Who?

Come, come; stand on her doorstep with your flowers and your champagne, take her to the restaurant you think will impress her most, be sure to play the music she says she loves, make clear the way for her and tell her she is beautiful.

Come, come; look into her eyes and be dazzled by them, tell her you have never met anyone like her before, encapsulate her feelings in words and offer them to her life gifts, see the crystal mirror of her face, never suspecting the multi-faceted immeasurable diamond that lies behind it, the jewel that only one has seen.

Come, come; arrange the right compliments in the right way, be gentlemanly, but be sensual and she may let you into her house, may let you into her bed, may let you into herself - you will feel that you are special - but do you even know quite who she is?

No. For all the fine things your offer, you cannot even begin to imagine.

No one will blame you; she does not even know herself any more.

Two Hearts

Once there was made a crystal sculpture, two hearts entwined in an intricate pattern of luminescence and love; it was so beautiful and perfect that no-one could look at it and doubt that it was right.

One day, the sculpture smashed. No-one knew why or how. An infinite number of infinitesimal crystal pieces lay shattered where the beautiful thing had been.

I may spend the rest of my days, on my knees in the darkness, trying to find all those pretty crystal shards, collect them up, make them whole, pondering all the while upon the futility of my task.

Barely An Echo

Athene's voice is now barely as echo in my head, as I trudge the streets, without diamonds, without new and shiny gold, without anything at all.

It was never what I wanted.

I knew it when I made the exchange.

Perhaps it is my destiny to knowlingly make the wrong choices to punish myself for some crime I cannot recollect committing.

Not You

Because he is not you, I cannot look into his eyes and speak my truth without sounding my voice, cannot trace each line upon his hand like a well worn map, cannot lie beside him without the pretence that I am someone else.

Because he is not you, he cannot make me cry, cannot leave me devastated, desperate and wanting, cannot disappoint me.

Because he is not you, he cannot make me smile, cannot, with a look, provoke spontaneous bursts of laughter, cannot tell me I am strong; that I will make it through.

Because he is not you, he cannot let me down.

But he cannot raise me up.

Because he is not you, he cannot give me nightmares.

But he cannot make me dream.

Because he is not you, the words choke in my throat when I try to speak of all the things that we have shared together, lived together, loved together.

But because he is not you, he cannot break my heart.

A Better Place

He never moved into the house
The light, bright window out of which he gazed
On Sunday last
Never walked his dogs across
The open fields that lay endlessly out before it
No,
His time was almost past

And now is gone.

He never cooked upon the range
Which confounded yet pleased and impressed him so
He never moved his sofa in
Though, with gently moving arms had illustrated
The very place where it would go

Where is it now?

He never turned his new set of keys in solid locks as he
Should have, just today
And the pale blue eyes which, lost in reverie had looked
Instead, part on Valhala and part in pleading stare with
Death
Were gazed

Where is he now?

He said it was a new start for him, a new time
He said that he would stay this quiet place, for more than just a while
He had nodded with vague certainty
He had said so with a smile

And you ask, why should I care?
Why the blood money I can't keep?
Why I should stoop with such sorrow?
Why should I stumble, why should I weep?

How, then, can I make you understand
That he was a good and gentleman
That the good die young
And that
I knew it
When, with polite grace
He shook me by the hand.

Empty Hand, Absent Heart

It was no surprise that almost half the diamonds had fallen from the heart before I reached the end of the street, nor that many of the rest were cracking, nor that the gold had lost its dazzle.

I saw Athene, dressed as a beggar in rags on the corner, presence given away only by her startling lilac eyes which saw the expected disappointment in mine.

I lowered my head as I passed her, foolish to imagine, even for an instant, that she could not read my thoughts. Shocked I was not, but hoping I had been.

Rounding the corner, I heard her words echo in my head once again, ‘There can be no refunds.’

What did it matter?

My hand was now empty of the dazzling jewel after which I had so lusted, now lying in the goddess beggar’s empty paper cup. She could not refund, but perhaps she could mend.

I, was well aware, that I could not.

Cut by Crystals

I lost my spark in the scree
Screaming down the slag heap
Of life
With my heart in your hands
Cut by crystals
Delicately poised and ready to bleed.

No Refunds

I approached the shop with a paradoxical mixture of trepidation and certainty. The white gold heart was not heavy in my pocket; it was feather light, had lost its chain, had lost its charm, or so I thought.

A honey haired beauty stood behind the counter, filled with an array of pretty, shiny things. I looked for a short while, too short a while, before I made my selection; a larger, more dazzling looking heart, adorned with gold swilrs and diamond studded, sure to be noticed, sure to satisfy my lust for the sparkling.

I pointed at the heart, placing my own almost worthless offering on the counter before me and said, 'I'll take it. Here is my exchange.'

Athene, honey haired and luminescent gazed quizically at me with her starry lilac eyes.

'Are you certain this is what you want? There can be no refunds; not even I can grant you that.'

I nodded my agreement; perhaps it was telling that I could not speak.

With a look of sorrow, Athene made a single, deft movement, and the dazzling diamond encrusted heart was hanging resplendant around my neck.

The small, white gold heart, polished by years of caresses, had disappeared.

I walked out of the shop, smiling, but by the time I reached the end of the street, Athene's words were already ringing in my ears;

'There can be no refunds.'

A Safer Darkness

The light you shed was dim to begin with.

