. The major problem with the Christmas run in was a feeling of loneliness, even when in a crowded room or general company. This was again a problem over the last few days. It took a very big effort not to succomb to gloominess as I once again found myself surrounded by loved ones and yet at the same time distant and alone, cocooned in misery that I could neither show nor express. The tightrope is not these feelings in and of themselves as I have suffered with depression long enough to know you cannot think your way out of it. No, the tightrope is allowing yourself to experience this without letting it define your moverall mood, or the day. It would be very easy to allow that, but then would come the constant waves of grief and guilt for everyone elses Christmas that you have taken from them with your self-absorbtion. It is not easy to walk the line as it were, because if it is taking too much effort to do so, the mental exhaustion weakens you against renewed assault. It will lift, it is lifting, but nothing I can do will force it to be so.
As it was, I made it to Boxing Day evening without major drama and set off back home. It was in the car on the way home I realised what a struggle it had all actually been and that I should write about it, as I found myself crying or sobbing for much of the journey without really knowing why. It was because I was in a safe place to let go. A place noone else would know, or see. A place where I could cry.
I had a good Christmas. The fight with mental illness is however perennial, and this piece is meant to convey a part of that to those that would read it, or would know me better.
Tuesday 27 December 2011
Monday 12 December 2011
Rejig of The Thirty Second Smile
Written a while back, an ode to the trickery of memory and the odd things it presents us with
From nowhere leaps a memory
Of she that went before,
With gentle hands I haven't held
For countless years, and more!
So now she comes and dances here
Heralding forgotten charms?
Ah yes! Look, here comes yester-me
And sweeps her in his arms.
Such an oddly perfect pair they make;
Her grace, his mystery.
Fated, though they did not know,
To Love's sad history.
Now I must be content to pause,
And for the duration of their show,
I'll wear the smile of yesterday,
For my love of long ago!
From nowhere leaps a memory
Of she that went before,
With gentle hands I haven't held
For countless years, and more!
So now she comes and dances here
Heralding forgotten charms?
Ah yes! Look, here comes yester-me
And sweeps her in his arms.
Such an oddly perfect pair they make;
Her grace, his mystery.
Fated, though they did not know,
To Love's sad history.
Now I must be content to pause,
And for the duration of their show,
I'll wear the smile of yesterday,
For my love of long ago!
Saturday 10 December 2011
Down down deeper on down
Last night I got to talk to someone about my illness. It brought home to me how I tend to shy away from discussing it, as if to voice it were to give it life. That being said, I do find it useful to write about it on here, and today I want to talk about depression. Not feeling a little blue, but the will-sapping wickedness that is depression, by whatever name I give it - be that The Black Dog, The Shadow or The Rot.
In truth, there are several different states of depression I find myself in. Different ways for different days I suppose, as if the fact of it itself were not enough. The most pervasive type of depression is when it leaves me feeling utterly bleak. When I say bleak, I should explain myself - it feels as if all the joy has been sucked out of the world. Laughter becomes hollow, tastes dissipate, nothing satisfies. It is as if I am cocooned in a thick mesh of bleakness that nothing good can penetrate. All thoughts, feelings and emotional responses get tangled in the bleakness and distorted by it and love, kindness and compassion from outside, from others cannot reach me, cannot get through the bleakness. The world pulls away and even a warm summers day to me seems grey and hopeless. It can last hours, days and once or twice has dragged on for weeks. And yet there comes a point at which it dissolves and sight, sound, taste and emotions are startlingly clear for a time. Like a man who has lived in a cave blinking at the dawn outside.
Then there is fear depression. I can become convinced that there is no solution to any problem, that whatever path I decide to tread will be the wrong one, will bring about the worst possible result. It makes me feel as if I am incapable of making a decision correctly, that each decision is the wrong one - and I drift from fear of outcomes to the conclusion that events will go against me regardless of what I choose merely by dint of it being the choice I made - my own defective choice making is the root cause of failure.
Talking of failure, another form of fear centres around failure. I become transfixed by all the things I have not done, convincing myself that because I have not done it yet, I will forever fail in the endeavour. Because I have not done X, I will never achieve X, I have failed at X, X has beaten me. It gets very easy to become maudlin and things soon escalate into anger at myself because I could have, or I should have, or I never did. All those might have beens play the fiddle whilst my depression burns on. And oh how it hurts - this borderline self-loathing, the utterly harsh and untenable line I take with myself. Self-reinforcing depression.
All of this is a feedback loop, and I can find myself in a deep depression over my own percevied shortcomings. At its worst, I am utterly convinced that my feelings are inferior, are not worthy of this world. Take as an example love. Love is a beautiful, natural and amazing feeling and yet I will not let myself express it. Is it fear of failure? Yes, partly, but it is also that I feel my love is not worthy, my love is not enough, that I could never give enough love of enough quality to deserve the happiness that comes with its reciprocation. I would not want to burden anyone with my love. And yet there is the counterpoint, the discord in the back of my mind at the howling loneliness, the emptiness of life without love. And now I have made myself cry.
Its a tough old journey, time will tell how far I have come.
In truth, there are several different states of depression I find myself in. Different ways for different days I suppose, as if the fact of it itself were not enough. The most pervasive type of depression is when it leaves me feeling utterly bleak. When I say bleak, I should explain myself - it feels as if all the joy has been sucked out of the world. Laughter becomes hollow, tastes dissipate, nothing satisfies. It is as if I am cocooned in a thick mesh of bleakness that nothing good can penetrate. All thoughts, feelings and emotional responses get tangled in the bleakness and distorted by it and love, kindness and compassion from outside, from others cannot reach me, cannot get through the bleakness. The world pulls away and even a warm summers day to me seems grey and hopeless. It can last hours, days and once or twice has dragged on for weeks. And yet there comes a point at which it dissolves and sight, sound, taste and emotions are startlingly clear for a time. Like a man who has lived in a cave blinking at the dawn outside.
Then there is fear depression. I can become convinced that there is no solution to any problem, that whatever path I decide to tread will be the wrong one, will bring about the worst possible result. It makes me feel as if I am incapable of making a decision correctly, that each decision is the wrong one - and I drift from fear of outcomes to the conclusion that events will go against me regardless of what I choose merely by dint of it being the choice I made - my own defective choice making is the root cause of failure.
Talking of failure, another form of fear centres around failure. I become transfixed by all the things I have not done, convincing myself that because I have not done it yet, I will forever fail in the endeavour. Because I have not done X, I will never achieve X, I have failed at X, X has beaten me. It gets very easy to become maudlin and things soon escalate into anger at myself because I could have, or I should have, or I never did. All those might have beens play the fiddle whilst my depression burns on. And oh how it hurts - this borderline self-loathing, the utterly harsh and untenable line I take with myself. Self-reinforcing depression.
All of this is a feedback loop, and I can find myself in a deep depression over my own percevied shortcomings. At its worst, I am utterly convinced that my feelings are inferior, are not worthy of this world. Take as an example love. Love is a beautiful, natural and amazing feeling and yet I will not let myself express it. Is it fear of failure? Yes, partly, but it is also that I feel my love is not worthy, my love is not enough, that I could never give enough love of enough quality to deserve the happiness that comes with its reciprocation. I would not want to burden anyone with my love. And yet there is the counterpoint, the discord in the back of my mind at the howling loneliness, the emptiness of life without love. And now I have made myself cry.
Its a tough old journey, time will tell how far I have come.
Wednesday 16 November 2011
The Secret (rewrite)
No-one knows, as I never talk,
Of my aching love for you.
I keep it bottled, under cork
Where it is safe, and true.
A weakness, or insanity,
That I should fail to act?
It's not for pride, or vanity,
I am mired here with tact.
Oh, I wish I'd told you months ago
Win back the time we've lost,
But,alas, I took it far too slow,
To our detriment, and cost.
And yet, so simple, it should be
To set it out in words;
Paint it for you, lyrically
Like the other bees to birds.
Of course, I fear I'm not enough,
Wrong in a thousand ways.
Too nervous to blag it, off the cuff,
Lost in my nervous haze.
So, tis secretly you hold my heart
And, in sorrow, I stay quiet.
Dreaming that we are not apart,
As I was brave enough to try it.
Of my aching love for you.
I keep it bottled, under cork
Where it is safe, and true.
A weakness, or insanity,
That I should fail to act?
It's not for pride, or vanity,
I am mired here with tact.
Oh, I wish I'd told you months ago
Win back the time we've lost,
But,alas, I took it far too slow,
To our detriment, and cost.
And yet, so simple, it should be
To set it out in words;
Paint it for you, lyrically
Like the other bees to birds.
Of course, I fear I'm not enough,
Wrong in a thousand ways.
Too nervous to blag it, off the cuff,
Lost in my nervous haze.
So, tis secretly you hold my heart
And, in sorrow, I stay quiet.
Dreaming that we are not apart,
As I was brave enough to try it.
Sunday 13 November 2011
The Fear
One of the things I find it hardest to do is to open up about my feelings on a one to one basis. If you're a regular visitor to my blog, you'll know that I have no problem expressing feelings in poems, or in the snippets of short stories I occasionally post here. However, I find writing things down all too easy, and indeed in poems the feelings of the self can be transformed into more generic comment on love itself, or the protagonist can become anyone, and the feelings universal.
How much more terrifying to speak to someone directly and address these issues. Now, I am not necessarily talking here about proclamations of adoration and love, though they would indeed fall into this category, but more generally than that, expressing how I feel in any capacity is extremely hard for me.
It doesn't really help matters that this opening up is exactly what I need to do to help out with my mental health issues. I would dearly love to be able to open up and talk one on one with those closest to me about the things I struggle with, my fears and shame at my own weaknesses. My friends and family will generally know when I am struggling, but I need to be able to convey how and why I am struggling, what I am struggling with. However, as much as I have played out conversations like this time and again in my head, I can never push myself to sit down with someone and have the conversation for real. I'm really not sure if it is fear of uncorking the bottle, or fear that my problems are too small and insignificant to trouble others with, but fear it is, and fear I am stuck with.
The silly thing is, I am not sure where the fear stems from. It is not as if I have a long history of wrongly trusting others with my feelings, I cannot recall any incident in truth where I have trusted someone and had it thrown back in my face. People are not as terrifying with your feelings as I imagine. Yes I have had my heart broken, haven't we all? But no-one has ever gone out of their way to hurt me, it has always been one of the unavoidable by-products of falling in love with at least one constituent out of sync (right time, right place, right person).
While we're on the subject of love.... I don't really find that easy either (unsurprising isn't it!) Have I ever said 'I love you' and meant it? Yes. Have I said those words to every person I have been in love with? No, guilty as charged. That bothers me. There exists, in this universe, undeclared love, and it is my fault it is undeclared. It has never had the chance to fly, because I have stifled it. In fear.
So, there we have it. I am an Old Yellow with my feelings. I need to change that, and (perhaps) writing it on here will serve as a reminder to me to man up and trust people. So, if you ever have me all to yourself, and you are frustrated as I am with my inability to express, remind me about this blog entry and tell me it is time to open up. Who knows? It might just work!
How much more terrifying to speak to someone directly and address these issues. Now, I am not necessarily talking here about proclamations of adoration and love, though they would indeed fall into this category, but more generally than that, expressing how I feel in any capacity is extremely hard for me.
It doesn't really help matters that this opening up is exactly what I need to do to help out with my mental health issues. I would dearly love to be able to open up and talk one on one with those closest to me about the things I struggle with, my fears and shame at my own weaknesses. My friends and family will generally know when I am struggling, but I need to be able to convey how and why I am struggling, what I am struggling with. However, as much as I have played out conversations like this time and again in my head, I can never push myself to sit down with someone and have the conversation for real. I'm really not sure if it is fear of uncorking the bottle, or fear that my problems are too small and insignificant to trouble others with, but fear it is, and fear I am stuck with.
The silly thing is, I am not sure where the fear stems from. It is not as if I have a long history of wrongly trusting others with my feelings, I cannot recall any incident in truth where I have trusted someone and had it thrown back in my face. People are not as terrifying with your feelings as I imagine. Yes I have had my heart broken, haven't we all? But no-one has ever gone out of their way to hurt me, it has always been one of the unavoidable by-products of falling in love with at least one constituent out of sync (right time, right place, right person).
While we're on the subject of love.... I don't really find that easy either (unsurprising isn't it!) Have I ever said 'I love you' and meant it? Yes. Have I said those words to every person I have been in love with? No, guilty as charged. That bothers me. There exists, in this universe, undeclared love, and it is my fault it is undeclared. It has never had the chance to fly, because I have stifled it. In fear.
So, there we have it. I am an Old Yellow with my feelings. I need to change that, and (perhaps) writing it on here will serve as a reminder to me to man up and trust people. So, if you ever have me all to yourself, and you are frustrated as I am with my inability to express, remind me about this blog entry and tell me it is time to open up. Who knows? It might just work!
Thursday 3 November 2011
All the things I'd do for you (remix!)
I'd call you in the morning,
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you without warning
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
Y'know we could be there in twelve hours
Give or taking one or two.
On weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head.
Which is in itself arousing,
An excuse to stay in bed.
Of course I'd very often,
Turn up with a grin,
And watch you laugh and soften
At the foolish mood I'm in.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you without warning
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
Y'know we could be there in twelve hours
Give or taking one or two.
On weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head.
Which is in itself arousing,
An excuse to stay in bed.
Of course I'd very often,
Turn up with a grin,
And watch you laugh and soften
At the foolish mood I'm in.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Monday 24 October 2011
Poem - a rejigged Song of Me
He is reflective, soft and caring,
Bears his burdens heavily.
He’s not prone to natural pairing,
Flies solo all too easily.
He’ll debate on technicalities,
Or chide you with a smile.
But he’ll miss your similarities,
By at least a country mile.
If you show him some compassion
You’ll win a lifelong friend,
Just don’t ask him about fashion,
Or which bouquet to send.
He sees beauty all around the place.
But won’t recognise his own,
Hides tears behind a stony face
For his love, in secret, grown.
And so he never questions why
He wakes each dawn, alone.
A tragedy, for he is I,
And such frailty I’ve shown
Bears his burdens heavily.
He’s not prone to natural pairing,
Flies solo all too easily.
He’ll debate on technicalities,
Or chide you with a smile.
But he’ll miss your similarities,
By at least a country mile.
If you show him some compassion
You’ll win a lifelong friend,
Just don’t ask him about fashion,
Or which bouquet to send.
He sees beauty all around the place.
But won’t recognise his own,
Hides tears behind a stony face
For his love, in secret, grown.
And so he never questions why
He wakes each dawn, alone.
A tragedy, for he is I,
And such frailty I’ve shown
Saturday 22 October 2011
The definitive list
Ok, I have had an epiphany (again, seriously, I am pursued everywhere by epiphanies). With the countdown to 40 now almost at T 1 month, I have spent a lot of time recently getting more and more annoyed at myself for all the things I keep promising myself I will do but never get round to. All that is about to change, however, as I am reconstituting 'the list'. This is the definitive list of things I WILL do, not just want to do.
More importantly, my Mudpuddlin mateys, you have my permission to harangue, hassle and heap opprobrium upon me for failure to act upon these in the future without fear of any come back from me (so sayeth I on this day!)
1) Do a stand-up routine in front of genuine punters
2) Climb Ben Nevis - reaching the top this time, not 'somewhere near the top' (which was actually somewhere near half way)
3) Get the property flipping company up and running
4) Finish writing the damn novel I have been tinkering with for about 5 years
5) Bully my OCD into submission
6) Make the people I care about proud of me
7) Having done 3), leave my current employment
8) Get the mountain bike and make some use of it, as opposed to considering it something I might enjoy 'one day'
9) Return visit to New Zealand
10) Stop hiding from telling people my feelings for them (specifically people of the female persuasion)
There, it has been published, it is all nice and legal
More importantly, my Mudpuddlin mateys, you have my permission to harangue, hassle and heap opprobrium upon me for failure to act upon these in the future without fear of any come back from me (so sayeth I on this day!)
