This lot appeared from somewhere in my mind where odd thoughts occur. I think that Dylan Thomas may have been a bit of a prompt. All I can say to make the piece more acceptable, if you want to soldier through it, is to read it out aloud. Words spoken with force, carry more of the intensity of the emotion behind the word. Don't worry about finding words that you have never seen or heard before. It's the sound and resonance of that sound that I am after. If you say "crackle" out aloud, you'll get a feeling of what I have tried to achieve with some words here below. Good luck.
HERDING OF CATS
Herding cats into the football stadium,
half empty
with gangs of Social Workers
who skreated and breated,
their animated throat-burning,
blood-curdling skrines
at that herd,
as they sploshingly began
hurling, water-filled, pink balloons at the cats,
Was not a good idea.
Squadroons of ill-tempered manx-tailed muggies,
brasted on olde hemp wine, and fired up with a passion
best kept for tin roofs
threw one another
at the rapidly blanching Sociatumpalists,
who tripped in their hundreds,
backing up the crumbling, cronkeeted terraces
of the Stadium.
Seasoned Ticket holders
fared worst,
whitened to the digital equivalent
of minus 3.
Hosepipes were deployed
to no avail.
Poltroons of muggies
scoffed at the audacity,
scorned the mendacity,
of broadcasts by tannoys,
supplied by Walmart.
Sneering through fur,
at a voice electronically enhanced,
while panicking Socios
realised with aplumb
the hosepipes were useless
with no water switched on.
Cats 4 Social Workists 0
Herds can be powered,
managed and armied,
by elitists in scabbie cabals,
but no-one told the muggies.
This tale was told across the shimmering amber embers of a pine fuelled carbon burner, by an actor of renown, who hasn’t looked back since he played the dumping end of a pantomime horse.
Regard it as a flight of fantasy or paws for digression.
PS
By the way, there is a hosepipe ban in the south east of this country because of a drought order. There is a dramatic drop in water levels because of very low rainfall.
I have no idea from whence this piece came, except to say that I've been readin' political-commentator-stuff, of late. Welcome to the other side. Who needs a pendulum when you've got Bipolar.? Why don't dictionaries open at the page you want? It's very frustrating. Especially looking for yer pendulums.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Sunday, May 21, 2006
# 12
J is doing a Home Visit tomorrow. I have much to tell her. I managed to damage my previously repaired right knee, yesterday evening. The doctor in A&E had not heard of the meds I'm on for my Depression. So, looking on the bright side of life (cue a song) she learned of yet another piece of medical armoury to add to her accumulation of knowledge. SH is back under control. J must be told tomorrow. Oh but it does give a sense of euphoria and relief. It can become addictive. I am aware. ME is aware, not just me. The Objective Surveillance has been stepped up.
I want to begin a slowly growing programme of that which interests me. Photography for one. Drawing and painting for two, and returning to my 'pointilism' in crayon and pencil. Thirdly, can I direct my creative writing into a structured timescale on a daily basis? Some writers begin their day at 6.00 in the morning and work through until lunch time, while taking breakfast and tea at their desk.
I'm not altogether (pun intended) sure that my Bipolar will allow me to be so disciplined. (Have you noticed how close the words 'disciple' and disciplined' are? And what about Alphabet? Who has noticed the Alpha Beta Omega connection? I only realised this one yesterday, while sitting on the throne in my monk's cell) I've had to get used to the idea that the words which appear on my page cannot be forced out into the open. They flower and bloom in their own sweet time, and I am merely the medium they use. If this sounds mad, look at the name of my blog! I am not someone important and I am not like those poor souls who believe they are someone important from the pages of history, like Napoleon etc.
I'm an ordinary bloke who has a mental illness. I've been to the Edge of the Abyss and contemplated letting go. Perhaps the intense and tremendously powerful feelings experienced on the Edge, have kick-started a part of my mind that would have lain dormant? I really don't know.
Whatever happened, the result is that for the moment, I have several ideas for poems, which I am keeping up-to-date, by adding any pertinent, passing thoughts, to my Voice Recorder. The thoughts are now noted and not lost within seconds of appearing in my mind. J gave me the idea to do this and it's a good one. Dylan Thomas carried scraps of paper to write down words and phrases, as and when they came to him. I'm using the Voice Recorder in the same way. But I'm no Dylan Thomas. (or Napoleon)
Once I have a few recordings, I sit at this PC and get the thoughts down onto a screen page. This is usually about 2 days recordings and to be honest, I wonder what the hell I meant when I dictated some of them. However, they meant something at the time, so they get typed as well as the other stuff. It has become a voyage of discovery for me. I'd forgotten a lot of what I'd dictated. It's surprising how much there is. But that's down to my useless memory. At least I'm not losing stuff like I have done for years.
