I feel like death today. The day started well enough; relaxed, refreshed, positive. Continued in the same vein. But something went a bit wrong this afternoon (I've identified it now; it's a food problem again) and the black thoughts started closing in, taking my active working brain and making it immobile again. So it's been hurting. My heart; my soul, both deathly sore, and me sitting on my hands, going through the motions, trying to survive long enough to sleep and feel better in the morning. I ate aspartame today; the big baddy... normally I check everything that goes near me, but my bf bought me a drink and I was partway through before the alarmbells started ringing. So that's it for a while; I already feel chemically down, and I'll just have to wait and see if my body can cope with it physically yet without shutting itself down.
And the heart? Part of something else. Self-reliance is a sometimes forgotten activity; it's too easy to look for external answers, external support when what you really need is to girn your loins, set your face, gather up your heart and work it all out for yourself. It's not a bad thing to have someone there, especially if they're that person in the world that you really want to share it with, but first you need to find the strength inside before sharing. As I also keep saying, you can't help anyone else if you can't look after yourself first. So onwards...
Monday, 7 April 2008
Saturday, 22 March 2008
Restartng the twins
I cowrote a book once. The story of Keld (hello Sparks if you ever find this), a rollocking yarn in a fantasy world, with lots of stories weaving in and out of each other. And I think it's time to retell some of them again now. The man that I love unconditionally has finished his novel, and is needing less support by the day (see haikus), so it's time that I came good on my promise and wrote one myself. And since this is cyberspace, and I live here at the moment, I'm going to do i here. So lets begin. With some of the back story from the other book.
Sometimes we wake up, look around and wonder what we've done with our lives (I did this this week; first tears, then paralysis, and now writing. I'm hoping sanity is next on that list). Sometimes the next thought is what did someone else do with it. And sometimes too there's a wierd disconnect, as though we've stopped living altogether and are merely existing whilst our doppelgangers are awake and alive. One of the threads in Keld is the story of what happens when two very different twins both end up in the right environment for the other one. Throughout history there have been people reported as being able to read the thoughts of others; the StarTrek empaths are only a small thread in a long line stretching back through centuries of seers and saints and ladies in black fringed shawls. And maybe there's some truth in that; a knowing of another person without verbal communications and beyond the clues signalled out by the body. And I wondered if, somehow, two very different neighbouring kingdoms could evolve, one with the seer gene dominant and the other with it absent or dormant; a giant ghettoisation into those who could mind-read and second-guess, and those who mistrusted them.
I had a lovely time evolving social systems and rules for both of these societies; for example, it must be difficult to be a close personal assassin when even thinking a bit too hard will warn off your potential victim. But people are people, despite their talents, and they will always find a way.
And the two societies have grown. Without telepathy, the Pearl Kingdom has skipped the industrial age and gone straight to powerplants that look nuclear, but without a real understanding of their physics. The telepaths in Duin are still in an older, more feudal age, but are well-protected with the ability to concentrate and phase the minds of anyone who tries individually to attack them. Which hasn't happened yet, because the two countries maintain a discreet courtly dialogue: neighbours must have, possibly covertly, some form of diplomatic relations, even if it's to chuck a brick over the wall occasionally or to actively ignore each other across a border (see Cyprus). Sometimes the sons and daughters of power are brought along on a state visit in the hope that they will learn something, and sometimes what they learn is that they really quite like the younger members of the opposition. And then all hell breaks loose. Heck, let's just tell the story...
Sometimes we wake up, look around and wonder what we've done with our lives (I did this this week; first tears, then paralysis, and now writing. I'm hoping sanity is next on that list). Sometimes the next thought is what did someone else do with it. And sometimes too there's a wierd disconnect, as though we've stopped living altogether and are merely existing whilst our doppelgangers are awake and alive. One of the threads in Keld is the story of what happens when two very different twins both end up in the right environment for the other one. Throughout history there have been people reported as being able to read the thoughts of others; the StarTrek empaths are only a small thread in a long line stretching back through centuries of seers and saints and ladies in black fringed shawls. And maybe there's some truth in that; a knowing of another person without verbal communications and beyond the clues signalled out by the body. And I wondered if, somehow, two very different neighbouring kingdoms could evolve, one with the seer gene dominant and the other with it absent or dormant; a giant ghettoisation into those who could mind-read and second-guess, and those who mistrusted them.
