Internal worlds

I've posted this week's comment to another blogger's post, after drafting and proof reading the few lines at least five times, before hitting the "post" button, this time without typos, in my usual trepidation.
I become a gibbering idiot at the thought he might read it (how immature of me) and think me an illiterate, which he obviously isn't.

Such talent. The pictures and erudition prove that, along with the ability to not only observe but make connections of a global and more local nature.

(I'm finding myself in the midst of an internal trio again - the other two as yet blurred and ill defined. Foils to me or vice versa?)
I share my passion with an invisible cast of thousands. Those who don't appreciate or share said passion can be disregarded with impunity.
The real power of fantasy is the omnipresence and omnipotence - of being the omniscient narrator moving the pieces at will.
The problem for me seems to be that the characters play scenes on a screen immediately behind my forehead and won't stop unless I write down what I see and what they say.
Only then will they move on. My omnipotence is undermined by the power of the characters to act independently- apparently.
I feel I am "the puppet". When I try to manipulate them or the storyline it doesn't work.

Well, the characters are in a new setting and like me are having to attune themselves to it.
It will take me ages, I think, to lose the conditioning, to realise that time is more flexible.
The danger will be in forgetting, or not being able to let go.
That a) some semblance of discipline is necessary and b) it is no longer as rigid or unrelenting.
Managing the new environments, new routines and re-learning the strategies of communal living is the most challenging. ( Dealing with the old anxieties when the postie appears has reasserted itself,unfortunately)

At the moment I am learning to cope with living in a one-storey building with odd steps, climbing in/out of a new bath; remembering to lock toilet doors, where locks exist, etc.etc.
All the new patterns and I haven't even considered the outside!

The skies really are high and wide in Norfolk and the bands of weather are equally wide.
My brain is trying to break out of its cocoon-one part is freeing itself, alongside other parts that still plough along in seventeen year old furrows.
That's done with but I know myself well enough not to be fooled that it won't nudge me from time to time, or refuse to relinquish its vice-like grip.
After all, part of that furrow is Me. The perseverance, the strait way, the caution.
To jettison it all completely would be false and a pretence.

Now I have access to extended facilities, shared equipment, that offer more opportunities for artistic and other development.
Of course, it also means compromised privacy - I can get it if/when I need but it's not total as when one lives alone.
There is also, still, the sense of time needing to be managed quite tightly- that will take longer to loosen its grip.

More shorts

1) Hand Skin (Old)

Noticing that the folds create new landscapes,
Flesh thinning like the bones,
so that loose creases concertina,deepen,convolute,collapse,
interrrupted by purple pools and a navy delta of bloody tributaries,
a boney sierra covered by a delicate web of thinning epidermis.

2) Hand Skin (Young)

Swollen,plump, taut-
heavily blood fed epidermis,
smooth virgin territory,
unworn,unworked,unblemished
bloody tributaries, subterranean.

3) Face Skin (Old)

Alternately worked by a thousand diets,
stretched, flaccid,
soft crepuscularity,
wind, sun flensed,crevices deepened
by reduced collegan under the jaw,
around eye sockets.
Proportions altered by lengthening pinna and drooping lobes.

4) Face Skin (Young)

Unadventured
cradling bone structure snugly,
super collegened, inexperienced,
punctuated by pustules, sebum soaked,
hormonal dynamo in hyperdrive,
overloading regenerative balance.

Young skin, cool as cotton in summer heat,
refreshing, reassuring.
Old skin, cool as a shroud in summer heat,
shrinking, warning.

Balance

Balance is the key
Perfect and all is peace and harmony,
Off kilter, by the merest micron,
Result- chaos.
In spiritual terms,
the Fulcrum hangs at Golgotha.

Shorts

The crack in the rock seems settled, hidden, where I can observe,safe until....
The dust blows into my eyes
or there's an itch.

The perils of having a brain,
and daring to use it,
is the jealousy and painful clarity
it invokes.

The "lonely" wind blows and the chill of anxiety
over perceived difficulties seeps into my bones.
The silences when no Tweets come and the facebook status
remains unchanged for days.
The insidious fears dare to tip toe from the
margins and attempt a coup d'etat on centre stage.
I'll be damned if I'll let them seduce me into a fit of the
blues just as everything is reving up a gear.