The simple act of writing this blog enables me to focus on what is important in my mind as I prepare the words, and the order in which they are to appear before you. It is proving to be a useful part of my therapy. I considered writing 'recovery' instead of 'therapy,' but Bipolar could be with me on a permanent basis.
I want to begin a slowly growing programme of that which interests me. Photography for one. Drawing and painting for two, and returning to my 'pointilism' in crayon and pencil. Thirdly, can I direct my creative writing into a structured timescale on a daily basis? Some writers begin their day at 6.00 in the morning and work through until lunch time, while taking breakfast and tea at their desk.
I'm not altogether (pun intended) sure that my Bipolar will allow me to be so disciplined. (Have you noticed how close the words 'disciple' and disciplined' are? And what about Alphabet? Who has noticed the Alpha Beta Omega connection? I only realised this one yesterday, while sitting on the throne in my monk's cell) I've had to get used to the idea that the words which appear on my page cannot be forced out into the open. They flower and bloom in their own sweet time, and I am merely the medium they use. If this sounds mad, look at the name of my blog! I am not someone important and I am not like those poor souls who believe they are someone important from the pages of history, like Napoleon etc.
I'm an ordinary bloke who has a mental illness. I've been to the Edge of the Abyss and contemplated letting go. Perhaps the intense and tremendously powerful feelings experienced on the Edge, have kick-started a part of my mind that would have lain dormant? I really don't know.
Whatever happened, the result is that for the moment, I have several ideas for poems, which I am keeping up-to-date, by adding any pertinent, passing thoughts, to my Voice Recorder. The thoughts are now noted and not lost within seconds of appearing in my mind. J gave me the idea to do this and it's a good one. Dylan Thomas carried scraps of paper to write down words and phrases, as and when they came to him. I'm using the Voice Recorder in the same way. But I'm no Dylan Thomas. (or Napoleon)
Once I have a few recordings, I sit at this PC and get the thoughts down onto a screen page. This is usually about 2 days recordings and to be honest, I wonder what the hell I meant when I dictated some of them. However, they meant something at the time, so they get typed as well as the other stuff. It has become a voyage of discovery for me. I'd forgotten a lot of what I'd dictated. It's surprising how much there is. But that's down to my useless memory. At least I'm not losing stuff like I have done for years.
The simple act of writing this blog enables me to focus on what is important in my mind as I prepare the words, and the order in which they are to appear before you. It is proving to be a useful part of my therapy. I considered writing 'recovery' instead of 'therapy,' but Bipolar could be with me on a permanent basis.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
This Rag
This Rag
Attractively patterned
A delight to be seen
This rag worn when new
With pastel and sheen
A skin to be worn
A statement declaring
An adornment so chosen
Collected for wearing
Worn on the sleeve
To parties and do’s
Admired and remarked on
This one you did choose
Is hardly a patch?
Of what it has been
Colours now faded
And jaded if seen
Peppered with pinpricks
Frayed through and through
Worthless to me
Of no use to you
Spun through Life’s cycles
Stretched on the line
A rag that now flags
And flaps out of time
Cleans up and wipes up
And no longer shares
With not enough left
To soak up the tears
Wipes clean those dishes
Shines up those lights
Yet hiding and covering
Its crimson delight
Kept for its uses
But not for itself
A Rag out of sinc
Its heart on the shelf.
This poem appears in my other Blog. The poem is something of a hybrid for my condition. It stands in this blog too. I have posted it in the D'Stillery Lounge as well.
Attractively patterned
A delight to be seen
This rag worn when new
With pastel and sheen
A skin to be worn
A statement declaring
An adornment so chosen
Collected for wearing
Worn on the sleeve
To parties and do’s
Admired and remarked on
This one you did choose
Is hardly a patch?
Of what it has been
Colours now faded
And jaded if seen
Peppered with pinpricks
Frayed through and through
Worthless to me
Of no use to you
Spun through Life’s cycles
Stretched on the line
A rag that now flags
And flaps out of time
Cleans up and wipes up
And no longer shares
With not enough left
To soak up the tears
Wipes clean those dishes
Shines up those lights
Yet hiding and covering
Its crimson delight
Kept for its uses
But not for itself
A Rag out of sinc
Its heart on the shelf.
