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.
Monday 28 February 2011
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.
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