I had a lovely time evolving social systems and rules for both of these societies; for example, it must be difficult to be a close personal assassin when even thinking a bit too hard will warn off your potential victim. But people are people, despite their talents, and they will always find a way.
And the two societies have grown. Without telepathy, the Pearl Kingdom has skipped the industrial age and gone straight to powerplants that look nuclear, but without a real understanding of their physics. The telepaths in Duin are still in an older, more feudal age, but are well-protected with the ability to concentrate and phase the minds of anyone who tries individually to attack them. Which hasn't happened yet, because the two countries maintain a discreet courtly dialogue: neighbours must have, possibly covertly, some form of diplomatic relations, even if it's to chuck a brick over the wall occasionally or to actively ignore each other across a border (see Cyprus). Sometimes the sons and daughters of power are brought along on a state visit in the hope that they will learn something, and sometimes what they learn is that they really quite like the younger members of the opposition. And then all hell breaks loose. Heck, let's just tell the story...
Friday, 7 March 2008
haiku day
Haikus on the death of an affair.
Yin to my Yang, you are
Contentment. Enough, for
Now it is Spring.
Yin to my Yang. You are
Contentment Enough. For
Now it is Spring.
Yin to my Yang. You are
Contentment Enough For
Now. It is Spring.
Yin to my Yang, you are
Contentment. Enough, for
Now it is Spring.
Yin to my Yang. You are
Contentment Enough. For
Now it is Spring.
Yin to my Yang. You are
Contentment Enough For
Now. It is Spring.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Text
Words sting and comfort. Unguarded presence, his text to my yearning in a moments sigh. Am I unloved or is now? Can I comfort the then of him in my tomorrow, or is there no tomorrow? I taste love, pain, desire and turn again to read.
I'm tired; haven't slept properly for days. But I want to capture this feeling, to remember it when it's gone away. I ache. I really almost physically ache. It comes and gos, and at its ebb I just want the pain to go away, and in the floes I forget that its there, and smile and laugh and listen and try to help other people to take away their own pain. But I hold it, because for now, until I let it all go away, the pain contains hope. And there is nothing more exquisite, more beautiful, than the hope of love. And now I've put my pain onto the page and the sensible part of me returns to tell me that I'm a soppy git who ought to be watching my cooking. It's like... it's like the water coming into a harbour that's slowly silting up and becoming land: the transient waves on top of the waves of tides on top of the slow movement to there being no tides there anymore, just the flat calm of drying mud, the first sprinklings of growing seeds and the first birds drifting singing above them, claiming new territory with their songs.
I'm tired; haven't slept properly for days. But I want to capture this feeling, to remember it when it's gone away. I ache. I really almost physically ache. It comes and gos, and at its ebb I just want the pain to go away, and in the floes I forget that its there, and smile and laugh and listen and try to help other people to take away their own pain. But I hold it, because for now, until I let it all go away, the pain contains hope. And there is nothing more exquisite, more beautiful, than the hope of love. And now I've put my pain onto the page and the sensible part of me returns to tell me that I'm a soppy git who ought to be watching my cooking. It's like... it's like the water coming into a harbour that's slowly silting up and becoming land: the transient waves on top of the waves of tides on top of the slow movement to there being no tides there anymore, just the flat calm of drying mud, the first sprinklings of growing seeds and the first birds drifting singing above them, claiming new territory with their songs.
Saturday, 16 February 2008
the Grief Cycle
I always have so much to learn about life. I've been watching someone precious go through parts of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle. Which I thought I understood: y'know, denial, anger, negotiation, depression, acceptance, ta-da and some forward rolls to end. But it's more complex than that.The notes in changing minds describe an 8-stage process, not the 5-stage one I thought I knew. And it has a lovely (clickable) graph of this, which I've unceremoniously copied onto here. So, the 8 stages are (I've pegged these to an event, but it could be a state of being, e.g. illness instead):
* Stability: the status quo before the event
* Shock: immediate, apparent disbelief that the event has happened; emotional paralysis often with no outward reaction, twinned with classic physical shock symptoms
* Denial: longer-term evasion, pretending the event hasn't happened, regardless of evidence.
