Archives for the month of: January, 2013

Lucky me to be able to waste money on alcohol! Frivolous… perhaps it runs in the blood (Polish, Irish, Spanish and English). And yet.

I just wanted you to know that I am still writing. Tell me a number and I will give you the corresponding sentence… be kind and keep it low.

I missed the cultural exchange (snowed in). But my good friend is back from India (more beer!). I am going to raise some money to get a license for an art space (don’t ask, not yet). I have had ideas!

I am alive again.

 

Whilst watching a conversation between Fay Wheldon and Caitlin Moran (not so much a train wreck as a near miss) I find my answer. They discussed the use of the internet and the downfall of creative arts. Modern Music and Literature, I find as disposable as the rest of Modern Society. Quality will only reveal itself through time and endurance. If a book is still being bought, read and recommended within two years of publishing, then it’s true value, as apposed to it’s financial value has been recognised.

There is a word or phrase that fits here and it eludes me. It’s been bugging me for some time. Said often about ‘occult’ books. There is no need to have gate keepers as the books are self “…….”. That is to say, if you are intelligent enough or spiritually enlightened enough to ‘get it’ then you will, otherwise it will just be a story that’s a bit weird.

Some Buddhist texts are like this. You read them one year and you think “Oh”. The next year, “Aaah!” and the year after that, “….”. “Maybe one day I’ll get it”.

I value my words too much to release them via ebooks, as I find this is the ‘pop’ world of publishing, I’d rather give work away for free, then I know what I am getting for my money. I value literature too much to release my bilge onto paper with out it being reviewed by someone who knows what they are doing. Choosing your publisher, I am led to believe, is like choosing a life partner. I want to know what quality my work is.

Moran and Wheldon were discussing the end of writers being paid to write and that if you still write in your spare time, it may mean you have something to say that might be worth saying. Caitlin said, “People say to me, “I wrote three chapters and gave up”. I say, maybe that’s all you have”. I am in a mood to accept that, having five dead books behind me.

But this book wants to be written. I set the scene, introduced the characters and stalled. The ending waits to be written. It will not move out of the way. Well, thinks I last night, what if the end wants to be the beginning and you let it. Just write it. Now though… What if that is all the beginning has got? What if I leave it as is AND write the ending? In the middle! Who’s to say I can’t put the end in the middle. If it wants to be writ, let it be writ!

I am still waiting for some Fagin character to grab my arm and say “Not you girl, this work ent fer you” and drag me off to a wash house. Perhaps, it has something to do with being told that I had copied work not written it. “You mean you copied it.” “No, I wrote it.” “What have I told you about lying?” “But Mum!”.

In my youth I used to socialise with stoners. As I was so relaxed everyone who was one, mistook me for being a bird of the feather. I didn’t mind, as I had more in common with them than the ‘normals’. I rarely partook, but when I did it resulted in me giggling like a clown on three puffs and then sliding slowly into a supine position. It was almost like ‘other thinking’.

The stuff they smoked changed, they called it ‘Chronic’ and I abstained, preferring to have beer. Research was conducted and it was found this new stuff is low in Cannibinoids and high in THC (or the other way round?). Regardless, the shit that folks are smoking now, is not what they were smoking 20 years ago. Now it can trigger Psychosis. Fact.

Before I came to the end of the line with that set off friends, I warned them that they where throwing their lives away, that they would come to regret it when looking back through the past. The old lines I’m not addicted, I can stop when ever I want, yada, yada, washed over me.

What was it to me if they wanted to blast themselves into the stratosphere? Stoners typically don’t hurt anyone directly, but they all fail to see the damage they do indirectly, through supporting the drugs trade. Even so you can not judge, as people support pain and suffering on a daily basis just though drinking Coca Cola. Don’t believe me? Have a look at Mark Thomas’ research.

One day a friend accepted my challenge to stop smoking, in order to prove to me that she was not addicted. For a month she gave up. She did what she always did, ran a home, raised a child, worked as a physiotherapist, worked in the garden and was a loving wife. It seemed that stopping hadn’t affected her life for better or worse.

When she started again, as I knew she would, she saw what I saw. She understood then, that it was not about whether the drug was addictive or not. It was about how it dulled her. About how much money she spent. About how she smelt. About this drug not being the drug of the past but even if it was, it was about the drug stopping her achieving her full potential. That she was capable of even more, if she left the drug alone.

