Thoughts before retiring

I wrestle a lot with feelings of rage. Something flashes into my mind and it's like a lightning bolt. I go from relatively indifferent to consumed. I think about this as I walk, as I spend my energy (I did it again today, though not as far, and I turned back - so as to get home without the need for a cab). I find walking useful, to absorb my misplaced passions, to quiet my mind, to listen to the beat of The Waves...

At home I stroke my cats. I watch them play. Feed them, Clean out their kitty litter. Read "In the Restaurant" by Christoph Ribbat (I am on page 78), think about showering before I go to bed, think about rubbing my very expensive frankincense on my aching parts, thinking about writing the last letter that I was going to write...except that now I am tired and have run out of inspiration and flourish..

(Here is how Bernard writes a letter, I suspect that this is how VW wrote a letter):

Yes, all is propitious. I am now in the mood. I can write the letter straight off which I have begun ever so many times. I have just come in; I have flung down my hat and my stick; I am writing the first thing that comes into my head without troubling to put the paper straight. It is going to be a brilliant sketch which, she must think, was written without a pause, without an erasure. Look how unformed the letters are — there is a careless blot. All must be sacrificed to speed and carelessness. I will write a quick, running, small hand, exaggerating the down stroke of the “y” and crossing the “t” thus — with a dash. The date shall be only Tuesday, the 17th, and then a question mark. But also I must give her the impression that though he — for this is not myself — is writing in such an off-hand, such a slap-dash way, there is some subtle suggestion of intimacy and respect. I must allude to talks we have had together — bring back some remembered scene. But I must seem to her (this is very important) to be passing from thing to thing with the greatest ease in the world. I shall pass from the service for the man who was drowned (I have a phrase for that) to Mrs Moffat and her sayings (I have a note of them), and so to some reflections apparently casual but full of profundity (profound criticism is often written casually) about some book I have been reading, some out-of-the-way book. I want her to say as she brushes her hair or puts out the candle, “Where did I read that? Oh, in Bernard’s letter.” It is the speed, the hot, molten effect, the laval flow of sentence into sentence that I need. Who am I thinking of? Byron of course. I am, in some ways, like Byron. Perhaps a sip of Byron will help to put me in the vein. Let me read a page. No; this is dull; this is scrappy. This is rather too formal. Now I am getting the hang of it. Now I am getting his beat into my brain (the rhythm is the main thing in writing). Now, without pausing I will begin, on the very lilt of the stroke —.

That is how Bernard writes his letters. Dashing. That is how VW writes her letters - it is performance, it is art, it is artifice, it is highly polished.

But I am tired now. All my reflections sink under the the dark waves of slumber. I shall take a shower. I shall go cuddle TimTam who is in disgrace for escaping and attacking Sheba and who has been ignored for the rest of the day in consequence. I shall put my phone on the charger and set my alarm so that I may wake up and go walking early enough, this time to the Kiara Hills, so I may listen to The Waves without having it drowned out by the sounds of traffic. 

And so to bed.

Peregrinations

Today I stepped out of my house to post letters and maybe buy bread and I decided to take a walk, a walk that would last at least two hours, while listening to The Waves which I had downloaded on my phone. The words they spoke to me, and I understood them at a deep, deep level as I trudged through the rainswept streets, which wet my sneakers, then my socks, through.

I listened to Rhoda's lament:

There is some check in the flow of my being; a deep stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs, some knot in the centre resists. Oh, this is pain, this is anguish! I faint, I fail. Now my body thaws; I am unsealed, I am incandescent. Now the stream pours in a deep tide fertilising, opening the shut, forcing the tight-folded, flooding free. To whom shall I give all that now flows through me, from my warm, my porous body? I will gather my flowers and present them -- Oh, to whom?

She, whom of all, I love the most, I identify with the most. I know now why. It was Standard One and I was confused and out of place and I watched others to see what was supposed to be done, what I should do...I was a cipher with no face, no voice, no volition. They took my money and beat me, and I handed over my money willingly, if only it would make them like me.

But I told Mum and she got mad and scolded them because they were not supposed to take my money, apparently. Who knew?

I walked and walked and felt my feet grow tired. The roads I have drive over thousands of times seemed strange, unfamiliar. I stepped over frogs, crushed some snails (I didn't mean to), and saw the city from another perspective. The cars, they shone their lights in my face, avoided me or came too near, sometimes flashed me, and still I walked.

I made it to Bangsar and stepped into Bangsar Shopping Centre to get a bottle of Evian water (because that's the kind of water you get at Bangsar Shopping Centre, it's that kind of place) and then sipping my water, I made it all the way down to Bangsar Baru, where I stopped to rest at a bus stop and tried to get a GrabCar because I was too tired to walk back. My Grab driver (when I eventually got one) was surprised that I had walked all the way from there to here. He said, wow, you must have covered 7km, and I said, I don't know, maybe. What I do know (from the place I stopped at The Waves) was that I had been walking for two and a half hours.

I walked through the pain of unrequited love and this longing inside me, unassuaged. I thought I could spend some of its fury in the movement of my feet on the mushy ground or hard pavement.

