Silence

Sometimes the words boil within me and seek their escape, the release in itself bringing release from the blight. The following is a such a release and relief followed...

A rancid void
The very rift
Of twisting reality
As darkened embers
Of searing emptiness
Boil in a cataclysmic
Tumult of tortured
Silence

The distance marked
By the bodies
Of fallen hopes
Whilst withered husks
Of broken dreams
Mark the tortured path
To the foothills of
Silence

As the dark of
False light leaks
And spreads with
Malignant temerity
Absorbing and feeding
On the final notes
Of benign hope, leaving:
Silence

Yet slumber falters
For a single sprout
Of green joy
As it struggles
Awake, raising
Its voice in a deafening
Roar of defiant
Silence

Lights out

I believe, all things considered, it might be time to be silent.

*signs out*

A reprise

As I wrote the last post I suddenly remembered a poem I posted over several months with the help of a friend. I felt it would be nice to air it again...

And yes, the spellings are intentional!

Remind me of
a smile so sweet
joie de vivre
crazy eats

Tell me of
peace to come
a quiet time
beyond the mourn
the darkest hour
before the dawn

Remind me of
A simple glance
Fearless words
A taken chance

Tell me of
the road ahead
Wide before me
Horizon spread
Lighter heart
And quicker step

Remind me of
A place once seen
With unrequited
Forgotten dreams

Tell me of
What I now miss
A look, a smile
A gentle kiss
Let me feel
That it was real

Remind me of
the hand I held
The simplest touch
The way it felt

Tell me that
it won't be long
To love another
Heart and soul
It isn't gone.

Remind me of
Smiles so light
Of the eyes
Pure delight

Tell me that
A friendship true
Can hold me close
Banish blue
Being near
To dry
a tear

Remind me of
the dreams I made
That fuelled me in
the darkest days

Tell me that
these hopes are real
Wishes granted
Don't let me lose
the love I feel.

Remind me of
Smiles so light
Of the eyes
Pure delight

Tell me that
A friendship true
Can hold me close
Banish blue
Being near
To dry
a tear

Remind me of
those endless days
Where laughs were loud
And plans were made

Tell me that
they're around the bend
Biding time, keeping watch
All I have to do
is mend

Remind me where
I long to be
Life's golden sands
By azure sea

Tell me if
I will be there
Baked from the glow
Of love's great glare

Whiskers on kittens...

Okay, so not so much favourite things. But then maybe they are.

I've lots to be thankful for and good things are on the horizon. Firstly, I have two lovely children. Who mostly don't kill each other. Or haven't yet. Which is good. Right?

I'm thankful for my flatmate, who happens to be my best friend. I know I exasperate her. But then she does me. But I also can't imagine living with anyone else as, well, it's really a very good arrangement. I'm also thankful for her clear advice, almost constant joie de vivre and ability to be very silly.

I'm thankful that even given the tightness of things now I seem to have stuff in my diary for several evenings, some via my flatmate, some via my bezzie. Some via, err, me. I did say as we sat on the balcony the other night that not going out wasn't really an issue for me, I am still so happy in Contrary Towers, just sitting quietly on an evening reading or watching the ducks, whatever it is, feels peaceful and calm.

I'm thankful for my friends, who I know I don't get to see enough, especially as I've been hiding away, so I'm really glad I'm getting to see my bezzie next week.

I'm thankful the phone has kept ringing all week. So I still have a zero income issue, but at least I now have an ever filling diary of interviews next week. Which is definitely good. Honestly, that was the worst possible time of year to finish a contract. So I'm hopeful. As I wrote last time I do need the opiate of work to deal with some other things. If nothing else it reduces the number of issues to deal with.

And finally, I'm thankful that I'm managing to keep bouncing out of the sad moments. I'd rather not go there in the first place, but good that I get out quickly.

I still need a snog though.

Please leave a message

There's a scene in Bridget Jones' Diary where she checks her answering machine for the umpteenth time.

You have absolutely no new messages. Not a single one. Not even from your mother.

I'm living that scene. And it's my own fault, the direct result of creating isolation. The real danger is I'm becoming so used to my inner thoughts that I struggle to find conversation. I don't want to poison any I do find.

The paradox is the more I crave contact and conversation, the less possible out seems. Or is that an irony? One to ponder. I've little to offer and mostly if people do get in touch it's because they want something. On their terms. And this makes me feel resentful. So the further back I withdraw.

There is also the compounding realisation of. Hmm. Actually, I won't go there, suffice to say I'm resigned to being alone, I just want it to stop hurting and being on my mind.

I've never looked forward more to work than I do now. I need the opiate it brings, something to fill the void, a reason to go somewhere, a source of anecdotes, a chance to build vacuous relationships to try and fool my mind.

I just hope it's soon.

Writing

I was pondering last night why I write, I've touched on it before when talking with people, not never really considered it in detail. The reason is, of course, down to context. So with the Contrary Towers blog it's very much about sillyness and cataloguing some of the unintended events that seem to populate the lives of my flatmate and I.