I don’t know if she still smokes, we don’t talk any more. Letting go of that set of friends was the hardest thing I’d had to do in many years. But it was happening whether I liked it or not, so why not on my terms?

I’m reminded about these times by some pain meds that I have for my back. They smash me out so I only take them when I need to, like last night. As I was sliding into sleep I thought about my book and mentally wrote a page or two. I can remember the visual, but I am too groggy to write properly.

I can not stop thinking about his bare feet. Not his. His.

Amerie – Rolling Down My Face. This is not about him either. I want to hear this in a club and shake this shit out.

Inhale. They keep trying to fix me, but I am not broken. I’m just put together differently. I am OK with that. *I* am OK with *YOU* not getting me. I don’t care, it’s your limitation not mine. So Dear Dore and other related organisations please kindly Fuck Off. If ever swearing was necessary it is now. Dizlexia iz not just about readin and ritin. how mani more times.

Today, I had maybe eight browsers open, was engaged in 3 different conversations, filling in two forms, and listening to Radio Four. The only difficulty that I had was listening and typing, because I tend to type what I hear. Does that sound like someone with a ‘Learning Difficulty’? What I have is a Learning Difference. The only reason why I am Disabled is because of Dore and related people telling other people that I am Disabled, other people believing that shit and treating me accordingly, or if they are particularly stupid talking to me with a patronising or condescending tone. With an IQ of 126 (average) and a Weisler Scale 133 in Verbal Ability, I am not the one that is stupid, you tool!

I keep this shit bottled up so you don’t consider me impolite. My manners are impeccable. Those times when I cut you off, I already know where you are going and have solved that problem. Sorry. Sometimes, you can ground me with a gentle touch. Do you know that I can actually declare that I am Disabled. I do not identify with that label. Really, my biggest problem is the closed minds of others and their unwillingness to think differently. That, is not my problem, that is their problem, which they make my problem. Bloody hell.

You can identify Dyslexics a mile off when you know how and it is quite easy to spot people who are Dyslexic friendly. I love those linear thinking friends of mine. Together there is no avenue that we cannot explore. It is wonderful and wise, when two things complement each other so well that they manage to maintain their own identities and yet still build something of wonder bigger than them both. I get my rocks off when the world turns thus.

I do love being with other Dyslexic people though. It is different. One example I have is about five years back myself and ‘Jane’ an older colleague at the hostel I was working at blew our bosses mind. He was stood in the door way watching and when we reached a natural pause he just sat down and asked what was that?

We had these massive desks but not so big that most people would feel comfortable sharing. We had about 8 client files out, the usual desk paraphernalia, her sat at the length; me at the width and we just did what we did.

What he saw was chaos. We seemed to talk over each other, leave sentences hanging, questions unanswered, broke off to speak to clients, answer the telephone, talk to him, and write up the days events. It only stopped because Jane got a visual on something that I had said, found it so funny that she snorted tea through her nose, of course I knew what she was laughing at and saw the same myself, so whilst falling apart laughing we cleaned up the desk. BAM! We did about 4 hours work in 1/2 hour and loved every second of it.

When a Dyslexic person looks like they are being lazy, non-committal or unresponsive, what they are actually doing is thought experiments. In their minds they have walked through an issue, made mistakes, back tracked, gathered equipment, made a rota, gathered data and will be ready to rock before you have even got your coat on. You would be unwise to mess with a Dyslexic person in this state, they have just done a days work with out the inconvenience of having to make the mistakes real time. Just because *you* (the proverbial you) don’t get it, doesn’t mean that they don’t understand you. They have already out performed you. In their minds.

Why do they get shirty? Because they are tired of not being trusted, listened to, consulted and generally treat with dignity. Think about this, my mother herself Dyslexic, came back from skiing (or was she going?) there where about 10 other people talking and jostling and she was starting to get antsy. I knew that she was in a good mood, we were in frickin Norway! Who wouldn’t be in a good mood!? I walked over to the stereo and turned if off.