1) Do a stand-up routine in front of genuine punters
2) Climb Ben Nevis - reaching the top this time, not 'somewhere near the top' (which was actually somewhere near half way)
3) Get the property flipping company up and running
4) Finish writing the damn novel I have been tinkering with for about 5 years
5) Bully my OCD into submission
6) Make the people I care about proud of me
7) Having done 3), leave my current employment
8) Get the mountain bike and make some use of it, as opposed to considering it something I might enjoy 'one day'
9) Return visit to New Zealand
10) Stop hiding from telling people my feelings for them (specifically people of the female persuasion)
There, it has been published, it is all nice and legal
Thursday 20 October 2011
At the margins (a rewrite)
He stares through the satin darkness,
Straining at each deceitful trick of the eyes.
Minutes, hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice,
Their destructive rift brokering uneasy peace.
So many hours lost to spite and bile
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust,
A parasite feeding on love's husk.
He finds this silence unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus and
Clarity, heralding the descent into the bliss of violent ruin.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.
Straining at each deceitful trick of the eyes.
Minutes, hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice,
Their destructive rift brokering uneasy peace.
So many hours lost to spite and bile
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust,
A parasite feeding on love's husk.
He finds this silence unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus and
Clarity, heralding the descent into the bliss of violent ruin.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.
Friday 14 October 2011
Proto-Dave and the meaning of life
It's all about finding the right Mudpuddle for the right time. By that I mean there are so many different mes that it is quite the challenge to find the right me for right now. Why do I need to find the right me for right now? Well, my 40th is approaching like a steam train - out of control and hurtling along the tracks looking for the wrong sort of leaves. What I need to work out is what I want a forty (say it quietly) something Mudpuddlin Man to look like. Which Dave should it be?
I could stagger onwards as a more dessicated version of the Thirties model - but that Dave was far too introverted and took some bizarre decisions regarding hiding from the world and losing nearly a decade of adventure in the process, so really I am ruling out November 25 2011 and the days that follow it being business as usual. What then of Twenties Dave? What facets of that glorious decade can I carry into the halflife of my forties?
Of course, that all depends. In my early twenties I was like a newly born planet in some fledgling solar system - raging, hot, fiery, restless - every day was an eruption - it would begin with fire and end dowsed in alcohol fuelled forgetfulness. It was electric, life literally made the hairs stand up on my arm. Friends, lovers were all integral to the Proto-Dave - I surrounded myself with those that complimented the eruption - fire stokers and fire soothers both as important as each other.
Later, things settled a little. There was still fire, but it was contained. I had learned how to be. Life coalesced somewhat - routines of entertainment set in, comrades began to take on functional dimensions, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow began to have relevance. Life was less abstract and extended beyond the prism of today. Looking back, this is where I made the big mistake - as tomorrows take on relevance and you comfort yourself with familiarity, it is all too easy to let that overcome you - in other words, whilst the later twenties were about finding how to be me, the thirties were about getting stuck as me, and unable to take on the changes that took all those around me onto new vectors. Thus you end up screaming in an aging void. But, back in the twenties, life was sweet. I often wonder now if I'll ever love again the way I did in my twenties - so wholly, and rawly, and intensely? Much of me fondly hopes so, as terrifying as the troughs were to those magnificent peaks.
Such a quandry, which Dave to be. Of course, in truth I can be neither of those Daves, nor (thankfully) can I go on forever as Thirties Dave (Meta-Dave) - what is needed is a new paradigm, but why come to that conclusion without a wordy deliberation? I want the best of all my previous worlds in a brand new one - I want to rage like a new planet, love so deeply I can barely breathe and keep myself sane, whole and true. I want to fulfil all the promise that has come before in fits and starts as a complete picture. I want to grow up without growing up, the best of me has always been just that bit more childish than my age should allow.
I'm not going to go quietly into that good night, I'm coming back, baby. Watch yourselves.
I could stagger onwards as a more dessicated version of the Thirties model - but that Dave was far too introverted and took some bizarre decisions regarding hiding from the world and losing nearly a decade of adventure in the process, so really I am ruling out November 25 2011 and the days that follow it being business as usual. What then of Twenties Dave? What facets of that glorious decade can I carry into the halflife of my forties?
Of course, that all depends. In my early twenties I was like a newly born planet in some fledgling solar system - raging, hot, fiery, restless - every day was an eruption - it would begin with fire and end dowsed in alcohol fuelled forgetfulness. It was electric, life literally made the hairs stand up on my arm. Friends, lovers were all integral to the Proto-Dave - I surrounded myself with those that complimented the eruption - fire stokers and fire soothers both as important as each other.
Later, things settled a little. There was still fire, but it was contained. I had learned how to be. Life coalesced somewhat - routines of entertainment set in, comrades began to take on functional dimensions, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow began to have relevance. Life was less abstract and extended beyond the prism of today. Looking back, this is where I made the big mistake - as tomorrows take on relevance and you comfort yourself with familiarity, it is all too easy to let that overcome you - in other words, whilst the later twenties were about finding how to be me, the thirties were about getting stuck as me, and unable to take on the changes that took all those around me onto new vectors. Thus you end up screaming in an aging void. But, back in the twenties, life was sweet. I often wonder now if I'll ever love again the way I did in my twenties - so wholly, and rawly, and intensely? Much of me fondly hopes so, as terrifying as the troughs were to those magnificent peaks.
Such a quandry, which Dave to be. Of course, in truth I can be neither of those Daves, nor (thankfully) can I go on forever as Thirties Dave (Meta-Dave) - what is needed is a new paradigm, but why come to that conclusion without a wordy deliberation? I want the best of all my previous worlds in a brand new one - I want to rage like a new planet, love so deeply I can barely breathe and keep myself sane, whole and true. I want to fulfil all the promise that has come before in fits and starts as a complete picture. I want to grow up without growing up, the best of me has always been just that bit more childish than my age should allow.
I'm not going to go quietly into that good night, I'm coming back, baby. Watch yourselves.
Saturday 8 October 2011
Bizarre lurch to the funny side
Greetings Mudpuddlees, and apologies for not regaling you somewhat sooner with musings, mutterings and mastery. However, I hope today's update will somewhat make up for that as I am now a Mudpuddler with a goal, a determination, even a destiny....
Back in the dim mists of January, resolutions were made - I resolved, you resolved, he/she/it resolved. Many of these promises were straws in the wind, some were wishful thinking and some, dare I say it, were outright pisstakes designed to enchant and delight, but with no discernable possibility of coming to be.
Having said that, one of my resolutions has nagged and pawed at the recesses of my febrile mind. It has, quite literally, kept me awake at night with its sheer wonderment and cunning, and it will not allow itself to be cast into the murky depths of might-have-beens and never-weres. On New Year's Day 2011 I promised myself I would take to the stage and perform stand-up in front of an audience. Now before the chuffing and guffawing commences, let me just say I mean this, and in earnest! I am determined to do this very thing.
There we have it - Mudpuddling with giggles, the next exciting divergence for a Mudpuddler who has drifted far too long between ludicrous dreams. To assure you further of my intent, I have begun (and indeed got most of the way through) writing a routine. This was rather harder than expected, whats funny in the mouth is not such a riot on paper - however, through a process of linking to a relevant earlier comment (keeping me awake at night), I have found the right approach. I perform to myself at night in my bed and write down what works in the morning. Furthermore I promise to try and include the phrase 'I perform to myself at night in bed' in the routine, which is based in part around my famous romantic shortcomings. Oh what a tangled medpuddle we weave..
Needless to say, once I have found a relevant open mic night I shall provide details to interested Mudpuddlers that they might come and rescue me from myself with some charity titters.
Joke on, friends.
Back in the dim mists of January, resolutions were made - I resolved, you resolved, he/she/it resolved. Many of these promises were straws in the wind, some were wishful thinking and some, dare I say it, were outright pisstakes designed to enchant and delight, but with no discernable possibility of coming to be.
Having said that, one of my resolutions has nagged and pawed at the recesses of my febrile mind. It has, quite literally, kept me awake at night with its sheer wonderment and cunning, and it will not allow itself to be cast into the murky depths of might-have-beens and never-weres. On New Year's Day 2011 I promised myself I would take to the stage and perform stand-up in front of an audience. Now before the chuffing and guffawing commences, let me just say I mean this, and in earnest! I am determined to do this very thing.
There we have it - Mudpuddling with giggles, the next exciting divergence for a Mudpuddler who has drifted far too long between ludicrous dreams. To assure you further of my intent, I have begun (and indeed got most of the way through) writing a routine. This was rather harder than expected, whats funny in the mouth is not such a riot on paper - however, through a process of linking to a relevant earlier comment (keeping me awake at night), I have found the right approach. I perform to myself at night in my bed and write down what works in the morning. Furthermore I promise to try and include the phrase 'I perform to myself at night in bed' in the routine, which is based in part around my famous romantic shortcomings. Oh what a tangled medpuddle we weave..
Needless to say, once I have found a relevant open mic night I shall provide details to interested Mudpuddlers that they might come and rescue me from myself with some charity titters.
Joke on, friends.
Tuesday 13 September 2011
For the world is hollow
Sometimes, on days like today, the world passes by outside my window and I barely notice it. I find myself locked, deep in thought, a Chinese finger trap for the self, whilst images of supposed failures replay themselves over and over in my mind.
This is just one part of suffering from depression, or at least it is just one part of my experience of it. Of course, there is no intention on my part for things to proceed thus, it just sort of happens. The most innocent of thoughts can set the thing in motion. I might wonder why I had not watered the plants, or posted that package I meant to, but at the moment of thinking it, I can almost feel myself slap on the brakes, cast out the anchor and everything around me ceases to have much significance.
I have cranked the starting handle on another day of disappointment in myself. All those things I wish I had done, or promised to have done, or intended to do. All the dreams unfulfilled, all the difficult choices avoided come flooding out in a torrent. I become transfixed on all the things I haven't done, and wracked with grief and shame that I have let people down. It is the cruelest of illnesses that eats away at your self-confidence like this, but it is what I find myself fighting, week after week, month after month.
Nothing I tell myself can shift the guilt pangs and borderline self-loathing that accompany this part of depression. Worse than that, I am hopeless at sharing this (outside the safety zone of my blog) - I don't feel my issues are worth airing, or I don't want anyone to worry about me, about what I am thinking, feeling or suffering. Internalisation sets in, and is just as rotten and ruinous as the doubt and the guilt. Everything is crammed down, held in the very pit of my stomach. No-one need know I am unhappy, no-one need see or share in it. As hopeless as I am at dealing with the thought cycles, I am determined they shall not bring a moment of darkness to anyone's day.
Sitting here now and typing this, it all seems so easy - just let your loved ones in, just talk, just accept the innocence of forgetting to post a package. If only depression were not so cruel, did not take away from me moments of sharing and compassion I constantly deny myself. If only I could let myself collapse in someone's company and let them put me back together again. If only.... if only depression were not such a cruel master or I such a compromised servant. And yet it is, and so here I sit on another silent evening, a single fat tear running down my cheek as the only testament to the torture within.
This is just one part of suffering from depression, or at least it is just one part of my experience of it. Of course, there is no intention on my part for things to proceed thus, it just sort of happens. The most innocent of thoughts can set the thing in motion. I might wonder why I had not watered the plants, or posted that package I meant to, but at the moment of thinking it, I can almost feel myself slap on the brakes, cast out the anchor and everything around me ceases to have much significance.
I have cranked the starting handle on another day of disappointment in myself. All those things I wish I had done, or promised to have done, or intended to do. All the dreams unfulfilled, all the difficult choices avoided come flooding out in a torrent. I become transfixed on all the things I haven't done, and wracked with grief and shame that I have let people down. It is the cruelest of illnesses that eats away at your self-confidence like this, but it is what I find myself fighting, week after week, month after month.
Nothing I tell myself can shift the guilt pangs and borderline self-loathing that accompany this part of depression. Worse than that, I am hopeless at sharing this (outside the safety zone of my blog) - I don't feel my issues are worth airing, or I don't want anyone to worry about me, about what I am thinking, feeling or suffering. Internalisation sets in, and is just as rotten and ruinous as the doubt and the guilt. Everything is crammed down, held in the very pit of my stomach. No-one need know I am unhappy, no-one need see or share in it. As hopeless as I am at dealing with the thought cycles, I am determined they shall not bring a moment of darkness to anyone's day.
Sitting here now and typing this, it all seems so easy - just let your loved ones in, just talk, just accept the innocence of forgetting to post a package. If only depression were not so cruel, did not take away from me moments of sharing and compassion I constantly deny myself. If only I could let myself collapse in someone's company and let them put me back together again. If only.... if only depression were not such a cruel master or I such a compromised servant. And yet it is, and so here I sit on another silent evening, a single fat tear running down my cheek as the only testament to the torture within.
Monday 29 August 2011
Twitter ye not
Greetings Mudpuddlees, I am posting today with news of a diversion from the norm for me. I have decided to document the world and my life in verse - well, technically, in Haiku. I have converted my twitter account to now be a dumping ground for my thoughts on life, the universe and nothing at all in a Haiku format. For those of you that do not know Haikus, it is a short form of poetry, with many ridiculous rules, but fortunately the modern English version of this Japanese artform is 3 lines of 5, 7 and 5 syllables respectively. For example;
The air that I breathe,
Though supporting endeavour,
Is thick with failure.
The twitterati amongst you will be able to follow me on @Haikusareus.
The reason for this diversion? I have been a lazy little Mudpuddler and have let the habit of writing slip over the past two or three months. Its not good enough! I am hoping this will keep me in the habit of forming my ideas and thoughts into words - which will, in turn, force out the classic idea I have had - the novel that encompasses a single moment in two people's lives, but darts back and forth filling in blanks you never even realised were there.... trust me on this, its a doozy.
The air that I breathe,
Though supporting endeavour,
Is thick with failure.
The twitterati amongst you will be able to follow me on @Haikusareus.
The reason for this diversion? I have been a lazy little Mudpuddler and have let the habit of writing slip over the past two or three months. Its not good enough! I am hoping this will keep me in the habit of forming my ideas and thoughts into words - which will, in turn, force out the classic idea I have had - the novel that encompasses a single moment in two people's lives, but darts back and forth filling in blanks you never even realised were there.... trust me on this, its a doozy.