This poem appears in my other Blog. The poem is something of a hybrid for my condition. It stands in this blog too. I have posted it in the D'Stillery Lounge as well.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
#11
Having been down this road before and recognising the signs and the consequences of the direction I was travelling in, I decided that it wouldn't be fair on my sons, so I didn't.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
#10
My Key Worker came 'avisitin' yesterday. I'd spent two days cleaning the house from top to bottom. It wasn't dirty! But I'm from the olde schoole. If you are to have visitors, you prepare your home in a way that shows your respect for them, whoever they are. We recently visited friends for the first time, in Bristol, and it was obvious that they had gone to much time and effort to make their home inviting and welcoming. I appreciate that sort of care when I'm on the receiving end.
Anyway, I was knackered, in pain, very tired, and happy with my domestic efforts. Being a house-husband, father, partner, carer, cook, shopper, washer et al, is taken for granted by far too many men in this society of ours. I have always insisted on doing anything I can to share the load. I take pride in not being a burden, but 'there's the rub.' Depression makes one a burden. I have to live with a family, who have to live with someone with a mental illness. A sort of double whammy. I've got it, I make their lives difficult, they mirror that difficulty in the ways they approach me. It ain't easy for them. We all do a balancing act and each day requires a different form of balancing. Relationships are tested and trust holds us all together. I trust them to give me silence when I'm really low, and they trust me to behave in a civilised way.
I have an elephant that emerges at all times of the night and day. It fills the room I'm in. Other people can sense it, but I'm the only one who can herd it. Herding elephants is harder than knitting fog or herding cats. The shear size of it, demands attention, which is distracting, diverting, debilitating and eventually destructive. I've been to the edge of destruction (cue a song) and I know the signs. Hiding the signs from oneself must be similar to alcoholics being in denial. The comfort derived from staring at four walls is much underated. Better to lose oneself in the oblivion of four walls than total oblivion? Yes.
How and when to change my drugs from the treatment of Clinical Depression, to the treatment for Bipolar Disorder, is taxing our brains. If I have OSA (Obstructive Sleep Apnoea) it will make an enormous difference to me, once I have my own CPAP or APAP machine. (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure, or Automatic Positive Airway Pressure) The mood improvement brought about by continual nights of proper sleep, will have considerable relevence upon how we tackle my BAD (Bipolar Affective Disorder).
I do have BAD and I cannot avoid acknowledging its existence. How we approach it is still up for grabs at the moment. I'm told that it may be another two or three weeks before I get the results of my Full Sleep Study. All the relevent medical staff are now aware of my situation and conditions. J was a great help in achieving this. I no longer have the patience to cope with authority figures and I could easily go off like a bottle of pop, if I met a brick wall. I know that walls can be walked around, but I'm too close to situations to be mentally able or fit enough to negotiate an outcome. My job involved constant negotiations, but I can no longer decide what shirt to wear some mornings.
I had a course of counselling to help me get through my days, but I'm too tired, too often, at the moment, to summon up the stamina to take one step at a time.
I've avoided SH for several months and that is a good thing. It is addictive and it does help me cope with severe pains. However, I'm aware of the temptations to indulge in the crimson tide and I've managed (correct word there) my moods with some discipline. But it isn't easy. Extra painkillers do help. They mask the pain though. The trick is to avoid doing anything that will aggravate the pain while it's masked, which would create even more pain later. Been there, done that, got the T shirt.
It's late, I'm heading for bed, or the recliner or the dining table, or the sofa. Or all four.
Anyway, I was knackered, in pain, very tired, and happy with my domestic efforts. Being a house-husband, father, partner, carer, cook, shopper, washer et al, is taken for granted by far too many men in this society of ours. I have always insisted on doing anything I can to share the load. I take pride in not being a burden, but 'there's the rub.' Depression makes one a burden. I have to live with a family, who have to live with someone with a mental illness. A sort of double whammy. I've got it, I make their lives difficult, they mirror that difficulty in the ways they approach me. It ain't easy for them. We all do a balancing act and each day requires a different form of balancing. Relationships are tested and trust holds us all together. I trust them to give me silence when I'm really low, and they trust me to behave in a civilised way.
I have an elephant that emerges at all times of the night and day. It fills the room I'm in. Other people can sense it, but I'm the only one who can herd it. Herding elephants is harder than knitting fog or herding cats. The shear size of it, demands attention, which is distracting, diverting, debilitating and eventually destructive. I've been to the edge of destruction (cue a song) and I know the signs. Hiding the signs from oneself must be similar to alcoholics being in denial. The comfort derived from staring at four walls is much underated. Better to lose oneself in the oblivion of four walls than total oblivion? Yes.