The passage of time only served to dull it further.

I do not need your paltry light.

I can find my way in the dark.

It feels safer, this warm darkness...

.... merely knowing that you are not encased within it is solace enough.

Gentle Passion

I would not have believed that such a phenomenon as gentle passion existed, or could exist.

I thought passion was wild and loud and all comsuming and even violent in its nature.

I was wrong.

The pleasure gleaned from this paradoxical gentle passion is sweet indeed.

Passion, untempered, is like a fiercely burning flame, sure to burn out in a matter of splendid, bone-shaking, heart-pounding moments and leave you raking the ashes of what once was.

But a gentle passion... that is something I am yet to fully explore.

May to November

I have very little grasp on what day it is of late, but what I do know is that, three days ago, six months to the day, I sat in my seat at that same table and the three other seats which had then been occupied were now empty.

I am on my own now.

A choking laugh escapes my mouth as I realise I always was.

To survey the scene one can see that there is not half so much to do now as there was then and I am older and wiser and stronger, paradoxically; easily capable of doing it all.

But there are those six tiny, speedily hoofed, almost infintesimal and invisible months bewteen what was and what is.

And they make all the difference in the world.

Cold this six months after day. No sun, like on that day. No champagne for all and shared feeling of optimism and hope.

No matter.

I shall turn on the heating.

I shall drink champagne, when there is something to celebrate.

To Get Away

You make me want to buy a one way ticket to anywhere, anywhere but here.

You make me physically shake at the thought of ending up stale and staid, here, sitting here, still here, ever here, as you have done, decade after decade after decade.

You make me want to jump into that fast car and not even consider what may lie at journey's end.

You make me want to win it all then lose it simply so that I can say that I have lived.

You make me want to push my being to the very bounds of its existence and see just how much it can take before it breaks.

You make me want to get away...

...before it's too late...

Heroism

In early morning fug, I walk in the rain and the rotting undergrowth, through the mud and the mist, but the droplets that run down my face in semblance of tears are not of self pity, or of sorrow; they are of gratititude, they clear my eyes to perceive a new reality.

Today as I walk I thank the gods that my biggest worry placing step after step is tripping into the mud and not a landmine.

I thank the stars that the most I will have to retreive is my grubby dog from a tangled thicket and not the shattered pieces of a friend from rubble and ruins.

I thank the universe that I may sleep safe tonight in my bed without fear of waking to the screams stemming from that which I have seen, and may see again.

And I thank humanity for the bonds of brotherhood and sisterhood, praying that those who have the courage to stride out in faith and bravery will return to love and to light, having left a little of the same where so ever they have been.

Not Today

One day, I will wish you the best
And mean it
One day, I will wish you all the grace
And love to guide you
On your way
One day I will not hate you so
One day
But not today

One day I will replenish all the stocks
You took from me
One day, I will not begrudge you, the fine foods
On my plate
One day I will bless your stars
One day
But not today

One day I will look back on the life
We shared
One day I will not weep, when I think
Of how you cared
One day the memories that now are bitter
Will be sweet
One day, and in another place we might meet
Again
One day, it may
Be one day

But not today.

Soldiers

All lined up like soldiers, all handsome on parade
All lined up like soldiers, with boiled egg on a plate
Like ten glass bottles, of shades of green and brown
Just ten glass bottles, that wait to be shot down

And who cares, fot these handsome soldiers
Sliced up bits of toast
Who will sweep the shards of glass
Who values them the most?

Who?
I do
I do
Though they shoot at me too.

The Red Boots

I have red faux croc boots, which need re-heeling.

I have two flights of stairs, the walls of which need painting.

I have pile after pile of documents which need filing.

I have a coat rail that needs hanging.

I have conservatory windows that need cleaning.

You’d think that they’d be begging for my attention, but they’re not.

Write something - say the red boots.

Write something - say the stair walls.

Write something - say the documents.

Write something - says the coat rail.

Writs something - say the windows.

I pick up the pen, have it poised in my hands for hours that seems like days…

I let it fall away….

I have nothing left to say.

Composure

The widow is composure. She must be, has to be.

Sometimes, composure is natural, like this evening, when everything is bearable, normal even. Her son is helping unpack the groceries and lay the table for dinner, her youngest daughter is having her piano lesson in the room across the hall, her eldest is upstairs, duvet sprawled, book-reading and radio listening.

But there is something missing.

He is missing.

She chops peppers and puts them into the sizzling buttered pan, peels onions and does not cry.

For if she starts, she thinks, it will never stop.

What is it?

She looks to me with the expression of a boundless and hopeful puppy; as if I can somehow heal the invisible wound, as if I can give her that thing which she needs.

But I don’t know what it is.

It is not the book I have in my hand, or the words that roll from my tongue, or the smile we share.

These things, they are a start, but it is not enough, not enough by half.

She looks at me, still hopeful, but the message in her eyes I cannot read, and, because of this, I cannot bridge the gaping chasm.

I don’t know what will.

But I do know that I am determined to find out what it is that she needs.

And when I do, she shall have it.

The Silver Envelope

In the silence of the morning, the postman brings me an envelope of silver.

When I open it, a sky of blue sweeps out and lights the hallway with its luminescence. It is a card, but, at the same time, it is not just a card.

On this card are words of deepest, royalest blue, two sets of words, on each side of the pristine white pages. One set has me shake my head in bewilderment for a moment, because I recognise these words; these words are mine.

