I can be your nothing. The thing in your life that doesn’t really matter. A background feeling. An underlying thought pattern. A goose with orange striped eyelashes.
While your everything comes and goes I am there. Washing dishes on a cold day. A cooling breeze on a hot one. Repositioning things on the mantle. A horned lemon with a sweet sweet tangy syrup dressing.
With all the potential I stay still; rarely showing any form. A shadow flickering in candlelight. The feeling of ‘what shall I do now?’ An unexpected hand gesture. A silken scarf with an image of Delia Derbyshire riding a resplendent golden moose represented by colourful sequins.
What is this chaos?
I didn’t choose to be born.
What is happening?
I see patterns that are destined to go awry.
My brain is not clear and calm.
Driven by a predetermined tick.
Pushing through the things I do and am going to do.
An addiction is holding on: Don’t stop me yet.
These stories start with a moment of intense change.
Curves flatten out and plateau.
You can be the catalyst for me to refresh.
A starting point in every moment lived.
To feel loved is to forgive yourself.
The guilt the blame the shame.
Start again and learn.
A wobbling cycle where the circles slowly get more unstable.
What is this chaos?
A dream. Nothing more.
What is happening?
Something worth experiencing.
I want to share my feelings with someone. My cat isn’t the most receptive… He was lovely this morning though. Laying next to him at night is nicer than laying next to no one. He follows me around and looks after me. He’s a good boy. Sorry this has already gone off at a tangent.
I miss holding someone. Just feeling another person’s warmth. If you were here I’d hug you as much as I could.
Life here is not idyllic. It’s grim… but the noise of burglar alarms and police cars, smashing glass and drunken kids is sporadic against the constant chirping chatter of the sparrows and the starlings. The regular sound of the passing buses is synced with my internal clock. The sound of the gears shifting down, the rumble of the engine, the hissing brakes and doors opening is like a regular tick of a clock in my head.
Not far away are rugged hills home to lizards, bees, butterflies, herds of deer and endless moorland. Once hallowed ground built upon by bronze age people, it has evolved through attempts at farming, transport, water management but now rests as wild land.
I’d love to take you on a walk around here. To have you see what I see. Smell what I smell. Feel what I feel. I hope to one day soon when we are both well and happy.
In days of old, when men were bold,
And paper wasn’t invented.
They wiped their arses on bits of grasses,
And went away contented.
Walking, wishing, wondering.
Seeing, smelling, savouring.
Hearing, handling, healing.
Being, balancing, and becoming.
Gotta comb my opalescent goat hair budgerigar to get it to lay some eggs of pure wheat flour.
Then take the elevator to the goose sky hideout above the mountain top cave where I live for the summer.
Pick elderberries before the cuckoo spit rain wets my obligatory Whisk Day gingham check shirt and shorts combo.
Finally get sweet slumber in the cave with the cat bear violin player playing lullabies into the deep black.
Bend the Angel’s will. Corrupt her pure heart. Steal her divinity for your creation. Oh my dear old thing; unholy perfection is at your fingertips.
Protect your processes. Nurture your weakness. Curb your strength. For once life is not absolute truth; subtlety is awakening.
God is infinite. Your lifetime is not. Nor are all words ever written. Unlearn everything you know; virtue shall lead you further than knowledge.
Everything came from nothing. The nameless empty. The unperishing void. Not bleak nor sad; for nothing is in everything.
Create something beautiful. Crude but complex. Naive but fully layered. Give your all; save the world. Go forth.
What is God except those dots in the sky at night?
Tries to see good in the negative.
Whilst experiencing difficulty in the positive.
Music, painting, drawing, writing, reading.
Sport, running, walking, playing, taking part.
Often anxious. Rarely judgemental.
Sometimes happy. Sometimes sad.
Tries my best. Likes a rest.
This is me. Down to a T.
Sitting down. Drinking tea.
Fear is a cruel imposter, a charlatan, a crook of the mind.
A false reaction or part of a disingenuous conversation is a recipe for a circle of tiredness.
Cookery is playing with fire unless you have a prescription for success.
Sour is a taste that is needed to feel sweet.
Mental dexterity is needed. Requirements move the mind.
Numbers can help us understand the physical world around us.
Two people trapped in love is the best and the worst.
Keep extremes conceptual. Nothing is as it seems.
Emptiness is invaluable but so is some other stuff.
What I am worth and to who does it matter?
She wants someone close, to hold, to love, to have.
Though she lives like a ghost, no one knows her name.
Wants a normal life but life won’t bend for her.
Feeling like a mess because her dreams aren’t coming true.
She looked in a book for words to help her out.
The book said:
“Ȝeue þi cunte to cunnig and craue affetir wedding.”
She knew what she must do, just felt lost and incapable.
So she stopped to love herself, to grow, to learn, to gain.
So did she ever change? Well, nobody did know.
She’s still wandering the town, through rain, through hail, through snow.
My biggest delusion also felt the most real.
Grief is the bite of the wind on your cheek. Life is the brace of air against your face and your hair standing on end.
Intertwined like two strands, they stood at the bus stop hand in hand. A familiar memory stood next to you is still there years after you saw them last. Look after your mind. Reign in fear and hate because you might be alone at the bus stop one day.