No one noticed, but my mother left her spot near the ceiling and started to talk calmly again. Dyslexic torpor, the other hazard. Too much input. Thoughts backed up, stop asking questions. We miss nothing. We might need some time to process, or just a little quiet. And the other thing that really makes us cross. People lying. We cannot forget what we have not been told. You can not tell us we have forgotten, to get yourself out of the shit. When reminded we will remember. Just because you don’t get how our memories work doesn’t mean our memories are lacking.

I am erudite, succinct, verbose, snappy, take the round the bush route, prone to silence, ‘lazy’, prone to high octane bursts of activity. It might look random and illogical and a waste of energy to you. Except for woolly head days, where we smile and nod. (that’s for ‘other thinking’) we have already out performed you.

And you will do the same to us. We will never understand your linear thinking, your inability to think tangentially. We love it when you fill in forms for us. LOVE IT! The ability to spot the obvious. I know you have other talents, but you don’t need to be told what they are, this world is set up for you and your linear thinking privilege. Be our allies, not another speed bump and together we will rule the world.

If I look like a woman waiting to exhale, that’s because I am.

What she actually said was, “Let them eat Brioche”. Which is what the French used to eat for breakfast anyhow. Allegedly. I decided that one of the best ways to stay warm was to have a full belly. So I made a vegetable ragu with pasta, sprinkled with some of that nutritional yeast. It was munch and it bumped up the heat too.

I decided to make a cake. Why not!? That will warm the house up too. Chocolate Cherry Cake with fake eggs. But I will tell you this, the non-dairy cheese sauce is absolutely rank. I reckon I might be able to get away with a mild bechemal type sauce if I want to do Cauliflower Cheese again.

Writing yesterdays post reminded me of how it felt when Marty first showed up. That was at a Chuck Perkins performance that was spectacular. I forget the name of the U.K. poet he was visiting. That day, Rico of Jools Hollands Jazz Band fame showed up too. Both very pleasant men to talk with.

To be a writer of the calibre of Chuck Perkins, now that would be something. I think it was that day that I first saw Marty. He’d come to do some filming. I saw his shoes and the rest is history… I have to type all my stuff for the rescheduled reading party any how so I’ll share a couple of pieces from that time. Not the best stuff though, I’m feeling a bit precious about it. Clingy.

“I can feel you watching me. I like it, because I have been watching you too. In my mind we talk like lovers. So far the best thing that you have said to me is, “I want to touch you”. “Where?”, I ask. You reply without thought, “All over, in time, but for now I want to touch you here”.

Then without asking, you pick up my hand and walk your fingers over the inside of my wrist. You do not peer intently into to my eyes; you study my wrist as if it is the finest thing you have ever seen. I hope you are watching me, because you like me too and not because of my builders bum as I mop the floor.”

Someone found a gurney in the prop room and we set it up by the bar. A communal bar stool if you will. We had so many fun times on that thing. We once dressed it up as a bull (complete with horns) and pretended to ‘do rodeo’ on it. Eventually, we had to take it away, we had been a little energetic and it was no longer safe. The you in this case is all of them.

“The here and nowness of it all.

The sitting and watching the youness of it all.

The newness of it all.

The feeling that it has always been this way,
yet not demanding it stay this way.

The comfortable sitting on trolleyness of it all.

Feeling five and joyful, sat in dim lightness of it all.

The todayness of it all.”

Paint usually made an appearance at some point. At the Artistic Director’s leaving do and I painted a poem I had written for her on the wall. The Dancers took the excess paint and threw it on the floor. Everyone was sliding around in it and walking over paper. It wasn’t long before someone fell, of course. I didn’t realise till I got home that they were all wet when they where hugging me and I too was covered in Red Paint.

Someone commented on that picture the other day. I haven’t seen it since then. This Friday, we are all meeting up again. The Artistic Director is in town to organise a cultural exchange with London. Who knows what we will create together this time round.

Chuck Perkins – Frenchmen Desire Good Children.

Someone told me it was Martin Luther King day, but I thought that was 15th January.

I made my Dad a stress ball, because he’s got massive paws he couldn’t find one. I got the idea when I was making his singing bowl cushion. Every time I wonder what I did with my life up till now I remind myself by saying things like that. I’m a million miles away from where I was, but not so far either.

My subconscious is prodding me… It started a week ago with an article from Cracked.com and ends with a post from TearMatt, collecting various points in between.

