Over at short-humour.org.uk you can find two more of my poems. There's 'The Seven Deaths of Horatio McGubbin' http://www.short-humour.org.uk/6writersshowcase/thesevendeaths.htm and 'The Moon Who Would Sing a Sad Song' http://www.short-humour.org.uk/6writersshowcase/themoon.htm.
Enjoy!
Tuesday 19 June 2012
Thursday 14 June 2012
The Haunted House Dream
For years, probably since my early twenties, my dreams have featured a recurring motif - that of the haunted house. There's a main house that's nice enough but one of the doors inside always leads to a secret wing that's both scary and neglected. Sometimes these can go on for miles. Many of the doors in the wing are closed and on no account do I want to open them. I rarely venture very far and try to make sure I know my escape route if I do go more than a few steps inside. Sometimes there are voices that taunt me or call to me, other times there are sinister noises from overhead, but always there is a weight in the air, a weight so heavy and laden with ominous portent that I'm almost certain I'm going to be smothered by it. These can be gut clenchingly frightening, wake-up-gasping, chest-clutching dreams.
And I know what they're about.
Fear.
Fear of opportunities, of possibilities, of living my life.
Well, the haunted house featured again last night - only this time all but one of the doors were open and the rooms had been decorated nicely. They were all airy and light, with nice bed linen and fresh flowers in vases. The closed door was a very tiny one in the ceiling. Mum and I didn't go up there because we wouldn't have fitted. We somehow knew there wasn't much up there of consequence. So we went down to the kitchen and made a nice cup of tea.
It was a good dream.
Today, I feel as free of fear as I have done for ... well, for most of my life. It's funny what one small step, something you think at the time is inconsequential and might mean nothing, can do for you. So, yes, I have written more poems today. Onwards!
And I know what they're about.
Fear.
Fear of opportunities, of possibilities, of living my life.
Well, the haunted house featured again last night - only this time all but one of the doors were open and the rooms had been decorated nicely. They were all airy and light, with nice bed linen and fresh flowers in vases. The closed door was a very tiny one in the ceiling. Mum and I didn't go up there because we wouldn't have fitted. We somehow knew there wasn't much up there of consequence. So we went down to the kitchen and made a nice cup of tea.
It was a good dream.
Today, I feel as free of fear as I have done for ... well, for most of my life. It's funny what one small step, something you think at the time is inconsequential and might mean nothing, can do for you. So, yes, I have written more poems today. Onwards!
Wednesday 13 June 2012
Trouvez-vous ma poésie sur l'internet
A rather wonderful site called The Short Humour Site - www.short-humour.org.uk - has published a couple of my poems. Go here http://www.short-humour.org.uk/6writersshowcase/6writersshowcase.htm#CHY to check me out! You'll notice that right above me is the right Honourable Kate Laity. You should check her out while you're there too.
Insomnia
That ballbag sonofabitch monkey Insomnia is trying to climb onboard again. 3 nights now. I haven't had a bout for a while - and nothing like I had for over twenty years, from my teens on. The most beautiful thing about insomnia is not having it anymore. When you suddenly realise you've been sleeping, that you can manage this, that you can function like a human again, it's a joyous thing. When it comes back, it feels a like a terminal persecution that only goes so it can come back and kick you in the arse. Hard.
Possibly the worst thing is that your first instinct is "this will never go, I'm trapped". You resign yourself to it, let it get under your skin and mine away at your sanity. Because you're tired. I can feel myself doing it already. And that makes me want to kick shit the fuck over. Because insomnia is not the bloody boss of me. It's an arsewipe symptom of other things. So now I just need to work out why I'm so keyed up. I hate it when I'm twitchy and anxious. It makes me an epic ballbag. Just ask the mister - not that he'd ever say anything mean, the sweet ... deep sleeping sod! Having Snore of the Dead sleeping next to you is enough to drive you out of your already addled mind. If he didn't look so lovely, I'd have to pinch him and pretend it was the dog. (FYI He never believes that when I try to get away with it)
Another thing about insomnia is when you tell people and they say "ooooo I have trouble sleeping" and then go into all the ways their's is so much worse and what solutions they have and how you should try them - because, y'know, you'd never thought of drinking camomile tea or taking a warm bath or any other of the million pieces of advice out there. "You know what would make me sleep better?" I think to myself on these occasions. "Ripping your head off and shoving it up your arse. Let's see how much sleep you get then" It makes sense at the time.