Thursday 11 August 2011
My life in people - one for each year since I was born (1971)
Giovanni Leone 71
Bobby Fischer 72
Ted Heath 73
Richard Nixon 74
Bill Gates 75
Jimmy Carter 76
Elizabeth 2nd 77
Anwar Sadat 78
Margaret Thatcher 79
Ronald Reagan 80
Bobby Sands 81
Leopoldo Galtieri 82
Michael Foot 83
Carl Lewis 84
Michail Gorbachev 85
John McCarthy 86
Rudolf Hess 87
George HW Bush 88
Salman Rushdie 89
Nelson Mandela 90
Tim Berners-Lee 91
John Major 92
Bill Clinton 93
Lorena Bobbitt 94
Nick Leeson 95
Boris Yeltsin 96
Tony Blair 97
Augusto Pinochet 98
Lance Armstrong 99
Steve Redgrave 00
George Bush 01
Ronaldo 02
Dr David Kelly 03
Kelly Holmes 04
Pope John Paul II 05
Kevin Pietersen 06
Gordon Brown 07
Chris Hoy 08
Michael Jackson 09
David Cameron 10
Muamar Ghadaffi 11
Bobby Fischer 72
Ted Heath 73
Richard Nixon 74
Bill Gates 75
Jimmy Carter 76
Elizabeth 2nd 77
Anwar Sadat 78
Margaret Thatcher 79
Ronald Reagan 80
Bobby Sands 81
Leopoldo Galtieri 82
Michael Foot 83
Carl Lewis 84
Michail Gorbachev 85
John McCarthy 86
Rudolf Hess 87
George HW Bush 88
Salman Rushdie 89
Nelson Mandela 90
Tim Berners-Lee 91
John Major 92
Bill Clinton 93
Lorena Bobbitt 94
Nick Leeson 95
Boris Yeltsin 96
Tony Blair 97
Augusto Pinochet 98
Lance Armstrong 99
Steve Redgrave 00
George Bush 01
Ronaldo 02
Dr David Kelly 03
Kelly Holmes 04
Pope John Paul II 05
Kevin Pietersen 06
Gordon Brown 07
Chris Hoy 08
Michael Jackson 09
David Cameron 10
Muamar Ghadaffi 11
Wednesday 3 August 2011
A letter to my 18 year old self
Dear Dave,
I guess right about now you're thinking about going to University, whereas for me it was 21 years ago. Don't worry, I'm not going to spoil the surprises in store for you, let's not go destroying the space-time continuum before you've even set out on your journey. To tell you the truth, I just felt like dropping you a line, to tell you to hang in there. It is all going somewhere, I promise. At least that's what it said in my letter.
Listen, you've got some fights ahead of you, mate, and you're gonna need to toughen up a bit. Not so soon that you can't go nuts for a few years, though. It's all good, just promise me you'll remember when it's time to put away childish things, OK? It's very hard to do this without giving the game away, but its important. There are times you are going to feel totally helpless - you're not. Whatever happens, however overwhelming it seems, you're bigger than it, Dave, you are so much bigger than it.
All those questions that are gnawing away in your head right now, you are going to find the answer to some very soon, and some of them are still questions I ask myself today. I'm just older, I'm not perfect, nor do I have all the answers! It's hard for me to find the words, there's a deep crevice between you and me, when you're there no words will come from the future, or the past, and it's the hardest things will be. Just remember one thing - 39 year old yous cannot write unless they make it out. You do make it out, I did make it out.
I won't tell you to do things differently. As funny as it may sound and despite everything that you will come across, I wouldn't have done a thing differently. Not one moment. Even the pain goes towards making me the man that is writing this letter to you. And like I said, your bigger than it all, you never make the wrong choice, you just make a choice.
What else can I tell you? Not much, but in the late nineties there's a reason it feels too good to be true. It is. Other than that, you already know the people you love, they are the people you'll always love, and you'll meet a few more along the way, I've never known us to pick a dud as a friend. You might tell them a bit more often, though, however clumsy you are with emotions. Ahhh, you'll do great, it's been good chatting to you.
Cheers Dave,
Dave
P.S. 'Do you fancy getting some chips?' - trust me on this ;)
I guess right about now you're thinking about going to University, whereas for me it was 21 years ago. Don't worry, I'm not going to spoil the surprises in store for you, let's not go destroying the space-time continuum before you've even set out on your journey. To tell you the truth, I just felt like dropping you a line, to tell you to hang in there. It is all going somewhere, I promise. At least that's what it said in my letter.
Listen, you've got some fights ahead of you, mate, and you're gonna need to toughen up a bit. Not so soon that you can't go nuts for a few years, though. It's all good, just promise me you'll remember when it's time to put away childish things, OK? It's very hard to do this without giving the game away, but its important. There are times you are going to feel totally helpless - you're not. Whatever happens, however overwhelming it seems, you're bigger than it, Dave, you are so much bigger than it.
All those questions that are gnawing away in your head right now, you are going to find the answer to some very soon, and some of them are still questions I ask myself today. I'm just older, I'm not perfect, nor do I have all the answers! It's hard for me to find the words, there's a deep crevice between you and me, when you're there no words will come from the future, or the past, and it's the hardest things will be. Just remember one thing - 39 year old yous cannot write unless they make it out. You do make it out, I did make it out.
I won't tell you to do things differently. As funny as it may sound and despite everything that you will come across, I wouldn't have done a thing differently. Not one moment. Even the pain goes towards making me the man that is writing this letter to you. And like I said, your bigger than it all, you never make the wrong choice, you just make a choice.
What else can I tell you? Not much, but in the late nineties there's a reason it feels too good to be true. It is. Other than that, you already know the people you love, they are the people you'll always love, and you'll meet a few more along the way, I've never known us to pick a dud as a friend. You might tell them a bit more often, though, however clumsy you are with emotions. Ahhh, you'll do great, it's been good chatting to you.
Cheers Dave,
Dave
P.S. 'Do you fancy getting some chips?' - trust me on this ;)
Thursday 14 July 2011
Reworked, The Statue
The statue of the lovers wrapped,
In warm embrace endures.
Their features worn, and indistinct,
As time young love matures.
He holds and looks upon her,
Sweet angel in his arms.
She looks back at him, adoring,
Held captive by his charms.
This gaze, held for the ages,
Was to put doubt in its place,
But the fading years betray them,
They cannot recall each other's face.
In warm embrace endures.
Their features worn, and indistinct,
As time young love matures.
He holds and looks upon her,
Sweet angel in his arms.
She looks back at him, adoring,
Held captive by his charms.
This gaze, held for the ages,
Was to put doubt in its place,
But the fading years betray them,
They cannot recall each other's face.
Tuesday 21 June 2011
The trial and conviction of Romeo Mudpuddle
First of all, apologies to Mudpuddlers that I have been quiet the last couple of weeks. To tell you the truth I have had a bout of nothing to sayitis, and felt it best to keep quiet and be a possible fool than open my mouth and leave no doubt at all.
Being a single Mudpuddler, and, as I have lamented on here before, a somewhat lonely one, I have taken to internet dating sites as a means to an end. I am starting to regret it. I have always found the dating scene hard enough as it is, being completely oblivious to being given the come on whether that be with a subtle flash of beautiful eyes, or a rather more obvious statement of intent. Internet dating isn't supposed to be harder! And yet, and yet it most certainly seems to be.
Now, I am no oil painting I'll grant you, but I always fancied I had a certain whimsical attraction, a raspy, rascally smile and such, but over the last few weeks of internet dating (which ought to be known as known as internet humiliation), I am starting to feel like I have a second head that everyone but me can see, or have had some supper from months ago welded to my face without my realising.
I have been meticulous in only trying to engage in conversation those lasses that write a good summary of themselves and seem to want to meet people exactly as I would like to think I am - kind, considerate, warm, amusing and adventurous. Can I get most of them to reply to my missives? Can I bollocks (excuse the French)! I am honestly at a loss to explain why anyone would sign up to a dating website, write all of that and then just ignore someone introducing themselves. 'No thanks' would do, or 'Sorry, I don't like bald guys' or something - but no, I get the cold shoulder from most and the occasional reply seems to consist of 'Sorry, you are not my type' - How do you know?! Seriously, how the hell can you tell without even saying hello to me? I guess 'not my type' equates to 'receeding hairline and no obviously a muscular himbo. So, I get to feel like the Elephant man or some creepy stalker in the shadows on a daily basis. Go me.
It's not supposed to be like this. I am one of the world's good guys - I am supposed to get the girl! And on those occasions when my mask slips and I am clearly not one of the world's good guys but a slightly roguish character - well, hell, I am still supposed to get the girl..... by dint of irresistable roguishness.
It's all a mystery to me, it really is. I am not getting any younger, but I seem to be getting ever more naive. And yet I have come to the realisation that the one thing I don't want to carry through my forties is the loneliness I have taken through a great deal of my thirties.
C'est l'amour, c'est la guerre.
Being a single Mudpuddler, and, as I have lamented on here before, a somewhat lonely one, I have taken to internet dating sites as a means to an end. I am starting to regret it. I have always found the dating scene hard enough as it is, being completely oblivious to being given the come on whether that be with a subtle flash of beautiful eyes, or a rather more obvious statement of intent. Internet dating isn't supposed to be harder! And yet, and yet it most certainly seems to be.
Now, I am no oil painting I'll grant you, but I always fancied I had a certain whimsical attraction, a raspy, rascally smile and such, but over the last few weeks of internet dating (which ought to be known as known as internet humiliation), I am starting to feel like I have a second head that everyone but me can see, or have had some supper from months ago welded to my face without my realising.
I have been meticulous in only trying to engage in conversation those lasses that write a good summary of themselves and seem to want to meet people exactly as I would like to think I am - kind, considerate, warm, amusing and adventurous. Can I get most of them to reply to my missives? Can I bollocks (excuse the French)! I am honestly at a loss to explain why anyone would sign up to a dating website, write all of that and then just ignore someone introducing themselves. 'No thanks' would do, or 'Sorry, I don't like bald guys' or something - but no, I get the cold shoulder from most and the occasional reply seems to consist of 'Sorry, you are not my type' - How do you know?! Seriously, how the hell can you tell without even saying hello to me? I guess 'not my type' equates to 'receeding hairline and no obviously a muscular himbo. So, I get to feel like the Elephant man or some creepy stalker in the shadows on a daily basis. Go me.
It's not supposed to be like this. I am one of the world's good guys - I am supposed to get the girl! And on those occasions when my mask slips and I am clearly not one of the world's good guys but a slightly roguish character - well, hell, I am still supposed to get the girl..... by dint of irresistable roguishness.
It's all a mystery to me, it really is. I am not getting any younger, but I seem to be getting ever more naive. And yet I have come to the realisation that the one thing I don't want to carry through my forties is the loneliness I have taken through a great deal of my thirties.
C'est l'amour, c'est la guerre.
Wednesday 8 June 2011
Le Rant
I thought I might come on here today and talk a little bit about the world, and how I see it. I will, of course, be careful not to let my view become a fully head-steamed rantathon. After all, what could I possibly find to rant about?
Why, indeed, when the world is such a fulfilling place? Why rant when ambition, that used to be cloaked as a fireman, nurse or train driver, has been replaced with the utterly vapid and senseless desire 'to be a celebrity'? It's not as if anyone is seeking celebrity for achievement, but merely to be famous for fame's sake - the lofty ambition of Man reduced to a burning desire to be the talk of gossip magazines. That's one small step for man, one giant leap on the red carpet. Take back your medals, forget your discoveries. Rush not into danger, practice at nothing for now you have made it when they corner off a piece of a tacky city club for you and yours. And there may you sit, consuming the jealous glances of lesser mortals and hoping, against all hope, that none of us can see you are hollow inside.
Why would I rant when the world of politics is in the care of such giants as now bestride the world stage? Small men, with small dreams fiddling round the margins of Rome as it burns - a little bit of stimulus here, a little bailout there. Why don't you leave it alone, we've built ourselves so many false idols that the altar table is buckling, and the whole lot is about to come crashing down. Infantile changes on the micro scale, and even they are constantly reviewed, renewed or cancelled. It's like nobody is able to function anymore without focus groups and the weight of public opinion on side. What happened to the orators, what happened to men and women of vision? Even the ones I don't agree with, at least I could admire for having the courage of their convictions. What do we have instead? Faceless goons, careerist poiticos, reprehensible, idiotic and forgettable. Even America cannot produce the goods any more. Barack Obama a great orator? Please, he has the most turgid and stilted voice, I tune out every time he is on.
And why would I want to rant at a world that is so perfectly fair in every way? A wonderful world where you rise and fall based on the effort you put in, and everybody gets a fair crack of the whip. No, sorry, that must be a different world I am thinking of. This world is skewed in favour of the crooked, feckless and lazy, all endeavour is punishable by taxation, all achievement to be glossed over, the State has become the overbearing, all-consuming monster. Everything is the State, the State is everything. Tax you, fine you, instruct you, warn you, target you, measure you, punish you, watch you, record you, appraise you and judge you. There is nothing left for the individual, the outcast, the maverick. You must comply, you will comply with the State. Eat the requisite amount of fruit and vegetable, have the same number of children, avoid the foods you are told are bad, even the ones that taste good, exercise in the prescribed fashion, get angry when instructed to do so, fear outsiders, report deviation from the norm, judge your neighbours as you yourself shall be judged. Give up your hopes, retire your dreams, this is the age of the bland, the age of the State, the age after you ceased to matter. All is celebrity, mediocrity and grey.
That was fun. Let's do it again next week.
Why, indeed, when the world is such a fulfilling place? Why rant when ambition, that used to be cloaked as a fireman, nurse or train driver, has been replaced with the utterly vapid and senseless desire 'to be a celebrity'? It's not as if anyone is seeking celebrity for achievement, but merely to be famous for fame's sake - the lofty ambition of Man reduced to a burning desire to be the talk of gossip magazines. That's one small step for man, one giant leap on the red carpet. Take back your medals, forget your discoveries. Rush not into danger, practice at nothing for now you have made it when they corner off a piece of a tacky city club for you and yours. And there may you sit, consuming the jealous glances of lesser mortals and hoping, against all hope, that none of us can see you are hollow inside.
Why would I rant when the world of politics is in the care of such giants as now bestride the world stage? Small men, with small dreams fiddling round the margins of Rome as it burns - a little bit of stimulus here, a little bailout there. Why don't you leave it alone, we've built ourselves so many false idols that the altar table is buckling, and the whole lot is about to come crashing down. Infantile changes on the micro scale, and even they are constantly reviewed, renewed or cancelled. It's like nobody is able to function anymore without focus groups and the weight of public opinion on side. What happened to the orators, what happened to men and women of vision? Even the ones I don't agree with, at least I could admire for having the courage of their convictions. What do we have instead? Faceless goons, careerist poiticos, reprehensible, idiotic and forgettable. Even America cannot produce the goods any more. Barack Obama a great orator? Please, he has the most turgid and stilted voice, I tune out every time he is on.
And why would I want to rant at a world that is so perfectly fair in every way? A wonderful world where you rise and fall based on the effort you put in, and everybody gets a fair crack of the whip. No, sorry, that must be a different world I am thinking of. This world is skewed in favour of the crooked, feckless and lazy, all endeavour is punishable by taxation, all achievement to be glossed over, the State has become the overbearing, all-consuming monster. Everything is the State, the State is everything. Tax you, fine you, instruct you, warn you, target you, measure you, punish you, watch you, record you, appraise you and judge you. There is nothing left for the individual, the outcast, the maverick. You must comply, you will comply with the State. Eat the requisite amount of fruit and vegetable, have the same number of children, avoid the foods you are told are bad, even the ones that taste good, exercise in the prescribed fashion, get angry when instructed to do so, fear outsiders, report deviation from the norm, judge your neighbours as you yourself shall be judged. Give up your hopes, retire your dreams, this is the age of the bland, the age of the State, the age after you ceased to matter. All is celebrity, mediocrity and grey.
That was fun. Let's do it again next week.
Friday 27 May 2011
I am the instigator
I'm really not the nicest guy
When it comes to playing fair,
I'd rather your woes multiply
Than take my honest share.
Whilst you are sat there, weeping
I'll look through you like you're hollow,
My insidiousness is creeping,
Makes this hard for you to swallow.
It was always going to end like this
And I was always set to win,
You fell for my deceitful kiss,
Which made you blind to constant sin.
I found the lying easiest,
When I wore a gormless smile
That's when I'm at my sleaziest,
Playing happy families for a while.
So, I'm leaving now, because I'm free;
Take a good, long look and then,
No sight, no sound, no hint of me
Will come your way again.
When it comes to playing fair,
I'd rather your woes multiply
Than take my honest share.
Whilst you are sat there, weeping
I'll look through you like you're hollow,
My insidiousness is creeping,
Makes this hard for you to swallow.