1) Red feet
2) ‘My’ theatre
3) Nice
4) Bikes
5) Fruit
6) London
7) Grim and fairy tales.

A famous writer called it “brewing” (maybe Sylthia Plathe). I don’t have any pretensions but I can identify with the thought process. Take a cup, choose a tea, put the kettle on… No wonder so many cultures have tea ceremonies. Here I go already, digressing before I’ve begun.

Unsurprisingly, ‘My’ theatre is not MY theatre. I showed up one day wanting to get involved but not having any particular skills, I started mopping floors. No easy feat with substandard equipment and the worst floor you’ve ever seen. I’d have been better off trying to clean Centenary Square.

As time passed, I could not contain myself and released my passion, energy and joy. I especially liked it when, during a meeting someone exclaimed, “But I thought you were a cleaner!”. At the time, I was also volunteering for a Drug Treatment Agency, working in a Hostel for Women fleeing violence, pottering about on an As level Art course (because I could not for the life of me find any other art groups to join) and going to Buddhist meetings from a new tradition. Good times.

By the time the Theatre shut, I was a Trustee on the board, collecting experience in performance, poetry, volunteer coordinating, junk artistry and professional hugging along the way. It was amazing for me to find a space that I could grow into. It felt so natural and inevitable. Until, the threads of prior Trustees financial mismanagement, lack of funding and the recession closed in on us.

Personally, I was hobbled by other things. I’d asked someone to collaborate on my first installation. It was snowing, I’d told him I wasn’t going to the theatre. But, I felt trapped in the house, I thought fuck it. I would have walked the three miles. Fortunately, there was still a bus. I rang him and he said he’d be there too. Seconds later he posted “88 Miles an Hour” as his status. (Let’s call him Marty.) I laughed, giddy with the excitement and joy of the magic that seemed to be in abundance. He pulled up outside the theatre on his pushbike and I set off laughing once again.

Years ago I met a man who helped me understand some things about myself. He was a Nice Man. I’m thinking of the time that we went to pick up a trolley. He was sat at the wheel of his car mimicking, “Nice! Nice! Is that what people think of me? Nice!?”

I was splitting at the seams because I’d had that rant just the day before. “I don’t want to be nice! Nice is boring!”. Well, this man most certainly is not boring, he’s a motorbiking, weightlifting, sculpting, teaching, DIYing man. Who liked to push his comfort zones, at that time, by learning to paint. I did indeed think that he was (and is) a “Nice man”. I understood the lesson offered.

I thought “Marty” was a “Nice man”. I thought that I took my time getting to know him, watched how he was with others, listened properly when he spoke. In reality, I did not. I had a veil of glamour over my eyes. He is definitely, NOT a nice man, in any sense of either word.

When it all began to unravel and he showed his true colours I was writing things like this:

“And so the tree began to bear strange fruit. Not quite so black, more a deep muddy brow. Not quite so dread, more unsettling. This fruit had bite. Not the sharp juicy tang of a not ripe plum, but a bite of a different kind. For it was the not quite tree.

It made good men doubt, but not yet enough to make them speak out. It made bad men arrogant, yet not so much they would seize power. The Not Quite Tree was not quite there. It was the spring of it’s second year, still a sapling. It was nourished by generalisations and obfuscations and most definitely, it fed greedily on mistrust.

It had a malignant aura and sought to suck the joy from those who passed by. They were unsettled but they never suspected the Not Quite Tree. They had seen the strange fruit, but they thinking the tree sick, did not believe that it would last the winter through. The Not Quite Tree, did not quite die!

It fed on the rancour of complainers. Strengthened its limbs on the canker of the greedy. Those who passed by the Not Quite Tree, did not notice the trunk was sore with boils that belched and oozed rancid gunk. Something was amiss. Something was not quite right, but good and bad alike could not quite put their finger on it.

The good felt low and the bad felt smug and the tree grew ever closer to bearing a strange fruit. No one could quite describe the crop beginning to sprout from it’s boughs. The Not Quite Tree was not quite ready to disguise the gangrenous fruit it was not quite ready to bear. One day the will look like ripe apples.”