Yet it is not my own words that make me smile the blissful, unencumbered smile of an infant, it is those of a friend; it is childhood bonds and laughter ringing out like bells and the eternal spring of hope.

And it is that which sets this grey, drenched sky a radiant shade of blue.

Good enought to waste some time...

The beautiful couple had the quintessential love/hate relationship.

The love was needy and co-dependent and fierce in its demands.

The hate was angry and loud and violent in its slamming.

The beautiful woman frequently threw the beautiful man's clothes out of the window of the pent-house, often tempted to throw him out with them. But there was no need; he left voluntarily, slipped placenta-like into the warm embrace of his mother for a day or so, while the fire of the hate cooled.

But the beautiful woman hated being alone.

After a particularly vicious fight, and after he had stayed away particularly long, she threw caution where she usually thres his clothes, made a call to the substitute who simply happened to be conveniently available and spent the night with him instead.

The beautiful couple's bed could tell the difference from the scents and the sounds.

The beautiful man, when he returned later that day, the substitute had been conveniently sent on his way, could not, and that night the beautiful couple's bed was considerably bewildered.

The beautiful woman scarcely gave the substitute another thought other than, Well, he was good enough to waste some time...

Scuffed Princess

I used to sleep in a princess bed.

It was all lace cream curtains, swirled, solid brass arabesques, beautifully swirled like the cursive, looped handwriting of a love letter. No-one could have nightmares in such a bed, made safe by the sturdiness of the structure, shielded from night spirits by the innocence and purity of the draped ivory lace.

It was a symbol, an image, a snapshot of who I was, or who, at least, I believed myself to be.

Now I have a scuffed and scratched black car which I park on the driveways of houses that should, and maybe have, featured in Ideal Home magazine. It is much mended, the black car; it tries not to let me down, in spite of its weaknesses. We have much in common, my car and I.

One would think I would be more enamoured of the princess bed, would choose that, were a choice to be made,

But I wouldn’t.

I am as much a shabby black car as I am a carefully polished four poster; and proud to be so.

Special?

You thought you were special
But you were just another name upon
An e'r increasing list
Another hopeless, wretched fool
I never should have kissed

You thought you were special
That yours would be the last mouth
That my straying lips would touch
My lips were never faithful
Though you never guessed as much

You thought you were special
That you'd made your bed in mine
That only your head on the pillow would lay
You never smelled the scent, left
By another the very same day

Beautiful simplicity

The fact that he made the bed with grace and care while she was showering this morning should not have been a fact worth remarking upon.

The fact that he kissed her when she was wet-haired and robed should have been nothing so very significant.

The fact that he brought her coffee, made the eccentric way she liked to drink it, should have been equalled by a 'Thank you'.

The fact that these three pieces of beautiful simplicity stood out so prominently in her mind made her question a horrible, swarming multitude of her previous decisions and acceptances and made her wonder, 'This beautiful simplicity; could I love it?'

Man's Miseries

By sitting in a room, alone and in silence, I can crush all man's miseries. Or my own, at least.

By being still I can quell the tide of chaos in my mind and let it breathe freely; a tranquil sea of calm.

By closing my eyes I can disappear the bloodstained wreckage wrought by a world armed with weapons of irrevocable devastation, a world gone mad.

But being alone, totally alone, the way in which we enter and leave this place, being still, still like a levitating sage, closing my eyes, the way in which the eyes of the perpetually blind are closed, it is easier to think, to say, to write than it is to be.

And because of this, man's miseries are sharper and keener and bloodier than ever.

Walk on Water

I can walk on water.

Didn't you know?

You might think you are floating in the air, that you are exquisitely propelled by the beautious winds of the universe, that the cosmos is guarding your soul; but it is all an illusion.

One day, you will realise.

One day, you will come crashing down to earth. No amount of pseudo-spirituality or trite sickly sixties songs will be able to fix you. You will be broken. Forver.

But I can walk on water, grant wishes, raise the dead.

And I can send you into eternal oblivion too.

Last Legacy

It was a paltry legacy with which you left me, a legacy of debt and disillusionment, catastrophe and chaos.

Like a cunning monster stalking its prey, you ensnared me when I was most vulnerable and had the least to offer, and yet took from me more than anyone ever has, or ever could. I had little enough to begin with; you gave me nothing and now I find myself with less than that.

You used the locks of my hair to line your den, used my flesh to sustain you, used my soul to shield yours from horrors of your own making, swilled my blood round your glass like ruby wine and gulped it down; I have bled for you, and I begrudge you every tiny drop.

Had I let you, you would even have used my bones as firewood when the winter winds whipped cold.

But, in the end, the legacy you left damns you, not me.

No kind of man would do what you have done. No kind at all.

The Photographs

He should never have stolen them.

He knows that now.

What was he trying to gain, he wonders, as he leafs through print after print, all as shiny and glossy as the lives and loves they depict. The smiles portrayed therein are so full, so genuine, he struggles not to find them mocking.

Most of all, he looks at her; at her bewitching combination of blue eyes, brown hair and skin like an unblemished canvass.

She should have been mine, he thinks.

He looks also at the man by her side, the man holding their two chidlren in various places, at various stages of beautiful infant growth, echoing her physical wonder, haunting him with their eyes. The man, he tries so hard to dismiss, to disfigure, but the children are different.

They should have been mine, he thinks.

