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
Monday 24 October 2011
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.
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