My blog stats are abysmal. Every writer, however prophetic or illiterate desires an audience, readers, at least one, in the hope that really there is life out there, somewhere, a life of meaning and approval. It always seems to begin with the mundane, I mean not always but mostly. I watch the steam rise from my socks drying on the radiator. It rises and disappears as if by magic, then reappears on the windows as condensation, as if by magic. I know, so don’t feel the need to inform me, it’s chemistry, year six chemistry, not magic. Bah! All those science enthusiasts with their logic that calcifies my poetic tendencies, like a Medusa stare.
I was ill over the festive period. I watched the awful cheesy BBC drama, Atlantis, it was so terrible, I watched all of the twelve episodes on i player just to make sure. Hence the Medusa simile above. It was entertaining. It was visually effective and did conjure some idea of an Atlantis and thankfully because of the BBC I won’t have to do that in my own imagination anymore. Am I grumbling? I don’t mean to, it just comes out my head, usually after a twelve day bed ridden dose of flu. The twelve days of Christmas. The twelve days of bed ridden flu.
I lived. That cuts a long story short.
I wrote another blog earlier today. I can’t publish that one. It names names and places, there are no innocents to be protected, but even so, it reveals a little too much…of my soul. This lead me on to thinking; is every emotion an expression of love, deep at its source? Anger ergo Love. Hatred ergo Love. Jealousy ergo Love and so on and so on….
We had an online discussion, which dissolved into a description of intellectual wanking, wanking metaphorically about emotions and behaviours and intentions and such…Occasionally I can think profoundly, no better or worse than the next human, I mean there is nothing new under the sun, or so I thought, until I saw series three, episode one of Sherlock Holmes, by the BBC whilst ill in bed, on the i player. Benedict Cumberpatch, (ok, really I know it is Cumberbatch, but it amuses me so to call him Cumberpatch and I bet it isn’t the first time in his life somebody chuckled at that).
More on that later. Knowing that love is the source of every emotion doesn’t make hating your ex’s guts any easier, does it? Knowing that love is the source of a jealous hell bent murder, doesn’t make the behaviour condoneable, does it? Knowing that his anger was an expression of his love doesn’t make the bruises hurt less, doesn’t make the fear any less. Knowing fear is an expression of love…now maybe, just maybe fear is the only exception.
Fear is not cognito ergo sum love. Fear is not love. (I do know that is not correct Latin).
Fear is something quite different. Quite opposite. There has to be an opposite. Always. Without exception. Unlike English, where there are many exceptions. Not this time. There has to be an opposite of love and I know it is supposed to be hate, but if it were hate, then my theory wouldn’t work and all researchers want there hypotheses to work, otherwise they wouldn’t get funding and world wide acclaim and the Nobel Peace Prize etc.
[I realise that I love putting commas in sentences and even more so when they are in the right place]
[I realise that I am writing and this can only mean I feel alive again]
And then there came a question about how feelings differ from emotions and where they originate. In the senses or the mind. One in the same. One body mind system. Of course, but where do they originate? Then I posted a quote by Einstein, on facebook, and he didn’t seem to know either, other than to say, we are eternal.
[I realise, that I do love the word eternal, in the same way I love the word ephemeral and its meaning]
The person in the discussion who spoke of metaphorical wanking is training to be a therapist, (and I only mention this again because it is leading me to the point, yes a point) and I said sex was better, but only sometimes, and it all seemed largely inconclusive, like most research.
Holism, she stated. Oh! Great, that explains everything, an ism, I said
I meant actual sex, not metaphorical sex, not euphemisms and other random isms thrown in to debates and conversations to make the bowler feel intellectually advantaged.
I am learning, albeit slowly that love doesn’t have to be in the chemical formula for great sex. I am learning albeit slowly, that great sex can stand erect and alone in its own right without the attachments of love and other emotions mentioned above. Are we conditioned especially as women to expect love to be in there to make sex more morally and culturally acceptable? Is it more acceptable to fuck his brains out if I love him for it? I only know this is possible theoretically not experimentally, (except for one time in 1987 with a Royal Marine). It seems love and sex have opposites and exceptions too, like English, and Royal Marines, as mentioned above.
I am no closer to winning the Nobel Peace Prize, but I know what is….those blogs are on their way.
So? So bloody what. Who cares? Who bloody cares?
I often wonder about that too, but not here, not now, because it isn’t, because nobody cares, it’s because sometimes I just can’t feel they care. Feel it where? In my heart where my Love is, the heart as a sensory organ, the genitals as sensory organs, capable of sensing so much more than we ever dare give them credit for, and I am making a deposit, as did he, only mine is of the betting kind. I made a bet, £500 worth of bet and it was my fat ass future I was betting on.
It is coming. It is coming. Like the second time around.
Cumberbatch has revived my faith in acting. I did not see the first two series of Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t want my nostalgic ruminations to be ruined and corrupted by terrible acting and a frivolous flippant script. It was none of that and all of the opposite. We have established there is always an opposite and Sherlock, by the BBC, is very good and I understate deliberately for effect. It is incredibly brilliant. Magical combinations. Intense and electric chemistry, like an unexpected flash of blue magnesium, MgO. So please BBC put series one and two back on i player so I can catch up, please.
The Royal Marine gave me an orgasm, my first internal vaginal orgasm. I was eighteen.That is what my body had been blindly searching for and this is what I refused to live without and I recall promiscuity in women back then being described pathologically. Only by the patriarchs. Only by our repressed Victorian ancestral guilt and shame, when the women then had to visit a doctor for an orgasm to cure her hysteria. No wonder the medical profession were keen to get the monopoly on that.
And so I say she is coming.
She is coming.
I do not mean in the same way as series four of Sherlock.
I mean that when she does, you will see her and bear witness, because when she does, she will light up brighter than a lunar sun.