This is what Fairy Tales used to look like. They used to teach you something of value. This grim fairy tale I am in is making no sense and I don’t know what my role is. For sure I am neither Hero or Princess (who would want the responsibility of always being perfect), more likely the Witch. But which Witch will I be? What fruit will my tree bear? Misunderstood witch with heart of gold, or the kind that gives poisoned fruit to princesses? I wonder where the woodsman is?

Woodcutters Son – Paul Weller
All Your Gold – Bat for Lashes
Cover Girl – Mr Hudson and the Library

Read David Wong’s “6 Harsh truths that will make you a better person”, for his take on the fruit we bear.

The links with red feet and London will have to wait for another day. Be mindful of the fruit you are likely to produce.

It was about 2.30am before my friends left. I haven’t seen them in two years! We performed in a Steam-punk pantomime at ‘my’ theatre. We communicate regularly via FB, but haven’t met in the flesh for two years. Needless to say, we’re good. We missed another friend who had left her fone at home, but she found herself in the conversation none the less.

Schadenfreude! And Jenny Saville… (Google time, people).

It occurred to me, that my current friends are interesting people. I am entertained as much as I am supported, and yes, it must be said occasionally tolerated. But I am also educated by them. This having women friends, I am finding much more superior to the men friends. Or at least I have realised why I wasn’t overly keen on females in my youth. Intelligence makes a difference.

I’m sat in a sleeping bag, freezing. I have electric over night heaters and for years I have been living with broken ones. The thermostat had gone and I knew they were sucking up juice like nobodies, but I was warm. This year due to cuts in my income and price rises from the electric company, I thought I had better have new heaters installed. It is fair to say that I am now regretting that decision. It is allegedly only zero, but my nose is cold.

I watched Soldier of God tonight cos I was bored and it was cheap. All I could think of was that hairy chest. I could do with a big bear to keep me warm. I thank god nightly for my electric blanket, I kid you not. And my friend who is in India, I am not having generous thoughts about her. Although, if I told her, she would say the same about me.

I’m reading “The Book of Dave” and finding it excellent and find that I like Will Self as an author more and more. I think that my foreign chums would struggle with this one though, I can just follow it. London is a peculiar place, Cockney a dense language. I will recommend “How The Dead Live” and “Dorian”. I think Wilde would approve of the retelling.

So, I’m a ridiculous penguin, thinking about The End of the Road Festival 2008. I had this new sleeping bag, I hadn’t tried it out, not even took it out of the bag. I was so very cold sleeping on a bed of cardboard, with all my clothes on and my coat on top. I’m lucky I’m still here. Of course, all the boys shrugged off my complaints, snug as they were in their mummy’s.

It’s not too bad, until you have to pee. Then the fun begins. This is not that sleeping bag, but it’s not much better. It’s 12C in the bedroom and about 17C in the front room. All the heating is on top wack, but I’m not fool enough to think that they aren’t making some difference. I’m not yet tempted to go running about outside to warm up. Yet. I’m glad I have my new boots and the wintertracks. I reckon I’m going to get some gators the next time I’m in town.

I am not having wet feet as well as cold.

I’m worried about my Orchid. It’s in the kitchen where there is no heating. I had a Bonsai that I worried about, when I moved it, it died. I have to move. This house is not fit for purpose and I have new questions to pose. In my case it is the not moving that will be the death of me.

I’m listening to Amerie and playing on-line scrabble.

Well there it is. And it seems like today is the day to give you the thing I wrote, that I didn’t think it was appropriate to show you over Christmas. Today, has been an absolute turd of a day. Yesterday, I was listening to my neighbours scream at each other and then a thud. He’s punched a wall. Call the police now, or wait… Always the same… Should I go knock on the door, at least he knows people care then. What if I ask her next time I see her, what do you want me to do?

This is not my life. The violence (or more properly the constant threat of violence and the gripping) has ended. The tirades, the shouting, the endless put downs, the following, the low level menace, the neglect, the looks of disgust, the fucking with my shit… gone. All gone. I have calm. Apart from the poverty and sleep deprivation life is pretty good.