It was always going to end like this
And I was always set to win,
You fell for my deceitful kiss,
Which made you blind to constant sin.
I found the lying easiest,
When I wore a gormless smile
That's when I'm at my sleaziest,
Playing happy families for a while.
So, I'm leaving now, because I'm free;
Take a good, long look and then,
No sight, no sound, no hint of me
Will come your way again.
Friday 13 May 2011
The me of me
He is reflective, soft and caring,
Bears his burdens heavily.
He’s not prone to easy pairing,
Flies solo all too cleverly.
He’ll debate on technicalities,
Or chide you with a smile.
But he’ll miss your similarities,
By at least a country mile.
If you show him some compassion
You’ll win a loyal friend,
Just don’t ask him about fashion,
Or which bouquet to send.
He sees beauty all around the place.
But won’t recognise his own,
Hides tears behind a stony face
For his love, in secret, grown.
And so he never questions why
He wakes each dawn, alone.
A tragedy, for he is I,
And such frailty I’ve shown
Bears his burdens heavily.
He’s not prone to easy pairing,
Flies solo all too cleverly.
He’ll debate on technicalities,
Or chide you with a smile.
But he’ll miss your similarities,
By at least a country mile.
If you show him some compassion
You’ll win a loyal friend,
Just don’t ask him about fashion,
Or which bouquet to send.
He sees beauty all around the place.
But won’t recognise his own,
Hides tears behind a stony face
For his love, in secret, grown.
And so he never questions why
He wakes each dawn, alone.
A tragedy, for he is I,
And such frailty I’ve shown
Monday 9 May 2011
Setbacks
Unfortuantely, the doctor has signed me off work again due to a renewed bout of my OCD flaring up. It is incredibly frustrating to feel like some really good progress is being made only to find myself locked into another cycle of pressure and reaction whilst the OCD fires up on all cylinders and catches me at my weakest.
It's not that I can't beat it, I know I can. No, scratch that, I know I will. It's not the fight at all, it is the knowledge that this impacts so much on all the other boxes that make up my life. I find myself wondering if the way to beat it longer term is not to feed it - take myself out of situations that might precipitate a decline. But why should I?! Am I really reaching a position where I write off types of career as inappropriate to my condition? Is that where it all leads - postponing or cancelling my aspirations for the good of the outcome of the fight? It seems wrong to be thinking this way, and yet... how to put it? And yet I cannot be someone I am not, anymore than the slowest can run the fastet or the youngest have the most memories. Perhaps winning the war long term means thinking laterally - make a strength of weakness, earn my crust a different way. Clearly I cannot go on the way I am.
Then there is the effect of this on my life goals and hopes. This gets in the way, forms a giant roadblock I can't detour around. Fighting this illness full time only serves to make everything else seem unimportant and bleak. There are times I feel terribly lonely, and I have realised (as I have said here before) that I want to share my little life with someone, but how can I possibly hope to do that when all my energies are focussed on this? More to the point, once I beat this outbreak, I meet someone and two weeks in the wheels come off again. I am already feeling guilty about letting someone down that I haven't even met yet. This is what it does to you, it yanks away the certainties you rely on, it weakens everything you are and forces you to spend your energy 'winning'.
I just wonder at the cost of victory. I don't want this being my everything, there are other fights I want to fight. I want to be giving of my energy to someone really special to me and I want my hopes to be for them, and not just my own medicine. I want my shoulder to be there for my family and friends, for everyone that I love. I want the decks cleared and the diary empty ready to be filled with someone who makes my jaw drop just by her smile. I want all these things, all these normal, credible, reasonable and laudable things. Yet they are on hiatus, once again, as I wearily go into battle one more time.
OCD is wicked. OCD stands no chance against me, but it is the price of my victory that makes me hate it the most. It is robbing me of time, and energy, and of someone's adorable smile.
It's not that I can't beat it, I know I can. No, scratch that, I know I will. It's not the fight at all, it is the knowledge that this impacts so much on all the other boxes that make up my life. I find myself wondering if the way to beat it longer term is not to feed it - take myself out of situations that might precipitate a decline. But why should I?! Am I really reaching a position where I write off types of career as inappropriate to my condition? Is that where it all leads - postponing or cancelling my aspirations for the good of the outcome of the fight? It seems wrong to be thinking this way, and yet... how to put it? And yet I cannot be someone I am not, anymore than the slowest can run the fastet or the youngest have the most memories. Perhaps winning the war long term means thinking laterally - make a strength of weakness, earn my crust a different way. Clearly I cannot go on the way I am.
Then there is the effect of this on my life goals and hopes. This gets in the way, forms a giant roadblock I can't detour around. Fighting this illness full time only serves to make everything else seem unimportant and bleak. There are times I feel terribly lonely, and I have realised (as I have said here before) that I want to share my little life with someone, but how can I possibly hope to do that when all my energies are focussed on this? More to the point, once I beat this outbreak, I meet someone and two weeks in the wheels come off again. I am already feeling guilty about letting someone down that I haven't even met yet. This is what it does to you, it yanks away the certainties you rely on, it weakens everything you are and forces you to spend your energy 'winning'.
I just wonder at the cost of victory. I don't want this being my everything, there are other fights I want to fight. I want to be giving of my energy to someone really special to me and I want my hopes to be for them, and not just my own medicine. I want my shoulder to be there for my family and friends, for everyone that I love. I want the decks cleared and the diary empty ready to be filled with someone who makes my jaw drop just by her smile. I want all these things, all these normal, credible, reasonable and laudable things. Yet they are on hiatus, once again, as I wearily go into battle one more time.
OCD is wicked. OCD stands no chance against me, but it is the price of my victory that makes me hate it the most. It is robbing me of time, and energy, and of someone's adorable smile.
Monday 2 May 2011
The secret
No-one knows, as I never talk,
Of my aching love for you.
I keep it bottled, under cork
Where it is safe, and true.
A weakness, or insanity,
That I should fail to act?
It's not for pride, or vanity,
I am mired here with tact.
Oh, I wish I'd told you months ago
Win back the time we've lost,
But I'm forever taking it too slow,
To my detriment, and cost.
And yet, so simple, it should be
To set it out in words;
Paint it for you, lyrically
Like the other bees to birds.
Of course, I fear I'm not enough,
Wrong in a thousand ways.
Too nervous to blag it, off the cuff,
Lost in my nervous haze.
So, tis secretly you hold my heart
And, in sorrow, I stay quiet.
Dreaming that we are not apart
As I was brave enough to try it.
Of my aching love for you.
I keep it bottled, under cork
Where it is safe, and true.
A weakness, or insanity,
That I should fail to act?
It's not for pride, or vanity,
I am mired here with tact.
Oh, I wish I'd told you months ago
Win back the time we've lost,
But I'm forever taking it too slow,
To my detriment, and cost.
And yet, so simple, it should be
To set it out in words;
Paint it for you, lyrically
Like the other bees to birds.
Of course, I fear I'm not enough,
Wrong in a thousand ways.
Too nervous to blag it, off the cuff,
Lost in my nervous haze.
So, tis secretly you hold my heart
And, in sorrow, I stay quiet.
Dreaming that we are not apart
As I was brave enough to try it.
Friday 29 April 2011
Love
Some days are impossible to escape without an epiphany. Today is one of those days. I have realised that things simply have to change for me. I've never been good at expressing my feelings to someone, not to their face in any case. Sure, I can write a bit and occasionally find the words in a poem to say how I feel, but I find it almost impossible to translate that into telling someone, to their face, that I adore them.
I'm not sure why it is, I don't know where the reticence comes from, but I have allowed myself to get too comfortable with being single. However, now beset by the epiphany, I no longer have the luxury of hiding from the truth. I enjoy every moment I spend with friends, family, loved ones and all of them, in their unique way, are treasures to me. However, time with loved ones passes, you cannot bask in their joy every moment of every day, and once the time has gone I am left alone. There is something unwholsome about returning to my house and closing the door - an ominous emptiness overwhlems me sometimes. This is not to say I don't love where I live, or my fabulous little house, but more the sense of longing there to be a light shining out when I return in the dark, a kettle on the boil and arms to wrap around me and welcome me home. As daft as it is, occasionally I am disappointed when none of it is there.
I have seen the committment my parents have to one another, and the strange, but magical love of my grandparents. I watched my sister marry with teenage eyes and over the years I have seen dear friends commit themselves to one another at beautiful ceremonies. I am in awe of them all - to find that spark in each other, and to reach out and hold on to it is something wonderful. I cannot explain why I have never thought, even for a moment, of my own nuptials, a day when I do this. It has always just been something other people do, albeit a truly magnificent thing.
I wish I could tell you it was just that I have never met the right girl, at the right time, but that would be rather too glib. The truth is, I do fall in love, I fall in love rather easily as it happens, but I lock myself into a spiral of self-doubt about it. Oh the times I have cursed myself that not a few hours before my jaw had been upon the floor as my heart erupted in joy at the sight of someone and yet I could only smile awkwardly, make a terrible joke and slip away, muttering and mumbling about it not being the time. After a while, you stop trying, because the disappointment gets too crushing.
So, here we are, I am as self-aware as I have been in a very long time and the situation has become untenable. I have to make the change, I have to start taking the risk. Life is a terribly long journey to try and tackle alone, it stretches out before me, off into an unseen land and every step I take alone becomes heavier. I don't mind admitting too, I am just a little bit scared of taking the journey alone, there is so much to share and so little to appreciate properly as an individual. I'll reach out and find a hand to hold mine. At least, in theory, that would be the next move.
I'm not sure why it is, I don't know where the reticence comes from, but I have allowed myself to get too comfortable with being single. However, now beset by the epiphany, I no longer have the luxury of hiding from the truth. I enjoy every moment I spend with friends, family, loved ones and all of them, in their unique way, are treasures to me. However, time with loved ones passes, you cannot bask in their joy every moment of every day, and once the time has gone I am left alone. There is something unwholsome about returning to my house and closing the door - an ominous emptiness overwhlems me sometimes. This is not to say I don't love where I live, or my fabulous little house, but more the sense of longing there to be a light shining out when I return in the dark, a kettle on the boil and arms to wrap around me and welcome me home. As daft as it is, occasionally I am disappointed when none of it is there.
I have seen the committment my parents have to one another, and the strange, but magical love of my grandparents. I watched my sister marry with teenage eyes and over the years I have seen dear friends commit themselves to one another at beautiful ceremonies. I am in awe of them all - to find that spark in each other, and to reach out and hold on to it is something wonderful. I cannot explain why I have never thought, even for a moment, of my own nuptials, a day when I do this. It has always just been something other people do, albeit a truly magnificent thing.
I wish I could tell you it was just that I have never met the right girl, at the right time, but that would be rather too glib. The truth is, I do fall in love, I fall in love rather easily as it happens, but I lock myself into a spiral of self-doubt about it. Oh the times I have cursed myself that not a few hours before my jaw had been upon the floor as my heart erupted in joy at the sight of someone and yet I could only smile awkwardly, make a terrible joke and slip away, muttering and mumbling about it not being the time. After a while, you stop trying, because the disappointment gets too crushing.
So, here we are, I am as self-aware as I have been in a very long time and the situation has become untenable. I have to make the change, I have to start taking the risk. Life is a terribly long journey to try and tackle alone, it stretches out before me, off into an unseen land and every step I take alone becomes heavier. I don't mind admitting too, I am just a little bit scared of taking the journey alone, there is so much to share and so little to appreciate properly as an individual. I'll reach out and find a hand to hold mine. At least, in theory, that would be the next move.
Monday 25 April 2011
All the things I'd do for you
I'd call you in the morning,
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you without warning
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
We could be there in twelve hours
Give or taking one or two.
And if you need collecting
At all hours of the night
You won't stand around expecting,
Cos I'm always early, right?
On weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head
Which is in itself arousing,
An excuse to stay in bed.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you without warning
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
We could be there in twelve hours
Give or taking one or two.
And if you need collecting
At all hours of the night
You won't stand around expecting,
Cos I'm always early, right?
On weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head
Which is in itself arousing,
An excuse to stay in bed.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Thursday 21 April 2011
The unwritten rules and unanswered questions of life, baby
Mudpuddlin my way through a scorching April afternoon, I found myself pondering the inanities of life. More specifically, the bizarre, grotesque and ridiculous. For so is my wont. It seems to me, in my pondering Pooh Bearish way, that there are unwritten laws in life that need exposing (not to mention, writing). On top of that, there are unanswered questions that require answering. Here are just a few of them.
1) All men in adverts who are involved in a relationship must be facile, gormless and incompetent.
2) Decades become progressively worse from whichever one you were born in, in an even and endless cascade.
3) When someone in a bar or cafe drops glassware, or crockery, then all people forming the subset 'morons' within earshot of the event must cheer, ironically.
4) If you are under 25, you are no more able to appreciate the eighties than I am the sixties.
5) Similarly, if you are under 25 you have no basis whatsoever on which you can blame Thatcher.
6) If I build it, will they come?
7) If you need to ask how it was for her, well that's an epic fail my friend.
8) Where are all the smokin hot single, ready to mingle, thirty somethings I was promised?
9) When it feels tacky and you are inebriated, then start praying for hungover forgetfullness
10) You put bread in a toaster and two minutes later toast appears - where does the bread go to?
11) Why would you be so cruel as to damn me with the label 'cute'?
12) When I look sorry, I usually am. It's a more reliable guide than my tricksy mouth.
13) I don't need you to worry for me cos I'm alright. I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home. I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life, rizz off with your own life and leave me alone.
14) Tomatos should never be in the fridge, seriously.
15) Come again? Is better as an instruction
1) All men in adverts who are involved in a relationship must be facile, gormless and incompetent.
2) Decades become progressively worse from whichever one you were born in, in an even and endless cascade.
3) When someone in a bar or cafe drops glassware, or crockery, then all people forming the subset 'morons' within earshot of the event must cheer, ironically.
4) If you are under 25, you are no more able to appreciate the eighties than I am the sixties.
5) Similarly, if you are under 25 you have no basis whatsoever on which you can blame Thatcher.
6) If I build it, will they come?
7) If you need to ask how it was for her, well that's an epic fail my friend.
8) Where are all the smokin hot single, ready to mingle, thirty somethings I was promised?
9) When it feels tacky and you are inebriated, then start praying for hungover forgetfullness
10) You put bread in a toaster and two minutes later toast appears - where does the bread go to?
11) Why would you be so cruel as to damn me with the label 'cute'?
12) When I look sorry, I usually am. It's a more reliable guide than my tricksy mouth.
13) I don't need you to worry for me cos I'm alright. I don't want you to tell me it's time to come home. I don't care what you say anymore, this is my life, rizz off with your own life and leave me alone.
14) Tomatos should never be in the fridge, seriously.
15) Come again? Is better as an instruction
Thursday 14 April 2011
Two steps forward, two steps back
I was going to write a piece today about the last few days and how I have been under the menacing gaze of the black dog, suffering a bout of the dreaded depression. However, I find the words are too bleak, the sentences too confused and my mood insufficiently recovered to do it the injustice it so richly deserves. So instead, a limerick.
The first thing I spotted in you
Was making me smile when I'm blue.
You make my heart leap,
That's the secret I keep,
And, oh, my love if only you knew!
The first thing I spotted in you
Was making me smile when I'm blue.
You make my heart leap,
That's the secret I keep,
And, oh, my love if only you knew!
Monday 4 April 2011
10 facts that need stating on the record
1) My alcohol tolerance is inversely proportional to my distance in space and time from South Stoneham House (fl 1990-93)
2) I am an appallingly bad liar - I want to get caught, it's fun
3) You can trust me with most things, exceptions include reminding you of something that you are worried you'll forget and if asking me for directions, I am prone to making it up as I go along.
4) I take after my grandfather. He was an enormous wind up merchant. these are facts.