How and when to change my drugs from the treatment of Clinical Depression, to the treatment for Bipolar Disorder, is taxing our brains. If I have OSA (Obstructive Sleep Apnoea) it will make an enormous difference to me, once I have my own CPAP or APAP machine. (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure, or Automatic Positive Airway Pressure) The mood improvement brought about by continual nights of proper sleep, will have considerable relevence upon how we tackle my BAD (Bipolar Affective Disorder).
I do have BAD and I cannot avoid acknowledging its existence. How we approach it is still up for grabs at the moment. I'm told that it may be another two or three weeks before I get the results of my Full Sleep Study. All the relevent medical staff are now aware of my situation and conditions. J was a great help in achieving this. I no longer have the patience to cope with authority figures and I could easily go off like a bottle of pop, if I met a brick wall. I know that walls can be walked around, but I'm too close to situations to be mentally able or fit enough to negotiate an outcome. My job involved constant negotiations, but I can no longer decide what shirt to wear some mornings.
I had a course of counselling to help me get through my days, but I'm too tired, too often, at the moment, to summon up the stamina to take one step at a time.
I've avoided SH for several months and that is a good thing. It is addictive and it does help me cope with severe pains. However, I'm aware of the temptations to indulge in the crimson tide and I've managed (correct word there) my moods with some discipline. But it isn't easy. Extra painkillers do help. They mask the pain though. The trick is to avoid doing anything that will aggravate the pain while it's masked, which would create even more pain later. Been there, done that, got the T shirt.
It's late, I'm heading for bed, or the recliner or the dining table, or the sofa. Or all four.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
#9
A link of some interest. Varying views from people about a statue depicting Winston Churchill in a straightjacket, to illustrate Bipolar Affective Disorder in a great leader, who managed so much whilst carrying the 'condition.'
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4795832.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4795832.stm
Thursday, March 09, 2006
#8
I decreased the Mirtazapine, (Zispin) and I paid for it. So I have had to increase the Mirtazapine again. It means that my brain is slowly improving my mood. Seratonin is the key to mood enhancement.
I chatted today with a friend whose husband has descended into depression. He only wants the four walls around him. I know this feeling only too well. He has no appetite. I know this feeling too. He's lost a lot of weight. He's had one session with a psychologist. It was a great help to him to know that "she got it." He's found someone who knows what he's talking about.
I warned my friend that her husband will be a lot worse before he gets better. The talking cure is good, but it requires one to lay bare, everything. He will have to look deep within himself and see all the gunge, crap, guilt, burdensome feelings, lost self-esteem and self-confidence that is him, at the moment.
He can only build himself up by digging right down to his foundations. Happily, she fully understood what I was saying. Her husband is going through the 'man' issues that accompany depression. I told her that the mantra, 'big boys don't cry,' is a load of bollocks. Her husband has to let go of his reserve and let the flood gates open.
We were in a small group and discussing various 'conditions,' including cancers. Out of five people in the room four have some form of cancer. The enclosed room allowed us the freedom to speak openly, and without fear, of being 'told' by others, what to do. Empathy is in short supply in this world and an empathetic oasis is a real 'find.' My friend felt relaxed enough to open up to the group and to me especially, about her worries and concerns for her husband. So much so that, she sat back and asked questions outright, without any gentle preamble, or waltzing round the bushes. However, I needed to talk to her privately about one particular aspect of depression, which can cause alarm for family members. She was concerned to hear of it, but accepted that it is actually a good indication of the level of depression being suffered. I cannot mention it here, yet, but #4, Cuts and Tears, grew from it.
There is still a stigma surrounding mental illness. If people have a problem with my illness, then it's their problem. I couldn't give a toss about their embarrasment. They ain't been there and they ain't got a clue.
I chatted today with a friend whose husband has descended into depression. He only wants the four walls around him. I know this feeling only too well. He has no appetite. I know this feeling too. He's lost a lot of weight. He's had one session with a psychologist. It was a great help to him to know that "she got it." He's found someone who knows what he's talking about.
I warned my friend that her husband will be a lot worse before he gets better. The talking cure is good, but it requires one to lay bare, everything. He will have to look deep within himself and see all the gunge, crap, guilt, burdensome feelings, lost self-esteem and self-confidence that is him, at the moment.
He can only build himself up by digging right down to his foundations. Happily, she fully understood what I was saying. Her husband is going through the 'man' issues that accompany depression. I told her that the mantra, 'big boys don't cry,' is a load of bollocks. Her husband has to let go of his reserve and let the flood gates open.