He had known it for a while, of course, for years, but somehow the photographs make it real and the smiles stab like kitchen knives.

He burns the photographs; but their smoldering corpses do not nearly resmble the genocidal sorrow of the ashes of his own life.

Straight and Fast

I am now on my knees amidst the pieces of my shattered heart, which remain untidily littered across the floor; no-one but I can see them.

You cannot fight life; it will all but slaughter you and lead you here, to you knees, without energy even for silent tears. It will leave you crying for a way out and laugh in your face when your will falters and your hands hesitate.

To nurture life is the most beautiful thing anyone can do.

To nurture death and will it to live destroys the soul; I am surprised it took me so long to see it.

‘How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?’ - a question much pondered by far greater minds than I.

‘Straight and fast.’ - an answer composed by a far greater writer.

Straight and fast, then, it may be.

The Damned

She never knew she was capable of so much hatred.

Did not realise that her bones would shake and her teeth would rattle in her anger.

Suspected not that she would become a resounding skeleton, reverberating with the strength of her own hatred.

She will summon the Styx to rise up and drown him, summon the gods to savage him and damage him, summon the universe to damn him into Dante's farthest circle of hell.

Fickle Finger of Fate

I was a fool, and did not realise that being a fool was a crime which merited such a harsh sentence.

Foolish I was, to tempt Fate; its fickle finger, which once betstowed blessings, has been all too quick to jab its pointed talon through the soft underbelly of my dragon's armour.

So quick I was to bemoan the lack of being able to boast about the brokeness of my heart that I did not realise said heart would soon be crushed and smashed.

I wanted all the romance and disaster of a broken heart simply so that I could have what others had and now I find myself with the shattered remnants of something that was once red and shining and vibrant and whole, the mutilated pieces of which are strewn across the tiles of my kitchen floor.

There are no sobs. There is no attempt to pick them up and make them whole; I know, at least, when a task is futile.

And I know too I was right - when something has been broken, there is no way to mend it.

Never Attempt...

You can't catch a butterfly in a jar and expect its beauty to remain.

Butterflies are destined to fly, and fly they do. By design, they fly away.

Never attempt to catch a butterfly in a jar; it will either escape you or leave you failed and miserable. In both eventualities, you will be left to ponder on your ugliness and your defeat.

If you are fortunate enough to have a butterfly bless your day, simply pause and perceive its beauty as it flies, free and unencumbered past you.

It hurts less, that way.

The Race

I always was better at the sprint than the long distance.

I thought I never had the stamina, but it was simply that I did not have the requisite endurance.
If I could not at least see the end, I saw no real point in beginning the race.

To my shame, if I stood no genuine chance of winning, I was not interested in the ‘taking part’.

This leaves me ill equipped for life.

Half my life ago, I had thought it would be a sprint; that I would live fast, die young, secure my place not only in the cosmic consciousness, but in the ego-centric archives of human history.

Like so many things, it has not worked out that way. My place is humanity’s chronicles is as yet unsecured, my life stretches somewhat painfully out ahead of me.

I wish I knew where lay that elusive finish line; I may run with greater speed and determination if I did.

Goodbye To Summer

Goodbye To Summer

This has been the darkest season I have ever known.

Yet all the time, I prayed for light, for hope, for a rewinding of time.

The gods in their heavens did not listen, or paid no heed to my senseless call. I know this now.
And who am I to question the will of the gods?

Summer is gone.

She is not coming back.

All through the rain I cherished the fake presence of her absence. All through the mud I waded with her placed inside me, still hoping that she would blossom, still desperate that she should bloom. All though the dark she was a light, still flickering; a light that only I could see.

But now is Autumn’s Dawn, not Summer’s Eve.

Now do the winds begin to whip more fiercely and the nights to draw more savagely. Now must I prepare myself for a season of seclusion and stillness.

Now must I wave Summer away, like a shining vessel on a river of calm, illuminated by the light of a thousand fireflies.

I must not cry, when she slips from my sight.

I must not weep, when I am forced to face this dark alone.

I must wish her well, don my boots and shield my face against the wind and accept that Summer is gone.

Hurt Heart

I am having trouble coming to terms with the concept of ‘broken heart’.
In short, I just don’t understand it.

Thinking about it is like trying to capture a sunbeam in a jar and use it as a night light; an impossible and confusing thing even to contemplate, much less do.

Surely, someone should have broken my heart by now. I feel like I am missing out on something.
Other people talk about having broken hearts.

Don’t I have one to break?

Or is it made of such tough stuff that no-one is capable?

Neither option seems particularly romantic.

Some things have hurt my heart, I suppose. Yes, that would be the best way to describe it. A hurt heart. Losses mainly. They have driven me to my knees weeping. They have winded me, doubled me up in pain, haunted me at night.

But they have not broken my heart.

The thing is, once something has been broken, it can never be properly repaired, and the pieces of a broken heart are pieces I don’t think I could ever stoop to pick up.

Crossroads?

I'm back at that junction again.

I don't know where I went. Perhaps it was down the dark route. Perhaps it was nowhere.

But now that I'm back here, I can see that there aren't just two roads, confusing and alluring me; there are at least three.

The third road looks the most dangerous of all, lines with candy cane lamp-posts and marshmallow pavements; it must be hiding something sinister as decay.

Not that I care.

I have already taken the first delicious steps along it.

