Duality

Survival of the fittest.

Bestiality,

Sensuality,

Race duality,

Gene neutrality,

False reality.

Heavy like gravity,

Love depravity,

Up the salary,

Measured by flattery,

Ain’t no clarity,

Just disparity.

Broken charity,

Class morality,

Social insanity,

Check the category,

We ain’t ever free,

Assault and battery,

Remarks defamatory,

Compliance obligatory,

Take this guilt from me,

Send it out to sea,

Kill the enemy,

You ain’t no friend to me.

Real world empathy,

Don’t mean shit to He,

He don’t know my name,

To He it’s just a game,

Where to put the blame,

So He don’t look insane,

Or hang He’s head in shame,

While we all up in chains,

Slaves to He again,

Bestiality,

Race reality,

Fuck neutrality,

It’s all a tragedy.

 

MPoWriMo Sticker Warning

Waiting

4=2M to the power of 100

Four months is too damned long;

I can barely wait another day.

Don’t persecute me for my impatience,

For I’ve already waited

What seems like an eternity,

Plus four months.

I dreamt of you last night,

Vivid and clear and full of reality.

I remembered thinking that time had sped past,

That finally you were with me,

In my arms.

Though I prepared myself for your leaving.

When I awoke you were already gone,

Realising we were only half way there,

And you were still far away

In your own warm bed,

Also alone and without me.

Missing me, dreaming me maybe,

Wishing I’d come home.

Four months and a life time is too damned long.

The waiting makes me sad.

Four months equals too many miles walked

To the power of one hundred sighs,

Probably more,

Before I reach your door and home.

Before I don’t have to miss your presence

In all its physical godlike splendour any longer.

God I miss you,

And tomorrow I’ll miss you even more.

Four months, a lifetime, and eternity

Is too damned long.

Four equals 2 to the power of one hundred and the rest

Overdue dates.

This is not patience,

This is not endurance,

Neither is a virtue.

This is a hiatus.

And when we, or god, or whatever stop hiatusing,

Then the waiting will be over.

Then my silence will stop.

Then Romeo and Juliet

Can become Rumba and Jazz duet.

Shakespeare is not an epitaph set in stone.

Stories can be rewritten.

And this one needs a new author.

Time we rewrote our version

And kick the tragedy back to the rebirth of cultured man;

Renaissance my ass.

Renaissance this Mo Fo Wo Sho!

MPoWriMo Sticker Dynamic

 

The Recalcitrant Idiot – Part Two

I am facing a monumental change in my life, after making possibly one of the toughest decisions I’ve ever had to make. Putting that decision to action is going to be tougher still, and is something that will affect me and those close around me for the rest of our lives. In all the confusion and conflicts of opinion recently I have been absorbed in the mediocrity and hypocrisy that those around me have been feeling, and making those feelings my own. Passing judgement on myself based on what I realise others think of themselves.

With great change comes discomfort as you learn to readjust. No birth or rebirth is ever painless, and change is inevitable, right?

Meeting up with immediate family recently has reminded me that I have always felt disapproved of, no matter what it is I’ve done. My latest decision being yet another nail in my already splintered coffin.

My family least of all has ever been able to recognise anything exceptional about me, except possibly that I am an exceptional flake. But the odds have been unfairly stacked against me in so many ways owing to innumerable factors. I am an extrovert, always have been, though I have learned to live the life of an introvert due to trying to placate the introverts around me, until it’s become habit. Something that became resoundingly clear to me just two nights ago. But it can’t be done anymore, I just haven’t got it in me to keep doing that. Four decades is quite enough. Time to transform my ugly duckling butt to the dragon it’s always been, swans are overrated by the way. Seriously. Others can opine in whatever way they see fit.

I realise that what has always irked my family and other people about me is that I am the epitome of all that is culturally irritating. The criticisms I often face are the product of, let’s be honest, a ‘rehearsed’, and ‘accepted’ inadequacy that apparently I make others feel. Although, this is no more than a culturally ingrained knee-jerk. A knee-jerk that tends to kick at highly skilled, extroverted, female polymaths, heck, anyone with any notable skill or talent, who is not afraid to take risks and try new things in the pursuit of creativity and happiness. I’ve already broken every socially accepted rule about a person of my stereotypical demographic stature in one sentence alone.

Thing is, I wasn’t born just yesterday, so the things I am good at have taken years of dedicated practise already. Whether it was acceptable for me to do so or not. I am a product of their stilted judgements as I am of my own making. If you were to spend the years doing some of the things that I’ve been doing, you’d be damned good at them too, and it has nothing to do with demographic stereotypes.

