spittlerattle

stuff i write

Tag: Stream of conscious

Slightly dysphoric

Write something for today. Capture the general malaise.

I chattered with Great Tits in the backyard, and put up a new lamp shade. I tinkered ineffectively with my gas boiler, dreaming of hot, steaming water, from the taps. I marked Case Studies and added up the marks. Washed my clothes, hung them to dry. Ate fried and fattening foods with my parents, spent quality time with my grandson, and my two girls. Sigh. Generations of us under one roof. I wanted to be somewhere else, to tell the truth. Pent up tension in front of a TV the size of the World. Mind numbing.

I petted the cat, and my Dad humoured my humble opinions about my plumbing.

I inserted tables, charts, sums and percentages in Office. I populated the emptiness with content.

I listened back to my newly recorded song, trying to feel smug. I’m not the best judge but, mostly, wondered what I must have been On! I asked my 11 year old if she’d like to contribute backing vocals. She has a sweet voice, and she was local. I imagined that if she was on it I might find a reason to like it, but she refused to have anything to do with it, and went back to her X-Box.

Bless her cotton-rich socks.

Advertisements

Know thyself

Supposedly, I’m on a mission to find my true self. Then, when I know what it is, who I am, all that, I can be like that all the time. Or when it suits me. My self is, apparently, actualized or organismic; it’s as elusive as when I try to catch myself smiling. I’ve done the background reading and I’ve narrowed it down to sometime just after I slopped, messily, (but with some relief), into the world; the social world, at least. I guess I was pretty happy beforehand, floating around in nutrients, devoid of lists.

Anyway.

So, there was air, whatever that is, and the vast expanse of my mother.

She’s not fat, I’m just saying I was little. ‘She Loves You’ by the Beatles was No#1 in the Hit Parade. What could possibly go wrong?

(Don’t trivialise with pop music! Focus on the thing).

So, Here I Am! I’m out, born, the cord is cut. I could’ve made a run for it right then and there, scurry whilst still slippy and icky, head for the nearest treeline and get raised by badgers.

(Concentrate!)

There I am, apparently the owner of a new universe. Whatever all that damp red stuff was, before, it has been replaced by lots of colours, and noise and smells…. and hmmmm… *smack-lips*… what’s that funny feeling in my belly? Oh, no, I don’t like that!!!!

And right there it was done, I was lost. What was, briefly, the perfect, all harmonious world of the universe as my play thing, suddenly became corrupted by urges, needs…sigh, other people.

Hunger, cold, whimper whimper, I need help.

Enter into negotiations for the breast. Plea bargain. But notice it’s me that does all the pleading? Yeah, fine, go on, teach me about routines, deferred gratification, sharing, patience and respect. I’ll just hang around, check my voice messages.

So, anyway, object-relations theory suggests it was about that time I started developing a passive-aggressive attitude. My baby gurgles were tainted with sarcasm. While I was struggling with the good breast/bad breast dilemma, and experiencing some perverse polymorphousness 😉 the world paid me no heed, being otherwise bothered by JFK, Daleks and the Great Train Robbery.

I’m left with a plan (the hard bit), for the sake of catharsis. I shall regress myself, perhaps using vodka and cheap hashish (the easy bit), and imagine myself clamped to my mum’s nipple, twiddling my cute toes with delight, humming happily to myself –

She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
She loves you, yeah yeah yeah
And you know you should be glad.

Psych sketch #16

Conception.  Perfection through natural selection.  A god in reflection, barely the size of a lump of hash, it can hear me now.  I’m too scared to speak in case it believes me.  I am scared of the love that believes everything.

What have I unleashed?  Chemicals and hormones colonising a future of parasitic intent, driven to thrive.  Making a factory of Her, a cauldron; an endorphin and opiate soup yolks and wombs it as it brews.

Poems

Crystallizing feelings into words, at its most basic, is like making icicles. Trickles of thought, trapped; the encapsulation of Michael held in graceful statis. Hope is eternally frozen, expectant, dreaming away the day.

Freedom is just a warm-thawing
Heartbeat away.

Context is bunk

There’s too much context in the world for my liking. I look at a simple thing, some kind of basic emotion, say, and the next minute I’m flooded with context. It’s like goo slowing me down. There’s a pinpoint of certainty, which then shifts, subtly, reminding me of the parallel universes to be taken into account. Mots of light, suspended in certainty, suddenly explode into intricate trajectories through the dimensions of time and space creating a whole, that floods with chaos, until what seemed obvious becomes a vast absurdity. It should make me laugh, but I’m scared that if I lose myself in it, it’ll make paying the gas bill and trimming my nose hair seem insignificant. And someone’s got to keep up appearances

Chicken

I comtemplated submitting a few of my poems to a local competition –

(four poems for £10. But which should I enter? Which would win? I read last year’s winner… well constructed, beautifully written, saccharine)

Through my anxious strictures I pictured…

Hustle the cash and the glory, then skedaddle, giggling with irony, spouting limericks, in a futile attempt to shatter the preposterous bluster of it all; ‘Yes, sir, I do bite my thumb at you, Sir’.

The kick-arse Bukowski side of me became belligerent, pointing out the bunk in all that, reminding me of my real poems, the ones that save me and keep me sane; blank anxious verse for a numb mind. Existential doggerel. That’s who I am. That’s my voice.

I knew the end was nigh when I found myself singing to my therapist, as if demanding to be heard in that voice. Bitter and nasty and desperate.

So, rather than the forced, limping iambic beat of a sonnet or a mangled haiku, I decided to make the schizoid choice; poetry comes from awe, sublimation and playing with madness. That’s my vision. The idea of a competition is absurd, paradoxical to the spirit in which poetry should be written.

So I didn’t.