A demon of weakness

 

Konica12553

 

 

Lostness   (49)

 

 

Perhaps pain only tends to ennoble those already possessing nobility?

I experience my own suffering as rather disgusting.

Then notice, automatically judging myself harshly.

It seems so easy, believing bad things said about me.
Yet very difficult to accept any praise.

I  was taught such severity, before I could form a defence.

We cannot atone for the offence of existing
to someone who finds our existence offensive.

 


 

How to gain self-esteem without currently having it?
Breaking circles of negation…

Should I begin by directing inward, sorts of kindness I might like to receive from others?

 


 

 

When loss is unperceived, grief may be misunderstood.

 

 


 

 

In forced rest
sensing slow atrophy

drifting farther
from a once fit person
returning through dreams

where he moves
effortlessly
along streets unseen for years
while I struggle
to accept
never walking them again

lying alone
with fear
that some demon
of weakness
drags me toward
strange realms
better unvisited
which become harder to leave
the longer one stays

as a door closes
upon me
here
lacking strength
to hold it open
this exit
from my past
wished left
ajar

now
losing
what I had not realised
was even loved

my own
old life.

 

 

(1989)

 

(philosophy/psychology/mental health/illness/loneliness/thoughts/ideas/opinions/poetry/writing)

 

 

 

 

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Anything realised

 

Konica12508

 

Lostness   (48)

 

 

Though it may be enjoyable, sneering is hardly a superior use of intelligence.

 

Cultural snobbery, for example, aimed at cliched reactions to art from those stuck in their visual taxonomies.

 

(Which I associate with reviews leaving the question:”Did you like it?” unresolved.)

 

 


 

 

Vagueness forms a refuge, where precision seems threatening.

 

Situations requiring the supression of hostility.

When, if we cannot make people good, we try to make them behave well.

(As politics or law tend to result in an imposition of will, by some upon others.)

 


 

Whatever arises acts to constrain perception.

 

Anything realised involves options closed.
Perhaps constituting a burden of finitude.
Thus we could imagine that inertia preserves more possibility than action.
Yet, in actuality, a small task done outranks our big fantasy.

 


 

 

Feeling oppressed by a sense of insignificance.

 

While my certainties take negative form.
(Age, loss, illness, rejection, death.)

 

Hope no longer shields me from the truth that I am unfit to marry.

 

I tell myself sex would only leave me unfulfilled.
I mingle pity with desire
allow beauty its sadness
even admit love may reveal
what it was supposed to overcome:
a victorious loneliness…

But women remain icons
for an impenetrability
of existence.

And I end up making jokes
because life
is so serious.

 

 

(1989)

(philosophy/psychology/poetry/mental health/thoughts/ideas/writing)

 

 

 

 

Xmas lost

 

Konica12496

 

My uncle especially liked this picture of me.

He died in November.

Now I am completely alone.

 


 

 

It has been a stressful time, though I somehow managed to continue weekly posting.

I keep hoping my audience will grow consistently beyond single figures, but the stats usually arrive as a digital depressant, including many vacant days without views.

 

 


 

 

This first Xmas of blogging sparked a new worry:
could I be the loneliest person on WordPress?

 

Probably an unanswerable question.

Yet, my situation is rather unusual.

30 years of chronic illness, pain and exhaustion.

A 27th, consecutive, Xmas spent alone.

Not feeling well enough to go out.
Or make new friends.

The phone doesn’t ring.
I cannot think of anyone who would want to hear from me.
My family are dead. I am the last of our line.

Except for my uncle, no-one has visited me, socially, since 1995.

I am used to emptiness, though Xmas and birthdays still hurt.

 

 


 

 

I shall end on a different note:
by saying a big…

Thank you!

To everyone that left “Likes,” or comments, on my blog.

Your feedback was the most positive online experience, for me,
and I still get excited by it.

 

I hope you all have a good 2018.

 

Best wishes

from Ken.

 

 

(memories/feelings/loneliness/lostness/mental health/depression/life/thoughts/writing)

Deviant loneliness

 

 

IMG_20171203_232209101

 

 

Lostness   (43)

 

I have lived a life of feelings.
Yet what remains
once they are gone?

 

I suppose the life of action might leave more behind…
As things stand, I am left a mind filled by memory and emotion.
But no-one to share it with.

I cannot find the exit from barrenness.
Or a way to untie those knots which bind me in insignificance.
Purpose remains hidden. Motivation fades.

 

Being “in touch” with feelings, shades into being oppressed by them.

 

I think about how sexuality has blighted my existence.
Through one-sided fascinations with women.
Where, unable to bridge that aching inequality between the desired and the undesired,
I have craved the company even of some who despised me.
Or wanting love so much as to fear resentment from indifference.
Again, perception perhaps distorted by self-hate: those attractions for women utterly different, which would probably never work.

 

If only I were content in this obscurity.

 

Instead, there are wishes to reach out, from deviant loneliness, toward a mirage of recognition that might well prove unsatisfying, while doubting my abilities for such an undertaking.

Should I aspire to form a tiny locus of generative suffering?

 

 


 

 

Drifting off to sleep a quote came into my head:

“the unexamined life is not worth living.”

Very well, I thought,
But what if the examined life
is not worth living, either?

 

 

 

(1988-9)

 

(philosophy/psychology/thoughts/opinions/mental health)

 

 

 

 

A Leper’s squint

IMG_20171126_210428856

 

Lostness   (42)

 

Discontinuity calls us to consciousness.

