June 11, 2005

On Vanity

Fearometer: 2 – now there's time to worry about life, love and the universe- phew

A big part of this particular breed of fear you cultivate is vanity. You don't do the work because no eartly incarnation could possibly do justice to your brilliance. Your levels of self aggrandisement are gargantuan, so much so that like a house of cards, they crumble by virtue of their unbearable size. And so what started as self-adoration in its infancy turns to hatred. The most passionate love affair of your life is also the rockiest.

The pinnacle before the lows aren't being well, they are inextricably linked to the crash. As you can't possibly live up to the cherished portrait you hold of yourslelf, you hold yourself to ransom in fits of impotent rage, to show the world that you hold the power to destroy this unsatisfactory imposter. The only problem is the story of self hatred sounds so sweet and safe once you hear it fullly that you believe it. After all this voice doesn't ask anything of you, so you banish hateful vanity which drove you to live.

This kidnapping starts by a few throwaway self deprecating remarks, which impel contradictions from others at first, until they become reckless, worrying, and others fade from view and you are left alone. The chase ends in a back street when you're confronted by a cracked self in a mirror,unrecognisable.

So you claw things back. And come to realise that maybe the vanity of the past didnt deserve such disdain. It drove you on. And tempered and caged it must remain.


June 01, 2005

Enclosure

Fearometer: 5

One of the most overwhelming things is happiness. A smile seems untenable, manic, like it could so easily stretch into a scream. Happiness is torture, ecstatic suffocation. Revision is somewhat difficult. The fear begs you to ask even if you grasped something as fully as possible, 'what now?'. You fear the pressure you would have to be pleased at success. Achievements are twisted to ring hollow and sonorous. You are guided through familiar thought patterns in a mind demarcated by electric wire which causes pain to transgress. So you sit, and time swirls around and beyond you.

But you weather the nausea of anxiety and walk into the buzzing strip-lit room with whatever could be retained in two hours' desperate revision. Revision, like packing an old suit case, with ideas falling by the wayside as you try to recall them. And two hourse elapses. Somehow something is scrawled on the page. A little suprised, you are channeled out between the rows of desks. There were times when to think of this moment was to tempt fate, maybe it always will be.

Granted a reprieve, you sit lulled and in love with the moment, the night. The fear is an unpredictable master. Thoughts flash like the moment crystalline slides are coloured with dye. Sometimes you remember these cease to fire and the only thing able to cleave the dulness is looking blankly at the poppy coloured spores, billowing like smoke under the cool water of your sink.

Just before the surrender of sleep under unclenched brow, perfect comfort and enclosure. You slip into unconsciousness, as unseeing eyes dart back and forth under heavy lids.


May 11, 2005

Digresssion

He stumbled home into the cool darkness of the kitchen, the clammy unmopped tiles like a pathologist’s slab, reflecting the texture of his pallid blotchy skin. Upstairs, the unmeasured somnolent breathing of his wife emanated, the same sound he would hear at the end of each dateless night in the half light of the buzzing street lamp opposite their window, nights spent in silence, each of them confined in habit, separate entities in their joint solitude.
He was aware of the fact that she probably knew of the liaisons, and somehow this frustrated him, it had virtually become a sport to see how brazen he could be about it, the cruelty almost becoming as delicious as the act- and he intended sneeringly to flaunt his quarry this time with the limp tie he clasped. The malice in which he held his comfortable backdrop often barely concealed in his unguarded throwaway remarks. Head still swimming with the intoxicating cocktail of nicotine and cheap red wine, although it was no longer the sweet drunkenness of the night’s beginning but had rather metamorphosed somewhere in the white noise of the night’s background conversation into this self-indulgent state in which he always met himself again, a stark impenetrable figure, left there after the crowds dispersed at the end of a night.
His clothes hung dishevelled and stale, his polyester shirt causing static crackle as he shifted restlessly before finally slumping uneasily in the chair as he fixed upon the pointless, witless conversation, the self-conscious effort of each knowing smile and double-entendre as he edged closer in the uncontainable impetus he felt within him as he finally irresistibly clasped her flushed cheeks in his hands, playing out each others hackneyed role in this lethargic cliché.
Behind his satisfied schoolboy grin lay the notion scattered somewhere in the setting for this breathless fumble, the strewn files and blind computer monitors, that this was all his life’s momentum could sustain. The moment of blissful vulnerability fleeting and elusive, leaving only recurring apathy. All of the infinite possibilities chatted about behind the sixth form block in the shrouds of smoke from their contraband Silk Cut had been erased in favour of this one, an afterthought, a tangent to the life he returned to behind the phosphenes of his sunken eyelids.
The oppressive weight of disappointment felt almost palpable upon his chest as it inevitably did after he returned from one of his exploits. Some sort of chemical reaction across the synapses, an evolutionary quirk he surmised to censor these illogical urges which would ultimately lead towards disorder and disjunction. The amorphous desire for gratification, impossible to rationalise, a spark to cleave the numb tedium of his thoughts.
All that resided in the gloom was an ache for something other, lifting the veils over his weary pupils onto a life which didn’t make him feel so distasteful like the bitter metallic taste melding itself in his mouth. Perhaps he could finally seize this in his idle dreaming fantasy of inhabiting another self, living another life in another time frame, yet in the watery onset of morning the familiar form of the figure‘s outline always came immutably back into focus.

Wheel of Inertia

Fearometer: 5

You do not have to fall into the tautology of succumbing. The forces of past events do not have to impact upon this eternally unfurling present. Each moment can be taken entirely in isolation you repaeat to yourself. Each one is a clean slate. Perhaps you will still be bound by threads from then, but they can be dissolved. A new legacy can be created.

