My memories do not look like the sun;
Flames burn brighter than my looking back;
If snow be white, then my thoughts are none;
If I have life, I know not what I lack.
I have seen a world of my own, shut it tight;
Where no man might venture to stories told;
I have watched the ticking of time in delight;
Though never did I feel I might grow old.
I love to think things past, yet well I know
That I carry the baggage in my hand;
I grant I never thought the past would grow;
My memories, when they walk, make me stand:
And yet, by recall, I think my life as rare
As any given up and never shared.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Hurricane
Black. The only colour I can see as the door closes and the world is shut out of our haven underground. I feel stifled already, terrified as the sounds begin to collect themselves, building momentum, gathering strength.
The scratching of a match and the sudden flame horrifies my senses; I was becoming accustomed to my muffled surroundings: deadened sight and hearing only through the thickness of the earth. The flame brings me back to the reality of the situation - we are waiting for the hurricane to hit.
In the flickering light I can see the marks of the recycled aluminium that forces us close together, strangers and love ones, sealed tight into this living coffin. The sounds of heavy breathing recreate the hurricane in my ears and I am reminded of last time we were struck; some of us weren't lucky enough to make it down here that fateful night.
The air in the shelter shivers with anticipation as the orchestra on the ground above reaches towards its crescendo. No one moves down here when up there it must be chaos; it is a scene we can only imagine - until it is all over. It's hard to catch precise sounds in the confusion of vibrations, but I am sure I can hear a woman's scream fading out into the distance, perhaps the snap of her neck as the wind whips her around a tree trunk.
I can no longer remember the world as it once was: everything in its place. In my imagination even the colour has drained from the world outside. When we ascend the steps and look out at the devastation we will find that the sun has been swept away with the rest of our belongings, never to be seen again and we will be forced forever more to live in a land of clouds and misery. No flowers will light up the roadsides and no balloons will reflect in the blue of a child's eyes. This time is not the same as the last.
I will awake and the ground will be at peace once more, but for now my dreams are haunted by the proximity of relative safety and the nearness of utter destruction. I cannot reconcile my mind to the here and now. A child begins to tear at its hair in desperation and I know how it feels. Outside the wind is tearing foundations from the earth and it is just as painful as ripping out hair.
My breathing begins to echo the sound of the tribal drums pounding outside - a car, a street sign, no discerning musicians in this hurrcane. My mind begins to swirl and race as I drift into unconsciousness. The only way to survive is to give yourself up to the hurricane's demands: listen, listen to my power. Listen, come dance with me.
The scratching of a match and the sudden flame horrifies my senses; I was becoming accustomed to my muffled surroundings: deadened sight and hearing only through the thickness of the earth. The flame brings me back to the reality of the situation - we are waiting for the hurricane to hit.
In the flickering light I can see the marks of the recycled aluminium that forces us close together, strangers and love ones, sealed tight into this living coffin. The sounds of heavy breathing recreate the hurricane in my ears and I am reminded of last time we were struck; some of us weren't lucky enough to make it down here that fateful night.
The air in the shelter shivers with anticipation as the orchestra on the ground above reaches towards its crescendo. No one moves down here when up there it must be chaos; it is a scene we can only imagine - until it is all over. It's hard to catch precise sounds in the confusion of vibrations, but I am sure I can hear a woman's scream fading out into the distance, perhaps the snap of her neck as the wind whips her around a tree trunk.
I can no longer remember the world as it once was: everything in its place. In my imagination even the colour has drained from the world outside. When we ascend the steps and look out at the devastation we will find that the sun has been swept away with the rest of our belongings, never to be seen again and we will be forced forever more to live in a land of clouds and misery. No flowers will light up the roadsides and no balloons will reflect in the blue of a child's eyes. This time is not the same as the last.
I will awake and the ground will be at peace once more, but for now my dreams are haunted by the proximity of relative safety and the nearness of utter destruction. I cannot reconcile my mind to the here and now. A child begins to tear at its hair in desperation and I know how it feels. Outside the wind is tearing foundations from the earth and it is just as painful as ripping out hair.
My breathing begins to echo the sound of the tribal drums pounding outside - a car, a street sign, no discerning musicians in this hurrcane. My mind begins to swirl and race as I drift into unconsciousness. The only way to survive is to give yourself up to the hurricane's demands: listen, listen to my power. Listen, come dance with me.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Greetings from the Outside
The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. She watched, sombre in black, as I was taken away from the court. The room had been deathly silent as we left; the guards to the side, front and back, staring into middle distance. I took on their expression as we marched the corridors and as disassociated themselves with me, I joined them in their vacancy.
