Goodbye Grief


I feel like I have failed. I feel useless in a dynamic world. I feel like I am stopped. Stopped. The world on its axis tilted and turning. I stay. Rooted. Reluctant. I breathe because I am made that way.  It doesn’t feel like a jolly choice these days. I fell from on high. Directly down. Naturally down. Flat splat on the pavement. The sound of extreme grief, an undignified and messy landing. I grieve. A wild and unabashed grief. The type of grief that almost gets you arrested. The type of grief, that when the fury has passed, changes into a dismal miserable quiet. A sadness of large mass. My body heaves against this mass of sadness. Breathing is all I can do. I detest gravity and all its pitiful laws.
 
I like my psychosis. That was said to me recently. 

Liking a mauling tiger. This is a suitable analogy. Great excitement and thrill and danger. Until it turns and eats itself. 
Combine this with grief. Psychotic grief. I found my brother dead in a pool of his own blood. The ‘anger’ phase has been truly sensational. A lifetime of hatred and injustices soared through my soul.

The tiger leaping through time. A regression of sorts. The eye of an enraged tiger. Bouyant in a spiritual dimension. Floating, soaring and preying in my mind as a multitude of lensed spheres. 

Eyes. Cameras. The unenviable vision of a half assed clairvoyant. To be offered such a spiritual gift and not to be able to use it, begets a very specific style of incompetence.
Some things you are not meant to know. I hear my dads words repeat in my head. Then why have I been offered the sight? For what purpose? Mental illness? The cursed blessing. The blessed curse.

I feel a very particular kind of ineptitude. A rage of emotions.  Socially destructive behaviours. Fury in a local street is particularly humiliating. I now shrug sad shoulders about the politics I was ranting about and feel indifference again at the people who in my deluded outbursts had the audacity not to even know who I am. My grandfather survived the Battle of the Somme. In my heightened deluded state, my grandfathers’ sacrifice in two world wars was to bring me a status in life. A staus that eludes me still. 

I am psychotic again, but sadly, I am not able to recognise my symptoms. The terrifying nature of this particular beast. Shouting, swearing and screaming does nothing to endear me to the locals of the town. I am refused a glass of water in a bar. I am outraged. Every cell. Every neuron firing out anger. Grief. Anger. Grief. Furious grief. 

I notice I  have pissed myself from the exertion. The bliss of the involuntary. A work out of sorts. Psychotic screaming and shouting. I sit in the back of the cop car. I lock the back seat so the friendly cop can’t sit next to me and talk. I am done talking. I am bored with talking and not ever being able to express the magnitude of my pain. 

There is a moment of levity between the cop and I. I locked you out, I say with a smile. I’m naughty like that. Meanwhile the whole town stares. My cousin speaks with the cops and then they drive me to the cop shop. The officer says I am to be searched for weapons. I find this ludicrous. You don’t want to be touching my knickers,  I say, I’ve pissed myself. The cop smiles again and let’s out a giggle.

All the while the cameras and lenses record all the details. As do the cops with their variety of digital recording microphones and cameras. In the raised intensity of the situation, I can no longer tell who or what is recording me, it is a complicated digital paranoia array. They drive me home. Kindly.

Grief. I have talked to counsellors,  psychologists and shrinks. I have approached those who walk close to spirit for their wisdom and guidance. I have given up my soul to those and to all whom I believed who would heal it or simply have it. The job too excessive for my wit alone.  The job nobody wants. I neither. 
All the sense I can make is this, there is no cure for love. A simple and pure lyrical sentiment from Leonard Cohen. Fool I am. Fool I was for not accepting the fact. 

Grief is excruciating. Facing the pain is excruciating. Acknowledging how my brother died and living with that memory of him has been excruciating. Extreme grief is excruciating. 

I grieve for him and my soul and spirit feel oddly cleansed. The tiger naps in the quiet jungle, but I now live with the after math of yet another psychotic episode. This is the official terminology used for the freaky shit that is outside of regular human cognition and inexplicably difficult to describe.

 The flat splat on the pavement of life is the inevitable come down. The ground. The gravity. The living on the earth. The comparatively uneventful three dimensional space.

The goodbye grief.

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Hyacinth


Tiny buds that so quickly ignite and the flashing yellow daffodils under a neighbour’s dried hydraenga.  These signs speak of spring. There is much talk at this time of year, as there is at every time of year. It seems everybody got a word or two to say and those who don’t have ventriloquists who do the talking for them. I don’t know if I prefer his monocle on or off his face, both options look initially viable until the square chin and peeling paint can go no longer unnoticed.