I am a natural optimist, a factor that also seems to get up people’s noses. Why? Because unfortunately, people like wallowing in pain. It’s my family all over. I understand that, and I have been no different at times. We all like our comfortable niches of self-imposed terror, because they are familiar and warm. And comfort, albeit false, will always override discomfort, even if it leads to better things, because it’s often a matter of self-preservation than preference. It doesn’t mean however, that it should be perpetuated, or imposed upon those around you that you claim to love and care about.

All of this is tantamount to social treason of course, despite the obvious logic of my premises, because not conforming to certain rules, and trying instead to rattle cages loose with my big ol’ dragon wings is just not the done thing. Pure and simple.

I have discovered however, that it is hard not to be an optimist when you realise that the power of your own beliefs dictates the version of events you wish to accept as real, so why bother wallowing in negativity when it serves little purpose other than to perpetuate more pain? Optimism then, or, a desire to seek solutions becomes the only way forward in my mind.

Conforming has never really been my strong point, and that is the crux of most of my ills if I think about it, the one thing that is underlying my feelings of discomfort right now. I’ll play your game, but on my terms, because despite all of my tendencies to comply with others, I have always had a very strong sense of integrity. Naturally this creates friction. I find that once a certain line is crossed with me, I’m done, and there is no return. It’s taken me a lot to reach this particular line that I’m teetering on presently, but here I am ready to draw this particular chapter of my life to a close, despite the damage it may seemingly cause, and the disapproval it will raise.

I have learned to keep my cards very close to my chest over the years, while others make their defamatory remarks, pass their mis-judgements about me, and abuse my confidence. The truth is, very few have ever been able to read me accurately, nor have I wanted them to. I have become the master of subterfuge, to the point that from time to time I have forgotten who I was supposed to be. Perhaps we all do that to an extent.

You see, the disapproval I experience has nothing to do with anything, other than people don’t like to be caught with their pants down. They don’t like their guilty, hypocritical pleasures being exposed for all to see, dressing their excuses up as: “I don’t want you to repeat similar mistakes”. Bullshit! Exercising the acceptable right to self-flagellate is something that we have all indulged in. It is a social pastime. Kowtow to this rule, so that we benefit in such and such way. It’s socially accepted blackmail that only comes from an abuse of power, and as we all live within hierarchical structures, it’s clearly inevitable. A family is a hierarchical structure, so the same rules apply. The unspoken excuse is more akin to: “I don’t want your actions to make me feel even worse about mine”.

Too bad, because I can no longer pretend to be responsible for anyone else, not when it has been at the expense of my own happiness, and when I am now paying heavily for my martyrdom with my health. I can only truly be responsible for myself. My responsibility to my children for example is a legal requisite, but as a mother, I know damned well that I cannot control what they think and do ultimately, as I am not them, my job is to ensure their safety and well-being as best as I am able, not to be their puppet-master.

Being exposed as the social monkeys that we are expected to be makes us feel fraudulent, despite our willingness to comply. Being exposed as a bad parent, or sibling is equally caustic. Rightly so, because an abuse of position and power is a despicable behaviour, that often causes irreparable damage, not only to those around us, but to ourselves. The trouble is, few people recognise or are willing to accept this about themselves. Falling victim to faulty beliefs, and thus victimising others with that as their yard stick.

We all have our own paths to tread and explore, and sometimes things just need to change, even if only one person seems to be leading the charge. I would be a hypocrite to discount everything that I have learned from my own explorations of personal reality, in favour of the cultural practise of pointing fingers. Change happens because everybody involved makes it happen, even if unaware. We are all accountable for our role in the unfolding events of life. Yet change is rarely a voiced consensus, as for the most part it is a subconscious imperative. That anyone steps up to the plate and voices that consent is an act of bravery I think, as they are representing all involved. It’s a heck of a burden, and it can weigh heavily indeed, as I’ve discovered.

So am I brave or just foolish?

The thing is, I won’t know until I do it, until I take that leap. Nor will anyone else involved know how they feel until they silently concede that the time is right. Personally I will always err on the side of positivity, as stated. Doubt is a necessary temporary measure, because without it the need to change and improve can’t be realised.

None of us has any idea what it’s like to be someone else. We all pass judgements on others based on what we personally feel. There is no right or wrong conduct because no matter what decisions you make, there will always be someone for whom it is a disadvantage. We all have our challenges to overcome. I am so used to making sure that everybody else around me is happy first, that I forget that I’m there at all sometimes. That’s all that’s changing.

