Not the first, or the last

I’m not the first person to suffer a loss. I’m not even the first person in my family to experience it. And so this feeling of self-indulgence recurs; there’s a sense that I’m somehow milking it. That by now I ought to have, in some way, gotten over it. And that’s me, telling myself these things.

That every time I write something new it seems to be the same introspective guff with themes of being de-anchored, of not knowing where things fit anymore, or saying how very changed I am. Well, there’s another feeling and another thought that’s starting to counter that, too.

That is: so what?

And, yes, even that very un-useful internal dialogue, expressed outward, seems to be a call for sympathy, for head pats and for soothing noises. Like a stricken animal. These are my puppydog eyes, literally writ.

There’s a third feeling, thought, notion: it is somehow important to me, for me, to look at me. To write these things down. Typing out some form of – what? Therapy? Self-care? I suppose all these words are jigsaw pieces to a puzzle of which I don’t yet know the picture. Perhaps, also, I never will.

So it is, in many ways, a fool’s errand to obsess about trying to capture the moments in which I feel I can at a distance sketch out something of those parts of myself which need attention. Mostly they need me to cuddle or coddle or curdle them; the output is nearly always something that I share. I don’t know why that urge exists, but I know that it is a demanding one that won’t leave me alone unless I capitulate.

As objective as I can be about it, I am beginning to believe that these pieces are the ripples, the aftershocks from a sudden bereavement. But it is also true, I think, to say that these emotions and shards of language were also always possible. Their own form wasn’t yet made. They were, too, pieces seeking a puzzle’s picture. And to stretch that metaphor: there is no neat box to put them in and to shut the lid. If there ever was, it was only a matter of time before something came along to rip that packaging apart. Torn, unrecognisable forever.

I’m not the first person or the last to be living with death; it is a feature, or a bug, of being born in the first place. What I do know, and I know it with more certainty than probably anything else I’ve ever been sure of, is that each individual – scared, confused, lonely, angry, bereft – is the first person to experience death in their own self. Very different.

So what?

So that.

And so this:

be kind.

Be kind to yourself. I will try and be kind to myself, even if it seems like I’m wallowing awhile, and even at those times when what comes out is a desperate blubbering blast of helplessness. I don’t think it’s self-indulgence, as such. On the contrary, it’s impossible to even think about trudging forward without self-acknowledgement; self-care requires complete self-honesty. I am sorry for myself sometimes. And seeing that I am is very important indeed. Couching it in language shows me parts of myself that would otherwise remain tangled up. Things that would trip me up. That. I don’t need. And on we go.

Carapace

Don’t talk about how I have ever come back;

I did not want this new destination.

You don’t recover, you don’t return

because everything has changed.

It’s not correct to look at preparation

for something so quickened and strange.

And if a deity is close to hand

then grasp at them with gasping grip.

Whatever comforts, in its turn

reveals itself or sidles off.

And what is left is left unfixed

surveying the broken stuff.

The locus reasserts itself

and bundles you forward again

through forests petrified and burned

and senses all deranged;

you build a carapace once more

that reassures. A cage.

Trapped here to always nod and smile,

receiving heartfelt love.

A blurred and desperate attempt

to reconstruct yourself.

An hour, a day, a week, a month

go by in a curdling spell.

All movement is outside; the dullness within

won’t sharpen and burnish away.

No whetstone to re-keen,

no steel to spike sparks.

Spluttering and swept ever further awry

from an anchor cast loose in the dark.

Another Fucking Election

 Listen:

Whichever grasping Ferengi pissant ends up leering at me in victory:

Don't wait til it's sunny to fix the fucking roof.

Just fix it.

Not Yet, But Let's Get Real

I don’t like pain. It hurts.

That’s why I don’t run marathons.

Hangovers an irritation.

I’m kind of fascinated;

Eager, somewhat, to see the credits roll.

Obviously, not any time soon

(or ever, but let’s get real.)

I thought at one time I’d do the same

as Aldous Huxley. Go out tripping

my tits off.

Ludicrousness wonder clarity.

But, no. I’ll cop it,

not cop out.

That said, if I’m

in paroxysms and incoherent -

turn the morphine the fuck up to full

and let me dream into distance,

into delusion, into comfort;

I do dissolve.

Squinting a fading

idea of sighing mind -

fade beyond feel -

a welcome home

from gigglers gone.

Ocean

I reckoned life was a boat

on the endless universe’s ocean.

But perhaps life is the ocean

and the boat is understanding.

Things

 My mind told me to list

all the things

that I’d probably never do again.

All the Things

that I’ve been and done.

Then I told my mind

that to be here at all

to be able to think of

listing those things

was enough.

And that to be here

probably might mean

there were some

unexpected Things

yet to come.