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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.