I had mastered the look over time; devoid of emotion in order to survive. They called me ‘the ghost’ but never to my face, on the inside only the trusted had the right to own their nickname. A ghost I was, even in the mirror, a palid, shadow of the person I had been. I drifted from my cell to my duties and seeming to appear in a room without entering it I was known to frighten the more superstitious inmates, crossing themselves and glancing at the walls. They joked, why stay in here if you can walk through walls?
I stayed because I had to; there was no magic in that. Now I was being released, back into the sunlight, to become solid and tangible all over again.
I had not been effective out in the world, did not understand the rules I was expected to follow. Inside I had learnt to be a chameleon and I hoped this would provide the shielding I needed to function in the world. I could float in and out of the shadows as I pleased, blend into the walls and fade into the distance. This was what prison had taught me.
As they prepared my belongings I stood calmly, rocking on my heels. They had arranged for a place to stay for a couple of nights, an address scribbled on the back of my paperwork. I would make my way there, used to sleeping in discomfort I had no real needs. I had no plans for the future and my chameleon skin was the only change in me. I hoped to be more successful, that was all.
There was no bright sunlight to blind me as I stepped out into the open, but there was a figure arms folded, leaning against the walls of the block. As I walked past, the figure pushed off and began to keep pace behind me. Staring straight ahead, keeping my stride steady I walked on, but I could hear the footsteps behind, tapping out my rhythm, saying ‘I know you’ with every beat.
Marching round a corner I collided with a young man, who scowled, muttered and carried on. The footsteps behind had stopped with mine and I could see the figure, without turning, I could see its arms unfolding, hands resting on its hips. I imagined the shape of its body, rounded and stern, legs spread in reprimand.
It no longer mattered that I was a chameleon, the intangible ghost; nothing could compel me to move forward. Softly I turned and ran, as a child with a grazed knee would, directly into the waiting arms of my mother.
I had mastered the look over time; devoid of emotion in order to survive. They called me ‘the ghost’ but never to my face, on the inside only the trusted had the right to own their nickname. A ghost I was, even in the mirror, a palid, shadow of the person I had been. I drifted from my cell to my duties and seeming to appear in a room without entering it I was known to frighten the more superstitious inmates, crossing themselves and glancing at the walls. They joked, why stay in here if you can walk through walls?
I stayed because I had to; there was no magic in that. Now I was being released, back into the sunlight, to become solid and tangible all over again.
I had not been effective out in the world, did not understand the rules I was expected to follow. Inside I had learnt to be a chameleon and I hoped this would provide the shielding I needed to function in the world. I could float in and out of the shadows as I pleased, blend into the walls and fade into the distance. This was what prison had taught me.
As they prepared my belongings I stood calmly, rocking on my heels. They had arranged for a place to stay for a couple of nights, an address scribbled on the back of my paperwork. I would make my way there, used to sleeping in discomfort I had no real needs. I had no plans for the future and my chameleon skin was the only change in me. I hoped to be more successful, that was all.
There was no bright sunlight to blind me as I stepped out into the open, but there was a figure arms folded, leaning against the walls of the block. As I walked past, the figure pushed off and began to keep pace behind me. Staring straight ahead, keeping my stride steady I walked on, but I could hear the footsteps behind, tapping out my rhythm, saying ‘I know you’ with every beat.
Marching round a corner I collided with a young man, who scowled, muttered and carried on. The footsteps behind had stopped with mine and I could see the figure, without turning, I could see its arms unfolding, hands resting on its hips. I imagined the shape of its body, rounded and stern, legs spread in reprimand.
It no longer mattered that I was a chameleon, the intangible ghost; nothing could compel me to move forward. Softly I turned and ran, as a child with a grazed knee would, directly into the waiting arms of my mother.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Elation
in my mind i am a giant
i haven’t got the capacity to imagine myself any other way
no one can touch me and nothing will defeat me
in this world i am everything
i am the air that swims around me
rushing and gurgling
i am the heat that gushes in from the holes i have made in the sky
there is no one out there and yet the noise is deafening
tragedy has thrown it’s gaze around the room and there is no one to stop it
the walls have begun to decay
small chunks are hanging from the threads in the paper
crumbling beings hanging themselves with a floral rope
the lights have flickered and died
but the flames are sufficient
the sparks trip and fly away from the centre
escaping the chaos of the blaze in a panic
i will not be afraid
there is nothing here but me
in my mind i am nowhere
but the walls are closing in
the floor has become a grating gash
a cavernous gorge that will swallow me into its depths if i do not lift
i scrabble across the crags and into my sanctuary
my safe place
where i am a giant
there is no other way
in my mind i am suffocating
my lungs fill with sulphur and the world is blue
the darkness carries me away and in the night i am a giant
bigger than the earth and stronger than the wind
i can carry life on my back
crush it with my swipe or savour it in my arms
nothing will ever change, for
I am here, I am here, I am here.