What did I say?
The blues came, tsunami-like,
the following day.
I rolled into a ball,went to bed and believed that,
whilst I slept,
the rest was a mirage.
I awoke still with the weight of fear
pushing me down.

The pain was almost negligible.
Nevertheless, I struggled to get dressed and
push my way through the treacle,
fear debilitating me.
Positive thinking matters but my mind
is swamped by the "....what if...." and
the realisation that we live,largely, in a
fools paradise.
We're falling for the hype and
when the lights come up
we will see the utter stupidity of most
of what we say and do.

My internal life deserted me,
my saving strategy evaporated,
I am really alone.

It reasserts itself.
The constant meanderings of an
untrammelled brain that fantasizes
ad infinitum.
Two days later I was back in my
usual trio adoring an idiosyncratic being.

Sunday in the park

For the first time in years I've spent Sunday afternoon in the park with a band playing (albeit a rock group), sunshine, cake and a lively family picnic.
We're a bit rowdy when we're enjoying ourselves but not too much so.
As an adjunct the birthday event was enhanced by a fun fair that happened to be there at the same time.
A beautiful day but the ground was still soggy from a week of heavy rain.

I suppose we were a microcosm of the average contemporary social grouping.
The Birthday Girl has two divorced and single grannies, multi ethnic cousins, a grandpa who came alone (as his second wife doesn't gel with the rest of the family), and her parents friends who run the gamut from goth to theological academic,with fantasy role players in between.
Rather like a dinosaur I sat in the middle of it all, because I can't get down onto the grass, and let it all swirl round me. I did have the last laugh though as my bottom stayed dry while everyone else's got damp.The men compared the wet patches on the knees of their jeans and pretended they didn't care.

Two oriental children wandered into the middle of it all, drawn by the hubbub and possibilities of cake and chased the bubbles we all blew en masse at the end of Pass-the-Parcel, music provided by my eldest grandson testing his vocal range and singing acapella. It also meant he could manipulate the stopping,starting, so that each child got a present and Princess Mir the piece de resistance by ripping off the last layers.
Even the paparazzi were in attendance in the form of eldest son and daughter's friend, who vied for camera angles and then compered lenses and equipment spec.

The end of the party was signalled by the wailing of overtired children,starting to feel a little queasy from several rides on the merry-go-round mixed with fairy cake, so the cleanup commenced and we left the sward pristine, proving we might be a little unruly but we are also responsible.
It was one of those rare occasions when things go to plan,are unwittingly enhanced, with no one feeling the need to be diva-like or indulge in tantrums, when it requires no effort to be relaxed and sociable and even going home feels right.

Where do words go?

Where do words go?
One moment they're spilling out,
Vehement, energetic, diarrhoea.
Today?
The synapses are silent, producing bugger all.
Thoughts, ideas, higgledy piggledy,
Aborted unformed, lying dormant,
Refusing even to peek out of their spiral shells.
Tyrants!
You know I want to
Create, express ideas,
However frenetic and
You stay away,
You refuse to behave.
I am supposed to be in charge of You
Not the other way round.

(photo by Alan Taylor-Shearer)

Moving

Each box filled,
And still more to follow,
Hardly seem to make a dint.
I shall get to the point
Where I dump stuff out of
Sheer exhaustion, exasperation.

Winding down

I really don't want to go into work.
I am detaching myself,mentally,emotionally,physically and counting the days.
The "Goodbyes" are starting to be said,with the realisation that this au revoir really will be goodbye for a lot of the people I'm attached to.
There's more than a racing cert they won't be here, or anywhere else, when I pay a return visit.

My daughter asked if I was having a "leaving do" - what an appalling thought?
Me tottering my way along West Street or High Street?
Too too sickening to contemplate.
None of the bright young things would want to settle in one place or have a civilised meal - and anyway, everywhere glitzy would be raucous and I wouldn't hear a word so what is the point?

I dread having to tell the neighbours,especially as one of them is already depressed and will be
hyperanxious about the future.
I can't face fuss.