Hating Mondays

More people than you’d imagine hate these high days and holidays; these ridiculous Mondays off that have a semblance of Christmas and Valentines and birthdays spent alone about them.

For most, (bank holidays, at least) they are a welcome relief from the monotony and tedium of their lives. They can fall into bed (their own or someone else’s) on Sunday night and not have to be up at the crack of the alarm clock to catch the train, do the ‘school run’, dash for the bus, schlep themselves into their car and sit in the rush hour jam for far too long while precious minutes of their lives slip by, minutes during which they would be doing …. nothing, very likely.

For others, they are a reminder of what they have lost, or never had to begin with.

I know. I have heard their stories.

For many, it is just another day, no better than the last one; worse, in all probability, because they will be forced to feel the pain of whatever it is they have pushed to the back of their mind.

There is the Scottish agoraphobic alcoholic with the shaking voice who would have taken himself and his bottle to the grave already were it not for the small dog who depends upon him.

There is the woman who will never see her children again due to the number of times she has tried to take her own life in the hope of escaping the horror of her past. (One day she will succeed.)

There is the motherly sounding housewife who’s medication does not always work, who hears the voices that tell her her sister’s fatal cancer was all her doing and she weeps because she believes them.

And there are thousands of others; they all hate these Mondays.

Already Gone

They keys still lie where they were thrown
A third of the wardrobe is cleared;
The good stuff had already gone

The walls are stripped of pictures
The rooms are stripped of air
The albums filled with pictures
Of those who are not there

The ring fingers are painfully unadorned
What use now belated tears when
The good times had already gone.

Our Souls Remain

There is a song which expresses very well what she is feeling.

It explains to her, better than she can to herself, that all that we ever have is our soul. People and places and things come and, inevitably, they go, but our souls remain.

Whether or not they remain in tact, however, is something of which she is unsure. Lately, she feels that hers is somewhat shredded. Perhaps, in time, she will find needle and thread, and the skill needed to manipulate them, and sew it seamlessly back together.

Things have been lost, places have been left, people have come and taken from her and disappeared again.

But her soul remains.

The Mistress

He is spending the weekend with his wife and children; the perfect family time. Even the perfect family complete with father, mother, brother, sister, golden Labrador, detached house, sports car, four by four…..

They are going bowling, to the cinema, to eat pizza in one of those ‘child friendly’ garish restaurants, oozing with fake cheese and tackiness. She sneers a little when she thinks this last thought, remembering what a snob he is. And then she laughs, as she recalls his last meal; a fresh fruit platter eaten in bed.

With her.

She is sitting in a bar, sipping blood red wine from a goldfish bowl of a glass. Alone. She is alone of choice, she tells herself. And it is half true, at least. She has refused drinks from one man, smartly dressed, nice smile, then another, boxing, she thought, way out of his league. She would rather sit in the window, in the half light of early dusk, and watch the world go by; a world of which she does not feel a part and never has.

She thinks of him.

****************************

He is an excellent actor, of course. But he is an excellent actor not because he fears for his own scaly skin if he is discovered in his deception, but because he cannot stand the thought of losing those two children who’s smiles dance around their faces like kittens in a basket.

To any outsider, looking in, he would appear as the man who has it all. Inside, he feels as if he has everything and nothing, all at once.

She is being propositioned by a hundred men, in his mind. She will be smiling her alluring smile, so innocent, yet bewitching. No-one, he thinks, could withstand that; he could not. There will be one, he feels sure, who’s proposition she will accept.

His whole self bristles at the thought of her being with someone else, though he himself will lie in his suburban bed tonight, wife by his side, no longer able to fake another excuse of weekend conferences or moral building exercises.

Who knows, his wife may even touch him and he may even respond.

But if he does, he will all the while be thinking of the fruit platter shared in bed, forgetting the lingering and long goodbye, looking forward to the next touch of her hand in his, wishing he was somewhere, anywhere, but not here.

Wishing he was with her.

The answer is blowing in the wind

She is a waif. A slight gust of wind would sweep her into oblivion.

She notices no-one and no-one notices her.

Once she was a princess, beautiful and talkative, encased in fine fabrics, protected by sturdy walls.

Now she is a silent ghost on a dirty street. Walking wherever it takes her is the only thing she know how to do, now that all her accomplishments are merely memories.

She is only a few steps from a lifetime in the gutter, and a few steps less from slitting her wrists with the first rusty blade she happens upon.

Nothing

I wonder when it was that my perception became so skewed, when my wisdom went so awry, that I thought nothing was all I deserved.

I cannot pinpoint it exactly, but since then, whenever it was, nothing is what I have received. It is only now, when I seem to have woken up, so much so that I am perpetually awake, perpetually aware, that I realise I deserve something, something, at least that.

There was turbulence, for a while. I deal rather well with turbulence. Sometimes I even think I like it; perhaps it's something to do with adrenaline rushing through my veins and into my brain and out through wide eyes. Or perhaps it is to do with being needed. Perhaps it takes the attention away from me.

All these things and more, probably.

I don't mind so much, when things smash. I let the pain of them slice into me; it lets me know I am alive. I can even pick up the pieces, secure the stronghold, batten down the hatches and so on, despite being bloodied and bruised and blinded by the crash. Still, I sweep into neat, obsessively neat, piles, the remnants of what has been borken.

It's the putting back together that I cannot do. I have no glue. Instead, I have shaking hands.