Was a penny short on the bus, but some one gave me it and the man said it was ok. Got some money for Christmas, bought some shoes, took them back… I can not afford £50 on shoes! What was I thinking? Found some in the same shop, walking shoes, £30 reduced to £10 with a further 20% discount… £8 for shoes!!! Now my feet will be warm and dry. Needed a birth certificate for a CRB check so I can prove I am not a criminal and do my work that I got funding for. The man gives me a little leeway… It  takes two hours there is only 1 hour 45 left…

Making my way across town I realise that I have had 2 shredded wheats and a cuppa, should eat, tea at friends, no, I’ll wait. Tired. Writing polemic emails at 5 in the morning. Fucking government. Bastard Banks Dog damn gender fascists <<< long story. I realise that I have a vibrating ball of anger turning my bile into poison. Why do people have to have music and tvs on through the night.

When I lived on a main road, not even juggernauts would wake me, and now? The drop of a pin is cause for concern. I can not settle. I do not feel safe. My sanctuary is now my prison. I want to sleep. Years ago, I wanted to sleep the long sleep. A few things kept me going, sometimes knowing I’d have to go round again if I topped myself. Sometimes my brother. Sometimes something fortuitous like my dad cleaning out the medicine cabinet.

I looked in the cabinet, it was full of really old tablets, antibiotics, painkillers, iron tablets, some years out of date. Yeah, I thought there is enough there. The next day, it just hit me, this it. I was crying but not sobbing. I felt nothing but a compulsion to annihilate myself. I looked in the cabinet, he had cleaned it out. 6 paracetomol, enough to hurt my liver nothing more. I couldn’t even kill myself properly.

What do you fill the void with? When you make a motivation never to entertain that thought ever again, it feels as if you have lost an option. It is twisted. Grim. When there is nothing to fill the hole, you just have to carry it round with you and you think everyone can see through you. Everyone who looks at you is thinking “This girl is toxic”.

I worked so hard to fill that hole, to become whole. Every now and then I am frightened that I have just plugged it and that it will fall out like a knot in wood and I will be seen for what I truly am. Lacking. Not quite all there. Hollow. Tired, mean, angry, defeated. I have to call on all my strength to remind myself, that is not my life anymore. This is a memory of darker times. You don’t want to kill yourself, you want to kill them so you can get some friggin sleep!

Some days, I would go to bed unable to chant or pray or find solace, full of crushing debilitating self pity… when will this end. When will sun rise. When will summer come. It’s not coming is it. What have I done. What did I do. Why. Eventually, I found a mantra. Something that I could really focus on. It didn’t work. At some point, I must have been pissed and written about it.

I can’t remember writing it. I really can’t. I just came across it, and I laughed and laughed. It is hilarious. I don’t know how old it is (2010 notebook though!) and I have no idea how I intended for it to be read, but it cracks me up.

“People say that it is easy to wish yourself dead.
It’s not true.
I have tried.
And I remain
stubbornly alive.
I made a mantra,
“I pray the lord my soul to take, before I wake”.
It seems he doesn’t want it.

From the first time I conceived of the idea,
to the present day,
killing myself through the power of thought alone appears
unachievable.
This is not the first time people have lied to me.
I have come
to expect it.

‘If’ being the biggest lie of all.
I hit everyone of your ‘if’ targets and I’m still fucking miserable.
You would not expect that of someone like me, but,
I was told if I was good,
good things would happen,
and I would be happy.

Well fuck you Diznee”

Indeed!

Fall back songs…
Protection – Massive Attack
Small Blue Thing – Suzanne Vega
Hyperballad – Bjork

Lyrical hugs when real ones are absent. I am tired but I am not soul tired, tomorrow is another day and friends are one the way. 2.30 am and no music today… good night.

Cry myself blind – Primal Scream
Broken Crown – Mumford and Sons
Not With Haste – Mumford and Sons

Make haste, slowly.

I bought some new shoes and I have to take them back, I’m really embarrassed because it took me an hour to choose the right shoes. Good walking shoes. A size too big. Turns out almost lethally too big, I fell over my feet and nearly killed myself.

Someone online told me they found me “offensive, overpowering and intimidating”. I told her that I was not going to censor myself, all the while thinking how can I undo what I have done. Then I thought Na! Not gonna. Then I did. Shit. But then, someone else told me they were new to the topic and thanked me for my time and patience in explaining things. Interesting.