 

The Recalcitrant Idiot. – Part One

Monday 20th October 2014:

Every once in a while I feel as though I need to reinvent myself. Divest myself of the old and outworn, and don a new outfit, a new façade that will present, hopefully, a better version of me. Although I’m not sure that, ‘better’ is the word I’m looking for here. Different maybe, just not that.

I’ve had the wind knocked out of my sails lately, as I have fought the dragon within me insisting on expanding its wings to full capacity, threatening to tear the old me to shreds. What is making this difficult is that the paper cut-out that has been me for quite some time now, is refusing to budge, treating the dragon like a monstrous enemy instead of the immensely creative force that it is. I have simply outgrown my own skin, so to speak, and I seek new adventures, new ways of thinking that are less restricted by the dogma of a life only two dimensionally lived.

I am all of a sudden bereft of any feelings of self pride, I feel quite unexceptional in all kinds of ways, my mediocre hat firmly anchored to my head. The fight to change and grow has taken it out of me, but the dragon is intent on flying, as much as paper-me is trying to invoke lamination powers.

The only thing I feel exceptional at, is being me, for all that’s worth. Defiantly, clinging on to my last scrap of dignity I can proclaim that no-one is as good at being me as I am, even though I no longer know what that is, and even though it means little except to the wind that now whistles through my peripheral space. Shame no-one’s paying attention to my one-person drama. Everybody wants to talk, but no-one really listens. I want to talk, but god knows no-one has ever listened to me, and why should they when we all have our own private, selfish agendas that serve to preserve a reasonable order of pecking? I know the game, I’ve played it for years. You’ve played it too.

I feel as though I have been biting my tongue forever. Refraining from speech because, frankly people only want to talk about themselves. I’m not saying I’m any different, it just seems it takes an exceptional soul to take a genuine interest in others, to revel in their mysteries and magic like looking through one of my Nan’s old tea-chests, that were always full of toys, knick-knacks, and other interesting treasures. I have a rummage and I find a dark blue rubber ball, in a tone of blue that is reminiscent of the late 60s, a tone of blue that would now seem quite retro. I remember holding that ball in my hand, dreaming of the possibilities of play that it promised. I’ve been holding this ball in my mind for the past few days, waiting for the penny to drop and indicate what it symbolises. What is my subconscious trying to tell me, I ask myself?

On the theme of nostalgic recollections, the other day I came across the first vinyl album I ever owned as a kid, now immortalised in digital format through the auspices of YouTube. And although it was fascinating, almost thrilling to listen to after so many years of absence, I believe it triggered a landslide that has managed to pick up some ferocious momentum since, crashing through my inner landscape mercilessly, until almost every last piece of me has been covered in silt and debris. 

I sit now with the weight of the past four decades resting heavily upon my shoulders it seems, feeling instead like four hundred decades. Stress fractures already snaking through the architectural structure of my selfhood, threatening to undermine my very foundations. Part of me wants to throw my hands up and let the bloody thing collapse, burying all the years of crap with it. Part of me yet, is afraid of letting it all go completely, because it feels like I’m cutting and running again. Although, years of repeated experience has taught me there is no virtue in hanging on to things that have run their course, even if there are threads of hope hanging from their fraying hems. Foolishly you take hold, only to discover that the whole thing comes undone, unravelling with untenable speed because it was already worn beyond repair.

I am an insufferable idiot beyond merit.

My only saving grace, ironically, has been Bill and his dedicated support. I say ironically, because I struggle to secure allegiance with my daughter Grace, who should have been my saving grace too. But that’s another story.

Invisible

 

Invisible Me

I am not black.

I am the wrong shade of white.

I speak with no accent,

Yet people shout at me,

To help clarify their words.

My hair is too dark,

My nose is too hooked.

I am too female,

So my mind must be faulty.

I am too small, too short, too young,

Therefore I must know less.

I am not feminine enough,

I use masculine words,

I must be a threat,

Unfriend, delete, deny access, exterminate!

I am invisible,

Yet everybody notices these things.

But what they don’t see,

Is Me.

 

 

 

*In participation of Blog Action Day. If you would like to participate, register your site via the link provided. Remember also to include ‘inequality’ in your tags.