And these are the times when I wonder if nothing is not merely what I get, but if nothing is what I am.

Musings upon musings

There is no two ways about it.

He is watching her dying.

Death's cart is a heavy presence in the room. It's menacing trundle has long since ceased to haunt him. He knows it will come. He knows it is inevitable.

He wants to claw back fate from the pastel blankets, gently resting on her scarcely moving chest, claw back the years that passed so fast and meant so much, claw back the life he still, after all this time, believes is inside her.

Yet he knows he is lying to himself.

As her breating becomes slower, shallower, barely perceptible, he finds himself doing what he never thought he'd do; he finds himself giving in.

He looks to Death, silent and respectful in the corner of the room. He nods his head, and as he does so, his whole self seems to cave in and over, leaving a shattered cavern where he used to be.

But he is still breathing, living still.

It is she who is not.

Her soul, her magical, wonderful, luminescent soul, is gone from the room. Death has laid her gently on his cart and has departed; he did not stop, to say goodbye.

He looks at the body, at the corpse, scarcely more lifeless and palid than it had been for weeks and feels his own heart, still beating perversely in his chest.

Why then, does he feel it is he who has died?

Reminders

The house is full of reminders.

Not love notes, or perfumed scents, just cruel references to the fact that he is gone.

There are the hall blinds, never hung. She does not know where to begin with the hanging of blinds. She has a feeling is has something to do with plugging walls, which involves the use of a drill. She does not know how the drill works. Imagine that, she thinks, all this time and I do not even know how to use my own drill.

There is the picture he put up above the dining room table. It never did look straight, never matched the décor of a room planned with precision and skill. Before, it annoyed her, the way a beautiful but over indulged child might. Now, it fills her with hate. She wants to tear it down and rip apart the canvass.

There is his side of the double bed, a bed he never made but, instead, upon which he cast wet towels and laundry. For all he knew, the pillows were straightened and fluffed, the duvet smoothed, the wet towels hung neatly to dry, the laundry cleaned, pressed and meticulously folded by elves or sprites or unpaid and invisible servants.

She cannot bear that double bed any longer. She has moved into the guest room. A single bed befitting a single life she thinks, with heavy head and dark eyes.

Each day, she finds something else he left undone, like his life, half lived, like herself, half loved.
Each day she mops up a little more of the spillage she never knew was there and wonders, Is this how it’s to be, from now on?

Fool

You think you’ll woo me
With what? With words?
My well chosen weapons of choice
I’ll snatch them away
From your tremulous mouth
Crush your snivelling, wavering voice

Come then and pursue me
Only to find, you slow
Down when you can’t make the pace
I’ll follow the sun
While you’re stuck in the clouds
And the rain lashes tears from your face

Save yourself

Here I sit. Here I muse.

But tonight, I am not musing. I am not even pretending to muse.

I am staring, not at anything, or anyone, not even into the middle distance, or any kind of distance what so ever, but into a strange kind of wasteland, populated by lost souls with empty hearts.

The landscape is bleak, if bleak is not too tame a word for this grey so filled with heaviness it barely stands. It blinds my eyes, after a while, as snow blinds when the sharp sun hits it like lazers, though I continue to stare and stare and stare until a salt wetness turns my acid green eyes to a vapid Atlantic blue.

I wonder if they can see me, those desolate creatures. I wonder if any will recognise me, when my eyes are the wrong colour and my words and stilted are leaden. I wonder if there is a barrier I may cross to reach them, or if I have the energy to vault it, could I see it.

And what would I offer them, even if I did?

There is a voice behind me.

'Save yourself' it urges, 'before you become one of them.'

I protest. It does not listen.

'Save yourself. Some souls will be forever lost. There is nothing you can do.'

I know that it is right. I will try to wrench my gaze away and turn to the bouyant, hopeful voice that smells of fresh springs and new beginnings, laughter and crystal and white sheets and somehow utters the saddest words I have ever heard.

'There is nothing you can do.'

Precarious balance

I lost something
To gain something
I never would have got
Had I not balanced nature's pedantry
With pain of nature's loss

I lost something
To gain something
Of far, far lesser want
Take that, then, and put it
In your box of paradox

The infamous 'two roads' scenario

I am standing in the middle of nowhere.

There are two roads in front of me. They are un-nervingly parallel.

One is dark and quiet, somewhat overgrown and moonlit; things of an unidentifiable nature seem to glimmer in the foliage. But it is not well trodden. And I cannot judge the distance to the end.

The other is a bright and ordinary highway, busy and burbling. People pass and laugh and exchange meaningless nothings. It is populated, it is safe. There are even signs to show the way.

A shard of common sense pierces me and tells me to choose one or the other, instead of standing here stupidly in nowhere.

But I don't know which to choose. And I also don't know why I can't walk them both.

When life imitates art...

When life imitates art the results are, quite frankly, often disasterous. Like one of those horrid modernistic type things that is simply festering rubbish piled in a stinking mound. (I hope no messy teenage types are reading this; they will probably submit pictures taken on camera phones of their bedrooms for their GCSE art projects, and get triple A * s no doubt...)

But anyway.

I have had an unfortunate brush with life imitating art, the consequence of which leads me to believe I would perhaps be better off staying under the pink eaves and never venturing out again. This is an option which I am seriously considering. I may even make a list of just how plausible an idea it is.

Again, but anyway.