 

Awareness working against entropy.
Art selecting from a chaos of impressions.
Though, once theory and context are forgotten, objects will perhaps revert to potential fecundity in the unexplained.

Could one see text as “matter” for literature, and matter as “text” for reality?
With criticism or physics attempting analysis across both realms.
Language, being so fruitful, may need restraint not to ramify beyond control.

 

 


 

 

Influenced by feminism, I ponder when arousal might be permissible.
“Alone in a sperm bank!” responds an inner voice.
Daunted by genetic responsibility, I shorten this to one word:
“Alone.”
Appropriately, isolation is the very situation where I experience these effects.
Which somewhat relieves the conscience, but leaves loneliness untouched.

 

I worry, thinking about myself,
that I will end up with only myself to think about.

 

Remembering certain old churches had small holes, called a “Leper’s squint”, cut through their wall, allowing undesirables a view inside: this struck me as analogous to the perception of outsiders, exiled from normality.

 

 


 

 

Methods to avoid thought remain useful, hence the popularity of bias.
People seeking offence find it everywhere.
World-views are partly composed of preferences.
Would organisms survive a hostile environment without partiality?

 

Returning to my own case…

Even knowing life is not a rehearsal, it still feels that way.

Consequently, where consideration makes optimism too demanding,
I shall try to proceed
in an absence of hope.

 

 

 

(1988)

 

(philosophy/psychology/writing/thoughts/ideas/opinions/mental health)

 

 

 

 

Build on air

Lostness   (32)

 

“Where are those others, who feel as I do?” mutter castaways of the soul.
When loneliness appears like a destiny. To live, and die, among strangers.

 

My relationship with belief-systems is an inability to fit into any of them.
For thought, faith is a restriction.
Though we cannot build on air. At any starting-point conventions are present. Social animals tend to conformism. Group behaviour and saving face may surmount virtue. Notions of good beyond a categorical imperative, being needed for its use; the formula works inside an ethical frame, rather than generating one.
Zealots could act upon the maxim: “Always obey a divine voice, however terrible its command.” Ancient abuse might be cited in support of the new.
Ideas can coat even immorality with an insulation of sanctity.

 

The lure of a benign universe drives some to extremity.

 

Self seems to dissolve under examination, but so does object.

 

Should I attempt to speak soulfully
of some spirit that is lost
while night cloaks this world
in a profundity
dispelled by dawn?

 

 

(Feb-May 1982)

(philosophy/religion/thoughts/opinions/poetry)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arcs of opinion

Lostness  (24)

 

Being alone so much, I tend to forget life is one of the performing arts.

I try to console myself with the idea that any happiness resting upon the existence of others remains vulnerable.
But it doesn’t help my loneliness.

Life feels like a club from which I have been barred.

This starts me musing on the chance nature of love: wherever people are, with someone they happen to meet.
Except for myself.
Wherever I am, whoever I meet, love never occurs.

 

I suppose a frame of drama around oneself suits the ego. To imagine others perceive us with great arcs of opinion, rather than as bit players on the set of their reality.

Then my mind wanders to what future archaeologists will make of us on the basis of our pottery. And I realise the previous thread has been lost.

I had a feeling like knocking on my own door.
Even though I was already inside.

 

(Feb 1980)

(philosophy/psychology/opinions/ideas)

 

Opening notes

Daily notes  (1)

 

Lostness  (8)

 

Participatory evolution: We reach into our genes to begin playing with ourselves.

 

Loneliness can be exacerbated by human contact.  Some relationships would fracture from honesty.
Yet this hunger remains for a love I have never experienced.  Inside me contend both need for connection and recognition of its improbability.
Isolation is also a defence.                                                                                  (7/12/1978)

 

As armour against compassion winners may assume their status is simply a matter of justice.

Religion is not beyond the sphere of human vanity.

One danger of questions: by casting them in a certain form we are led toward compatible answers. 

 

A flow of perceptions and memory.  Can we extrapolate “Self” from this: like the projectionist in our cranial cinema?  What if we find his room empty except for a turning mechanism?
If I am always becoming, along some stream of present moments, where is a complete self to be found?                                                                                               (14/12/1978)

 

Sensitive sons?

Of a father who appeared so dominant that only by passivity might his rage, at any rival maleness, be avoided.
Yet a father who demanded this intimidated son be strong, active, masculine.
Creating a personality afraid to be assertive, and ashamed of its fear.

I wrote this thinking of Kafka. But perhaps I was describing myself?

 

 

 

 

Desire and thoughts

 

Lostness   (7)   1978

 

Souls wake in sperm-forests
they cry out from my groin
wanting to swim across dreamy membranes
to become flesh and memory.

 

Significance undermined by time.

 

Turning away from death: we travel just as fast at it, backwards.

 

When I am ill objects seem to grow stranger.

 

Philosophy senses the problematic in all things. Once dogma is lost existence comes into question. Alienation as a price of freedom.

Awareness creates separation: the potential for loneliness.

 

When means are bad, ends get debased.

 

“Portion of space bounded by surfaces.”  This definition of solid also defines a hole.

 

Words are snakes
but thought
is a lion.

 

 

 

Poem 2004

Lassitude

 

Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
tired even
from dreaming
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
reclosing eyes
soon
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
in carnality
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
but here
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
by forlornness
like a bug.