* Anger: the big explosion (or more usually the series of explosions) about the event or even vaguely-related events or circumstances, often with blame (of self, others etc), sometimes with classic grief
* Bargaining: trying (through actions etc) to make the event or its consequences go away... false hope, if you will.
* Depression: accepting the event has happened, but not having the resources (yet) to deal with it. Often desperate loneliness twinned with refusal to be helped.
* Testing: first tentative steps towards resolving responses to the event; trying small parts of possible solutions and accepting that they might help.
* Acceptance: knowing and accepting that the event has happened, and moving on from it.
Changing minds is good in that its pages contain notes not only on the cycle, but also on how to support people going through the cycle. The cycle itself is a construct to help understand the processes of grief. Everyone goes through it differently, but the stages are broadly right; some people go through some of them very quickly, others slowly; some people get stuck in cycles (e.g. anger-denial-anger); others get stuck at single stages (e.g. anger), but mostly, 99% of the time, the stages above are how it happens.
Other useful posts on the grief cycle include businessballs. The post on gettingpastyourpast is a real cracker on relationship breakdown, in language we can probably all associate with.
Friday, 1 February 2008
Degas' Dancers
Posted from JFK airport, autumn 2007.
I've seen a lot of art this vacation (big hint: if you want to see modern art in NY, go direct to the Met or the small galleries; the other museums just aren't worth it), and the more I see, the more I imagine the stories that go with it. I know there are in fact real stories, and already there are made-up stories (the girl with a pearl earring for instance), but it is so tempting to add just one, to go with Matisse's dancers (in the Met; 2nd floor, modern art section).
George was getting thoroughly fed up. He had Ann holding his left hand, which was normal, them being married, and Mary holding his right, which was also normal but unusual behaviour in front of Ann. Ann's hand was clasped firmly above his; a possessive hand, pulling him around across the dance. Mary; now, Mary's hand was warm and soft, promising later tendernesses with the subtle shifts as he led her round, her light step leaping to his. And Fred; well, Fred was his normal self; comforting and jolly and unbothered with his status as person added to make the circle large enough to paint properly. Fred could be pretty dumb; a big labrador of a man, all happiness and no brains, but always pleased to see you, sometimes so much so that he knocked over the furniture and drooled on the carpet. George retracted that thought immediately; it wasn't so much that he couldn't imagine Fred drooling, more that the thought of Mary's husband spilling bodily fluids, and especially spilling them anywhere near Mary both disgusted and spurned him, although he couldn't resist staring at the corner of Fred's mouth (open slightly with the sheer concentration of the dance) just to check.
No drool. George wondered how the painter was getting on. They'd all been switching this way and that on-and-off for hours now, letting the great man (Mary's friend, of course) catch the right angles and feel for the right shadows. Or shades. Or shapes. Or something anyway; George knew nothing about art apart from: it was a good way to interest women, and all artists were randy bastards who really ought to be contained when they weren't doing their other essential job of livening up parties (noticably never thrown by themselves) and making everyone else feel more sensible. They were probably due a break soon. George had noticed during the dance that the painter only really used yellow at the start of the dance, and switched to other colours pretty quickly. This fact was only really important if you had seen the painting, even for the second before the painter distracted you away and talked about flowers. Fred's chair (blue) was there; the garden (not yellow), the sky.
George wondered about the painter and Fred. The large yellow streak to the left of the painting had more than a hint of Fred the labrador. And then the chair. Fred had sat chatting to the painter; lounging in that added-gravity way that large men do on vacation, as though the effort of staying upright for so many months had to be balanced by an equal effort of stillness once sat down. But why, once gravity had been overcome, had the painter left the chair? It wasn't a photograph, there was no effort in calling a maid to move it: why the chair? One-two-hop; one-two-hop; George started to feel a little better about the possibilities of Fred. Perhaps, just perhaps there was something more here; maybe a reason to talk long and deep into the night with Mary; possibly an excuse to console her tearful nights with a manly shoulder (as he would gently explain to Ann before shouldering that terrible duty). George moved his right fingers a little, flexing them gently against Mary's wrist. She responded in kind, and he gave a little hop, a spring of joy. The painter picked up his yellow brush.