5) There are plans for scientists to probe me and all women in an attempt to find out who is worse at taking a compliment. Odds are shortening on it being me.
6) Greens, roots, carrots, spuds, meat, yorkshires. If you eat your roast in any order other than that, you are one freaky mazumba.
7) You can caveat the question 'which is your favourite reality show' with anything you like up to and including personal injury, my answer will still be 'none of them'
8) Wood beats metal beats plastic. Always.
9) I'll forgive most things once and almost nothing twice.
10) If I'm smiling, that's the time to start worrying.
2) I am an appallingly bad liar - I want to get caught, it's fun
3) You can trust me with most things, exceptions include reminding you of something that you are worried you'll forget and if asking me for directions, I am prone to making it up as I go along.
4) I take after my grandfather. He was an enormous wind up merchant. these are facts.
5) There are plans for scientists to probe me and all women in an attempt to find out who is worse at taking a compliment. Odds are shortening on it being me.
6) Greens, roots, carrots, spuds, meat, yorkshires. If you eat your roast in any order other than that, you are one freaky mazumba.
7) You can caveat the question 'which is your favourite reality show' with anything you like up to and including personal injury, my answer will still be 'none of them'
8) Wood beats metal beats plastic. Always.
9) I'll forgive most things once and almost nothing twice.
10) If I'm smiling, that's the time to start worrying.
Tuesday 29 March 2011
Tale of the smitten
Greetings Mudpuddlees, I trust the day finds you well? I have been thinking today, which is always a good start for a blog entry. I've been thinking about love, or more specifically, about that particular type of rare and cherished love that goes beyond the Sid James smuttery that accompanies the activity of lust. I am talking about being completely smitten. Rather than just thinking about it however (nice though as that is), I have given some thought to how difficult it is to put into words that particular feeling. So it seemed only fair to give it a go, a blogual celebration of smittenness.
The eyes..... oh, the difference when smitten in how you look at someone! There are times when I could quite happily have drowned in a pair of eyes - just to catch the way the light plays on them, or to wait, breath baited, for that flash of playfulness when you share a joke. When you fall, you fall into the eyes, and you can see deeper into them, even behind them than anyone else. They sparkle for you like they do for no other and you can gauge in one glance the mood of your beloved. There is something trult beautiful about the eyes, and something remarkable about love that makes them react differently, look different than in the normal course of events.
Another thing I have noticed is how ludicrous it feels to try and explain ahy you are smitten to anyone else. I have found myself looking at someone and been totally lost for words. How can you not love this girl?! How is it that you are not, as I am, lost in the most tantalising dream whenever she is around? There are, of course, no words, that is the point. The feeling of total devotion cannot be explained in words, it is a statement painted in your actions, it is demonstrated by the person you are whenever they are around you. If you can see that I love her, then no words are necessary.
Sometimes, early in a realtionship especially, you think what would be a romantic gesture, what might be something to show them you think they are quite the catch. The difference when smitten is that you stop thinking of what you'll do and start doing things you know they will love, and why they will love them. Rereading that it is a ridiculously obvious thing to say, but in truth it's an enormous change in a relationship - it is the point you go from trying to impress to doing the things that make the person you love happy. It all links back to the eyes, who wouldn't want to see those eyes melt into an adoring smile, all for you?
The most important differnce though is the difference in how it feels inside to what you could ever describe. As I said, it is so difficult to describe to someone else that is not in the relationship what you feel and why you feel it, and even if you wanted to, the best we can often manage is a lame description which often tails off into embarassment and introversion. How different to the voice inside you though! The voice within that screams at the same time - because her eyes make me melt, because she smells of summer, because I adore her terrible jokes and the shape of her feet makes me giddy inside. Every time I wake up I can't stop grinning when she is next to me, we fit together as spoons better than anyone I have ever known. She makes awful spaghetti bolognaise, so she makes it just for us to laugh at. She understands me, I understand her, we make perfect sense. There is nothing about her I don't fancy totally. Sometimes I stand outside when she is due home because the sight of her coming down the road makes me want to cry with happiness. It's safe to be soft with her, she never teases me for it, and she has my back, always.
Inside, the voices are screaming that. That's when you know you're smitten.
The eyes..... oh, the difference when smitten in how you look at someone! There are times when I could quite happily have drowned in a pair of eyes - just to catch the way the light plays on them, or to wait, breath baited, for that flash of playfulness when you share a joke. When you fall, you fall into the eyes, and you can see deeper into them, even behind them than anyone else. They sparkle for you like they do for no other and you can gauge in one glance the mood of your beloved. There is something trult beautiful about the eyes, and something remarkable about love that makes them react differently, look different than in the normal course of events.
Another thing I have noticed is how ludicrous it feels to try and explain ahy you are smitten to anyone else. I have found myself looking at someone and been totally lost for words. How can you not love this girl?! How is it that you are not, as I am, lost in the most tantalising dream whenever she is around? There are, of course, no words, that is the point. The feeling of total devotion cannot be explained in words, it is a statement painted in your actions, it is demonstrated by the person you are whenever they are around you. If you can see that I love her, then no words are necessary.
Sometimes, early in a realtionship especially, you think what would be a romantic gesture, what might be something to show them you think they are quite the catch. The difference when smitten is that you stop thinking of what you'll do and start doing things you know they will love, and why they will love them. Rereading that it is a ridiculously obvious thing to say, but in truth it's an enormous change in a relationship - it is the point you go from trying to impress to doing the things that make the person you love happy. It all links back to the eyes, who wouldn't want to see those eyes melt into an adoring smile, all for you?
The most important differnce though is the difference in how it feels inside to what you could ever describe. As I said, it is so difficult to describe to someone else that is not in the relationship what you feel and why you feel it, and even if you wanted to, the best we can often manage is a lame description which often tails off into embarassment and introversion. How different to the voice inside you though! The voice within that screams at the same time - because her eyes make me melt, because she smells of summer, because I adore her terrible jokes and the shape of her feet makes me giddy inside. Every time I wake up I can't stop grinning when she is next to me, we fit together as spoons better than anyone I have ever known. She makes awful spaghetti bolognaise, so she makes it just for us to laugh at. She understands me, I understand her, we make perfect sense. There is nothing about her I don't fancy totally. Sometimes I stand outside when she is due home because the sight of her coming down the road makes me want to cry with happiness. It's safe to be soft with her, she never teases me for it, and she has my back, always.
Inside, the voices are screaming that. That's when you know you're smitten.
Sunday 27 March 2011
Rock the heartbreak
It started with flirting, quite random
The way your twenties-self does with abandon.
Lunch morphed into date with no pause,
Had me falling for her in one course.
Of all loves that now lie in past tense,
This was the one that made the least sense.
I was wearing another man's style,
Fooling her I was all that for a while.
Of course, it came to a juddering halt,
Somehow everything was dead, and my fault.
It was all nonsense, a mistake, filthy lies
Yet I'd still drown myself in those eyes.
So remembering brings nought but profanity,
For our love was a raging insanity.
Possessed by regret and the harsh lessons learned,
Tormented, demented, lamented and spurned.
The way your twenties-self does with abandon.
Lunch morphed into date with no pause,
Had me falling for her in one course.
Of all loves that now lie in past tense,
This was the one that made the least sense.
I was wearing another man's style,
Fooling her I was all that for a while.
Of course, it came to a juddering halt,
Somehow everything was dead, and my fault.
It was all nonsense, a mistake, filthy lies
Yet I'd still drown myself in those eyes.
So remembering brings nought but profanity,
For our love was a raging insanity.
Possessed by regret and the harsh lessons learned,
Tormented, demented, lamented and spurned.
Thursday 24 March 2011
Shadow Boxing
I've come to the uncomfortable realisation that I spend far too much time shadow boxing. When there are some fairly hefty bad guys to wade in to (figuratively speaking you understand), there you'll not find me. I'll be the dude working out and warming up at the back and I'll probably still be there when the trouble has come, gone and mostly been forgotten.
What I am saying, of course, is that I am great at working out what I need to do, how I should proceed, and I am equally good at planning it all out. I am dreadful however at actually facing the problem and implementing the solution, however entertainingly bizarre the solution I have cooked up.
Shadow boxing Dave would no doubt be quite happy with those two paragraphs, they neatly sum up the problem - no need to get all messy sorting it out now is there? However, even I am not lame enough to QED myself on my own blog. Why am I a shadow boxer? For what reason do I not make it past the planning stage and into Last Action Mudpuddling?
Truthfully, I am terrified of starting and not being able to stop. Having one of those addictive personalities and being held captive by the OCD stazi, I tend to get hooked on things, used to them, comfortable with them, in need of them. So, if I implement a plan, do I end up taking it too far for fear of letting it go? If your toenails need cutting (First Floor Stoneham 1990 - talons, I tell you they were talons), you don't cut the leg off. You don't - but it's the sort of stupid thing (some on, still figurative here!) I do in the pursuit of addiciton satience.
So therein lies the rub - how do I go from the comfortable planning stage, to the terrifying action stage and out the other side without loitering? Tis a puzzlement. In any case, a cadre of angry bad men just turned up at my front door, so I need to go and warm up...
If anyone has a solution, would be grateful to hear. Alternatively, fix me up with a gorgeous girl and I'll stop whinging ;) (and no, I don't shadow box in the bedroom, fnarr)
What I am saying, of course, is that I am great at working out what I need to do, how I should proceed, and I am equally good at planning it all out. I am dreadful however at actually facing the problem and implementing the solution, however entertainingly bizarre the solution I have cooked up.
Shadow boxing Dave would no doubt be quite happy with those two paragraphs, they neatly sum up the problem - no need to get all messy sorting it out now is there? However, even I am not lame enough to QED myself on my own blog. Why am I a shadow boxer? For what reason do I not make it past the planning stage and into Last Action Mudpuddling?
Truthfully, I am terrified of starting and not being able to stop. Having one of those addictive personalities and being held captive by the OCD stazi, I tend to get hooked on things, used to them, comfortable with them, in need of them. So, if I implement a plan, do I end up taking it too far for fear of letting it go? If your toenails need cutting (First Floor Stoneham 1990 - talons, I tell you they were talons), you don't cut the leg off. You don't - but it's the sort of stupid thing (some on, still figurative here!) I do in the pursuit of addiciton satience.
So therein lies the rub - how do I go from the comfortable planning stage, to the terrifying action stage and out the other side without loitering? Tis a puzzlement. In any case, a cadre of angry bad men just turned up at my front door, so I need to go and warm up...
If anyone has a solution, would be grateful to hear. Alternatively, fix me up with a gorgeous girl and I'll stop whinging ;) (and no, I don't shadow box in the bedroom, fnarr)
Thursday 17 March 2011
The strange case of the generous Genie
So, Mudpuddlees, I was doing a little preparatory work for a day's decorating - in the sense that I was in the thinking about it phase, when the glint of something caught my wandering eye. What else would it be but a golden lamp? Rubbing it as fervently as a man who hasn't had any in far too long, I was greeted by a friendly looking sprite. He told me his name was Gene, and that David Bowie was a filthy abuser of his name, but that is beside the point, we got into the whole wish thing.
I wasn't really satisfied with 3 wishes (his opening offer), seemed rather trite and hackneyed to me, and he quickly dismissed any possibility of me wishing for infinite wishes, so we got down to some hard bargaining. I wanted twenty minimum, but he was a hard bargainer and seemed set on 'no more than 5'. Now, those of you that have a real life experience of the Mudpuddler himself will know that I can spin the occasional curve ball, so I waxed all too lyrical about there not being enough silliness in the world. It must have touched his spritely heart, because he relented and gave me ten wishes.... on condition they were rather silly. In hindsight, I should have taken the three and gone for the money, sex and fame triumvirate, but what the heckfire, here are ten wishes, coated thinly with silliness.
1) I wish I could dance, in a modern equivalence, like Shakin' Stevens.
2) I wish I could remember 90% of the events that happened after 10pm and before dawn on any given night from Oct 1990-July 1993.
3) I wish that all my friend's cereal packets would mystically refill to the top tonight.
4) I wish I could call 'Raedwald' out of the door and the cat I plan to get and call Raedwald would come running.
5) I wish grey slip-ons with tassles would come back into fashion
6) I wish I was well known for my decorative curtains
7) I wish it could be Christmas every other day
8) I wish the singulsr of sheep was shoop
9) I wish PMQs featured a highly sarcastic talking bear
10) I wish this wish to be left open for Mudpuddlee silliness
I wasn't really satisfied with 3 wishes (his opening offer), seemed rather trite and hackneyed to me, and he quickly dismissed any possibility of me wishing for infinite wishes, so we got down to some hard bargaining. I wanted twenty minimum, but he was a hard bargainer and seemed set on 'no more than 5'. Now, those of you that have a real life experience of the Mudpuddler himself will know that I can spin the occasional curve ball, so I waxed all too lyrical about there not being enough silliness in the world. It must have touched his spritely heart, because he relented and gave me ten wishes.... on condition they were rather silly. In hindsight, I should have taken the three and gone for the money, sex and fame triumvirate, but what the heckfire, here are ten wishes, coated thinly with silliness.
1) I wish I could dance, in a modern equivalence, like Shakin' Stevens.
2) I wish I could remember 90% of the events that happened after 10pm and before dawn on any given night from Oct 1990-July 1993.
3) I wish that all my friend's cereal packets would mystically refill to the top tonight.
4) I wish I could call 'Raedwald' out of the door and the cat I plan to get and call Raedwald would come running.
5) I wish grey slip-ons with tassles would come back into fashion
6) I wish I was well known for my decorative curtains
7) I wish it could be Christmas every other day
8) I wish the singulsr of sheep was shoop
9) I wish PMQs featured a highly sarcastic talking bear
10) I wish this wish to be left open for Mudpuddlee silliness
Saturday 12 March 2011
A hopeless case
He mumbles idle chatter, and hides from those three words,
He understands the bees alright, but knows nothing of the birds.
His endearing lack of confidence makes him play the waiting game,
Panicking his voice will crack next time he calls her name.
She is everything he admires, her heart as soft as his
And yet he cannot vocalise how magnificent she is.
On it will go, this foxtrot, until, at last, he breaks;
Just tell the girl you're in love with her, for both your wondrous sakes!
He understands the bees alright, but knows nothing of the birds.
His endearing lack of confidence makes him play the waiting game,
Panicking his voice will crack next time he calls her name.
She is everything he admires, her heart as soft as his
And yet he cannot vocalise how magnificent she is.
On it will go, this foxtrot, until, at last, he breaks;
Just tell the girl you're in love with her, for both your wondrous sakes!
Thursday 10 March 2011
The Rise Of The Anti-Dream
We have all, in our time, had dreams. Everyone has a goal they aim for, or burning ambition inside that will never be quelled. Whether mini Mudpuddler or Augustus Gloop in stature, 'tis good to dream.
Today, however, I have given some thought to the antithesis of dreams - that which I shall call (very originally) the anti-dream. Anti-dreams are all the things you absolutely do not want to do or experience in your life. Had I just had a shocker of a holiday in Clacton-On-Sea (a very possible possible), I might vow never to return there. I would have the anti-dream of going to Clacton. You can see what I am doing here - I'm using English, badly, but I have started now and I intend to finish. I have an anti-dream to bin things that I have begun you see.
Anti-Dreams, I insist, can tell us just as much about a person as their positive dreams. For example, the anti-dream I have to get my heart broken again tells you where my fear lies and why I am reticent on occasion in pursuit of my dream of attracting a mate. Perhaps behind every dream there lurks a cadre of anti-dreams to pervert your course and fustigate.