I was never handsome. That had never, (thankfully for me) been my ambition.  Ambition of any kind was not expected of dummies, though they were exceedingly good at distracting the eye from that which should have been watched closely; the creeping up of spring and its gloriously inevitable pounce.

Gotcha!

The curious child’s face when the weasel pops couldn’t detract me from the strange scent of hyacinth pulsing in the yellow stained kitchen. An acquired smell, akin to rodent mating spray with a high note of ammonia.

All his working life, think outside of the box, he said, all that blue sky thinking, he said and he said it all without once moving his lips. Jaw ache. Keeping him amused. Guess he’s lonely. Needs somebody to talk to, as he folds over my legs and closes the lid.

The larfs aren’t the same anymore, he’s out-said his repertoire and I hear him wanking, then crying, then speaking in my voice, practising religiously. I Glaswegian Kiss the lid with my wooden forehead. Let me think outside of this box. If I had a head it would ache, like the jaw, like his heart, for anyone to believe he has what it takes.

Revolutions of the same song, slurred and skid marked on the toilet bowl of life. It wasn’t even a real hyacinth. It was a car air freshener he had hung on the handle of the window. There were no favours to be had, only head pain from the sound of his own voice. He was so used to speaking through somebody else’s lips, so used to tasting through somebody else’s tongue, he had no senses since Guenivire left.

He had taken his eyes of her balls and the rough talk and the small talk had somehow become one in the same. Guenivire had had enough and even though I was in my box, I heard her joyfully slamming doors as she skipped out of his life forever.

His narcissistic ego initially had him convinced Genny would come back, but she didn’t, he even kept me out of my box longer, waiting at the stage door. She was much more in demand, her lady boy features and coral lipstick. At first he laughed it off sardonically. Then he started chain smoking again and spitting; most of all I hated the spitting.

Life is unkind, particularly in spring, as the heart withers and the soul retreats in direct opposition to the natural order of the season. The pigeons bonking on the nearby rooves reminded him of Genny and their awkward copulations. I can hear his sighs of regret like a flat lining hospital monitor, as I pretend to sleep, colluding with this box, where his voice hides, knowing full well through this lid and that monocle, without her we shall never see a blue sky.

A Letter to the Children of Syria


You are ours too and we belong to each other and to the earth and to all the stars in the universe. Sadly, not all of us here know that, some people think we are strangers even though it is so easy to make friends with children just like you.

War becomes a kinaesthetic experience. I feel the bombs dropping in and around my body.

Does this insult you? I speak metaphorically when it is actually you who gets the literal experience. Your tiny body is where the bombs explode.

I try to express my empathy with you and I want you to know if I were there I would cover your body with mine as a shield.

I have nightmares about nuclear bombs and surviving. I am unlucky enough to live through the agony and suffering of nuclear fall out. In the dream I am covered in a toxic ash, like from an Icelandic volcano eruption.

Somehow we are all responsible for the decision in parliament today. The lucky ones (in my dream), were vapourised at ground zero, but not me, I got covered in the post apocalyptic guilt, where the cliché ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’, ‘simply does not cut it’ and I am so sorry, really sorry for endangering your life with the metal of the British Empire and an old historical document signed by the United Nation before you were even born. It was signed before we could even conceptualise the kind of terrorism that exists today with Daesh.

You can not understand why your street and house and possibly school must be dessimated. I am not even sure if you will ever recover from the military action. I can only ask that you forgive us our trespasses. As indeed we should forgive too, only forgiveness is not profitable. Forgiveness is for fools.

I want you to know I abhor any decision founded by profit that hurts you. I apologise for the men in power who immorally profit from war. I am sorry that we didn’t ask for a peace agreement first and I am so sorry that we didn’t sanction the countries selling arms to the extremists with whom you have a civil war.

We mean well. We aim to create a safer world. Sadly I believe we are misguided. If you grow up with hatred in your heart then we are to blame too and history has even more reason to repeat itself, again and again.

Tonight I apologise to the people of Syria, to your mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, grandparents, because I believe the air strikes will not make them safe and perhaps the only consolation, is that it will not make any of us safe and this pitiful offer, is all the solace I have to offer you right now.

A miserable attempt a Solidarity, becuse I will wake up from my nightmares, whereas you are living in one right now.

Writing this here is all the power I have to say that I truly hope peace will prevail and I am truly sorry for the violence we are subjecting you to. Your young life is very precious and I am sorry that my government has not found another way.

Please forgive us.

