Tag Archives: reading

An Adulterous Metaphor

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So here we are again. It’s been a while since I blogged and I feel as though I have been unfaithful to the practice. Although I began life as a blogger I have recently found pastures new and ventured into the world of vlogging. In essence how I feel about vlogging can only be likened to one cheating on a perfectly good wife with a saucy new mistress. And I love it. Vlogging that is, not necessarily adultery. Metaphors surrounding adultery yes, but not the practice itself. As always I digress.

However keeping with my motto (and the motto of many) of “the world has moved on” I decided to move on once again and recreate my blog so that it was compelling enough for not only my old friends to enjoy, but to hopefully inspire the ever loving eye of many new readers. So again to use a wonderfully adulterous metaphor – I didn’t find my wife attractive any more so I gave her a make over in a vain effort to make me want to be with her again. And you know what? I think it worked.

There is something invigoratingly organic about writing your thoughts down on a page and it’s something that I have always been compelled to do but in between the novels and shorts, the poems and prose, the endless lists and letters, I lost my appetite for good old fashioned rambling of the textual kind. But I am back now. And I have never been happier to be so.

So my friends, enjoy the old and await the new and always thank you for reading what I choose to write.

Long days and pleasant nights.

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The Piano Has Been Drinking Poetics

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Q – What’s my type? A – “Dark bearded men! That write and don’t care what they look like! I’m talking philosophical, Tom Waits the piano has been drinking poetics!”

Whilst discussing all be it a hypothetical break from my usual type of man, I asked one of my best friends just what she thought my type was, as she was so convinced that the man I was describing was far too away from my idea of “perfection”. The above answer is word for word what she answered and it got me thinking that maybe that is where I have been going wrong. Searching for a man that I know, on the basis of their very character, are going to be eratic, egotistical and sombre – three things that I have come to expect from my experiences with these kind of men.But then again isn’t this what I love about them? I like the sporadic way their minds work, the tilt they take the world in through and that humbling sense of confusion that they radiate through their alcohol soaked pours. I revel in the fact that they read books, reall genuine hard to handle books, that expand their creativity and mould their absolutely ludicrous thought patterns. You never know what they are going to say, what subject of conversation is going to come up or who they are going to put on the record player. It feels – liberating.

Then again there is a draw back to these men, something that they all hold in common and something again that I have noticed after being married (and subsequently seperated) from one – that a hell of a lot of musicians hold in common – they lack sincerity. They read those books because it fits their style, they drink whiskey not because they like it but because its what their idols drink, they grow beards not because they have no need to shave it but because it suits the clothes that they seem not to think about wearing, when in actual fact a lot of thought goes into looking like they do not care. They play their instruments and sing their songs not because of a genuine love of the art, a way of expressing their thoughts or perpetuating their experiences, but simply because it is seen as an attractive skill to have.

I have met a lot of good, genuine “bohemian”, “beatnik”, “hippie” whatever you want to call them, people but sadly they are few and far between. It seems that the very people you think are unique, always have a way of turning out to be a dime a dozen, with their eyes set on the stars because in all reality it is simply closer than the moon. I don’t want a star chaser to sing me songs in the small hours of the morning, or croon to me over the empties whilst listening to forgotten jazz that neither of us really enjoy.

I want a moon man. I want a man who wakes up in the morning and knows that there is something beyond the stars, beyond the countless ways you can sell your soul to seek reprise quickly and effortlessly. I do not know what these moon men look like, I do not know if in fact they have beards, or write poetry, or listen to Tom Waits but I know that I am not asking for much. A man, simple in his complexity who believes in peace rather than love. Who is not constricted by Hallmark connotations of romance but not so liberal as to assume that romance does not matter.

It appears to me I need a break from the afore mentioned men that my friend (who knows me far too well for either of our benefit) and I both know are part of the problem rather than the solution. I am in no hurry. I have a perfect partner who knows me better than anyone else in the world and whom I love so much it hurts. Who every moment I spend with feels like peace and who when touches my face helps me find my heaven. They do not call me sweetheart, sugar, darling or baby – she calls me Mummy.