For the purely whimsical, creative, view of the world I write (quite bad) poetry. Some of it light hearted, some of it darker than a very dark thing. Moments and feelings I need to express, but don't want to write tedious prose.

And then there's this. Where I do write the tedious prose. It does share something in common with the poetry in that it is an outlet, a release valve. Often, after writing, I do feel better and dwell less on the internal torments and can gain some clarity of thought in what is still an emotional maelstrom for me.

They all though act as a record, different facets of my life vaguely frozen in time, a chance to reflect on what went before.

I've been in conversation recently and the subject of writing came up and, in it, I realised that I've reached the point where maybe I can actually start writing something longer. I still have no idea of form or structure, but it would at least free my mind to journey to places that are no longer possible in my ever closing situation. It's likely that anything I write will be semi-fictional and, probably, semi-autobiographical, drawing on past experiences that I've not talked about and mixing in the hopes and dreams that will never be fulfilled.

For want of a...

Kiss.

Sometimes, like now, the urge, need even, to kiss, and touch, be held, is excruciating. The lack of it almost physically painful.

And yet I push everyone away.

Go figure.

But that also makes sense, because it can't just be empty. Maybe one day.

And if that can't happen can somebody please tell me how to suppress the empty desire.

Non, je ne regrette rien

Without regret. Without remorse.

This is what I should be thinking as I sit watching the sun paint Canary Wharf with a whimsical glow that I'm sure the architects never planned. You see, I know that I ought to be grateful to this, my plan B.

Plan A, of course, was to hold things together, to not watch a (now) 21 year marriage disintegrate in a cloud of indifference and, somehow, at least, get some affection back. Anything. I'm not talking something wild and passionate, this is a marriage that wasn't consummated until six months after the event. But, you know, something where I could at least pretend it was worthwhile. And not just for the children.

But the reality is that it is not to be and, actually, I'm flogging the proverbial dead horse. Or is that metaphorical. Who cares? Ironically though, I can't see any reason to simply walk away, ask for a divorce, and find a new future. Because what I have found in the last couple of years is that the world is full of idiots as well.

I know my poor flatmate gets ever so exasperated as I wail of the lack of intimacy, contact and desperation for a kiss, by which I don't mean a friendly peck on the cheek, but that's part of the same irony, you want it, but only with the right person. And that moment has very much passed.

And I find so many places to find such stark, painful, reminders, of how empty life actually is, the look of lovers, the touching of knees, the hand on a thigh as you talk. Little things. Things you see a lot on train journeys, or in theatres, the cinema. Or indeed anywhere that people gather.

But I know, at least in my case, it can never be, so instead I draw close in to my safety shell and avoid unintended pain.

The thing is, I'm getting used to being alone, and I mean that in a romantic or intimate sense. I'm more likely to actively seek out my solitude as it at least avoids visual reminders of the sensations I can no longer have. And I actively avoid situations that will bring me in to contact with fuckwits. And that has to be a good thing.

But, somehow, that yearning is still there.

Over to you Edith, you say it so well...

Prom 43

A child's view of the world
The scene blocked
The sound unfurled
A tripping note
The Rise and fall
As violins scream
In twists and squalls

People read music
Or eyes so tight
Enthralled, intense
Lost in no sight
The sound rolls on
The magic hall
The view's the sound
Behind people tall

An alternative view

So, I wrote last night, whilst in a state of mounting fury. Probably not the best time to write, but I did need to get it off my chest and, unlike with much of what I write, I also wanted to make it visible, though I didn't publicise that I'd blogged.

Work that one out if you can.

My flatmate asked me this morning whether writing it had made me feel any better. To be quite frank, it hadn't, the anger has been left with a nagging void which I will fill by walking in a while, once I've made some phone calls.

But it's not all bad. There are some shining lights. The lights that send a simple text message that make you smile and cry at the same time. The lights you can never thank enough for just being there. The lights that make the world a nicer place.

Thank you x

It's fine, really

Actually... It's not. I am somewhere west of apocalyptic. I really am very angry. And this is not a good thing because I'm internalising it and pushing people away.

Last night we had a party, which should have been perfect. And in many ways it was. But for three teensy little details. All of which reminded me why men are utter fuckwits and, in a peculiar way, reminded me why it's better to be alone, stand offish and, actually, rude, rather than deal with the things that really aren't worth dealing with.

First off we had the should mention the non-event. Which has really pissed me off. A salient reminder that, actually, I mean little more than occasional entertainment. I'll not go in to details, there is not a great deal to say. But when somebody claims they are desperate to see you in one breath and the only contact is a text saying they are drunk after a barbecue, well, you can see where I'm going with this.

So I got very drunk. Irresponsibly drunk. I even broke a glass. But that doesn't excuse the fact that I had somebody come on very strong and I did bugger all to discourage it right up to the point where he went from dry humping to getting his tackle out. As I stood by his other half with him behind. In this case I am really angry with myself. I was craving attention and ended getting precisely the sort of fuckwittery that I'm sure most would disapprove of. Now, 24 hours later, I can barely forgive myself. But, another salient reminder, of why I should avoid people whilst I'm alone. Which I realise will lead to perpetuating said state.

