alsemero

like an unwelcome guest ...

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 14:09:50 +0200

... it comes back, uninvited and unexpected ... this feeling that you don't belong in your own skin, this desire to step outside of yourself and be 'not you', this dislike of who you are; and it drains you of energy, of life ...

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denial ...

Mon, 06 Apr 2009 13:31:25 +0200

Is there a point at which, if we find ourselves irrestibly drawn towards someone, it is better to look away, to shut them out of our experience, to deny even what our instincts and emotions are telling us?

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conspiracy theories ...

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 13:35:24 +0100

I have a theory about conspiracy theories.

Every day we read novels and watch films and TV dramas where the ‘bad guys’ put together an incredibly complex plot to achieve their plans.

One ‘good guy’ starts to piece together the clues and sets off on a trail to pursue the ‘bad guys’, a trail that invariably leads him into conflict with the authorities, his friends and colleagues and, apparently, common sense.

After a series of tortuous twists and turns, false trails and apparent failure our ‘good guy’ finally tracks down and defeats the ‘bad guys’ (or not, in some cases).

It is the staple of so many Hollywood thrillers and TV dramas, and the formula is so pervasive that it has shaped our view of the world.

What these stories all possess is certainty.

Each chunk of the plot fits snugly to the next one and even the apparent false trails and wrong turns are all part of this neatly ordered universe.

So, when a significant real event takes place, some people choose to believe that it has been engineered from start to finish. Even with the most terrible events, the idea that it has a logical sequence gives a greater sense of comfort and security than the alternative, that it is totally beyond our control.

Some choose to call it God or fate. Others call it a conspiracy because the order and logic of a conspiracy is preferable to the idea of chaos, disorder and random events.

Added to this, the weight of peer pressure strengthens the conspiracy theory view of the world – that those who support conspiracy theories must have a greater insight into the workings of those in power and have access to knowledge and information that only the few, the ‘good guys’ can reach. And therefore, by default, those who deny conspiracy theories are either a) part of the conspiracy or b) naïve and trusting dupes of the organisation(s) that have generated the conspiracy.

And yet, the event that is perceived to be the result of a conspiracy is often hugely complex. There are countless strands, sequences and apparently loose ends relying on so many steps and actions that, even with a few minor changes, could easily lead to a different end result.

A study of history … and science for that matter … show this to be the case.

In spite of all this, those who disagree with the idea of conspiracy often cannot disprove all of the evidence and their failure to disprove is enough proof for the ‘truth’ of the conspiracy.

The conspiracy theory then is often the triumph of unreason, disguised as inevitable logic, over reason.

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bittersweet ...

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 14:28:47 +0100

Sometimes I remember things with such immediacy and poignancy that it causes a brief physical reaction – my stomach churns and I catch my breath, as if I'm suffocating – caused by the intense mixture of pleasure at the memory and sorrow that the moment is gone.

And something I remember … more than 20 years ago, a holiday at the end of May, my wife was pregnant with our first child. On the last evening, while my wife was getting ready, I spent half an hour sitting on a bench under a tree near the guest house where we were staying. I smoked a cigarette, read my book (Romola by George Eliot) and looked out over the sea.

And the emotions that I felt then I remember now, as if they are tangible things that I can touch and feel. A sense of profound wellbeing and hope for the future; a still, breathless sensation that I encompassed the world and it encompassed me in a brief yet glorious moment of sharp, crystal-like and exquisite perfection.

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and some days ...

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 16:56:40 +0100

... I look in the mirror and I think ... who ARE you??!!

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why oh why oh why ...

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 13:11:10 +0100

... is it that you can you go for days, weeks, months feeling up, good, confident, positive then, for some inexplicable reason, it evaporates and you feel as if you have to go through a battle of wills just to get back to where you were?

And meanwhile, your ego is brittle, fragile and you bruise easily.

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Bluebird

Mon, 23 Feb 2009 14:25:45 +0100

"... and over our heads will float the Bluebird singing of beautiful and impossible things, of things that are lovely and that never happen, of things that are not and that should be."

The Decay of Lying : Oscar Wilde

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Boxed in

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 01:32:08 +0100

It is with a slow, sinking sense of despair that you realise you have, somehow, manoeuvered yourself into a confined space where the ability to move, let alone turn or break free, has become virtually impossible.

You are hemmed in by conventions, morals, opinions, obligations, responsibilities and the simple realities of day-to-day existence.

"Man's reach should outstretch his grasp or what's a heaven for?". Indeed. But if, to even attempt to reach means you will break down the walls and cause undeserved hurt, then what choices are left?

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if we had to choose ...

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 14:20:14 +0100

To be the subject of someone’s love or the object of their desire.

If we had to choose, which would it be?

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It's a 'marvell'!!

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 14:17:35 +0100

Amongst a recently discovered set of papers found in a trunk in the attic of a 17th century cottage, the following incredible document was found. It is a letter by the poet, Andrew Marvell, that includes an early draft of his famous poem, ‘To His Coy Mistress’. Experts believe it was probably never sent and are making further checks on the veracity of the document.

Anyway, here it is ...

Dear Coy Mistress,
I saw you the other day down at the butchers and, struck by your bewitching beauty and your modest charms, I have written a poem:

Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness lady were no crime,
~~We would sit about and chat for a bit~~
~~We could go for a few drinks down the local~~

Oh sod it, I’m a bit pushed, do you fancy a shag or what?
Yours in anticipation
Andy Marvell.

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inexplicable forces

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 14:24:16 +0100

“This out there and this in me, all this, everything, the resultant of inexplicable forces. A chaos whose order is beyond comprehension”
Henry Miller : Black Spring

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contradictions

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 14:33:05 +0100

Strange how we function at two levels.

