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Konica12557

 

Lostness   (64)

 

 

Unshared experience is lost to the world.

 

During struggles with oblivion
might fatalism offer solace
for a botched existence
by transcending the indignity
of randomness?

 

Infinity, god, and zero

 

flash across my mind
as if not quite understood
like signs in search of full meaning…

 

A sudden racket, from outside, interrupted these thoughts.

 

Noise invades private space
against our will.
Triggering vigilance.
Becoming harder to ignore
or endure.

 

I reached for distraction
via a bedside newspaper…

 

Reading, first,
that psychopaths share great success
at producing children.

(Possibly a better evolutionary strategy
than writing poems?
Though not the best advertisement
for female mate-choice.)

 

Next, an article on cryogenics.

Thus some rich Americans aspired to avoid
life’s traditional twin certainties:
death and taxes.

(“Truths are not self-evident,” I mumbled,
“Men being made unequal.
Rights find wishes, recast as law.”)

 

A headline mentions “Community care”.

Yet cities lack community,
and nobody cares.

(Presumably
“Neglect in the community”
sounded less appealing?)

 

A reader’s letter, praising divine creation,
bemoaned devilish influences.

(Why god created Satan
went unconsidered.)

 

A book review questioned fiction
spanning barriers of class and gender.

(Autobiography
should be a safer option;
given approved opinions?)

 

A survey revealed
celibates suffer twice the mortality rate
of men getting regular, weekly, sex.

“My situation is one long touch deprivation,”
I mutter, gloomily.

Having gone without such pleasure for years
perhaps there could be more
than mere hyperbole
to an admission that,

yes,

“I’m dying for it.”

 

 

 

(1996)

 

(anxiety/art/blogging/depression/drawing/ideas/illness/life/mental health/poetry)

 

 

 

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My mirror is an enemy

 

Konica12545

 

Lostness   (63)

 

 

My mirror is an enemy…

A zone of continual dissatisfaction
for someone humiliated by their own appearance.

In maleness
I already sensed myself
on eternal probation
under wary female scrutiny.

While, by beauty’s natural aristocracy,
fated to remain
hopelessly lower class.

 


 

 

Scanning a newspaper
next to the bed
it struck me how modern liberalism
looked aberrant amid history’s cruelty

(where “forgive, but remember”
seemed more prudent
than “forgive and forget”)

Much politics involved an imposition of will
by one group upon another
via law or force
as media stirred up complacency,
anger,
and impotence.

 

 


 

 

 

In illness-prone lives
biology
may assume greater interest
than missions to the stars.

Given my current
exhausted state
going out has a value
above staying put;
like hunting over gathering
(though these days women also get to hunt,
men stuck at home might still
lose status and esteem).

Here I cope with exclusion
from normality
but since sexuality
refuses to die
peace
proves elusive.

When loneliness drives me,
pushing through symptoms,
to social events
at times I experience an inkling
of being selected against
by evolution.

 

 

One recent challenge
to say something positive
about my life
almost provoked this reply:

“However submerged with uselessness
I have not entirely spared myself the effort
of attempting to think.”

 

Yet, that sounded a little too grand
so, instead,
changing the subject
by counter-question

I obtained a refuge
in silence.

 

 

 

(1993-1996)

 

(art/beauty/blogging/depression/drawing/illness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

Like the blues

 

 

Konica12507

 

 

 

Lostness   (61)

 

 

Flamenco speaks into my wounds
like the blues…

Sounding through
this lost life
that may soon go unmourned

Vibrating
across these empty hands
no child will ever reach for
as I stay unmarried
and unloved.

 

Coping
with so much darkness
absorbs spiritual resources

mine feel almost
used up.

An existence of mainly
lying around
exhausted by illness
trying passive activities
which fail at masking grief
while missing creativity

Unable to enjoy
what little I can do
or fully escape inside
some heartless cocoon
of the cerebral.

 

Struggling again
with self acceptance
and embracing imperfection
I ponder
how easily hate arrives
once we interpret action
in negative ways
how hostility takes offence
where not intended
(justifying
preformed antipathy)
eroding consideration
or even the social lubricant
of manners.

 

I muse over advice for happiness
listing:
purpose, relationship, variety, attitude, health,
inner peace.
My score is zero, out of six:
aimless, alone, in monotony,
misery, sickness and turmoil.

But does seeing my plight
in tragic terms
shield me
from its paltriness?

 

I might need a decent fuel
of lies
to push aside depression

Since recent dreams fill
with the dead
a situation
unexpected
before middle age.

I have merely learned
helplessness
facing slow destruction
by inexorable forces
in crushing
isolation.

 

And it occurs to me that

among other things

love
is also
not always wanting
to be somewhere else.

 

 

 

(1993-1994)

 

(art/beauty/blogging/drawing/mental health/music/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

 

Underlain by sex

 

Konica12511

 

Lostness   (60)

 

 

I need a metaphysical vacuum cleaner
for the soiled carpet of my soul.

 

Where are higher powers
when you want them?