There's almost no comradeship in insomniacs. You can feel like you're really suffering, that no one else can know exactly how and when they try to tell you they do, you're automatically defensive. Sleep is so central to our lives that when someone comes along and tries to chip away at your debilitation with familiarity, you cling to it, to your experience, not wanting it just to be in your mind, not wanting it to be less than what it is to you - a big fucked up mess of that frustration and panic. The "best" insomniacs are the ones who say "shit woman, I know what you mean. Just go easy on yourself" and leave it there. If you want to talk about it more, you don't measure your sleep-deprived equivalent to penis lengths, you say how it is and the other person nods and empathises, but doesn't compete. They can tell you how it is for them, but not by cutting all over you and taking one of your comments and running off with it, like the night runs off with your peace of mind. If you're that tired you won't be able to keep up anyway.
Possibly the worst thing is that your first instinct is "this will never go, I'm trapped". You resign yourself to it, let it get under your skin and mine away at your sanity. Because you're tired. I can feel myself doing it already. And that makes me want to kick shit the fuck over. Because insomnia is not the bloody boss of me. It's an arsewipe symptom of other things. So now I just need to work out why I'm so keyed up. I hate it when I'm twitchy and anxious. It makes me an epic ballbag. Just ask the mister - not that he'd ever say anything mean, the sweet ... deep sleeping sod! Having Snore of the Dead sleeping next to you is enough to drive you out of your already addled mind. If he didn't look so lovely, I'd have to pinch him and pretend it was the dog. (FYI He never believes that when I try to get away with it)
Another thing about insomnia is when you tell people and they say "ooooo I have trouble sleeping" and then go into all the ways their's is so much worse and what solutions they have and how you should try them - because, y'know, you'd never thought of drinking camomile tea or taking a warm bath or any other of the million pieces of advice out there. "You know what would make me sleep better?" I think to myself on these occasions. "Ripping your head off and shoving it up your arse. Let's see how much sleep you get then" It makes sense at the time.
There's almost no comradeship in insomniacs. You can feel like you're really suffering, that no one else can know exactly how and when they try to tell you they do, you're automatically defensive. Sleep is so central to our lives that when someone comes along and tries to chip away at your debilitation with familiarity, you cling to it, to your experience, not wanting it just to be in your mind, not wanting it to be less than what it is to you - a big fucked up mess of that frustration and panic. The "best" insomniacs are the ones who say "shit woman, I know what you mean. Just go easy on yourself" and leave it there. If you want to talk about it more, you don't measure your sleep-deprived equivalent to penis lengths, you say how it is and the other person nods and empathises, but doesn't compete. They can tell you how it is for them, but not by cutting all over you and taking one of your comments and running off with it, like the night runs off with your peace of mind. If you're that tired you won't be able to keep up anyway.
Monday 11 June 2012
Cold Baths and Coffee
Okay. I confess. I just sat in a cold bath and now I'm drinking a cup of black coffee. It's summer, my thighs are wobbly as fuck and I'm trying some fat burning shitdickery that's probably lies, but sounded logical when I read it through properly. I've never tried an actual diet thing, crash, mad or otherwise, but thought as I pretty much have no one to please but myself for a few weeks I'd give it a go. The best thing about it is that I get to eat shedloads. Marv.
Cold water is cold. I mean like "motherfucking holy shit that's fucking cold" cold. It's obvious, I know, but actually sitting in it - on purpose - brings a whole new clarity to the concept of coldness. Don't worry, I was very careful. I have a thermometer to check the temperature and light but warm clothes on stand by if I have to hop out fast. These days I am Cardinal Vigilant when it comes to my well-being. I've got to exercise in a bit and then not eat for a while. I imagine my only vocabulary by the time I get to eat will be curse words. And moans. Soft, withering moans.
Wish me luck.
Cold water is cold. I mean like "motherfucking holy shit that's fucking cold" cold. It's obvious, I know, but actually sitting in it - on purpose - brings a whole new clarity to the concept of coldness. Don't worry, I was very careful. I have a thermometer to check the temperature and light but warm clothes on stand by if I have to hop out fast. These days I am Cardinal Vigilant when it comes to my well-being. I've got to exercise in a bit and then not eat for a while. I imagine my only vocabulary by the time I get to eat will be curse words. And moans. Soft, withering moans.
Wish me luck.
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