i haven’t got the capacity to imagine myself any other way
no one can touch me and nothing will defeat me
in this world i am everything
i am the air that swims around me
rushing and gurgling
i am the heat that gushes in from the holes i have made in the sky
there is no one out there and yet the noise is deafening
tragedy has thrown it’s gaze around the room and there is no one to stop it
the walls have begun to decay
small chunks are hanging from the threads in the paper
crumbling beings hanging themselves with a floral rope
the lights have flickered and died
but the flames are sufficient
the sparks trip and fly away from the centre
escaping the chaos of the blaze in a panic
i will not be afraid
there is nothing here but me
in my mind i am nowhere
but the walls are closing in
the floor has become a grating gash
a cavernous gorge that will swallow me into its depths if i do not lift
i scrabble across the crags and into my sanctuary
my safe place
where i am a giant
there is no other way
in my mind i am suffocating
my lungs fill with sulphur and the world is blue
the darkness carries me away and in the night i am a giant
bigger than the earth and stronger than the wind
i can carry life on my back
crush it with my swipe or savour it in my arms
nothing will ever change, for
I am here, I am here, I am here.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Fertility
He knew what was coming; pretty much. He was ready for it. The café was alive around them: the shouts of the kitchen staff and the chatter of the customers were the cheerful everyday sounds of life. The café was buzzing; suits came and went with Styrofoam cups of strong black coffee, mobile phones bleeped, students chatted, took their time. A child screamed from a slap on the arm. None of this could drown out the words waiting to come out of Sally’s mouth.
“I’m pregnant, Dan.”
She said nothing more. No explanation, no excuses, no questions. She just sat there, on the red plastic chair; sat there staring at him.
Dan had been careful every time, he was sure of it. But all those ‘how could that be’ questions were not forming in his head. What was the point? He could fight it or take the punch.
He stared at her, willing a look of surprise onto his vacant face. His eyebrows should raise, his mouth should form an O; he tried, but in the end all he felt was immense tiredness. His eyelids, instead of being wide and surprised, began to droop. Her face became a blur and his mind thought, if I don’t say something soon I’m going to just fall asleep, right here on this table.
“How long?” He shook his head, kick starting his brain back to life.
“How long have I known? Just yesterday. Dan, I told you as soon as I could. Have you been to bed at all in the last four days?”
She was not frustrated, she was concerned. Perhaps she’ll make a good mother after all.
“What are we going to do?” She sounded as if she was talking about a trip to visit her parents, not a…a what? A baby, a life? Neither of these terms sounded right. They didn’t fit; that wasn’t the situation at all.
Dan was glued to the seat. He had a few choices open to him: run away and never look back, say something - anything would do - or break down crying in a nervous wreck. He did not feel like he could do any of these things, his mind was empty and wanted to sleep. He could feel the dreams through a satin cloth of wakefulness; this is the wrong way round, I feel like I’m waking up into a sleep. This is not right.
He was becoming less aware of the café noise around him, drifting into a thick, soupy haze that was smothering him softly. The edges began to blur, he was looking through water and it was as warm as…the womb.
“Shitting hell!” Dan’s body convulsed and the world came back into focus. No, no, no. From cushioned tissue he was back to razor sharp edges in a flash. He was a fly zipping around the café, picking up minute images of the food, the lights; sounds came to him in surround and he was everywhere all at once.
A thud brought him back to the table, back to his body. In his panic he had knocked over the chair his arm had been leaning on and people were beginning to stare.
A plate smashed in the kitchen and Turkish curses distracted his unwanted audience. Dan looked around; his vision was returning to normal, the hum leaving his brain. Did I just have an out of body experience?
He felt exhausted, but not in the same way as before: normal adult exhaustion, like after a big shock.
“You alright? It’s quite a shock I know, but we can work it out. I haven’t even thought about the options yet. Do you need some time to think about it?” Sally reached out across the table, placing her hand palm up, an offering.
Dan was tired, but his mind was clear. He knew that he could finally take action.
“Sal, I’m sorry…”
He threw his own chair over as he stumbled around the tables and out the door. He caught his breath and ran as fast as he could, without looking back, away from there.
“I’m pregnant, Dan.”
She said nothing more. No explanation, no excuses, no questions. She just sat there, on the red plastic chair; sat there staring at him.