If I could have picked a book (literature is art, isn't it?) or a film or a song or even a sculpture (about which I know nothing), I would have liked this particular period of my life to imitate, it would not have been a morbidly depressing tale of dysfunctional families, a woman's greed, a man's folly and the ridiculous forging of ties that prove particularly difficult to unknot the moment you realise that satin green really doesn't suit you. There's too much of this kind of garbage as it is.

(For the purposes of information, I would have picked The Lord of the Rings and cast myself in the role of Legolas; at least I could have kicked some ork ass and been all wise and mystical.)

Sadly, it was the former, rather than the latter, with which I have been 'blessed'.

Most people have had experiences which they would describe as negative, which they would much rather not repeat, often foisted on them by the cold, gnarled hands of those they really wish they had never met. I am one such person (again, the former, not the latter; my hands are lovely, thank you very much, and particularly well manicured) and have been known to say that, if I stuck a pin in a particularly well defined and accurate map, I would have no chance, no chance at all, of sticking that pin (metaphorically) into anyone with such crone's figures and sackful of crap (for want of a better word).

Suffice to say that I was wrong.

Whatever you do, don't go sticking pins in maps and thinking you'll end up piercing a decent human being. You're just as likely to hit the wicked step mother in waiting as you would be if you went looking for her. More so, probably.

I feel there is probably something deeply significant and karma related to this fact. And it is a fact; trust me on that one. You don't need to suck on the bitter lemon of experience to learn from it. However, what exactly eludes me.

This does not help with the finding and ordering of my marbles which are now scattered all over the place in a dangerous yet attractive pattern.

The joy of text...

Earlier, I achieved the seemingly unthinkable.

I fell asleep before midnight.

I fell asleep before midnight because I was worried what the consequences would be had I not. (I am rather concerned about the whole marble losing scenario.)

Of course, it was not a particularly sound or restful sleep, but we insomniacs can't be choosers and all that, and it was very short lived too.

This is in no small way thanks to a 'friend' of mine (who is difficult to label, having lost many a marble himself, though in a much happier capacity) informing me that he was having a biscuit.

Really, I think this was information with which I could have lived without.

The method by which I was informed was text. Rather cleverly, I thought, I had switched my mightily annoying text alert to vibrate in the hope that it would not wake me from MUCH needed sleep should that much needed sleep arrive.

However, on my bedside table, which stands on a wooden floor, the vibration was so sudden, dramatic and generally LOUD that I woke instantly feeling sure there was an earthquake, accompained by a little flashing light on a silly pink device. No, then, not an earthquake, but an emergency, surely.....

....not.

So now I am awake, listening to August rain and unseasonable August wind lash the water against the windows and run in tear-like rivulets the side of the house, along the drive and into the gutter ... taking something of myself with it as it goes.

Who is sanity, what is she?

I have reached the somewhat unfortunate conclusion that I am, in colloquial terms, ‘losing my marbles’.

Indeed, I may, perhaps, have already lost them.

Perpetually watching ‘Girl Interrupted’, ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ and ‘Boys From The Blackstuff’ does not seem to help with the maintaining (or regaining) of one’s sanity. I cannot, for the life of me, think why.

I had no reason for beginning this blog (I do not count insomnia and a penchant for procrastination to be worthy of the ‘reasons’ tag) but now I feel very much like it’s composition is rooting me in reality, a virtual type of reality (if this is not too much of a contradiction in terms) or, at the very least, documenting the battle (which I am losing) to triumph over something that I cannot quite define.

The days pass. They merge. They converge. The dance around me wearing ridiculous pajamas. They tease me, taunt me, try to make me do something, anything, an impalpable thing … a thing that I cannot do and do not understand.

A sweeter poison...

The sweeter the honey, the deadlier the poison.

The more sincere the words, the less genuine the meaning.

Yellow and black may appear entrancing, but stings can kill.

Especially the sensitive soul.

The unachievable goal

The things we want, and cannot have, are always far, far, more alluring than the things that fall into out lap, or even those which make us stretch a little in order to reach them.
This, my friends (Romans, countrymen) is le fact.
I am not altogether sure why. Though I am trying to work it out. (Oh, and if anyone knows for certain, let me know; I might sleep better then.)
Don’t misunderstand me here; I’m grateful for the things that I’ve been given, or the things that were easy to get. I don’t mean to devalue them, but there is something inside that insists that they are simply not enough. There is something that tells me I must stride out in search of the seemingly unachievable goal and strike the ball into the back of the net in the manner of Pele or Cryuff.
Of course, the thing about the unachievable goal is that it is, well, unachievable. And I think this has something to do with the attraction.
Wise men have, no doubt, said as much before. And with greater eloquence, I assume. But what the hell? I’m saying it too.
There are many, many things I cannot do. Equally as many fall into the ’cannot have’ category (Way too many to list. Besides, I am not in list making mode; my mind lacks the necessary organisational skills for such action.) and it is these things which I want… though if someone were to give me them, say I’d earned them, present them to me with all the pomp and splendour I feel they would merit … well, I’d probably just walk away.
Someone, I forget who (because I did not pay attention in my A level European History lessons, as was an official policy of mine at the time) said that the problem with Napoleon was that, when he had achieved power, he did not know what to do with it. I suspect I am much the same (apart from the war-mongering and the silly hat and being vertically challenged).
There was/is also a Sinead O’ Connor song; ‘I do not want what I have not got’ or something of that ilk. I’m ashamed to say, it’s the opposite way with me. Clearly, I have much to learn from my Celtic roots.
But, when it comes down to it, I’m stuck because, have it or can’t have it, I’m not altogether sure what I do want.