Anti-Dreams can also be instructive in how I relate to the anti-dreamer. I can tell little when informed that someone has the dream of meeting the Queen, however were they also to let slip their anti-dream is to meet Megan Fox, well then I know they are a tasteless buffoon with whom I shall have no truck. For my anti-dream is to not meet her.
Finally, and in all seriousness, what a person dislikes tells us so much more than what they like. To quote Montgomery C. Burns I may not know much about art, but I know what I hate. And I don't hate this.
Today, however, I have given some thought to the antithesis of dreams - that which I shall call (very originally) the anti-dream. Anti-dreams are all the things you absolutely do not want to do or experience in your life. Had I just had a shocker of a holiday in Clacton-On-Sea (a very possible possible), I might vow never to return there. I would have the anti-dream of going to Clacton. You can see what I am doing here - I'm using English, badly, but I have started now and I intend to finish. I have an anti-dream to bin things that I have begun you see.
Anti-Dreams, I insist, can tell us just as much about a person as their positive dreams. For example, the anti-dream I have to get my heart broken again tells you where my fear lies and why I am reticent on occasion in pursuit of my dream of attracting a mate. Perhaps behind every dream there lurks a cadre of anti-dreams to pervert your course and fustigate.
Anti-Dreams can also be instructive in how I relate to the anti-dreamer. I can tell little when informed that someone has the dream of meeting the Queen, however were they also to let slip their anti-dream is to meet Megan Fox, well then I know they are a tasteless buffoon with whom I shall have no truck. For my anti-dream is to not meet her.
Finally, and in all seriousness, what a person dislikes tells us so much more than what they like. To quote Montgomery C. Burns I may not know much about art, but I know what I hate. And I don't hate this.
Tuesday 8 March 2011
Forty Year shuffle
I've been having another of those 'eek 40!' days today. It's creeping up awfully fast, the thirties are already busy packing up the case and wondering where it might be nice to have a holiday to, once all the work of being in the them is done with, meanwhile we have the forties measuring up for curtains and muttering about 'change, and not a moment too soon'.
Even in our longer lived world, 40 still feels a bit halfway house, in the middlish, the top of a hill, or at least somewhere near the summit. Such places are always good to pause and have a long, hard think about this for one and that for another. Talking of this and that, I got to thinking what would I like to be able to say, conclusively, once the 3 at the start of my age has the op and becomes a 4?
I'd like to think that my hardest grafting sporting days are behind me, and that future sports will be a far more sedate affair. Bowling 12 over spells of medium pace shennanigans into the wind on 40 fags a day is no mean feat, and even without the smoking these days, not one I'd care to go back to in a hurry. Worry not though, for the 5-13 in 12 overs at Belton, the 6 saucy Overstranders sent back to the hutch on one of my feistier days, and especially the portly local legend who declared 'he can't bowl for toffee' shortly before having his off stump cartwheeled are well and truly banked. From now on I can be the guy that used to be a bit handy on occasion with the new ball and now just enjoys a bit of sloggerific batting, a plateful of sandwiches and cake and one or two more beers than he used to. The summer game, on wistful days, carries all the glory of old England.
I'd also like to think there has been a fair amount of rascally behaviour in my time. Not through any malcontent, but because the best people are rogues. That is to say, the people I get on the easiest with have a rascally stripe to them. Once again though, I don't think I have too much to worry about on this score. There is, somewhere deep within the memory banks, evidence aplenty of 'stuff what I plum got away with' - all of course perfectly harmless and whimsical. At least, it is now looking back at it ;) In any case, you can't make an omelette without sneaking off for egg and chips and a few jars whilst the stage arrives and you're in charge of putting it up and ensuring a few hundred people have a thoroughly good time. That's the correct proverb, right?! Pick your favourite Dave moment and picture me, grinning. That's pretty much the moment summed up.
What is this post all about though, really? It's really a long-winded and Mudpuddled way of me coming to the point I really want to make. I want, when I am 40, and indeed when I am 80 or 120 for the people I love to know that they are loved. Those I have loved intimately to know I treasure the memories we share, those I love in my family to know how dear they are to me, and how much I am always speechless at the patience, kindness and love they have given me, never failingly, for my whole life. Even in the coldest times, it has been toasty in my family, for that I am lucky, and blessed. To my friends, I want them to know how much I love them for their friendship, each different, each with their own wonder. Everybody I count as a friend is so for a reason, and it is because of the thing that makes you 'you' to me - it's different for every single one of you, but it's what makes me love you and why I'll always be here for you, should you require a slightly battered old nut for any reason. You get that for life. Thank you for the things you have done to make me smile, dry my eyes or simply wrap me in a warm embrace. Even when you didn't know you were doing it, but it was everything I needed right then.
What's next?
Even in our longer lived world, 40 still feels a bit halfway house, in the middlish, the top of a hill, or at least somewhere near the summit. Such places are always good to pause and have a long, hard think about this for one and that for another. Talking of this and that, I got to thinking what would I like to be able to say, conclusively, once the 3 at the start of my age has the op and becomes a 4?
I'd like to think that my hardest grafting sporting days are behind me, and that future sports will be a far more sedate affair. Bowling 12 over spells of medium pace shennanigans into the wind on 40 fags a day is no mean feat, and even without the smoking these days, not one I'd care to go back to in a hurry. Worry not though, for the 5-13 in 12 overs at Belton, the 6 saucy Overstranders sent back to the hutch on one of my feistier days, and especially the portly local legend who declared 'he can't bowl for toffee' shortly before having his off stump cartwheeled are well and truly banked. From now on I can be the guy that used to be a bit handy on occasion with the new ball and now just enjoys a bit of sloggerific batting, a plateful of sandwiches and cake and one or two more beers than he used to. The summer game, on wistful days, carries all the glory of old England.
I'd also like to think there has been a fair amount of rascally behaviour in my time. Not through any malcontent, but because the best people are rogues. That is to say, the people I get on the easiest with have a rascally stripe to them. Once again though, I don't think I have too much to worry about on this score. There is, somewhere deep within the memory banks, evidence aplenty of 'stuff what I plum got away with' - all of course perfectly harmless and whimsical. At least, it is now looking back at it ;) In any case, you can't make an omelette without sneaking off for egg and chips and a few jars whilst the stage arrives and you're in charge of putting it up and ensuring a few hundred people have a thoroughly good time. That's the correct proverb, right?! Pick your favourite Dave moment and picture me, grinning. That's pretty much the moment summed up.
What is this post all about though, really? It's really a long-winded and Mudpuddled way of me coming to the point I really want to make. I want, when I am 40, and indeed when I am 80 or 120 for the people I love to know that they are loved. Those I have loved intimately to know I treasure the memories we share, those I love in my family to know how dear they are to me, and how much I am always speechless at the patience, kindness and love they have given me, never failingly, for my whole life. Even in the coldest times, it has been toasty in my family, for that I am lucky, and blessed. To my friends, I want them to know how much I love them for their friendship, each different, each with their own wonder. Everybody I count as a friend is so for a reason, and it is because of the thing that makes you 'you' to me - it's different for every single one of you, but it's what makes me love you and why I'll always be here for you, should you require a slightly battered old nut for any reason. You get that for life. Thank you for the things you have done to make me smile, dry my eyes or simply wrap me in a warm embrace. Even when you didn't know you were doing it, but it was everything I needed right then.
What's next?
Saturday 5 March 2011
The drinker
Messy mind, it tortures him, thoughts stretched to ruin on the rack,
Hopes, contentment crucified, the future hides in black.
Just live for now, or perish here, comprehend your fate;
Mortal man, undignified, breathes spite and rage and hate.
Back over shoulder, mesmerised, the lies of years ago,
Downfall brought to memory, reliving blow by blow.
Trapped mind will wilt in feedback loop, the shattered mirror falls,
In pieces for another night, ‘To Oblivion!’ he calls.
And grasping now the bottle neck, to incapacity he’ll sink,
Swill it back, erase the pain, become one with the drink.
And so to wake another day, regretful and ashamed,
On shadow men, and broken heart, is all his folly blamed.
Hopes, contentment crucified, the future hides in black.
Just live for now, or perish here, comprehend your fate;
Mortal man, undignified, breathes spite and rage and hate.
Back over shoulder, mesmerised, the lies of years ago,
Downfall brought to memory, reliving blow by blow.
Trapped mind will wilt in feedback loop, the shattered mirror falls,
In pieces for another night, ‘To Oblivion!’ he calls.
And grasping now the bottle neck, to incapacity he’ll sink,
Swill it back, erase the pain, become one with the drink.
And so to wake another day, regretful and ashamed,
On shadow men, and broken heart, is all his folly blamed.
Friday 4 March 2011
Eco Dave versus suburbia
Thought I might update the blog with the latest progress report on my conversion to the full bumpkin in my alter ego (fast becoming my actua-ego) Eco Dave the land-owning, produce-growing, sheep-worrying hero of stage and screen. In other words, how's it going in the new house, Dave?
I have ordered and will soon take delivery of a new shed. This is a fairly standard thing for someone with a largish garden to do, and, I'll wager, isn't making anyone tremble with delight. Except, for some strange reason, me. It's a Pent Shed, it's shiplap, and I am a little bit in love with it - moreover the good folks at Scott Sheds and Fencing (Costessey and Horsford) having quoted 4 weeks for delivery are doing it in one week, much kudos to them.
The shed is HQ, main base, Ice Station Alpha, the epicentre of all things produce. It is a haven from where my taming of and cherished victory over nature will be planned. It is a logistics centre, an armory, a bunker and storage facility. It is everything an outbuilding can be, or should be. The shed, I put it to you, is the dog's dangly bits. Like I said, I'm just a little bit in love with it.
That's not all, however. I have staked out some beds - I now know where the strawberries shall be found, from whence I shall retrieve potato, the location of salads and, most importantly of all, the mini orchard/fruitery has taken shape in my rather excited little mind. I have found the ideal sunlit upland for my greenhouse. It's all starting to take shape, rather nicely.
I have also been making friends. The cows in the top field came down to have a nose at what I was doing today. We traded comments on our respective cup of tea and fresh grass and agreed, in an unexcitable and respectful way, that life is quite sweet really.
And so it is.
I have ordered and will soon take delivery of a new shed. This is a fairly standard thing for someone with a largish garden to do, and, I'll wager, isn't making anyone tremble with delight. Except, for some strange reason, me. It's a Pent Shed, it's shiplap, and I am a little bit in love with it - moreover the good folks at Scott Sheds and Fencing (Costessey and Horsford) having quoted 4 weeks for delivery are doing it in one week, much kudos to them.
The shed is HQ, main base, Ice Station Alpha, the epicentre of all things produce. It is a haven from where my taming of and cherished victory over nature will be planned. It is a logistics centre, an armory, a bunker and storage facility. It is everything an outbuilding can be, or should be. The shed, I put it to you, is the dog's dangly bits. Like I said, I'm just a little bit in love with it.
That's not all, however. I have staked out some beds - I now know where the strawberries shall be found, from whence I shall retrieve potato, the location of salads and, most importantly of all, the mini orchard/fruitery has taken shape in my rather excited little mind. I have found the ideal sunlit upland for my greenhouse. It's all starting to take shape, rather nicely.
I have also been making friends. The cows in the top field came down to have a nose at what I was doing today. We traded comments on our respective cup of tea and fresh grass and agreed, in an unexcitable and respectful way, that life is quite sweet really.
And so it is.
Monday 28 February 2011
The River
How swiftly she forgot that once pledged to stay,
Referencing some illusory change as she
Slowly withdrew;
Her lips betraying an
Uncertainty her words kept hidden in
That final goodnight.
There could be no change worthy of such an
Ending in me, as an eyot I hold fast
In the stream, water passing by.
All those immersed are curious to see
One so grounded and unchanging,
That all my meetings seem as the river’s slick embrace.
It was her who let go, and me that was
Left to watch as she melted into the
Current and slowly, so slowly became
Indistinct, a part of the flow that
I must watch decline from me
To some fate the unmoving never understand.
So here I shall remain, and strain my eyes
Downstream, hoping to catch a glimpse of
Her, distinct, once again and
Wondering what events could ever uproot
Me and send me cascading in the waters
To the places I long to know.
Referencing some illusory change as she
Slowly withdrew;
Her lips betraying an
Uncertainty her words kept hidden in
That final goodnight.
There could be no change worthy of such an
Ending in me, as an eyot I hold fast
In the stream, water passing by.
All those immersed are curious to see
One so grounded and unchanging,
That all my meetings seem as the river’s slick embrace.
It was her who let go, and me that was
Left to watch as she melted into the
Current and slowly, so slowly became
Indistinct, a part of the flow that
I must watch decline from me
To some fate the unmoving never understand.
So here I shall remain, and strain my eyes
Downstream, hoping to catch a glimpse of
Her, distinct, once again and
Wondering what events could ever uproot
Me and send me cascading in the waters
To the places I long to know.
Friday 25 February 2011
Turning points
Being a moss-gathering kind of Mudpuddler, it takes a lot to get me changing direction in life. Not just because I dislike anything which impinges, even temporarily, on my rock-like reliability (no, seriously) but also because it is far to go, and there is much to recommend here and now, why else would I be here, now? Besides, I was not just a rolling stone over the 3 years of my university degree, I was positively rocket-powered. A period, indeed a lifetime of moss-gathering was essential fayre after that.
That being said, there have been occasions on which I have volte-faced or spun a tricksy 90 degrees to evade the pursuing past or the big, fat arse of the future rearing ahead of me (puntacular stuff). I was thinking, what is it that has caused me, on those rare occasions, to change direction? What is the common theme?
Sad as I am to admit it, I was a very heavy smoker for 20 years - probably chuffing, on average, 30 a day for the 20 years. I stopped, very suddenly, 4 years ago this Wednesday coming. I had failed to quit so many times I can't even count, and usually not gone beyond a few hours before caving in. What was different this time? In hindsight, I woke up out of breath one morning, reached out and sparked up a ciggie (always had a smoke before anything, regardless) and coughed my way through the whole thing before almost falling downstairs I felt so dizzy and craptacular (tis the day of made up -tacular words... deal with it). The future seemed not so rosy. Just add at this point - have not smoked, taken a puff, held a ciggie or anything similar ever since giving up.
I left my first full-time job the morning after I had my heart broken. The truth is, I had been miserable in the job from pretty much the first day. The job wasnot fulfilling, did not give me any chance of flexing my brainicus maximus and lacked opportunity. My dis-enjoyment of course fed into this, meaning I was forever getting 'into twouble' and it was only the diversionary entertainment of social life which kept me going. Looking back, it wasn't the heart break so much as the broken heart made everything else which was wrong seem raw, immediate and very dangerous. A lance which required instant boiling, or something like that.
Right now I am planning to switch track from a suburban life to a much more rural one. To take my pleasures from the simple agrarian world, and dabble only with purpose in the concrete reality of the city. Over the course of a few years, things have felt increasingly 'wrong' in life - as if I was forcing myself to keep both feet on concrete and occasionally roll in the grass. There has, however, been a gorwing realisation of future misery and unfulfilment from that life. So, I tentatively put my house on the market and made a bid for a house with loads of potential but limited immediate 'appeal' - the offer was accepted and I accepted an offer on my house on the first day on the market from the first viewer for not far short of the asking price. Things happen for a reason.
And that, really, is the point of this - things happen for a reason, and that reason is to give you the chance to view what life is like further down your particular path - a little bit of crystal balling, a free palm read. That's the time to volte-face, bend it like someone or other or plough on, happy with your lot. Events, dear boy, events. Or rather, events, and how well you use them to your advantage.
That being said, there have been occasions on which I have volte-faced or spun a tricksy 90 degrees to evade the pursuing past or the big, fat arse of the future rearing ahead of me (puntacular stuff). I was thinking, what is it that has caused me, on those rare occasions, to change direction? What is the common theme?