Dan had been careful every time, he was sure of it. But all those ‘how could that be’ questions were not forming in his head. What was the point? He could fight it or take the punch.
He stared at her, willing a look of surprise onto his vacant face. His eyebrows should raise, his mouth should form an O; he tried, but in the end all he felt was immense tiredness. His eyelids, instead of being wide and surprised, began to droop. Her face became a blur and his mind thought, if I don’t say something soon I’m going to just fall asleep, right here on this table.
“How long?” He shook his head, kick starting his brain back to life.
“How long have I known? Just yesterday. Dan, I told you as soon as I could. Have you been to bed at all in the last four days?”
She was not frustrated, she was concerned. Perhaps she’ll make a good mother after all.
“What are we going to do?” She sounded as if she was talking about a trip to visit her parents, not a…a what? A baby, a life? Neither of these terms sounded right. They didn’t fit; that wasn’t the situation at all.
Dan was glued to the seat. He had a few choices open to him: run away and never look back, say something - anything would do - or break down crying in a nervous wreck. He did not feel like he could do any of these things, his mind was empty and wanted to sleep. He could feel the dreams through a satin cloth of wakefulness; this is the wrong way round, I feel like I’m waking up into a sleep. This is not right.
He was becoming less aware of the café noise around him, drifting into a thick, soupy haze that was smothering him softly. The edges began to blur, he was looking through water and it was as warm as…the womb.
“Shitting hell!” Dan’s body convulsed and the world came back into focus. No, no, no. From cushioned tissue he was back to razor sharp edges in a flash. He was a fly zipping around the café, picking up minute images of the food, the lights; sounds came to him in surround and he was everywhere all at once.
A thud brought him back to the table, back to his body. In his panic he had knocked over the chair his arm had been leaning on and people were beginning to stare.
A plate smashed in the kitchen and Turkish curses distracted his unwanted audience. Dan looked around; his vision was returning to normal, the hum leaving his brain. Did I just have an out of body experience?
He felt exhausted, but not in the same way as before: normal adult exhaustion, like after a big shock.
“You alright? It’s quite a shock I know, but we can work it out. I haven’t even thought about the options yet. Do you need some time to think about it?” Sally reached out across the table, placing her hand palm up, an offering.
Dan was tired, but his mind was clear. He knew that he could finally take action.
“Sal, I’m sorry…”
He threw his own chair over as he stumbled around the tables and out the door. He caught his breath and ran as fast as he could, without looking back, away from there.
Friday, 19 February 2010
Unpopular
There was a time I was somebody; now I have no substance.
People look through me as if I am made of air. Sometimes they wonder what has brushed their arm, or they shiver as if a tingle ran up their spine. They don’t notice the spectral figure that wanders the borderlands, searching for a mate.
I imagine myself lifeless, somewhere in the distance, sitting just beyond reality, out of reach of all but the spirits. A mist hangs over me, thick and lifeless. My movements are dull and stiff, slow like running underwater.
I haven’t been seen for days, but if you look closely I am always there, standing in the shadows, hanging onto the edges of things, standing with my back against the wall.
Some said there would be nothing; some said it would come in a blinding flash of light. They didn’t describe the shackles as tight as an air lock that tether me to the earth.
My feet fall heavy and my mind is lead. There is nothing to think of, nothing to share, only the bleak mist of confusion, hankering for solidity; between life and death.
People look through me as if I am made of air. Sometimes they wonder what has brushed their arm, or they shiver as if a tingle ran up their spine. They don’t notice the spectral figure that wanders the borderlands, searching for a mate.
I imagine myself lifeless, somewhere in the distance, sitting just beyond reality, out of reach of all but the spirits. A mist hangs over me, thick and lifeless. My movements are dull and stiff, slow like running underwater.
I haven’t been seen for days, but if you look closely I am always there, standing in the shadows, hanging onto the edges of things, standing with my back against the wall.
Some said there would be nothing; some said it would come in a blinding flash of light. They didn’t describe the shackles as tight as an air lock that tether me to the earth.
My feet fall heavy and my mind is lead. There is nothing to think of, nothing to share, only the bleak mist of confusion, hankering for solidity; between life and death.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Living in my Mind
I'm scared. In fact, I'm terrified.
I have checked all the facts; nothing odd or strange. It all fits. But it shouldn't fit. When it comes to instability, nothing should fit this perfectly, that's the nature of the thing. Surely.
It does though. I've spent a while with it in the back of my head, wondering, guessing. Until I say it outloud it won't be real. But the feelings are real; I can't deny it to myself. Not really.
I'm still scared.