I was offered a pearl the today.

Sadly, it wasn’t elegantly set in an exquisite piece of jewellery; it was one of the ‘wisdom’ variety. And it was offered by someone who doesn’t know me very well. At all. Which both irritated and amused me.

When I’d prized open the oyster, the general gist of its contents was that, if one does like one’s life, one must change it.

Fair enough. Hypocrite that I am, I’ve been guilty of proffering this pearl to others, on occasion, though I hope I’ve been more discerning in its use.

For instance, if you’re doing a job you don’t like, and complaining about the job, because it’s giving you a ulcer and making you want to walk round with a bucket on your head, then the sensible option would be to look for another job.

But sometimes, oftentimes, perhaps, things, a lot of things, in our lives are waaaaaaaaaaay outside the remits of our control and changing them, rectifying them, righting them is impossible.

You can’t always heal others’ wounds, or breathe life into the dead. You can’t claw back fragments of your existence that have already been stolen, or rocket-boost the economy back into a more ‘friendly’ state. You can’t stop knife wielding maniacs sticking daggers in your back, Christ, you can’t even see them coming, and you can’t sow your seeds on barren land and expect your crop to flourish and thrive.

There are lots of things you can’t do. And, equally, there are lots of things you can.

The real wisdom lies, I suppose, in knowing the difference.

Something to do with the return of Saturn, I'm sure...

It’s very strange, isn’t it, the way you can suddenly cease to know someone, right in the middle of a conversation, and yet, pick up the unbroken threads of that conversation over a decade later and find that, much like a fine wine, it improved beyond measure or expectation with the passing of time. Your attention may have been distracted when talking; you wandered away to find what it was that was glittering in the distance, fully intending to return, sometime, sometime soon…

But you never did.

Until now.

The glittering thing itself was never found. Perhaps it was never really there; a mere spectre on the horizon of a hope-laden imagination, something to take you away, for you never would have walked willingly. What reason would you have found for doing so, for cutting neatly those threads and turning your back on all you knew? None that you could have fathomed, not then. A speck of dust, momentarily illuminated by the sun, caught your eye. You followed it, and that was that. It led you away, on paths you never knew existed, and now, now it has led you back again.

And here you are.

Your eyes flutter and adjust as you gaze out over the sea of faces, a veritable ocean which was once a mere lake, calm and colourless. Now there are waves, there is deepest, impenetrable blue, there is beautiful turquoise, there is the grey reflection of passing clouds, there are flashes of white, proud and terrible as they become the water’s peak; prancing with all of the magic of unicorns, basking in the rays of their brief spell in the sun until the all powerful ocean levels them once more. The eyes of the ocean look back at you. Some accusingly, some bewildered, some delighted, some floating on the satisfaction of seeing you again.

And, before you realise it, you find yourself already identifying certain pairs of eyes and matching them with names you thought were forgotten but now chime like Christmas bells in the forefront of your mind. But it is strange. Some of the eyes do not appear the way you recall them to have once appeared. There were warm eyes which are now icy and slitted. There were laughing eyes which are now downcast and damp. There were shy eyes, which are now brilliant and filled with quiet luminosity. There are eyes which catch yours. Eyes which you thought never would. Some eyes even speak to you. They use words which you cannot remember them knowing, much less addressing to your own eyes, mystified and enchanted all at once.

Some tell you they are sorry, though you do not remember them as having any reason to be so. Some tell you that they loved you, though you find it incomprehensible and your own lashes flutter with embarrassment and disbelief. Some speak of admiration and veneration, though they have never once spoken to you before. Some - and these are the eyes which hypnotise you the most - reflect your own life, your heart, you soul and, after brief communications with other eyes in this vast sea, these are the eyes upon which you linger.

These are the eyes that have led you back, twice as dazzling and powerful as the glittering object which initially led you away. You open your own eyes wide, find that you have a mouth too, out of which words are spilling and, in what seems like a mere instant, the conversation is resumed, the words clearer and more meaningful than they ever were before.

Blog 1 (original, eh?)

I cannot sleep.

Not that I'm suposed to be sleeping now. I'm not. I'm meant to be working. But my boundaries are sufficiently lax as to allow the creation of this blog to fall under the parametres of work.

So, back to the sleep. Or, rather, the lack of it.

I have researched my insomania, on the internet no less, this wonderful fount of knowledge, wisdom and ... well, late night shopping oppportunities. Apparently, it is acute. This does not sound good to me.

Nevertheless, it is what is is. Or something.

When sleep evades me, I often chat nonsense with whoever happens to be up during what my Scottish grandmother would call 'the wee hours' (if I had a Scottish grandmother), sometimes, I even chat sense (but rarely), many times, I muse.

Today I had a vision, a revelation, a Paul on the road to whatsists epiphany type moment; why not put my musings in a blog, so that other idiots from the planet lunacy who cannot sleep have the opportunity of reading something other than celebrity gossip, or, worse, researching their god damned insomnia?

'There are many reasons why not.' said a sensible voice in my head, which is far too quiet far too often. 'For a start, you talk complete tosh.'

I told it to shut up. It did.

So, here's my tosh... though I prefer to call them musings.