The transition to this is fraught however. At first you try to fight everything, including sleep. The structures of day and night break down. And you dwell somewhere beyond either, eeking out a few hours before you are summoned back to a somnolent world, free of sensation and choice.

Motivation is an infrequent visitor, but when it arrives the urge to act is sometimes overwhelming. Like the ardent skeptic, you want so hard to believe that you sometimes crush it before it can establish itself. You're so used to the cushion of its absence you find it perplexing. All the things which may sustain it seem false crutches and contingencies; God, ambition, love. But acceptance of its fleeting nature is itself a reassurance.

And normality arrives only in installments


May 09, 2005

The half–light of morning

Fearometer: 5

Things have come a long way, and so you feel its time to write something entirely positive, with none of those bittersweet overtones (ok a few). To be entirely honest life is good. You find beauty in the everyday, time does not entirely elude your grasp. Happiness is an awkward coat to wear but it fits better than it ever could that angry teary child alone in the cubicles. Then was not yet time.

Anxiety still clasps at your chest every now and again but somehow a sense of perspective has been added to the frame. The calm after the storm for the nerves is palpable. And it is not the saccharine calm of apathy, you realise now that life involves your involvement. Things do not ever do themselves, no matter how much you may will it. And it is thrilling to do them, affecting change is empowering. Actions are in the imperative.

To live like that was not to live, eyes wide open let in too much searing light. More viable is eyes half closed, as in the light of early morning. Some emotions must be censored in order to carry on. To be overwhelmed is life hiding from the oncoming flow. A degree of detachment may seem traitorous, but it is needed for preservation of everyday life.

Perhaps this state has also needed surrender, fighting against the tides from without made you weary and slip beneath the waves. To let go of shame and self castigation for the state things were in allows for more resources to battle the inner tides, those that must not be succumbed to.

This feeling of happiness is felt at the back of your throat, like a suppressed laugh. And perhaps thats what it is- a laugh at all the ridiculous beautiful spectacle of it all.


Raise your glass to the thrilling whirl of ugliness, beauty and sheer banality

Fearometer: 5 (the marshmallow of apathy's powers are far ranging and mysterious)

I don't think I'll ever be able to separate the thought that the feeling of love or sadness is true with the haunting belief that i've talked myself into it. And maybe the two are indestinguishable. And so perhaps the only thing left is to trust things as they are, in the clarity of that one moment.

I sense that I am I just embarking on this or that as Im bored, as I have to fill my life with something, and entangle myself in it in some way. I get trapped and caffled and I realise that I am an irremovable in all this, which I somehow resent. I feel embarrassed doing this, like a small child, caught doing something forbidden. Although it all feels as an act, watching through one way glass is not allowed. Its an experiment which I am the subject of, the result of which I don't want to ever discover.

Chemical happiness is a wonderful thing – it gives you the motivation to do nothing at high speed. Which is, granted, a step forward. Although it is rather hard to blog whilst in that giddy state. Blogging alas, requires disinterested melancholy. You are lifted up above the course of life bustleing below. Everything is funny, although somehow less sweet. Things slide from view, how funny, how incredibly funny! You reach down, attempting to grasp hold of something below, just to relate to things on earth for a while, but they are just too far below…

And then the realisation

My mind is beautifully ruined.


April 26, 2005

The world must know the brilliance of Bull Poetry

link

Hello all you fantabulous people, please checkout the genius that is Mr Labond Gozey and his Bull Poetry


Passing brings such sweet sorrow

Fearometer: 5 (the pink marshmallow conquers the fear yet again!)

The strangest change overcomes you once you pass a little way out of the fear. Your previous life seems as a waking dream. A place which you recollect as in a photograph from childhood but have lost the map too. Of course it still stalks you from the shadowy periphery of your mind…where your field of vision ends there it dwells, biding its time.

And so you feel a little sad for its passing. And think about all of the things you block out with the fear. But perhaps this is necessary just to lead everyday life, just to step outside.


April 22, 2005

One idle Friday…

Fearometer: 5

Today turned into another spare day, a day in which my sole activity was having intentions. So time slipped delicately from my grasp in a pleasing way. I discovered that you can still feel sad whilst enjoying yourself, it just lurks, dormant. And this sadness will not bother you untill you attempt to do anything specific at which point it will awaken and prevent you from achieving very much until eventually you succumb, resigned and return to drifting…

And dulled synapses aren't displeasing. Break down the day into small tasks, but then a hyperactive mind adds alsorts of needless tasks, untill its midnight and its time to return to the release of sleep, and those lost hours. But they're not lost, just past, and I have a nameless ammount more. I dont think being the master of time would be something I'd like. Im more comfortable to be gently ruled.


April 21, 2005

Traitor to the cause

Fearometer: 4 (Is this ominous?)

Be too exact and you'll fall into contradiction. Toe the gossamer line between insight and senselessness. Try stoicism, discover the value of rejecting it whilst in an idle poetry seminar. Part company with the fear like jaded lovers in a one night stand that went on for too long. Its still there like an old pair of slippers, awaiting your return.

The other end of the scale brings its own problems. Too high above to do any work – the giddyness is too delicious, and everything is so bloody amusing, although you cant for the life of you work out why.

Moderation is the only tenable route for contentment. But then you've never been terribly good at that. It has to be amplified or it'd be boring after all. And what would you have to show the good patches in the gilded relief they deserve.

But you're determined not to fall so far this time, checks and balances and a regime with tablets and swimming. Don't talk about it, the playgound jinx threatens. Keep moving even if you ont know where you're going to. A moving target can't be hit.


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