Thinking about women

 

Konica12528

 

Lostness   (59)

 

 

Entangled by illness, yet still thinking about women…

 

If only I didn’t adore them so much.

 

I am mired here
amid lingering discontents
of the unloved

Alone
in a city filled with strangers
its female population
imagined
uttering many thousand variations
on “No”.

Recollecting times
women have given me a challenging look
and feeling uncertain whether it meant
“Don’t you dare speak to me!”
or
“Speak to me: I dare you!”

Then breaking eye-contact
over fear of offence.

 

Even beauty
can intimidate.

 

Recalling
when well enough for travel by bus
occasionally seated next to women
like a hungry man ignoring food
faking nonchalance
avoiding her gaze
or potential discomfort
should any trace of desire
leak from this empty chamber
called a heart.

 

Suffering an invisible disability
enables my passing as “normal”
although it shows no reason
to be lacking status

That happens once maleness
(valued through doing
rather than being)
becomes too sick for achievement
hence seen as socially useless.

 

Just fantasies persist
around she who might love me
as I would love her

Which never occurs.

 

How difficult
transcending pain
where it clings to us
like slime.

 

Now I visualise myself
sitting outside
on the doorstep of life
hoping someone turns up with a key

Passing couples laugh
but nobody wants me
in their world

So I rest there
smiling
across despair

while the portal
remains

closed.

 

 

 

 

(1993-1994)

 

(art/blogging/depression/loneliness/lostness/mental health/poetry/thoughts/writing)

 

 

 

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Tormented by blue sky

 

konica12502-e1521394589531.jpg

 

Lostness   (56)

 

 

Craving touch, in a rather un-English way…

 

At times, feeling like some warm person, misplaced,
amid cold cultures…

I still have romantic dreams about unapproachable women,
who might sneer, behind tinted glass, as they pass me:
sitting by the bus stop
with library books and photocopied poetry,
in a carrier bag.

Then, while lifting my telephone
(which, being very long silent, I check remains working)
there comes an autobiographical idea for a story, called
“Not having friends”.

But was that situation entirely my fault?
People could have made attempts to befriend me.

I remember little interest, toward myself, emerging from anyone.

 


 

 

Impressions

 

 

Impressions move
among solitude
and disappear.

 

Mornings
waking too far under
for faith I shall rise

Illness
taking so much away

Alone on a bed
sensing things fade

Forced letting-go
yet wanting return.

 

 

Around open windows
curtains wave softly

Light
bouncing off leaves.

Tormented by blue sky
this body
hungry to respond

Against existence, slipping
through
these unheld fingers

Where each day sees an absence
of grace
love
or beauty
from my world.

 

Later
with evening closing in
I noticed a faint shadow
resembling smeared pencil-marks
across the white wall.

It evaporated, gently,
as the sun
went down.

 

 

And
I wondered
how many others
now wane
neglected
in their rooms?

 

 

 

(1992)

 

(beauty/blogging/depression/ideas/loneliness/mental health/poem/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)

 

 

 

 

Answerlessness

Lostness   (28)

 

Feeling unattractive: I strive toward inner beauty.
Yet women have no interest in my soul.

 

Experience can be private, and incommunicable. But our behaviour also leaks information.
I have been surprised by the question “What is the matter?” when assuming my misery was invisible.
Is it possible to be unhappy without realising it?
“Perhaps I am…” we could find ourselves admitting.
Others claim to detect someone smitten by love, while its victim remains in denial.
Even logic begins with assumptions derived from experience.

Should we grant unjustified doubt a status above unjustified belief?

 

Can I accept answerlessness?

 

Does death undermine meaning?
An existence that dragged on endlessly might still be empty.
Meaning as a matter of content rather than duration. Quality over quantity.
Meaningful versus meaningless immortality.

Perhaps atheism is easier for the young? Though spectres of entropy may prompt us to  seek godlike powers before our universe dies.

 

In certain cases, the quest of life is to be born.

 

Monotony’s circle
like air in my head
refusing to dance.

 

 

(Sep-Dec 1980)

(philosophy/thoughts/ideas/opinions)

 

Kinds of silence

Lostness   (15)

 

A lost object still exists, or there would be nothing for which to search.

 

Finding blades of dried grass, some crumbs, even a tiny bloodstain, as I turn pages in a library book. Reading about imaginary characters, while passing evidence of real lives:
those who touched these pages before me.

 

Belongings of the dead remain, like mute triggers for our guilt, over loving words we found no time to speak.

 

How many kinds of silence are there between us? Perhaps it is a sign of closeness, this ease in each other’s silence.
Do I really know someone if I am deaf to their silences?

 

Memories or geology: darkness and metamorphosis, seething in unseen masses.

 

Bad enough that we must die: to spend life tormenting one another is a sort of obscenity.

 

Death approaches. People fall away. Bringing realisation of primal aloneness.

 

Can I love for a moment?
What else is there but the moment?

 

Should I write about women when I have never gone beyond their eyes?

 

 

(Feb/1979)

 

 

Poem 1982 (7)

Yearning for women

 

Women are on their way, my friend,
soon we shall be rivals
our confused eyes shining
resolution growing weaker
as poise erodes.

Laughing, they will likely compare us
to various creatures
upon two legs or four,
each lowly form in turn
serving to picture our radiant faults.

So, while this night is still coloured
by vague flushing hopes,
let us speak of our yearning
for women
before they arrive.