Sad as I am to admit it, I was a very heavy smoker for 20 years - probably chuffing, on average, 30 a day for the 20 years. I stopped, very suddenly, 4 years ago this Wednesday coming. I had failed to quit so many times I can't even count, and usually not gone beyond a few hours before caving in. What was different this time? In hindsight, I woke up out of breath one morning, reached out and sparked up a ciggie (always had a smoke before anything, regardless) and coughed my way through the whole thing before almost falling downstairs I felt so dizzy and craptacular (tis the day of made up -tacular words... deal with it). The future seemed not so rosy. Just add at this point - have not smoked, taken a puff, held a ciggie or anything similar ever since giving up.
I left my first full-time job the morning after I had my heart broken. The truth is, I had been miserable in the job from pretty much the first day. The job wasnot fulfilling, did not give me any chance of flexing my brainicus maximus and lacked opportunity. My dis-enjoyment of course fed into this, meaning I was forever getting 'into twouble' and it was only the diversionary entertainment of social life which kept me going. Looking back, it wasn't the heart break so much as the broken heart made everything else which was wrong seem raw, immediate and very dangerous. A lance which required instant boiling, or something like that.
Right now I am planning to switch track from a suburban life to a much more rural one. To take my pleasures from the simple agrarian world, and dabble only with purpose in the concrete reality of the city. Over the course of a few years, things have felt increasingly 'wrong' in life - as if I was forcing myself to keep both feet on concrete and occasionally roll in the grass. There has, however, been a gorwing realisation of future misery and unfulfilment from that life. So, I tentatively put my house on the market and made a bid for a house with loads of potential but limited immediate 'appeal' - the offer was accepted and I accepted an offer on my house on the first day on the market from the first viewer for not far short of the asking price. Things happen for a reason.
And that, really, is the point of this - things happen for a reason, and that reason is to give you the chance to view what life is like further down your particular path - a little bit of crystal balling, a free palm read. That's the time to volte-face, bend it like someone or other or plough on, happy with your lot. Events, dear boy, events. Or rather, events, and how well you use them to your advantage.
Monday 21 February 2011
Poem - The Streets
He drifts through the streets, their eerie calm
Punctuated by the occasional screams of intoxicated youth,
To whom he is purposefully oblivious.
He barely notices the heated smell rising from
Rain spattered tarmac, nor the
Drops themselves, marking an increasing beat
As the shower begins its cascade, washing
Away another summer’s day in the city.
His face, at once appearing as a hollow mask,
Twists at times into a contorted grotesque,
As the demons that drove him here tonight
Play out their torture and
Force him to the endgame.
Who can tell what pain he carries,
He is here, burdened by sorrow and loss,
His slow, mournful strides bearing him
Into the gloom.
Another soul lost to the city night
There to join it’s choral wail
And fade to all-consuming black.
Punctuated by the occasional screams of intoxicated youth,
To whom he is purposefully oblivious.
He barely notices the heated smell rising from
Rain spattered tarmac, nor the
Drops themselves, marking an increasing beat
As the shower begins its cascade, washing
Away another summer’s day in the city.
His face, at once appearing as a hollow mask,
Twists at times into a contorted grotesque,
As the demons that drove him here tonight
Play out their torture and
Force him to the endgame.
Who can tell what pain he carries,
He is here, burdened by sorrow and loss,
His slow, mournful strides bearing him
Into the gloom.
Another soul lost to the city night
There to join it’s choral wail
And fade to all-consuming black.
Saturday 19 February 2011
The Smile
Was it a chance comment that made no sense,
Some of my stylish inanity?
Perhaps a hug from who knows whence,
When we crumbled, needing sanity.
It might have come on slow but broad,
It might have lit the night,
It maybe when I struck a chord,
Brought you deserved delight.
I cannot recall the reason why,
As it dwindles in the past,
That smile remembered with a sigh,
From you for me, the last.
Some of my stylish inanity?
Perhaps a hug from who knows whence,
When we crumbled, needing sanity.
It might have come on slow but broad,
It might have lit the night,
It maybe when I struck a chord,
Brought you deserved delight.
I cannot recall the reason why,
As it dwindles in the past,
That smile remembered with a sigh,
From you for me, the last.
Friday 11 February 2011
Out in the wilds
Firstly, apologies to all dedicated and loyal mudpuddlers who have wondered where I could possibly be since the last update. Of course, I have merely moved and been spending a little time getting used to my new surroundings. I am currently waiting for broadband to reengage itself into my mainframe, up to 3 weeks from now being the latest prognosis. Hence I am taking the opportunity to post from a well signalled area of the county, my new home being in something of a zone of uncertainty where the wonders of donglage are concerned. Indeed this is one of many things I have had to adjust to with some haste, which leads me on to the core of today’s musings.
As well as the remarkable inertness of signals hereabouts, I have suddenly realised the number of stars in the sky may be somewhat more than the 4 readily visible in the skies above Dereham, partially obscured by the glare of street lights. There are, not to put too fine a point on it, flippin millions. The night sky has become a wonderment again - something truly awe inspiring that restores one’s spirituality a touch (just a touch, mind you). The reason, as I am sure rural mudpuddlers have already identified, is the lack of street lighting, and the difference that makes to what you see above you.
Looking up in awe is all well and good, but it comes with it’s own perils. The absence of street lighting, combined with my slack jawed appreciation of the firmament has already led to forced interaction with a rubbish bin, and in putting out my own rubbish for collection, has taught me how to guesstimate where the path is - one, twp miss a few, ninety-nine, a hundred appears to be the easiest logical methodology.
My back garden is, if I do say so myself, impressive. It stretches for a good long wandering. Additionally my O2 signal becomes magically active towards the open ground at the far end. Whilst I have grabbed the exciting opportunities that bondage to Vodaphone for 24 months and a signal indoors has to offer, I have a rolling contract of some value with the good folks at O2 so will not be abandoning it totally. Have I mentioned that at the end of my very long garden, where the signal is it’s strongest, is a pond? By now, you will be forming the same conclusions I have come to. As Rolf Harris would opine ‘can you tell what it is yet?’. Let’s review the evidence - No lighting, a long garden promising a signal at it’s far end, an unwillingness and stubborness making the ditching of O2 nigh on impossible, a fascination with the stars and a proven clumsiness under the cloak of the rural night.
How long, dear mudpuddlers, before I am knee deep in the pond, trying to listen to a crackly voicemail message whilst looking up and thinking how beautiful the heavens look when you are cold and wet.
Ladbrokes, I am told, have stopped taking bets on it.
As well as the remarkable inertness of signals hereabouts, I have suddenly realised the number of stars in the sky may be somewhat more than the 4 readily visible in the skies above Dereham, partially obscured by the glare of street lights. There are, not to put too fine a point on it, flippin millions. The night sky has become a wonderment again - something truly awe inspiring that restores one’s spirituality a touch (just a touch, mind you). The reason, as I am sure rural mudpuddlers have already identified, is the lack of street lighting, and the difference that makes to what you see above you.
Looking up in awe is all well and good, but it comes with it’s own perils. The absence of street lighting, combined with my slack jawed appreciation of the firmament has already led to forced interaction with a rubbish bin, and in putting out my own rubbish for collection, has taught me how to guesstimate where the path is - one, twp miss a few, ninety-nine, a hundred appears to be the easiest logical methodology.
My back garden is, if I do say so myself, impressive. It stretches for a good long wandering. Additionally my O2 signal becomes magically active towards the open ground at the far end. Whilst I have grabbed the exciting opportunities that bondage to Vodaphone for 24 months and a signal indoors has to offer, I have a rolling contract of some value with the good folks at O2 so will not be abandoning it totally. Have I mentioned that at the end of my very long garden, where the signal is it’s strongest, is a pond? By now, you will be forming the same conclusions I have come to. As Rolf Harris would opine ‘can you tell what it is yet?’. Let’s review the evidence - No lighting, a long garden promising a signal at it’s far end, an unwillingness and stubborness making the ditching of O2 nigh on impossible, a fascination with the stars and a proven clumsiness under the cloak of the rural night.
How long, dear mudpuddlers, before I am knee deep in the pond, trying to listen to a crackly voicemail message whilst looking up and thinking how beautiful the heavens look when you are cold and wet.
Ladbrokes, I am told, have stopped taking bets on it.
Tuesday 1 February 2011
unmentionable
Some days are difficult to describe. Today was one of those days. In every way I should be content. I have bought a new house, and have now got it just about how I want it looking. I have some land, finally, in which to spread my dreams out and a house that is big enough (just) to contain me and my odd and errant ways. I have a fabulous family who have helped me immensely this week to get things moved without breaking the bank (or my back) and life, as it stands on record as stated, is great. I should be content, but I am not.
That's the trouble with depression, it robs you of even the most basic enjoyment. It hides in the shadows waiting for when you are at your weakest - in this instance, happy, carefree and with a new house to focus my mind. It hides there, serpentine, and waits for the optimum moment to strike, to lash out and sink fangs into your joy and suck it all out replacing it with poison, angst and regret.
Sometimes it feels like there is no answer, that depression poses an impossible question and demands an immediate response, knowing I have none to give. Most of all though, it feeds on positives and sours them. It takes my pride and love for my family and turns it to regret and guilt that I am not happier today, this week, right now having been helped and loved so obviously and wonderfully by those closest to me. How can I not be happy today? The new house, my pride and joy, my little piece of England becomes a permanent worry, obsessing (as we OCDers love to so very much) about every little detail or thing that might go wrong and robbing me of the enjoyment I want to have.
Depression is filth, it is a wretched, wicked and unwelcome blight and I am damned if I will let it win. This is not me, this is not the way my life will go. Maybe, just maybe, this is the day it pushed me too far and now it reaps the whirlwind. Maybe.
That's the trouble with depression, it robs you of even the most basic enjoyment. It hides in the shadows waiting for when you are at your weakest - in this instance, happy, carefree and with a new house to focus my mind. It hides there, serpentine, and waits for the optimum moment to strike, to lash out and sink fangs into your joy and suck it all out replacing it with poison, angst and regret.
Sometimes it feels like there is no answer, that depression poses an impossible question and demands an immediate response, knowing I have none to give. Most of all though, it feeds on positives and sours them. It takes my pride and love for my family and turns it to regret and guilt that I am not happier today, this week, right now having been helped and loved so obviously and wonderfully by those closest to me. How can I not be happy today? The new house, my pride and joy, my little piece of England becomes a permanent worry, obsessing (as we OCDers love to so very much) about every little detail or thing that might go wrong and robbing me of the enjoyment I want to have.
Depression is filth, it is a wretched, wicked and unwelcome blight and I am damned if I will let it win. This is not me, this is not the way my life will go. Maybe, just maybe, this is the day it pushed me too far and now it reaps the whirlwind. Maybe.
Saturday 22 January 2011
Finding contentment
I've always struggled to understand exactly what I want to do with my life. As a boy, I had the usual dreams of playing football for England, but I never had the desire, as so many young boys seem to, to be a fireman or a train driver or any other cliche you care to imagine. Just to clarify here, I was one of those picked last every lunchtime and so my football dreams were always going to be unrealised!
This situation has never really changed now I have (relatively speaking of course) grown up. The jobs I have had have been interesting and occasionally challenging and I have not gone short of a bob or two, but none of it has been fulfilling. Nothing really screams 'contentment'.
It is time to change all that. I am moving house on this coming Friday to a place in a quiet little North Norfolk village. A nice victorian cottage with a very long and useful back garden backing on to fields. The back garden is what has got me thinking about the future, as I will be out of my current position in the months ahead and needing a new challenge.
I've done the hellraiser bit in my teens and twenties - anyone reading this who knew me then will be able to testify to that, and I think I did it pretty well actually, but with 40 approaching hedonism seems an urealistic goal in life. If nothing else, it makes me ache. No, now is the time for something much more relaxing, something fulfilling and peaceful and gentle. Something that matches the new place.
What do I like? I like good food. What do I like most about good food? Knowing where it came from and that it isn't mass produced, over packaged and with all the flavour and character taken out by dint of travelling too far, for too long in artificial conditions. I've got enough space to grow loads of my own food. Even on the tiny plot I have at the moment I managed to get a fair bit grown, so on the huge plot basic maths has me excited. Not only that, it's big enough comfortably for a few chickens (at least two who will be called Doris and Enid but hopefully 6). You see where we are going here? That's right! Contentmentville.
The hope is this sedentary lifestyle of self-provision will inspire me in my more artistic bent and thaty housed in a nice little office space at the tail end of the garden I can write to my heart (and wallet's) content. Theoretically, this is a barnstormingly good move for me. I also have my eyes on the field to the rear of the property - now that really would be snapped up if I get the chance. Stage two of 'permanent smile' is a small flock of sheep. Well looked after, happy sheep who provide top quality organic meat from a recognised quality upbringing (that's me). If not that field, then one of the farms on the opposite side of the road might have some spare room to rent.
So, there we have it. Retired hellraiser goes pastoral. I'm looking forward to the move immensely. Just one thing missing from the happy picture - I'll tell you her name when I find her.
This situation has never really changed now I have (relatively speaking of course) grown up. The jobs I have had have been interesting and occasionally challenging and I have not gone short of a bob or two, but none of it has been fulfilling. Nothing really screams 'contentment'.
It is time to change all that. I am moving house on this coming Friday to a place in a quiet little North Norfolk village. A nice victorian cottage with a very long and useful back garden backing on to fields. The back garden is what has got me thinking about the future, as I will be out of my current position in the months ahead and needing a new challenge.
I've done the hellraiser bit in my teens and twenties - anyone reading this who knew me then will be able to testify to that, and I think I did it pretty well actually, but with 40 approaching hedonism seems an urealistic goal in life. If nothing else, it makes me ache. No, now is the time for something much more relaxing, something fulfilling and peaceful and gentle. Something that matches the new place.
What do I like? I like good food. What do I like most about good food? Knowing where it came from and that it isn't mass produced, over packaged and with all the flavour and character taken out by dint of travelling too far, for too long in artificial conditions. I've got enough space to grow loads of my own food. Even on the tiny plot I have at the moment I managed to get a fair bit grown, so on the huge plot basic maths has me excited. Not only that, it's big enough comfortably for a few chickens (at least two who will be called Doris and Enid but hopefully 6). You see where we are going here? That's right! Contentmentville.
The hope is this sedentary lifestyle of self-provision will inspire me in my more artistic bent and thaty housed in a nice little office space at the tail end of the garden I can write to my heart (and wallet's) content. Theoretically, this is a barnstormingly good move for me. I also have my eyes on the field to the rear of the property - now that really would be snapped up if I get the chance. Stage two of 'permanent smile' is a small flock of sheep. Well looked after, happy sheep who provide top quality organic meat from a recognised quality upbringing (that's me). If not that field, then one of the farms on the opposite side of the road might have some spare room to rent.
So, there we have it. Retired hellraiser goes pastoral. I'm looking forward to the move immensely. Just one thing missing from the happy picture - I'll tell you her name when I find her.
Thursday 20 January 2011
The Black Veil
Suffocating it descends from the firmament above,
It's wonders ashamed behind the veil.
A sick caress turns to constriction,
The black deposit a chrysallis
Within which I become bleak despair.
Shielded from joy, from hope,
Even my touch carries no sensation
Here in my lonely tomb.
Here all things are but null,
Beneath the veil where daylight
Never comes,
And to this place I will return
When the sudden bitterness brings
It down as ruin upon the fallen.
I must cherish that which milks a smile
All the more, for those times
When the veil descends,
And I forget, and the world is numb.
It's wonders ashamed behind the veil.
A sick caress turns to constriction,
The black deposit a chrysallis
Within which I become bleak despair.
Shielded from joy, from hope,
Even my touch carries no sensation
Here in my lonely tomb.