 

“No lie in the sky!”  sounded one atheist slogan
during unbelieving rage
days upon which, looking at our planet, it seemed
maybe gods should also ask forgiveness
from creatures suffering
subject
to such creation

Here happiness appeared an irrational state
with misery and anger
taking typical positions
behind morality
against onrushing evil tides

Refusing contentment
until situations were put right
thus assuring vexation

(As argument demanding agreement
ensures its own frustration)

Perfectionism
defers living
to search after unreachables

Trying too hard
denying animality
buffoon versus baboon
or remembered child
that messed his pants
shamed before a looming parent
when my arse followed me
like a judgement.

 

There
beneath ethics
lurks aesthetics.
Beauty
underlain by sex
fired through hormones
hence desire overcomes distaste
then other bodies turn
ingestible.

 

 

In the end
at two extremes
we find
those seeing all
as evidence of divine presence
opposing those seeing the same
as showing only
divine absence.

 

Yet
if people who abhor reality
require religion more

what about this particular
isolation…

Might it grow so intense
I’d begin mumbling at deities
(while lacking faith in their actuality)
merely from an urge to complain?

Perhaps
even confessing
I need
a metaphysical vacuum cleaner
for the soiled carpet
of my soul.

 

 

 

(1993)

 

(art/atheism/blogging/drawing/life/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

Beloved other

 

Konica12509

 

Lostness   (57)

 

 

In art, I seek a beauty denied me by reality.

 

My current creative sterility prompts the question…

Having stopped making art I wish to see, why expect strangers to produce it?

Should we anticipate satisfaction from those who do not share our needs?

 

In any case, art leaves untouched longings
for human presence…

 

Some single
beloved other
so far unfound.

 

Can I even picture her
while lying here
lovelorn and useless,
unable to heal
my own wounds?

An existence less about freedom
than rendering confinement bearable
when trapped by invisible bonds of sickness
which frustrate escape
through worsening symptoms
until prostration results.

Constant pain and fatigue grow familiar
yet loneliness remains harsh.

Being submerged under nature’s injustice
physically and aesthetically challenged

 

Life becomes a grey trudge of disappointment
marred by desire.

 

The city turns into a more exhausting place
for feeling isolated.

Staying in saves energy
and self-esteem.

Irrational hopes occasionally propel me toward social situations
but efforts go predictably unrewarded.

I remember my father’s voice, saying,
“What woman in her right mind, would want to go out with you?”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

My relationship prospects seem dismal
across this health divide.

 

Each time I come home alone, marks another failure.

And I always come home alone.

 

 

Caged by illness
like punishment
without a crime

 

My body
is my fate.

 

 

 

(1991-1993)

(beauty/blogging/drawing/depression/mental health/poetry/portrait/thoughts/writing)

 

 

 

 

 

 

First blogiversary!

Konica12499

Purple phase

 

As a teenager I attempted to visually evoke sensations of energy and beauty,
stirred in me by music.

(I include some pen images, done at age 16.)

Later, taking up guitar, Hendrix was a major influence.

Even now, after 30 years of being too unwell to play,
I remember wonderful feelings during improvisation,
ascending on a solo,
ideas flowing from my fingers.

Not realising how short this phase would be, I made no recordings.
Nothing remains of those musician days.

Art, poetry, music, philosophy, chess…
multiple interests eroded by illness.

Reading or writing are left to me.
And the struggle to put words here;
while I still can.

 

 

Konica12498

 

 

One year ago, today, I posted my first poem.

No-one noticed.

118 posts later I almost reached 100 followers,
but have got stuck for several weeks,
like a runner unable to step across the line…
at 99.

Growing an audience is difficult for me.
Due to poor health I lack stamina for social media, networking,
or spending much longer on other blogs.

Hence I gain new visitors by chance: via the WordPress reader.
A rather slow process.

 

On the positive side:
I managed to maintain a regular weekend blogging schedule despite many problems;
and “likes” are up in recent months.

 

So, to all my readers…

 

Thank you!

 

Konica12500

(I hope you will return next week for…

Lostness  (55))

 

 

 

 

(Mental health/drawing/art/music/beauty/blog/blogging/poetry/writing)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art of lostness

 

Konica12525

 

 

Art of lostness   (1)

 

The image above dates from around my 16th birthday, in 1972.

Improvised, freehand, with nylon tip pens.

 


 

Hit by a virus, at present, my ability to concentrate on writing is badly affected; together with low mood (anxiety and depression).

For the first time since launching this blog I feel unable to compose a weekend post.

But, unwilling to give up completely, decided to add a sample of art.

Mentioned previously: frustration at being unable to find a scanner compatible with an ancient computer.

Not satisfied with my photography, I recently took some work for scanning by a local printer.

 


 

 

I started drawing as a child, totally self-taught, mainly in pencil or ballpoint pen.
Later being given a set of nylon tip pens. These, for lack of “proper” art materials, I carried on using. Struggling toward expression and a certain sense of beauty.

 

 


 

 

Shall commence by posting images separately, seeing which are more popular.
Then collect all together on a new page once the series has progressed a little.

 

 

Hope a few of you will like them?

 

 

Wishing everyone a happy new year!

 

 

 

(art/teenage/blogging/mental health/lostness)