Broken By Time, Healed By Hurt

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So I have had this notion in my head for a while – the way people deal with hurt. It seems quite poignant as today holds a great significance to me and the long, arduous journey from then to now. Time. That is always the answer isn’t it? Time will heal all wounds. Once again, the sayings of yester year bare little or no symbolism to me anymore and in my attempts to keep myself from the raggedy edge at this time in my life, I decided to write it out instead of drinking it out.

So let’s deconstruct this concept of time healing wounds. In terms of physical wounds yes time does heal those that can be healed and it does an amazing job at doing so. But can a broken heart be compared to a broken leg? I don’t think so. Not even metaphorically, and I am a whore for a good metaphor (I also like rhymes). No,  all time has ever served to do is to break me down and force me to rebuild, but time only helped with the demolition of my old self and stood idly by as another far more competent construct helped me to rebuild myself.

Emotional wounds never heal and however much you like to think they do or can, there will always be a moment long after the original pain was caused, that it flares up in a brutally real way, reinforcing the fact that even though you thought that wound had become a scar, it was in fact always there and always bleeding.

True emotional trauma cannot be repaired and this is why we blame people’s personalities on what they had to face once upon a time. As a lover of metaphors let’s take this one – think of time as the salt that is rubbed into the wound, as time goes on it slowly runs out of salt and the wound stops stinging, but it is still there gaping at you from a place in the back of your mind only waiting for a convenient moment to converse with time once more and make its inescapable presence known once more.

If emotional wounds really did heal, they wouldn’t be so goddamn easy to tear apart at a moment’s notice. Something that hasn’t caused you pain in years can suddenly and drastically come back into your life in a matter of seconds with a piece of good news to some that is devastating to you, or with a chance meeting that would eventually scar itself as another indefinable regret. In my vast experience with the varied spectrum of emotional lacerations, there is only one construct that has ever served to distract me from the burns inflicted by those who chose to aid the demolition of myself.

I suppose you could say I was broken by time and healed by hurt. New, fresh pain brings with it many more scars that you can pretend are one day going to heal, but along with this new born pain, there is also the delightful relief of distraction. The reason we become so involved with the healing process of our emotional wounds is because whilst they are fresh they are hard to ignore, and they cause us an indescribable amount of intense agony in those fledgling stages of trauma when the skin is still raw and time has a full palm of salt to season the sadness.

New hurt serves to distract you from the old hurt and in this respect, time does help to take away the pain of old wounds but only by replacing them with new ones that it can torture. With each new painful experience that comes to us, a new wound is open and whilst it screams at us we cannot forget that it is there but it takes away the acknowledgement that consumed us in regards to the old wounds that are temporarily forgotten.

Now I don’t suggest that if you are going through a rough patch in your life that you should go out and find something new to inflict pain upon yourself, but what I am saying is that everyone has the ability to distract themselves but some are better than others. I for example, fell to writing when my other methods of distraction from the emotional wounds became too dangerous to myself and those around me, hence the reason why I write about such seemingly ambiguous but emotionally charged subjects.

I write to distract myself from the wounds that I can feel peeling in the back of my mind and my hands fly faster across my keyboard as I run faster and faster, trying to beat them and trying to beat the monkey that sits on my back with its whip firmly grasped between its crude, leathery fingers. In essence what drugs, alcohol, sex, video games, reading, writing – what distraction does is it allows us to take time out of the equation and deal with hurt on our terms and once you figure out that time is actually a hindrance to the healing process, convincing you that its helping when in fact its only hurting, then you will feel much better about wasting on other pursuits that will genuinely help you to heal.

This time last year I wrote the following –

Maybe some people aren’t meant to heal. Maybe some people deserve to remember their scars. Maybe it’s the pain that stalks them every day that stops them going back on their own promises, that reminds them that they are bad people trying to be good. I’ll keep my scars, healed or hurting, because they are the only thing that remind me that through all of it my heart never stopped beating however much I may have wanted it to.

A year has passed now and as if in testament to my disagreement with time as a healer, I still agree with what I said in regards to my own emotional scars last year. I believe there comes a point, when the swelling goes down and the scab peels away when you can actually survey the damage of the wound that’s pain held you captive for so long.

When this time comes you will see that in comparison to those that are fresh and still bleeding, the old ones aren’t as bad as they originally seemed and living with them, healed or hurting, becomes a far more amiable task.