Solvitur ambulando.

I have wanted to walk for so long now, but not, as it turns out, to be healthier, but to walk through my pain, my perplexities. I want to listen to my books unencumbered with chatter, with others in my space, begging for, demanding attention. 

Let's see if I walk tomorrow. I want to walk tomorrow. I also want to do...

Oh, so many things on the to-do list. 

So many things.

Oxytocin Man

You throw words

against a canvas

this blank white wall

this empty space

whimsical smile playing

on your lips.

Not caring that some shafts

find a mark,

and the target

is vulnerable,

as you have previously

ascertained.

You watch, you wait,

you evaluate,

You can't help yourself,

it's what makes you you.

But you want infinite variety

always the spectacle

of something different

and eventually

variety turns into sameness,

and you're done.

Nothing touches 

your teflon heart

Oh oxytocin man

She knew what you were

But fell for you

anyway.

You were a rush

to a tired heart

that had stopped 

feeling.

that had almost 

stopped beating.

But day turns into night

the four hours are up

and you're weary.

So you smile,

and turn away

you're done for today.

Oh oxytocin man,

You're done.

Enough To Be On Your Way

I just listened to "Enough To Be On Your Own Way" by James Taylor. I had never heard it before and it is filled with unutterable sadness because it's about his brother who died of alcoholism on JT's birthday.

So the sun shines on this funeral, 
Just the same as on a birth
the way it shines on everything
that happens here on earth
It rolls into the Western sky
and back into the sea
and spends the day's last rays
upon this fucked-up family.

The song is up on YouTube and someone commented that they don't like his new songs because the songs are too happy and it doesn't capture his tortured soul. I was wondering then, whether the whole point of the artist is the pain, the torture. Maybe if you're happy, you can no longer write.

It's the unhappiness that beams out of your writing that people want to read, that they identify with.

And so if I clear this unhappiness from me, this heavy, heavy sadness that I have carried for so long...will my pen dry up? When my heart opens will I cap my fountain pen and put it away?

Maybe.

I'd still like to be happy though.

I'd still like to be happy.

Moving on

I see you've unfriended me. I didn't realise until I looked.

It's OK.

We both need to move on, after all.

Good luck with your life.

Hope it turns out some kind of wonderful.

Forgiveness

It's funny. But you're offended if I'm not hurt or broken enough. You've taken everything and that's not enough.

You still want more.

I used to hate you about it.

I didn't understand.

Now I do.

So you're welcome to whatever you've taken.

I don't hate you anymore.

Cold Turkey

You dole yourself out
in nano instalments
so little
not enough
to satisfy
this raging thirst.

You breeze in and out
Call, and then don't,
Disappear for acres
of bleak unremitting time.

You're there,
and then you're not,
You disappear.

This silence,
It breaks me,
It breaks me...
And then slowly
the fissures close up
And I become strong.

I no longer notice
If you're there
or not.

I don't know if you intended to
But you healed me
of you.

Cold turkey was painful.
Cold turkey was for the best.

The Calm Between Storms

It is after midnight and I am just so tired. I'm trying to clear stories because there are so many to clear by Monday when we close before Chinese New Year and I haven't even gotten started. My brain is not working.

And the volatile oscillations of my heart which hits me at the strangest times, does not help.

I just want to curl up in bed with Tim Tam and allow myself to drift.

I wish someone nice would adopt him. It's hard him not getting along with my cats...and I feel so sorry for him, alone all day, that when I come home, I try to spend time with him. They get jealous and it manifests in various ways. Like sand all over the kitchen floor. Sheba attacking Pablo viciously because he tried to cuddle her.

It seems like everyone is frayed at the edges now.

But I am so tired.

This is the calm between storms.

Coming Undone

My heart is oscillating violently.

I have no idea what to do.

I have no idea what to say.

I have no idea how to act.

I am coming undone.

Soft kitty, warm kitty

Lost is my new normal. Except that it feels old. I just didn't realise that it was normal. I didn't accept it. Until now.

So I gather other lost creatures around me. Hold them in my lap and sing to them:

Soft kitty, warm kitty,
little ball of fur
happy kitty, sleepy kitty
purr, purr, purr.

They go to sleep while I stay up and worry about the work I haven't finished. The work I have brought home for the weekend.

The work that means I need to live another day...to complete it.

Later...

I have cleared a story. It wasn't too bad. I am still way behind but, well, what can you do? The road goes on and on...

Bleeding all over the page

So I've decided that this kind of existence is not worth it. Work and more work. Caught up in the rush of busyness...while my soul weeps silently, unheeded.

I need to do something, something... I don't know what.

So for a start, I'll nick myself, open a tiny vein and bleed all over the page.

This page.

Stay tuned.

Can you feel the love tonight?

A Simple Transaction

It's a simple transaction, really
Those who care
Those who don't.

So don't walk around
feeling bruised
No one is OBLIGED
to care for you
No one.

Remember that.

And get on with your life.

This Side of Despair

I have questions, naturally.

Or rather, I had questions.

Now I have peace.