More scared than a broken leg, or a bad case of liver damage. Im not sure if I'll ever repair, I don't know if it can heal itself.
Nothing has to change, I suppose. Life will be the same as it was before, perhaps even better. At least now I know what I'm dealing with. Still don't know what to do about it, but I guess I can stop feeling guilty. Not a chance. That really is the nature of the thing. Guilty is what I do.
I think at least now I can understand a bit more. Understand the way some people treat me when they figure it out. They saw it all before I did, no doubt about that; but it's not unusual. Some people never believe it of themselves. It feels almost like a relief. I don't have to be a failure, just messed up. I don't have anyone to blame, but at least I don't have to blame myself. I can do something about it without having to begrudge the sacrifice I make. Now it's a sacrifice I have to make, before it was just a punishment. It won't get better, but I can stop paying pennance.
I don't have to scared anymore, I feel like I can start to understand. If I can control it then I don't have to worry again. The weight hasn't been lifted, not yet, but I can feel it easing every minute. Just like the lithium I'm afraid of what I'm leaving behind, but I'm looking forward to the future of no fear. I can stop feeling responsible for my own misery, even reject those feelings that turn people away. Maybe I can even get better.
But now that I know the reasoning, what if it gets worse? When I think about the potential that has been there all along I wonder how I have managed to stay this safe. I know what it can lead to and what it can do, I think about it and I can't breathe. My heart is racing and I'm picturing the scene. I don't want to describe it, the grabbing, pulling, punching, slashing violence of it all. Now I'm terrified again.
I can control it, if I understand it. Not in a power hungry, I must be the best way. Perhaps I don't mean to control it. I think I mean I hope I can live in harmony together with it; so that it won't take over, won't run me out of control. That I can accept it and carry myself through the hard times and into the good without hurting anyone at all. I hope I can carry it with pride and use the bad times to understand it more, learn what it can give me and take the good sides out of it. Maybe one day it will leave me alone and I will be in peace, but I don't remember a time when I was; don't know what there is to miss out on.
I am proud of my mind, even though I don't understand it. We will travel together, it and me, to make whole what has always been lacking and to carry what has always been dragged.
I have checked all the facts; nothing odd or strange. It all fits. But it shouldn't fit. When it comes to instability, nothing should fit this perfectly, that's the nature of the thing. Surely.
It does though. I've spent a while with it in the back of my head, wondering, guessing. Until I say it outloud it won't be real. But the feelings are real; I can't deny it to myself. Not really.
I'm still scared.
More scared than a broken leg, or a bad case of liver damage. Im not sure if I'll ever repair, I don't know if it can heal itself.
Nothing has to change, I suppose. Life will be the same as it was before, perhaps even better. At least now I know what I'm dealing with. Still don't know what to do about it, but I guess I can stop feeling guilty. Not a chance. That really is the nature of the thing. Guilty is what I do.
I think at least now I can understand a bit more. Understand the way some people treat me when they figure it out. They saw it all before I did, no doubt about that; but it's not unusual. Some people never believe it of themselves. It feels almost like a relief. I don't have to be a failure, just messed up. I don't have anyone to blame, but at least I don't have to blame myself. I can do something about it without having to begrudge the sacrifice I make. Now it's a sacrifice I have to make, before it was just a punishment. It won't get better, but I can stop paying pennance.
I don't have to scared anymore, I feel like I can start to understand. If I can control it then I don't have to worry again. The weight hasn't been lifted, not yet, but I can feel it easing every minute. Just like the lithium I'm afraid of what I'm leaving behind, but I'm looking forward to the future of no fear. I can stop feeling responsible for my own misery, even reject those feelings that turn people away. Maybe I can even get better.
But now that I know the reasoning, what if it gets worse? When I think about the potential that has been there all along I wonder how I have managed to stay this safe. I know what it can lead to and what it can do, I think about it and I can't breathe. My heart is racing and I'm picturing the scene. I don't want to describe it, the grabbing, pulling, punching, slashing violence of it all. Now I'm terrified again.
I can control it, if I understand it. Not in a power hungry, I must be the best way. Perhaps I don't mean to control it. I think I mean I hope I can live in harmony together with it; so that it won't take over, won't run me out of control. That I can accept it and carry myself through the hard times and into the good without hurting anyone at all. I hope I can carry it with pride and use the bad times to understand it more, learn what it can give me and take the good sides out of it. Maybe one day it will leave me alone and I will be in peace, but I don't remember a time when I was; don't know what there is to miss out on.
I am proud of my mind, even though I don't understand it. We will travel together, it and me, to make whole what has always been lacking and to carry what has always been dragged.
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