The breath goes in and out. Your breath becomes someone else’s whether you are on your own or not. Keep breathing, that’s what living is.
The things of the world hold sway over us all.
To be free from this influence is an illusion.
To be aware of it is the path.
Objects, feelings, and creatures are all included.
You are part, a mixture, not all this or that.
Position your intent well, this will point things to the path.
Relative to extremes, no absolutes are real.
Happening and moving in flux.
Change is the route the path takes.
There is a place of nowhere. A realm within everything.
Where your creation exists peacefully in balance.
This is the where the path leads.
NONSENSE, I’M OVERTHINKING. EVERYTHING IS TOO MUCH. NOTHING EVER GOES RIGHT. ABSOLUTE DOOM PERSISTS. Or does it?
A trickle, a pore.
Sat together and bored.
Nervous energy and a hot sun ray.
Exasperated tension that lasts all day.
Droplets form in the same place, no less.
Expending nothing still a sticky mess.
Thunder brews high above my head.
Atmosphere darkens and thickens to lead.
Excitement builds inside and out.
A response so primal it sounds like a shout.
A roar in the sky with light and a boom.
Synchronised with a release pent up in the room.
Pilchard Paul washes his wellies in the rushing river.
The skies sadden as the wintery wind keeps coming.
The sodden soil is certainly saturated this stormy stroll.
The loud lion roars raucously as the gloomy grey clouds close in.
A clap and a crack as frightening fracturous light lands on the loam.
Lion licks his colossal coat, wringing wet from the ridiculous rain.
Suclulent scent sniffed by the Lion’s lust for fantastic food.
Pilchard Paul runs and rushes toward the car on the corner.
Crafty clever cogs Lion lives not far the pride in from the periphery.
Low lionesses spring sporadically seemingly out of nowhere now.
RIP Pilchard Paul. Fishermen. Father of 2 bonny boys. Tim and Todd.
Sorry yes. That’s ok. I just walked in a tree because I was looking away. Sorry. Errrr. Where was I? Oh yes I’ve got to walk around the tree. Errr yes. Ok. Oh no sorry I got a text, one moment. Oh sorry tree again, I was looking at my phone. Oh the bus is here. Oh sorry driver I don’t have change will a note be ok. Oh wait.. errr. A £20 is my lowest. Sorry. Oh blimey it’s a busy bus isn’t it. I’ll have to stand up. Maybe I should just squeeeeeeeze past some of these people. Sorry. Oh I’m not getting off for a while and these people might be getting off sooner. I’ll squeeeze past another oh sorry. Errr ever so sorry are you getting off now? Sorry I’ll move out of the way so you can get out. Ah. At least there’s a free chair to sit on. Oh sorry my knee just touched your knee I’ll try and close my legs so I take up less room and sit on the outside of the seat. Sorry. Oh sorry you want to get past. I’ll swing my legs back around. Oh sorry you’re getting up, is it your stop? I better let you out. Ah at least I’ve got a window seat. Oh you’re sitting down next to me sorry I’ll tuck my legs in. Sorry, your bag is touching my legs. Ah it is my stop, can you press the bell for me please? Sorry. Ah excuse me you’re still standing, can I squeeeze past? Uh. Sorry. Right. Sorry driver, I mean thank you. Sorry.
Try to remember even the cleverest people are just advanced apes trying to conform to an ideal that is in their head.
The mind is a big place to get lost. The world is bigger. Space is unmeasurably bigger. The unknowns beyond are infinitely bigger.
You can paint tomorrow, today.
Things aren’t all bad.
Things are mostly bad with some good.
Nothing is absolute.
Everything can change.
Relativity and uncertainty.
Are how I understand.
Focusing on the process.
Not the result.
I remember things I do.
I forget things I’ve done.
Improving without knowing.
Happening by it’s own accord.
Seeing with my eyes open.
Doesn’t halt my dreams.
Holding you with warm regard.
I am living with my cat.
The psychosis bird swooped, lifting me up in her wings, she took me up high away from everything I knew.
Drop me off at the submarine port please, love. I’ve got to get to my wedding, I’ve got to look good while everything is falling into position.
I think I’ve forgotten everything. Everything I’ve ever known. Nothing is in it’s place and I can’t feel pain at the moment.
Nothing is everything and everything is nonsense. I’m floating in the air but I think they are taking me to the circus to put me in a cell.
The clowns are here every night terrorising me dreams. It feels so real. I’m taking it out on the guy next door what has I come to?
The filmstar across the way looks like a junkie. My god she’s gorgeous though. I could stare in her eyes and get lifted up all over again.
Am I still in the sky or am underground with the whole of existence settling back down on top of me?
This pond will take a while to clear.
It was raining in Fishguard for what seemed like an age.
She lived in an old wooden hut that had been built in days.
From a distant land, she was a raider from afar.
Settled down with a lobsterman she met at the bar.
In an outpost quite ancient – it had it’s own ways.
Their calender would deal celebrations on different days.
Blue rocks lined the valley – significant this stone.
Used to build henges and circles unknown.
She knew of this tradition but was a warrior by trade.
Settled dispute without force, with the wit that she made.
The lobsterman was abusive – he took her by force.
So one day she killed him – self defence of course.
The next day the sun shined and flowers did bloom.
Yet she was put in a prison to face her ultimate doom.