Because of you SWCC – Where Time Stands Still

As a synaesthete I find myself falling into the individual notes of the music like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, into a world that is far removed from the one my eyes describe to me. Whole landscapes spring forth as the notes cascade with me, mountains, forests, and rolling clouds in the evening sky giving encore to a day and a place that exists somewhere separate from my usual awareness. A place that looks as old as time, but as fresh and new as the music that is giving it life. In these moments I become hooked in the emotions that well up from the deep gorges scored by the slow pulse of the double bass, like dark earth anchoring tree roots in paternal embrace, as I soar high above riding the currents of the vitality that emanates from the musical landscape below. In that moment I am smitten, entranced by the richness of the melodies, riffs, and bass lines of the musical notes as they find their place in the multidimensional space of my synaesthete mind. As the track comes to an end and the next begins, so the landscape changes, along with the tones, emotions, and I am instantly transported elsewhere, feeling something completely new and different.

It’s a roller-coaster ride listening to an entire album, and often when I write I will have the same track looping over and over in order to preserve the sentiment and the world that that particular piece of music allows me to inhabit, until I have finished the piece I’m working on.

Learning to put into words what I experience through my multi-sense-awareness has taken me a lifetime already. Often though, there just aren’t words that can convey what I’m experiencing, so I hope that through my words and images that some of that original intent is delivered and shared, even if there are no words to describe the sentiment that is felt by the person experiencing my art.

Music in particular is a such  powerful medium for me, that I cannot help but be drawn in by its gravitational pull. At times I find that I have to avoid it because if I allow myself to get hooked then it can completely throw me off kilter, introducing emotions and experiences that lead me astray, and detract from other things I may have to do. There are times however, that I use it to my advantage, with one album in particular that I listen to that serves as a reset button when I feel I have lost my way and forgotten who I am. Who needs drugs right?

Beautiful sunsets, sunrises, moody skies, art, photography  have a similar effect on me too. I think of the film ‘Highlander’, and the moment Christopher Lambert extols the infamous line, “There can be only one!” as a shaft of light pulls him up into the air connecting his soul to the soul of heaven (I’m assuming), and thus renewing his life. The power of the shaft of light is what I’m really alluding to here as being akin to what I experience when I connect with something, with little control over it as it flows from the area of my solar plexus outward and inward.

Absolutely everything within my external and internal environments affects my mood, and as you can imagine a great deal of self-control is required in order to maintain a semblance of composure much of the time. It’s like trying to control a very powerful electrical current into the low voltage appliance of my human body, and short circuits happen frequently affecting my health. It’s both exhilarating and a burden to be a synaesthete, but it is who and what I am in every conceivable way. As I breathe out I can see pale blue mingling with the ambient yellows and golds of the surrounding room I’m in. The blue tells me of the exertion I am experiencing at trying to tame the energy of the writhing serpent that is my multidimensional sensory awareness into tight little black words taking root into the illuminated electronic screen of my laptop, who sits upon my lap, patiently and faithfully like a cat.

I am not materialistic, but once I establish an emotional connection with something, I find it very hard to let it go. To me there is no difference between an inanimate object, a sunset, or an abstract concept. I sense them all in the same way, through raw energy and emotion, and all that that entails for me. Makes me think of the North American Indian concept of everything having a soul. It’s a bit like that I suppose.

When I connect with individual people, well, that’s an experience all by itself.

October Window Through Sunrise Skies.

October Window

The catharsis I seek is untenable. It isn’t of this world. It lays within a brown envelope full of letters that speak of a time different from this, and although the colours and shapes of this vision are simple and balanced, nothing of this otherworldly composition is incomplete or basic.

My life is full of colour, shapes, sounds, smells, tastes and sensations that I can seldom relate to others, and to which others can relate. My life is a symphonic, dynamic work of art with every word that is spoken, and with every scene experienced, and it can be a lonely place because it seems that few others have a brain that is wired like mine. This part of me I keep to myself, because to those others it sounds like lyrical nonsense when I speak of loud reds, and B-flat greens, smooth purples and mint-flavoured skies. It sounds like I’m tripping, having had a good dose of narcotic candy after having listened to some avant-guard 60s psychedelia.

“Far out man, this is good shit!”

Yeah, my shit is good shit, except I can’t switch it off. I can’t stop sensing and experiencing what I do at any point. Much in the same way that a ‘normal’ person can’t switch their eyes or ears off, if they have eyes or ears to see and hear with. Furthermore, how could I possibly imagine what it is like not to sense things in the way that I do?
Yet I have learned the language of convention, and I laugh along too when I say something as apparently ludicrous as, “I don’t like the flavour of that brick, because its attitude stinks”, however, to me it makes perfect sense, and as I think of it I can see and feel exactly what such a brick would be like. It’s a brick I would give a sideways glance to, and never use to build a house with. Go on, laugh. I would.