I have an on-line friend I have never met. We call each other MU, I can’t remember why or how it started. If you look at the Wiki definition it goes round the houses, taking in the Mu (or Wu) Koan. Not that any of that really matters, as MU in my instance is meant to represent “wrong question”.

I keep forgetting this. You’d think after 12 or thirteen years that I would remember, I don’t. Even though sometimes I communicate with MU every week! I get to looking inwards a lot and I can’t see the wood for the trees (or the would). In calling him MU I forget it is for me too. Don’t ask what tradition of Buddhism I follow… I can’t even see the path.

Once I even programmed my phone to remind me to begin again… Step One. This was when I was very stressed and life was teaching me the big sink or swim lessons. Begin Again. Step One. Always start from where you are. In other words, breathe. Anyhow…

“Wrong question”. In my frustration, and boredom I muse all the old problems like they are new ones, like last year never happened. I ask all the same questions and could cry myself blind at the answers, well I would, wouldn’t I asking all the wrong friggin questions.

I read a good article about ‘closing’. Before I deleted all my dating websites, I mused that I needed a closer. It’s like I have my nose pressed in a corner sometimes. I am going to re-remember how to close. I was ready to sit down and write that infernal book, I rescheduled the reading party. I bought a new vacuum, 220 air watts of sucking power, bye bye cat dander! Sprinkled Nutritional Yeast on my non-dairy food…

And then I received the news that I have secured my funding!

YES I FUCKING DID!!!

I am so so happy… so relieved, so grateful… so frustrated still. I cannot start for another six weeks due to paper work and what not. As per usual I didn’t read the small print. I shirked the opportunity to advertise this blog (see previous posts) and now it seems that I will have to advertise myself anyway.

Am I on the path. Yes. Is it the Middle Way. Yes. How do I know this. Because every time I say I won’t do something, I end up having to do it. Good one, very funny.

Before I introduce you to the thing I am here to post, let me just say, 1) this is another 2 post day. Have a look see at my first post of the day, contemplative… 2) That after finding myself hungry and preparing something to eat, I really *should* have turned the hob on… I’m proper hungry now… Anyway, here it is, an untitled piece. You are all aware of Moby Dick, yes?

 

My mind churns flotsam instead of polishing pebbles against the banks of my creativity. There is nothing new to say, all this has already been said, if not by me; by somebody else. I drown in the ocean of my bed, dragged down, not by Neptune or Morpheus but by Nedolya. In the dark hours she lurks in the corner, come to rob me of the last of my buoyancy.

I almost laugh at myself in this state, pathetic and weak, seeking the Bear that shows the way home. But I have closed mine eyes tight, frightened Nedolya is my reflection. My fears made real. I flick on the lamp to drive her away. Come then, if I am too restless to sleep I will write and ride the evening waves through. The Great White Son of a Bitch is taunting me with it’s spotlessness, like the Fool ready to take a leap into the unknown. Jealously, I want to share the adventure. I take a stab at the Great White Son of a Bitch but miss. I have lost my focus. I have lost my nerve.

It slips under the bed and as I lean over to catch its tail, I lose my balance and end up on my knees. This is not what I had intended. Singing and clapping softly assert themselves into my consciousness. It sounds like African, but as my ears became accustomed to the sound, I can hear “sweet Lord Jesus” in an unfamiliar melody. As I thrash to keep my head above the waters, a calm comes and I hear more songs of praise, chanting, mantra. It soothes me until I think, what if this is the warmth before the hypothermia claims me.

Panic: I saw her flee from one side to the other. She has a large bag. Nedolya does not believe that my burdens are great enough and strives to add a few more. How can this be when the light is turned up against her? The Great White Son of a Bitch has also surfaced. It spouts the detritus of a million failed words and litters the room with its crumpled and torn children. Perhaps they will form a collective and show me how it should be done. Should. Should. A word of weight replaces the buoyancy aids. I didn’t even notice that one, you sneaky little fucker!

Incensed, I heave up my pen and take aim. Surrender you Great White Son of a Bitch and I swear that we will both be happier for it. See how thin your children have left you. Gobble up my fat words and fill your belly, swell like the tide! Then we will be free to float, faces to the night sky, in peaceful and silent companionship. We will drift calm into another day. Surrender for me, I am too scared to let go. Show me how easy it can be done and I will nourish you with bountiful words.