Indigo


In autumn do the leaves belong to the tree or the wind? The branches tousle and sway and the leaves cling and woosh and say one more day; hang on one more day.

A small pale golden maple leaf, half crumpled swishes through the open window and lands on the white porcelain sink. At least it should be white, but today is spotted with indigo streams where the paint magically splooshes and splashes, as uncertain as the autumn onto other surfaces.

White would have been cleaner, white doesn’t leave stains on white or if it does it is camouflage.

I hide, like the white on the white on the white, the porcelain, the tiles, the gloss and yet I feel like indigo.

A smear and a stain. I sploosh and flow and sploosh and flow and I colour you with stains that show, reveal, against my will. The trail of where I was of who I have been of all the magnificent madness I have seen.

Indigo. It’s called indigo, like the eternal cloudless night that imprints upon you an indelible mark. Indelible ink, whooshing through existence like a liquid shooting star in the paint pot spraying magic madness all over the room.

Indigo in the room.

The Human Stain


Some stains are harder to remove. It is very annoying on a newly bought item of clothing. Usually a new  blouse, relatively expensive in pale Italian blue linen. A current favourite part of a limited go to wardrobe. 

The coffee is drank without drama. The coleslaw in the sandwich is a near miss and hits the floor. That feet back head forward reflex stain saving manoeuvre saves the afternoon.

I feel accomplished. No stains and it is already 1.45pm. I feel emboldened, confident. I am secure in my stain avoiding strategies.  I am so in control. Ain’t no stains on me. 

Lately, human interactions have been having the stain effect too. That Italian blue linen blouse equivalent of a good mood. That, ‘at last spring,’ new hope of a ruse. That, ‘future is brighter now,’ illusion. Alright, maybe this time it is not even an illusion, a white lie? Yes. A white lie. The Santa Claus is real kind of white lie on Christmas Eve. Then wham, a so called friend says the most hurtful thing;

“I don’t want to waste my time with you.”

And there’s an audible ink stain the size of Australia on my blue Italian linen good mood.

I am leaving out the context of the rest of the words exchanged, simply because it was this specific sentence that stained my mood. Stained my feelings of friendship that I had for him and stained my attitude towards him forever.

The human stain.

The chicken tikka masala sauce stain. That ruins friendships.  Ruins clothes. It never comes out and is set in industrial strength take away oil. Oil stains can not be removed and sadly, attempts to do so usually cause more damage to the garment. Further staining. Further chemicals, which themselves stain or irreversibly change the fabric. Wear and tear of rubbing and scrubbing to remove the oil and the red masala sauce.

I think of Brexit, an irreversible staining, by a currently misguided electorate, who seem not to understand the complex and delicate mechanisms whereupon the very destiny of human lives are decided. 

Brexit is so much worse than Tikka Masala staining, but that I feel, is outside of the remit of this blog.

I too in recent times have said words that can not be recanted. I too have stained friends’ opinions of me with words they did not want to hear. In no way do I exclude myself from the inevitability of human staining.

Words can be black ink on pale blue linen too. Words go both ways. Words linger. 

I love my pale blue Italian linen blouse and I also love my pale blue Italian linen good mood.

It has been a very long time since I have been able to match an outfit with my mood with such pastel positivity.

So you, with your human stains, keep ’em machine washable and I shall endeavour to afford you the same courtesy. 

If you insist on doing the staining remember it will change the garment forever and ruin the outfit and at the moment, pale blue Italian linen is my favourite. 

Mind Junk


All day everyday. Mind junk. The relevance of which I no longer even wish to fathom. Thought in, thought out and I ought maybe buy a statue. A Buddha, sitting in an uncomfortable position and I’ll delegate my mind junk to it, to its concrete brain and closed contoured eyes and see if its expression contorts as the meaning of my thoughts pass like urine through a conduit.

I sigh! A tired and lonely rebellious sigh. A sigh of resignation, I didn’t tempt him to adultery and still, I miss him, those thoughts of early morning murmurings as I press my body into his and we stir together before even the dawn of humankind.

And it’s only junk. Mind junk, passing through a mind in stone, over an expressionless face. No laughter line. No joke. No enlightened countenance from the waste products of its mind.

This too. This too. This too shall pass. The concrete shall be weathered and the junk will crumble, like an ancient Atlantean colloseum and then that too, as is mind junk, shall wear out in the irrelevance of time. And the hollow contour of you and I, will only shine in the light of an exploded sun.

My thoughts of you are mind junk. I clasp the Buddha’s stone head and say, I hope you have more success than I, in tempting temptation.