Here all things are but null,
Beneath the veil where daylight
Never comes,
And to this place I will return
When the sudden bitterness brings
It down as ruin upon the fallen.
I must cherish that which milks a smile
All the more, for those times
When the veil descends,
And I forget, and the world is numb.
Tuesday 18 January 2011
All the things I find it hard to do
Leaving the house, crying in front of you, expressing the maelstrom inside, asking for help, moving on, passing by on the other side, saying no to a pretty face, saying yes to a sour one, falling in love, doing today what I can put off until tomorrow, being serious when I can hide in laughter, telling the damn girl I think she makes the sun rise in the morning, letting my heart break visibly, watching someone elses heart shatter, taking a compliment, giving a realistic answer when hyperbolae are a billion times better, having small dreams, forgetting past pain, finishing what I start, starting something I know I'll finish, accepting injustice, keeping my anger reined in, being who I should be, holding it together, holding it together, holding it together......
Sunday 16 January 2011
Pros 'n' Cons
A debate is raging in my enfeebled old mind Mudpuddlees. Due to some recent reconnective activity with Uni comrades and the looming threat of 40 hanging like a damp and slightly musty teacloth over this November, I am having a crisis of age acceptance. I am raging against the dying of my hair (c'est le mort, pas de colour). At night I wake in a sweat, panicking about pensions and having no issue with which to carry on my legend and subject the world to another round of Mudpuddlage. Oh, and how I yearn yearn yearn for the days of yore.
As we know though, this could surely be a mere bagatelle and in fact I am much better off in my stoically heroic guise. There is only one thing for it, Decade War! Pros 'n Cons just under 20 versus just under 40, Gunfight at the OK I'm Bored etcetera etcetera.
20 Pro
Phenomenal alcohol tolerance
Sordid sexual congress
Confidence of youth
Hair! Good hair!
Uni life, no responsibilities
However, 20 Con
Took all night to get plastered and cost a bomb
Can't remember much of the congress
Arrogance of youth
Financial ruin brought on by hair product procurement
Irresponsible wretch
No money
No house
No f*cking clue!
40 Pro
Cheap date, wussy tolerance level
Cash £££ in the bank
Own my own little piece of England
The wisdom of middle age
Used to look old for my age, now not so much ;)
Have already achieved a lot, don't have the weight of expectation
Sex not so much, Love is the beer!
40 Con
Things ache unexpectedly
Sordid sexual congress = arrestable offence at my age
Have used up more years than I'd like
Yeah, 20 wasn't so damn wonderful when you compare it to now. Basically, I am grumpy because my legs ache a bit today and I got tired lumping stuff about and don't have a wee lassie here to give me a cuddle and make me a cuppa. Good excuse for a blog entry though ;) !
As we know though, this could surely be a mere bagatelle and in fact I am much better off in my stoically heroic guise. There is only one thing for it, Decade War! Pros 'n Cons just under 20 versus just under 40, Gunfight at the OK I'm Bored etcetera etcetera.
20 Pro
Phenomenal alcohol tolerance
Sordid sexual congress
Confidence of youth
Hair! Good hair!
Uni life, no responsibilities
However, 20 Con
Took all night to get plastered and cost a bomb
Can't remember much of the congress
Arrogance of youth
Financial ruin brought on by hair product procurement
Irresponsible wretch
No money
No house
No f*cking clue!
40 Pro
Cheap date, wussy tolerance level
Cash £££ in the bank
Own my own little piece of England
The wisdom of middle age
Used to look old for my age, now not so much ;)
Have already achieved a lot, don't have the weight of expectation
Sex not so much, Love is the beer!
40 Con
Things ache unexpectedly
Sordid sexual congress = arrestable offence at my age
Have used up more years than I'd like
Yeah, 20 wasn't so damn wonderful when you compare it to now. Basically, I am grumpy because my legs ache a bit today and I got tired lumping stuff about and don't have a wee lassie here to give me a cuddle and make me a cuppa. Good excuse for a blog entry though ;) !
Thursday 13 January 2011
Moonlit Stroll
She shimmers in the moonlight,
As I watch her from afar.
Her gentle contemplation soothes
Beneath my evening star.
Her hair cascades and tumbles
Yet none seem out of place,
An impossible perfection
Which frames the softest face.
Her figure graced the evening
Each curve a wave of joy.
Unparalelled in beauty,
Demure, reserved and coy.
I wish that I could tell her of
The love that burns inside,
But hope must linger, dwindling,
As it stands against the tide.
Time will take her from me,
And leave me as before,
Half a wistful melody
On an uncompleted score.
As I watch her from afar.
Her gentle contemplation soothes
Beneath my evening star.
Her hair cascades and tumbles
Yet none seem out of place,
An impossible perfection
Which frames the softest face.
Her figure graced the evening
Each curve a wave of joy.
Unparalelled in beauty,
Demure, reserved and coy.
I wish that I could tell her of
The love that burns inside,
But hope must linger, dwindling,
As it stands against the tide.
Time will take her from me,
And leave me as before,
Half a wistful melody
On an uncompleted score.
Sunday 9 January 2011
Through the decades
I might as well say, before I start, today's entry isn't going to be light reading. I have hit the buffers somewhat, as I often do just after Christmas. Maybe its the inevitable comedown after the highs of the festive season, but it is what it is, and I feel how I feel.
I've been watching Every Number One Of The Eighties on MTV classic, and it made me wistful for that decade, as if transporting myself there would be the solution to all of life's problems - a decade when my memory would have it that I had no responsibilities (or responsibility) and everything was relaxed and fun. Of course, being who I am, and having the reflective nature I do, I couldn't let it lie there, and now find myself disecting the past and reflecting that it wasn't all I crack it up to be.
I look at things through the prism of what I shall charitably call 'my mental issues'. In truth, they are not some recent phenomenon (indeed I don't think I ever thought they were) - but of course, back there in the past they had no name. I was just Dave, not understanding why my mind worked the way it did.
I've spent a great deal of my life trying to hide parts of myself away. Always terrified of being questioned or probed about why I am doing something or what I feel the need to say. As a teenager it is not east to explain why you have to walk the same way to a location, and it was torture trying to undertake one of my little rituals without being seen and mocked. Looking back I cannot begin to really recall how much stress I was under, but there was always that numb sensation at the back of the mind that the floodgates will not hold out forever, at some point the world will burst into my bubble and I would be lost in it, unable to cope amidst the noise and the chaos when all I ever wanted then was peace and order. That's the thing with OCD, everything needs to be in order, just so. I used to physically recoil at, for example, a car backfiring. I was so wound into stress at coping that I was a ticking timebomb. It amazes me to this day that I held out so long before everything disintegrated.
As a young adult in the late eighties and through the nineties, again I suppose life was not as rosy as daydreaming about it suggests. Perhaps this was when I was first truly aware that everything was wrong. I've never been good at sharing pain, especially so to people I feel closest to. How do you tell someone you love that everything is wrong? How can you face up to them when you are blue and explain that it is not them, it really is not them, but that you cannot be anything but blue? Then of course I was still hiding rituals away to get me through. I must have appeared so distant at times as I tried to cope with it all in secret.
I tried different ways around the problems back then. Drink was one way, something I relied on very heavily until I was about 30. Drink suppressed the immediate feelings, and offered temporary reprieve, as well as being a handy cover for my occasionally bizarre behaviour, but of course it is a depressant itself and only served to add to the spiral. It also has the side effect of making you act like an arse to the people you love the most sometimes. If that's you, just know that I am sorry now and I was back then too. It wasn't jsut drink though, I detested myself, or rather, I detested being ill and being permanently stressed and I tried so many ways to numb the feelings. There were so many ways I tried to be different so that I was no longer ashamed of being different, so that 'different' became my norm. What do you do when you cannot share the whirlwind inside? I actually feel tense at this moment thinking about it. How the breakdown of 2009 was the culmnation of (literally) decades of denial, hiding, transferral and stress.
Of course now the truth is out, my family and friends know I have been unwell, and I know the signs to look out for. However, still, in the back of my mind I know how hard it is to share the feelings, the rawness of OCD and Depression and I feel guilty at the thought of burdening anyone else with it. It's lonely, and the weird thing is, loneliness is the thing I am most scared of now. I don't want to be alone. So I have to find a way of sharing and it not causing consternation, or we are headed back to square one and I've been there before. It's not somewhere I'd recommend to anyone.
I've been watching Every Number One Of The Eighties on MTV classic, and it made me wistful for that decade, as if transporting myself there would be the solution to all of life's problems - a decade when my memory would have it that I had no responsibilities (or responsibility) and everything was relaxed and fun. Of course, being who I am, and having the reflective nature I do, I couldn't let it lie there, and now find myself disecting the past and reflecting that it wasn't all I crack it up to be.
I look at things through the prism of what I shall charitably call 'my mental issues'. In truth, they are not some recent phenomenon (indeed I don't think I ever thought they were) - but of course, back there in the past they had no name. I was just Dave, not understanding why my mind worked the way it did.
I've spent a great deal of my life trying to hide parts of myself away. Always terrified of being questioned or probed about why I am doing something or what I feel the need to say. As a teenager it is not east to explain why you have to walk the same way to a location, and it was torture trying to undertake one of my little rituals without being seen and mocked. Looking back I cannot begin to really recall how much stress I was under, but there was always that numb sensation at the back of the mind that the floodgates will not hold out forever, at some point the world will burst into my bubble and I would be lost in it, unable to cope amidst the noise and the chaos when all I ever wanted then was peace and order. That's the thing with OCD, everything needs to be in order, just so. I used to physically recoil at, for example, a car backfiring. I was so wound into stress at coping that I was a ticking timebomb. It amazes me to this day that I held out so long before everything disintegrated.
As a young adult in the late eighties and through the nineties, again I suppose life was not as rosy as daydreaming about it suggests. Perhaps this was when I was first truly aware that everything was wrong. I've never been good at sharing pain, especially so to people I feel closest to. How do you tell someone you love that everything is wrong? How can you face up to them when you are blue and explain that it is not them, it really is not them, but that you cannot be anything but blue? Then of course I was still hiding rituals away to get me through. I must have appeared so distant at times as I tried to cope with it all in secret.
I tried different ways around the problems back then. Drink was one way, something I relied on very heavily until I was about 30. Drink suppressed the immediate feelings, and offered temporary reprieve, as well as being a handy cover for my occasionally bizarre behaviour, but of course it is a depressant itself and only served to add to the spiral. It also has the side effect of making you act like an arse to the people you love the most sometimes. If that's you, just know that I am sorry now and I was back then too. It wasn't jsut drink though, I detested myself, or rather, I detested being ill and being permanently stressed and I tried so many ways to numb the feelings. There were so many ways I tried to be different so that I was no longer ashamed of being different, so that 'different' became my norm. What do you do when you cannot share the whirlwind inside? I actually feel tense at this moment thinking about it. How the breakdown of 2009 was the culmnation of (literally) decades of denial, hiding, transferral and stress.
Of course now the truth is out, my family and friends know I have been unwell, and I know the signs to look out for. However, still, in the back of my mind I know how hard it is to share the feelings, the rawness of OCD and Depression and I feel guilty at the thought of burdening anyone else with it. It's lonely, and the weird thing is, loneliness is the thing I am most scared of now. I don't want to be alone. So I have to find a way of sharing and it not causing consternation, or we are headed back to square one and I've been there before. It's not somewhere I'd recommend to anyone.
Thursday 6 January 2011
Under the veil
He glanced at the clock on the mantle, it was shortly after midday but he had no clear idea on which day, not since the fear had taken him. In his mind he positioned all the players in his life, where they might be, what they would be doing at such a time on any given day. Familiar faces brought some temporary repreive as did the thought of their everyday activity; so warm and usual, so comforting and normal. As briefly as he was comforted, however, he became painfully aware he was, in truth, home alone.
There was a strange stillness in the room, and he fancied he heard a muffled sound from the corner. A giggle? No, the sound was harsher. A cackle. Unmistakable, they were laughing at him again. Always the same, they mock him, they hide in the shadows and laugh at his pain. He had been terrified of them coming today. In truth, he had found it harder to suppress the sounds these past few days, or perhaps it was weeks? He couldn't recall. He used to be able to reason with them, to get some peace until she returned.
At the thought of her, the cackling stopped. She was his angel, the girl he had fallen for years before. She loved him despite the weakness of his mind, maybe because of it. The whirlwind abated when she drew near, her voice was soothing and her touch gentle. How could he tell her he felt so much weaker? How could he burden her further? No, she had a life to lead too, it wouldn't be fair to tell her about the fear. The cackling was back, this time there were more voices laughing, but the laughter was different, there was all of a sudden a heaviness to the air and a feeling of genuine menace. The air began to chance hue. He closed his eyes and promised himself this could not be, it was all a trick, their trick. The air could not change hue.
He slowly opened his eyes, but already everything was different. The air was tight around him, like a gauze wrapping. Every breath was a struggle. He was still in the room, but it had changed somehow. He could make out furniture, tables, the walls but it was through a haze. The edges of things had become soft, and the centre sharp and painful. 'It's all wrong' he whispered, and caught through the fog shapes moving. Children perhaps? No, they were cackling, they were here too, inside the fog, behind the veil, laughing and pointing.
He couldn't hope to survive in a world like this, he could trust nothing and hear no-one. Laughter and haze were all he could reason. The cackling swirled about his head like a furious drumming and shapes moved in the mists about him. He dropped to his knees. 'I can't see her face, I can't hear her voice', he cried out. 'He can't see her face, he can't hear her voice!' came a chorus in reply.
He curled into a ball and wept for what felt like hours. Slowly he realised the room was back as it was before. At least, it seemed so to him. He staggered to the chair and glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was shortly after midday, but he was not entirely sure which day. He was terrified.
There was a strange stillness in the room, and he fancied he heard a muffled sound from the corner. A giggle? No, the sound was harsher. A cackle. Unmistakable, they were laughing at him again. Always the same, they mock him, they hide in the shadows and laugh at his pain. He had been terrified of them coming today. In truth, he had found it harder to suppress the sounds these past few days, or perhaps it was weeks? He couldn't recall. He used to be able to reason with them, to get some peace until she returned.
At the thought of her, the cackling stopped. She was his angel, the girl he had fallen for years before. She loved him despite the weakness of his mind, maybe because of it. The whirlwind abated when she drew near, her voice was soothing and her touch gentle. How could he tell her he felt so much weaker? How could he burden her further? No, she had a life to lead too, it wouldn't be fair to tell her about the fear. The cackling was back, this time there were more voices laughing, but the laughter was different, there was all of a sudden a heaviness to the air and a feeling of genuine menace. The air began to chance hue. He closed his eyes and promised himself this could not be, it was all a trick, their trick. The air could not change hue.
He slowly opened his eyes, but already everything was different. The air was tight around him, like a gauze wrapping. Every breath was a struggle. He was still in the room, but it had changed somehow. He could make out furniture, tables, the walls but it was through a haze. The edges of things had become soft, and the centre sharp and painful. 'It's all wrong' he whispered, and caught through the fog shapes moving. Children perhaps? No, they were cackling, they were here too, inside the fog, behind the veil, laughing and pointing.
He couldn't hope to survive in a world like this, he could trust nothing and hear no-one. Laughter and haze were all he could reason. The cackling swirled about his head like a furious drumming and shapes moved in the mists about him. He dropped to his knees. 'I can't see her face, I can't hear her voice', he cried out. 'He can't see her face, he can't hear her voice!' came a chorus in reply.
He curled into a ball and wept for what felt like hours. Slowly he realised the room was back as it was before. At least, it seemed so to him. He staggered to the chair and glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was shortly after midday, but he was not entirely sure which day. He was terrified.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)