May 1st, 2017: 3.20 pm

You know when you blame yourself for stuff, and you have got used to doing it, and it becomes second nature to the extent you think it’s first nature, and it always has to be like that, and so the furniture of your life just must always be distressed because distressed is the way furniture is for everyone … well, I guess that even in my kind of life, or the life I’ve led to date, there must come a moment when you realise there is plenty of furniture out there where distressed is the last word you’d use to describe it, and there are happy smiling faces surrounded by embracing furniture, and body-hugging furniture, and furniture that works to extend the reach of good people over the hold of the bad.

And so when you realise that thing, not intellectually, not rationally, but in the inside of your insides, you really do understand there’s a different life to be grasped.

And so I guess I’m just about there: and it’s not people like this or that I am looking for; it isn’t one imagining or another I need.  What I need is quite something else: to be able to express wants in the first place, and for those wants to have a place which doesn’t distress me – or anyone else – at all; doesn’t mean every day is a battle to get out the truth; doesn’t mean I have to square circles with squares that need circling.

That’s been my life all my life.  Sincerely, it’s been exhausting; and so now, I am exhausted of it.

No more.

My health before propriety.  And I have seen my health suffer before.  And I thought it was others outside who followed my steps.  And I failed to analyse the reality of the situation; the circumstances; the location; the frustration; the fear; the loneliness; the ultimate incomprehension.  And it wasn’t out there in mysterious darkness; instead, it was far closer to home.

And maybe I am partly to blame.  And maybe if I move elsewhere, I will repeat mistakes, and make mistakes, and the patterns will recur, and finally I will learn it was me all along.

But I must now run the risk of this happening, and of the pain that it would bring.  For whilst the alternative may be small, if true it is too grand a ball to miss out on.  I want just to get up in the morning in the kind of love and life and thrive and stuff which doesn’t require me to read minds, and tread egg-shells, and feel guilt-ridden every moment of my life.

And kinda one day feel that it may also allow me to feel beloved, in a way which ain’t ever a sacrificial act no more.

Does anyone get this?  Has it happened to anyone else?  Am I just a bad guy – or do I have any rights to express?

The questions being rhetorical need no answers here.

But I think by writing this out, and blogging the past few months, and photographing how I’ve photographed, I’ve eventually been able to ask questions the answers to which I am already learning how to craft.

And so this is it.

There is nothing more I can do to save a relationship of almost thirty years.

And a soft-landing has been rejected, time and time again.

And so I guess this is some sort of irrevocableness I have characteristically shied away from for virtually the whole of my life.

And it’s a strange feeling to decide to do definitive things.

Writers observe, spectate, record, and filter.

They don’t, as a rule, take decisions; and much less implement them.

(sighs)

I’ve done all I can. Now to pick up the pieces that will emerge, as best as I can – but no longer at my expense.

And then rescue the rest of my life from an oblivion it clearly doesn’t deserve.

It’s OK.  I’m OK precisely for having spoken to yous here.

Social sometimes is exactly that: social.

And when home has been a prison, it’s good to finally feel the cool air and the gentle breezes of humanity on the weird outside I begin to sense more clearly.  And so that’s how I am beginning to feel here.  And so I hope it continues.

And how much of me was EVER me?

How much of me was ever 

[To be] me, and

How much was always 

[To be] her?

Or how much was her,

Because the me I was then

Wasn’t the me I’d be now?

I mean, confusedly, to say

In what way was I 

The object

Or the subject 

Of her charms and s[ire]ns?

Ambulance chasing,

Of the mental

[un]kind

I guess: the haste

Of emergency

And interior[isms] on both sides.

So how much harm 

Was self-inflicted and

How much was she 

The woman 

Who did to me; 

Who did for me;

Who served violently 

To rid me of 

My

Self.

Was I victim of crime –

Or a man 

Himself unable 

To do more than rhyme

His days 

Away; that 

Lazy sod 

Of human clay?

Tell me; 

Do say.

Inform me officially,

If you

Are able 

To bring this label 

To this 

Table of [h]ours, in time

To make that strange

Progress, and – finally – be

C[hanged].



Less, home

I realise I am less, home.

And it is hard 

To thrive thus.

It is hard

To thrive this.

And although I am 

Not as I was,

I am close 

To being

As I never did want.

Lonely 

In strife;

Alone 

In life.

And when

I inform my strife

That my life

Cannot survive 

A separation 

In all but name,

She will argue

It is I who needs fixing;

Nothing else 

Requires attention.

And all I want to do

Is write clever stuff

About stuff 

No one else has writ.

And all I get 

Is relationships

Which stuff me

Distressed.

Handily and wild.

Tiles of square 

Heards and

Tough bearded

Angers.

Only things

That remind

Of youth:

How uncouth 

Life is becoming 

The person 

I could have been.

And there is so much unknown*

And there is so much unknown. 

And not being able to say it 

is the wonder of 

truth.

And when I could

not make out

any way forward

exact is how this genius 

has been trained to do 

exactly that:

become what before it was never 

quite at.

And mebbe now we can repeat 

the trick, with others 

we love and treasure with pleasure,

and lick these bastards

who trump our democracy.

And maybe e-MIB

is ready.

Ready, steady, know!

Let’s show ’em, 

yeah? 

Let’s show ’em right: 

the wit and intelligence of 

encountering the wrong,

and making no song and dance

about getting it 

done.

* #Claire #Ruth #Mike #Mark #Em, and #Me too

On Genius: “… the [found]ation {st}[one] …”

I now see with awful shining clarity

What has happened to me:

My strife has spent all these years

Denying my reality:

Denying [h]ours:

Time spent together in lies with

No ownership:

Out there and in me, and hurting

So hard.

And so I now see the truth.

It is not that 

I have got a particular sensibility;

That mebbe I am genius;

That mebbe I would always hurt.

Rather, it is quite that she’s been

Expert in her qualities:

The violence of denial,

Perpetuated over decades,

Where the foundation stone

Of one and found

Was never to be shared.

And saint I have been;

How saintly I became.

And so I see why – now quite how –

I true can eventually 

Be free:

The pursuit of liberty is worth

The trial.

For it is not that I am inevitably weak –

Nor ever unable to fight back

At this awful creature 

Of control.

It is simply that she has been 

This awful creature of control,

Made – I suspect – in the mould

Of prior family ties; 

The lies of rusty dependence, writ 

Ever so terrible large.

And so now I must brake

The consequence of bond:

Now I must become proud

Of resilience and

Resistance shown, 

And – hey! – 

clearly owned;

I do not, after all,

Have to be condemned 

To a life on this

Drug of terrible result.

I am victim for so long;

But not inevitably so.

As victim I now proclaim my rights:

To be bright 

And regaled with pleasures future;

To no longer be responsible 

For squaring further circle;

To only do good where a bad

This –

For me –

Is never;

Is not;

Is highly ungot.

The foundation stone:

One found:

One saint.

So now it is 

Time to stop and 

Clock this beautiful

Whirled – the colours and senses

Of wonderous tock!