Maybe I could meditate it out of my system, choose not to respond to all this stimuli? Yes, why not give that a try. Just let me clear my throat, and find a space between fits of laughter, and floods of tears. Irony can be troublesome stuff, getting stuck in your orifices like dust thrown up by a passing truck carrying big blue aardvarks.

I close my eyes lately, and all I can see is photo after photo of scenes I’ve no recollection of, like a slide-show on fast forward. It’s cool because I’m enjoying each and every shot as I see it, but each one carries its own historical energy stamp, like being shocked with a cattle-prod, except each shock is different from the next, and not always favourable, so the only thing I can do is open my eyes and hope that the light bouncing off my retina is enough to dampen the images speeding past, just as the sunlight filters out the stars in the day-time sky. It’s not always effective, and often I will be aware that I’m still dreaming the dream I had the night before for example, in the periphery of my mind’s-eye, aware of the changing tones of scenery almost superimposed upon what my eyes are physically seeing. Such things can affect the mood of the whole day for me, as my super-awareness plays out entire dramas in conjunction with the dramas that my physical body is engaged in. I call it ‘super-awareness’, because when placed in the context of what is considered ‘normal’, such a description seems fitting.

I see, hear, smell, and sense things that no-one else does, and yet that I believe everyone could if they were open to it. I’m not an alien, or a different species of human being as some may like to profess, because it sounds cute and complimentary, but a way of really saying, “I can’t relate”. There is nothing strange about how I am, any more than there is anything strange about someone whose neural pathways are not all connected.

America CupTo me it is odd that you might not be able to see all the extra dimensions to the cup you are drinking from. I accept that through conventional thought, the cup is just a cup, an inanimate object that is what it appears to be, but that would be barely scratching the surface of its greater reality in my mind. My eyes see nuances in that cup that you might never experience. And as fascinating, or as crazy as that may sound, I cannot describe it to you accept in metaphor and allegory, at which point you lose focus and switch off, because you just can’t relate.

So why am I even talking about it, you might ask? Well, because this is my blog and I can, and because in some small way I hope that someone can indeed relate in whatever way possible. Not that I’m a charity case seeking donations, although that’s how I feel sometimes, but because without those connections I die a little bit more inside each time, to the point that I begin to believe that the world I happen to inhabit really sucks. No one appreciates how resilient I have to be because of my heightened sensitivity to stimuli. Nobody is there to pick me up when it all gets a little too overwhelming.

I often find myself smiling through gritted teeth, because sometimes, to reveal what I’m experiencing would be social suicide. How do I explain that I know the man sitting on the bench across from me is a criminal about to commit a crime, because of the cocktail of colours I see emanating from him, because I can see a darkness behind his eyes that I know no-one else can, but that is glaringly obvious to me? Then to watch the crime unfolding, and feeling helpless because who the hell would believe me without catching him in the act and endangering myself?

That stuff in particular, really, really sucks arse. Being right is not always a good thing, let me tell you.

I try to channel all of this super-awareness into more acceptable artistic mediums that others can indeed relate to, but as with all languages, much gets lost in translation when code-switching, so the art of me becomes obscured and altered. It becomes something else, and my melodious clouds still moving across the sky, just look like clouds in a photographic still. Their resonance is missed, and the artistic expression of the piece is a little less than it was intended to be. Often when I’m going through photographs, I get irritated that the software just cannot simulate accurately enough what I saw before me. The intensity of colour, and the sensations that went with it.

I often feel sorry for others who cannot see what I see, remembering that for me ‘seeing’ means something completely different from the ability to read data through physical eyes. I feel that they are missing out on wonderful things sometimes, unaware of the beauty and the art in the most mundane of things, and of the stories that these things can relate. To be able to pick up an object and listen to its history is truly inspiring. To be able to look at a morning sky and feel the emotions within it is sublime. To be able feel the song in the crowds of people that pass before you is exhilarating. Yet I can’t share that with anyone, because no-one understands, except for animals. They get it.

Gwynnie's lovely paws

Perhaps, not seeing what I see might be a blessing, in that I might feel a little less alone out here in the wilds of Maria-Ville. Also because not everything I see and experience is always so delightful. I cannot switch it off. I even find that I have to ridicule myself in order to sound a little less whiney and sad in my own head, and perhaps a little more acceptably normal. But seriously, you people have no idea.

Maybe I’ll go feral after all. Just let me out at the Potomac Falls, I like the energy there. Now that is a heck of a symphony! Damn shame you’ll never be able to hear it.