Flawed human beings

Today, somewhat inexplicably, I stalked the Facebook page of someone I considered an enemy and the epitome of evil: beautiful, ruthless, mendacious. And I found two grammatical and spelling errors in what she said.

And suddenly, my animosity dissolved, not knowing where to go. Her mistakes made her fallible, with English that was not very good...OK they could have been typos. But two? For an editor? And suddenly she was just a vulnerable human being who had made mistakes. A human being I had liked before she turned hostile, but not one that was dangerous or evil or anything.

She was just a child clutching at happiness, because, let's face it, she was always on the outside looking in.

She had hurt someone to get what she wanted. But that's what we do. We hurt other people. We don't think about what we are doing. We don't consider.

Maybe this is a minor miracle.

Who would have thought that finding two errors would lighten a load I had been carrying for all this time.

I hated her because she hated me. I hated her, because she pointed out my flaws.

Now I find that she has flaws.

And, everything is all right again.

Lord if you marked our transgressions, who would stand? Thanks to your grace we are cleansed by the blood of the Lamb...

Peace, out!

Today I read Father Parker's sermon (he had written his address behind it so he gave me the paper) about actively looking for Christ in everyone and trying to reach out to them.

It was a good sermon. He gave us a few funny anecdotes where he tried to help someone and got told to go to (he didn't mention where except that it was pretty hot) and he added: "I won't tell you what he said about my parentage."

We all laughed.

But he said, reaching out, you have to be prepared to be rejected. You have to be OK with rejection.

And then, I came in to work and got immediately irritated. With the one who irritates everybody by posturing, posing and ranting.

And I arrested my knee jerk reaction (OK, I arrested it after I put on headphones to block out her voice) and thought about it.

Maybe some people behave the way they do as a cry for help. What if she's lonely? What if she's lost?

It doesn't seem likely.

But thinking like this, I felt more kindly disposed towards her.

And from my corner at least, the deathly vibes of irritation ceased to project towards her.

Which is a victory of sorts, no?

Deep breath.

Peace.

For whom the bell tolls

Ebony has been playing on my mind more than usual. I wonder who says you ever heal from the deaths of those you love. You don't. Your heart is riven and it stays riven. It heals but it heals riven, misshapen, always identified by the loss.

I don't know why. I have no idea. I am diminished and diminished and every death diminishes me further. The people who are actual around me become phantom, shadows, not quite real, not quite there and I want to be with myself and my cats, my babies, hugging them to me, being with them, and with my thoughts, and with my pain.

It's like hugging shards of broken glass, these painful feelings that don't quite go away, so you are ever-conscious of the sting, and your eyes fill up at faint suggestions of the things you once had, which you have now lost for good.

This is the end of my holiday and I'm not sad about that because I can't wait to see my cats again. But my flight was unaccountably delayed for so long that I had to spend the night in Singapore, and instead of going to the hotel they had assigned me to, I remained at the airport, the in-between place and watched various versions of A Christmas Carol and wept at each of them.

I am the Scrooge of the hard heart. Isn't it easy to let your heart ice over? Isn't it easy to fall into hate? Into evil feelings, a lack of love?

Isn't it easy to lie down and stop breathing....but no, the cats, the Christmas tree that is now up, the words I have yet to write, the people depending on me.

I wish I didn't feel so alone.

I have no idea why I feel this way.

I wish I could stop crying.

Salvation

I guess I always knew that you would save me. I took you in to save your life and now, you're saving mine.

And now, you brush up against the sole of my foot, your tail soft like a caress. I catch you up and hold you close and kiss your little face and tell you I love you.

And then I let you go.

And when you feel like it, when I'm not looking, you jump up on the bed, and press up against me.

And in my sleep I breathe easier because I feel companioned.

I saved you from dying of starvation or being chucked in a village already overflowing with strays. I saved you and fed you and cleaned your litter and stroked you when you let me.

I saved you.

And now you save me.

A Graceful Gesture of Futility

When we meet in the great Hereafter,
will you say hello?
Will you recognise me?
Will you turn to go?

I miss you
I miss you
I miss you
I miss you

And I don't believe
we'll ever meet again

I keep looking for you
in this labyrinth
but you're elusive
you disappear
just around the corner

I run. I scream your name.

But you leave
You don't turn back
You leave me
like you left me
All over again.

Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.

Alone.

Immaturity

Well what do you know? I went to the gym for the second time in a row. I walked 2.6km. Burned 268 calories. 30 minutes. It's not bad if you compare it to nothing for the longest time. It's a start at least.

I'm wondering though if all this walking gives me energy. I didn't get to sleep until 6 this morning.

Ho hum.

Let's see how that goes.

In the meantime I am subject to epiphany after epiphany.

The character trait I was sent back to battle is immaturity.

I would like to expand on it but I won't. I will simply watch as everything progresses.

Still looking for a good MP3 player to download audiobooks. I want to listen to The Golden House by Salman Rushdie as I work that windmill.

And after that, I want to listen to The Windfall by Diksha Basu.

Oh brother, I just caught sight of myself in the mirror. It reminded me of why I don't look at mirrors. I  have a baby bump with no baby.

The next few weeks should be....interesting.