I've seen a lot of art this vacation (big hint: if you want to see modern art in NY, go direct to the Met or the small galleries; the other museums just aren't worth it), and the more I see, the more I imagine the stories that go with it. I know there are in fact real stories, and already there are made-up stories (the girl with a pearl earring for instance), but it is so tempting to add just one, to go with Matisse's dancers (in the Met; 2nd floor, modern art section).
George was getting thoroughly fed up. He had Ann holding his left hand, which was normal, them being married, and Mary holding his right, which was also normal but unusual behaviour in front of Ann. Ann's hand was clasped firmly above his; a possessive hand, pulling him around across the dance. Mary; now, Mary's hand was warm and soft, promising later tendernesses with the subtle shifts as he led her round, her light step leaping to his. And Fred; well, Fred was his normal self; comforting and jolly and unbothered with his status as person added to make the circle large enough to paint properly. Fred could be pretty dumb; a big labrador of a man, all happiness and no brains, but always pleased to see you, sometimes so much so that he knocked over the furniture and drooled on the carpet. George retracted that thought immediately; it wasn't so much that he couldn't imagine Fred drooling, more that the thought of Mary's husband spilling bodily fluids, and especially spilling them anywhere near Mary both disgusted and spurned him, although he couldn't resist staring at the corner of Fred's mouth (open slightly with the sheer concentration of the dance) just to check.
No drool. George wondered how the painter was getting on. They'd all been switching this way and that on-and-off for hours now, letting the great man (Mary's friend, of course) catch the right angles and feel for the right shadows. Or shades. Or shapes. Or something anyway; George knew nothing about art apart from: it was a good way to interest women, and all artists were randy bastards who really ought to be contained when they weren't doing their other essential job of livening up parties (noticably never thrown by themselves) and making everyone else feel more sensible. They were probably due a break soon. George had noticed during the dance that the painter only really used yellow at the start of the dance, and switched to other colours pretty quickly. This fact was only really important if you had seen the painting, even for the second before the painter distracted you away and talked about flowers. Fred's chair (blue) was there; the garden (not yellow), the sky.
George wondered about the painter and Fred. The large yellow streak to the left of the painting had more than a hint of Fred the labrador. And then the chair. Fred had sat chatting to the painter; lounging in that added-gravity way that large men do on vacation, as though the effort of staying upright for so many months had to be balanced by an equal effort of stillness once sat down. But why, once gravity had been overcome, had the painter left the chair? It wasn't a photograph, there was no effort in calling a maid to move it: why the chair? One-two-hop; one-two-hop; George started to feel a little better about the possibilities of Fred. Perhaps, just perhaps there was something more here; maybe a reason to talk long and deep into the night with Mary; possibly an excuse to console her tearful nights with a manly shoulder (as he would gently explain to Ann before shouldering that terrible duty). George moved his right fingers a little, flexing them gently against Mary's wrist. She responded in kind, and he gave a little hop, a spring of joy. The painter picked up his yellow brush.
Found poem
I found this on my PC, dated 10th September 2007. Thought I'd leave it here for posterity.
Us, a we, unity. Together.
Apart alone, a lone one twice apart.
From held arms round a willing neck.
Twisted lust, straight love.
Dark black hearts, bright red souls.
Burning up, deep black hot, pyrometric.
Beyond sanity, beyond life,
beyond the boundaries of right, wrong, now, then.
Til reality brings us back apart.
Again the wait. Again the pain of no pain yet.
Again the sharp tenderness of you not you, me not me.
Again the sweet smell of melting rubber sex.
and the soft warmth of trust.
Yours, ours, our own, my own.
The first drops of a life's ocean.
The first swirls of fumbling mixture, from black to white to infinite greys.
I am yours; you are mine. We will learn what that means.
Us, a we, unity. Together.
Apart alone, a lone one twice apart.
From held arms round a willing neck.
Twisted lust, straight love.
Dark black hearts, bright red souls.
Burning up, deep black hot, pyrometric.
Beyond sanity, beyond life,
beyond the boundaries of right, wrong, now, then.
Til reality brings us back apart.
Again the wait. Again the pain of no pain yet.
Again the sharp tenderness of you not you, me not me.
Again the sweet smell of melting rubber sex.
and the soft warmth of trust.
Yours, ours, our own, my own.
The first drops of a life's ocean.
The first swirls of fumbling mixture, from black to white to infinite greys.
I am yours; you are mine. We will learn what that means.
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