What makes it worse is that I really like the other half, she was lovely and, frankly, he doesn't deserve her.

Who's next? Oh yes. The king of the fuckwits.

Class act. I really enjoyed this one. I really enjoyed the faux pronoun mixing. The faux proper noun mixing. I enjoyed the incessant, narrow minded, bigoted probing wrapped up in a delicate purse of feigned interest. This was full on transphobic. And what's worse was it was in my home, on our balcony, at our party. I can't even begin to say how wonderful nearly all of my flatmate's friends were, but this one was declaring his true character as clearly as if it had been tattooed on his ignorant, opinionated, arrogant forehead.

The only saving grace was that, firstly, there were others present, including my flatmate and secondly, as Julia Roberts said in Pretty Woman:

I mean, in my own clothes, when someone like that guy Stuckey comes up to me,

I can handle it; I'm prepared.

But it doesn't make it right. I'm also pissed off that he took things out on my flatmate, not just about me, punched a hole in the corridor wall and, for added entertainment, has spent the day proclaiming that he was so drunk as a means to pre-emptively explain why he was such a fuckwit. So yet again it's likely I will scurry under my rock because of some deluded idiot that thinks he knows best about everything and is prepared to tell you why it's all your fault. Or, indeed, your flatmate's.

I won't have it. Of course I shall, as ever, maintain a veil of civility, but that's still more than he managed to convey with his caring, interested, constant and, actually, unwelcome probing. Things I will talk about with my closest friends but not with somebody I've just met for the first time. I also won't say who he is, or anyone else for that matter, I shall plead Chatham House rules. But you can rest assured that those who need to know are well aware of how I feel and about whom.

So here I am, scuttling for cover. I'm sure I'll emerge again, once the wounds have healed, but yet more venom has been sown and I now am pretty sure I would rather be utterly isolated than deal with the likes of this.

Life is too short.

A week's a long time

They say a week's a long time in politics. Nothing though when compared to Contrary Towers, where an hour is an eternity filled with juxtaposing contrasts and twisting ideas. A week ago I wrote about our escape from London to escape the hype. The result of the exhaustion brought on by constant reports of doom. And Boris on the Tannoy.

But here is the advantage of being contrary. It's okay to change the mind.

On Friday we spent a lot of the morning watching the Olympics, the odd thing at first, we were both working at home, but by the end of the athletics session we were glued. There, said it. On the way to Norfolk to see my children and the nearly-ex I found myself checking the news to see how things were going. Me. Checking sport. Me. Weird.

And here I am on Saturday night. I've shed buckets over Jess Ennis, clutched my hands over Greg Rutherford and squeaking with excitement as Mo Farah did an Ennis and didn't just win, but won with style. During the day I was updating my flatmate by text with the latest news as I bumbled around the house, again, unheard of. I even had my laptop connected to the BBC as I cooked.

I've just had a text from my Irish gentleman friend, he's back from the Olympic Stadium. And, I admit it, I am actually quite jealous, I would have loved to have been there. But then as, until yesterday, I had no interest whatsoever, it was unlikely.

It's not the sport thing. It was the sheer humanity of the competitors, athletes, rowers, cyclists, every one of them. And that they could draw together not just this fucked up country but also this even more fucked up individual is, in itself, nothing short of a miracle.

I salute you all. And, when I return, might just have a Limehouse Half Cut in your honour.

A contrary outlook?

A long time ago I came across a snippet of a piece of poetry by the inimitable T.S. Eliot hidden within the Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B by J.P. Donleavy. I first came across this book by chance in the darker corners of the cloakroom at my University's summer ball.

Don't ask why I was in the cloakroom.

Anyway, years later, when I was rather stupidly getting married, I wanted to use these words, but couldn't find them. In retrospect I realise it might have been my subconscious trying to tell me something.

Ten years later I tried to find them again, nada. Very frustrating. And then, about a year ago, I did stumble across them. But, being the ditzy thing I am, I promptly forgot where. But was overjoyed that I did find them. Where I was when I found them, with my perverse hindsight, makes sense.

Last night the words came up again, owing to a quotation of T.S.Eliot on the score of A Child of Our Time.

'...the darkness declares the glory of light'

I had to hunt the words down as, I felt, they almost matched the joint outlooks of the residents of Contrary Towers.

I hope you like them.

From Little Gidding, the fourth quartet of, err, the Four Quartets by T.S.Eliot

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

No point

The title says it all.

I was struck, very hard, with the realisation that there is no point. And if there is no point, what's the point in trying?

I hate being alone. Craving touch. Craving contact.

I hate not knowing who, or what, I am. It's debilitating. But I'm not wanted in either world so it's impossible to decide which would be the best of the worst. The irony that the one thing I know I do desire is as the pot at the end of the rainbow.

An impossible dream.

And I hate that I've lost hope, and even that the muse of my creativity has gone.

I need to stop chasing rainbows and just accept mere existence.

I need to get a grip.