We were in a small group and discussing various 'conditions,' including cancers. Out of five people in the room four have some form of cancer. The enclosed room allowed us the freedom to speak openly, and without fear, of being 'told' by others, what to do. Empathy is in short supply in this world and an empathetic oasis is a real 'find.' My friend felt relaxed enough to open up to the group and to me especially, about her worries and concerns for her husband. So much so that, she sat back and asked questions outright, without any gentle preamble, or waltzing round the bushes. However, I needed to talk to her privately about one particular aspect of depression, which can cause alarm for family members. She was concerned to hear of it, but accepted that it is actually a good indication of the level of depression being suffered. I cannot mention it here, yet, but #4, Cuts and Tears, grew from it.
There is still a stigma surrounding mental illness. If people have a problem with my illness, then it's their problem. I couldn't give a toss about their embarrasment. They ain't been there and they ain't got a clue.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
#7
I am suddenly in a hyper phase. Hence, the proliferation of postings of my poems below this posting. They are but a tiny part of my literary output. I have episodes of intense creativity, during which, I cannot keep up with the amount of words tumbling out of my mind, as they demand to be put on a page, any bloody page!! And then, suddenly, nothing...........for weeks, months, hours, days, whatever.
I am not creating right now, but I can feel the surge below, as words and ideas begin to swirl beneath my consciouness. What will they bring to the table? desk? screen? page? I've no idea.
Alas, my elephant has returned. He spent the day with me and left for a while, but the bugger's come back.
I am not creating right now, but I can feel the surge below, as words and ideas begin to swirl beneath my consciouness. What will they bring to the table? desk? screen? page? I've no idea.
Alas, my elephant has returned. He spent the day with me and left for a while, but the bugger's come back.
I Searched For You
I Searched For You
I searched for you till you found me
I wept for you till you saw me
I crawled to you till you left me
I lied for you till you scorned me
I spun for you till you cast me
I tried for you till you threw me
I toiled for you till you ditched me
I stole for you till you stitched me
I pleaded for you till you used me
I lived for you
I searched for you till you found me
I wept for you till you saw me
I crawled to you till you left me
I lied for you till you scorned me
I spun for you till you cast me
I tried for you till you threw me
I toiled for you till you ditched me
I stole for you till you stitched me
I pleaded for you till you used me
I lived for you
Lately Small Birds
Lately Small Birds
Lately small birds follow my steps
Dropping to my knees
I hear their hearts beating
I fall to their knees hearing their steps
Earthy essences drift through my senses
No one told me they had such beauty
Please send a poet
I cannot do them justice
I’ll start with small steps
Lately small birds follow my steps
Dropping to my knees
I hear their hearts beating
I fall to their knees hearing their steps
Earthy essences drift through my senses
No one told me they had such beauty
Please send a poet
I cannot do them justice
I’ll start with small steps
Cuts And Tears
Cuts and Tears
Torn thoughtlessly leaving a heart swept away in crimson screams
Tears amalgamating into open veins crossed in love
Whitened mask lost in pleadings
These you created with looks and no sight
I leave you my heartbeats
I need them no more
A cutter's lament.
Torn thoughtlessly leaving a heart swept away in crimson screams
Tears amalgamating into open veins crossed in love
Whitened mask lost in pleadings
These you created with looks and no sight
I leave you my heartbeats
I need them no more
A cutter's lament.
To My Prison Psychiatrists
To My Prison Psychiatrists
They’ve read the books
And done the tests
They’ve looked inside my emptiness
They’ve turned each page
And scanned the lines
To weigh my worth
Compared my crimes
They know me well
Their eyes unseen
Do they dream the dreams I dream?
Have they screamed the screams I scream?
I think not
I think not
Take your tomes
On brains and bones
Take your texts
And write abstracts
This soul is not for learning.
They’ve read the books
And done the tests
They’ve looked inside my emptiness
They’ve turned each page
And scanned the lines
To weigh my worth
Compared my crimes
They know me well
Their eyes unseen
Do they dream the dreams I dream?
Have they screamed the screams I scream?
I think not
I think not
Take your tomes
On brains and bones
Take your texts
And write abstracts
This soul is not for learning.
#2
I've been cutting down on the Zispin in readiness to start on the new drug, but after 6 days I'm feeling really low again. Changing drugs is always like this. Revisiting those places that the drugs have kept in check. I could describe what it's like, but not just now. I cannot face opening old wounds.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)