Play again

A suggestion from an inanimate source. Follow the dead and become dead.

There it was, a suggestion. What if I did follow it, just press the button, play it again. Groundhog day. Watch it again for no reason other than it's there.

I wasn't remotely considering this, but the words stuck out at me. What drives what I do? I have things on my list to do, instead of "play again". But who knows. Which is better, is not attending to my list also "play again" the same day again and again. What difference does that make, Cliche. Again. A cliche, Again. A cliche. Eventually the rhythm emerges, whatever the repeat is, it is of a beating heart, an heating heart looking for a body. I meant to type beating again but missed. So the heart is heating instead. Perhaps heating until it explodes. Now i'm off on a tangent as if that were not a tangent, and where is the straight?

It's so peaceful today. A long lie-in, nobody in, a wank, Noone to report to, noone to answer to, and noone to pay for. A small taste of the bliss I had, but this is bliss, having this space but knowing she is coming back. She keeps me going in these tedious times. The small things i cannot bear to do alone, she is there beside me. I need her to need me. My friend was right "you wouldn't have it any other way"

Back to the list. Or breakfast.

Chime

A white african girl sees a pregant woman brutally slaughtered. This incident, no doubt amongst others, strikes her consciousness which chimes into eternity. When a bell is struck it makes a loud and sudden noise and then continues to echo, and eventually seems to fade away. But physics tells us that the vibrations never completely die - they just become fainter and eventually imperceptable amongst the noise of other strikes and chimes.

When this girl came to London, I met her and the chime of this incident was clearly still ringing in her consciousness, above the noise even of the city - it spread out and coloured her whole personality with an intensity that drew me in like a fly to a burning light but then made me turn away from the heat of it. I never called.

This was years ago. Everyone seems to have their tragic stories. But I don't have any, as far as I'm aware. So I count myself as pretty lucky. But often I find myself drawn to people who have their own tragic stories.

***

I open the paper at random, as a distraction from the list-writing I'm trying to tackle in order to order my life, to control it nicely. A black african lady with a broad beaming smile looks like the picture of happiness. The article tells the story of some immigrants and it turns out this lady lost her family, all murdered.

"Her future is something we can't divorce ourselves from" says her English host. "Language began to take second place to a deeper strand of human communication" (Metro 24 July 2013)

These chimes reach me all the time, and often I try to block them out in order to create some peace and quiet, but of course the long-run effort in blocking them out always results in more noise than the amount which was blocked out. So what to do? Sing with the chimes maybe..

So long, and thanks for all the steak

I am in a state of bliss, sitting peacefully on a couch a very safe distance from a cliff-edge. I'm taking a break from trying to pull people away from the edge, so that they don't fall into the abyss.

One day, months ago, when I was particularly tired of trying to keep people away from the edge, I was so exhausted that I lay down, right there by the cliff edge. And against my better judgement and with a tingling sense of fear, I peered over the edge. And there looking up at me I saw what appeared to be a damsel-in-distress slipping into the abyss. Her arm stretched out to me. I took her hand and held her suspended over the abyss, her fate suddenly entwined with mine.

Now what I didn't realise is that from her point of view the story looks very different. It's no good simply imagining myself in her situation - someone about to fall down a cliff and in need of saviour - she's a different person, in fact she's from another world - she's an angel.

If she were from my world she would use thought, which might run something like this: "that guy is stuck on the edge, let me help him off and show him how to fly". I can only imagine this of course, and even if I were to ask her, the answer need not make any sense - we speak the same language, but the words have different meanings.

So I had hold of this damsel dangling over the edge of this cliff and my arm starts to get tired, not to mention I'm quite keen on getting on with some other stuff too. But I'm stuck: I'm too weak to pull her up, I feel too much pain to let her go, and I'm too scared to go with her. So I devise this cunning plan; I grab a rope I happen to have in my pocket for such occasions, tie one end round her wrist, the other round a nearby tree and tell her I'll be back in a minute.

I head off to take a rest on this sofa and look for some energy and inspiration to deal with this cliff-hanger. Meanwhile in her world, now badly translated into thought, she thinks "that's strange, I was trying to help this chap off the edge and instead he ties me up and disappears"

It's been more than a minute now, and I'm still enjoying the sofa. The damsel is safely secured, and no doubt if she wants to go anywhere a knight in shining armour will come by and pick her up. But there's no guarantee, and meanwhile I'm responsible for the rope, so she has also become my prisoner. I've captured the angel.

In a world I know only too well, I cut the rope and let her fly, but the memory of seeing her fall away stays and haunts me.

In a world I only imagine, I help her up, she unties the rope, and together we dance along the edge of the cliff. Or she waves goodbye saying "So long, and thanks for all the steak".

Michael Jackson

A tray of papers sit near me, still there untouched from last night when i had finally intended to attack them, as a pre-requisite for completing a VAT tax return due by tomorrow.

But the papers still sit there. Facebook started as a suitable distraction, and then a Michael Jackson video post was a trigger for a long meandering trip far away from the cold concerns of administration. Bashir's bashing interview, and yet Michael Jackson shines through the cynicism in his pure innocent love. People who love, really love, suffer. But they also experience real joy. I find it apt that I watch this in the early hours of Good Friday, a day commemorating an ultimate sacrifice.

My words are stuck. I am on the fence. Part of me wants to say, what the fuck how can someone like Bashir call himself a committed Christian and talk the shit he talks in his interview with Michael Jackson, gaining someone's trust and then betraying them. Pretending to be all grown-up with his rules of what is "normal". Prick.

If there is one thing I learnt watching those interviews, it's that we are all children and denying this truth is the cause of suffering. "Grow up" means accept your child, do not pretend he is not there and smother him. Wrong-doing comes from repression of the child, and the child will protest!

Michael Jackson was himself, and people loved him for it.

Now i've lost my point. The clouds haven't really gone, but let's not try to blow them away. Give thanks. Even to that bashing Bashir for providing a lampshade to the light, even though the lampshade is ugly, the light still shines. And thanks to Jane for posting a video on Facebook. And to my mother and father. And to Jesus Christ, for his love and sacrifice.

Something's missing.. is it the capital H?

Helping someone to feel useful..

My mother needs to feel useful.. and most of my life i have collaborated in her world without realising it, and now that i am pulling out of this world i am trying to come to terms with the void this leaves.

A small story happened yesterday that illustrates this. I have some apartments which i built, own, and manage. They are next door to my mum (this is another similar story but on a different scale, and the reason why i am now able to notice the small stories as well). I was showing her round one of the apartments as she is interested in interiors, and amongst other things she noticed a couple of dowels (small pieces of wood) slightly protruding from the side of the staircase. She mentioned how she would enjoy to trim off those pieces with her japanese saw (she enjoys carpentry herself), and i commented that at the moment i was not going to spend time on small details. Later she asked again (indirectly) if she could trim them off and it turned out that she wanted to do this to feel useful. I did not allow her to do the job. *

Was it right of me not to allow her? I believe it was. I have no doubts about helping her directly in things that she needs herself, eg to move some firewood, but i believe it is not my role to provide her with employment that makes her feel better.

What do you think?

*PS to absolve any guilt whilst hopefully helping her not to feel rejected by this, i needed to show her some love

When the clouds have gone...

Yesterday, all my troubles seemed here to stay,
Now it seems that they have gone away,
Oh i believe in today.

* * *

This is a personal diary blog about the cloudy times, but written during clearer times.

I get depression, and one of the worst things you can do during a depression is analyse, better just let the clouds pass and do the thinking on a clear day. And anyway i can't write properly when depressed, i would never get a sentence finished always wanting to fix it.