We present a face to the world - 'this is who we are' or at least what we want people to think we are and it can change depending on place, other people, circumstances.

Then we have our interior face. Secret and private. How different is this to what we show on the outside? How much do we show?

And though we know that this is human nature, we still find it difficult to imagine the secret and interior workings of another person.

It is intriguing yet, at times, strangely banal. And our expression of these other layers, through poetry and art, never quite captures all that we feel; yet these expressions are often greater and more powerful than we could ever experience at an individual level.

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this is the ...

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 14:20:56 +0100

“... utopian moment of travel: when you realise that what seems most unattainably marvellous, most desirable, is what you almost already have, what you could have – if you could only strip away the banality and the corruption of the everyday – at home”

Stephen Greenblatt : Marvellous Possessions

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fall apart ...

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 15:31:03 +0100

... and sometimes, for no apparent reason, you just crumble and fall apart.

Your self confidence evaporates, you flounder and you feel, suddenly, that all you want to do is get away from the place and the people as quickly as you can and lock yourself away in a dark room.

And there is no logical reason for this. Nothing to explain it. Yet it hits you like a punch in the face but you have to try, somehow, to pull yourself together, forget it and carry on because there are things to do, people to see.

You cannot understand why it happens. And you know there is no-one to tell. No-one who will take you on one side and say 'it's okay, it will pass'.

You feel alone.

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ah, how true ...

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 09:49:08 +0100

“Inside our heads we carry ourselves perfected – ourselves at the best age and in the best light as well: never caught awkwardly … if naked, seen gracefully reclining through a gauzy mist, which is where movie stars come in: they assume such poses for us. They are our younger selves as they recede from us, glow, turn mythical”

Margaret Attwood : The Blind Assassin

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library whispers

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 17:54:35 +0100

Standing in the library, scanning the books on the shelves, I suddenly become aware of a noise that I haven’t noticed before; a soft ‘tac-tac … tac-tac-tac .. tac-tac’.

For a moment, it sounds as if dozens of hushed voices are repeating the same word over and over again, like a ghostly whisper echoing from the walls and ceiling and drifting across the bookshelves.

Then I realise; these ‘echoes’ are the sound of dozens of keyboards being tapped by students working at desks and tables scattered throughout the library.

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from 'The Hours'

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 22:31:36 +0200

“Yes, Clarissa thinks, its time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live alone in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep – it’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation; an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.”

'The Hours' by Michael Cunningham.

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Letting go ...

Thu, 02 Oct 2008 14:03:17 +0200

We have our children.

We make them the centre of our world and believe, for a time at least, that they are special not only to us but to she shop assistants, doctors, teachers, our work colleagues, bus drivers, flight attendants and everyone else who may give them a smile and a few words as they temporarily come into their orbit.

We believe, in spite of all reason and our own experience, that they will somehow retain their freshness and innocence and carry this with them as they grow and move out into the world.

We pass on our hopes, dreams and expectations in the belief that they will not make the same mistakes and will overcome the obstacles that proved to be insurmountable to us.

And as they grow and change so does our relationship with them. When they reach their teens and begin to establish themselves as individuals with their own plans, personality and outlook we realise that they are special only because they are our flesh and blood; to the rest of the world they are part of that great anonymous mass of people that is humanity and are neither better nor worse than everyone else.

It is the point at which we realise that we have to let go.

It is bittersweet of course because, while we take pride in their independence and their achievements, we also recognise that, as parents, our job is effectively done; our children still need us but not in the way that a small child is dependent on us and we look back with misty eyes at those days when we had no time, no money and no energy as if they were some kind of paradise.

We become aware too that we are that much older. We have a keener sense of our mortality and that we have just been a part of the process that will continue long after we are gone.

These thoughts have been taking shape for some time and came fully into focus recently when I dropped my son off at university. He has two older siblings who have already been through the process so the experience is not new to me. Perhaps its just that finally I’ve started to recognise that my life is re-shaping itself like all the bits in a kaleidoscope which suddenly shuffle into place as we make one final twist of the tube.

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A Grand Passion ...

Wed, 17 Sep 2008 13:59:28 +0200

"Every bourgeois in the ferment of his youth, if only for a day or a minute, has believed himself capable of a grand passion, a high endeavour. Every run-of-the-mill seducer has dreamed of Eastern Queens. Not a lawyer but carries within him the debris of a poet".

Gustave Flaubert : 'Madame Bovary'

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You ...

Fri, 12 Sep 2008 13:49:07 +0200

You are passionate yet repressed, a self-obsessed, sex obsessed dreamer full of contradictions.

You used to believe these qualities set you apart from others, made you a poet.

Your romanticised view of the world evolved during your teenage years and was shaped by a sentimental need to be loved and desired, to be different. It was shaped too by your reading during these years, when you immersed yourself in the writings of Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Virginia Woolf; when you developed a belief in the supremacy of art and poetry and a sense that there existed a world outside of the world of everyday existence.

You aspired to the persona of the tragic outsider.

In spite of everything you have not quite been able to shake off these beautifully idealistic, naive, adolescent yearnings. Somewhere at the core of your being this persona and these aspirations remain and still drive your desire to rebel against the world and its routines.

You are at constant and relentless war with yourself.

You are an intellectual snob; you aspire to be an aesthete and believe you are poetic yet you despise pretension.
You believe you possess a poetic sensibility yet even as you think this, you step outside of yourself and view this idea as pretentious, dismissing it with contempt and mockery.
You believe you are superior to others yet you constantly fear disapproval.
You aspire to stand apart from the crowd yet you hate to be alone.
You despise yourself yet sometimes feel you are superior to your peers.
You believe the lives of most people are empty and meaningless yet you are moved by the kindness, simplicity and humility of an ordinary person.
You believe the lives of most people are empty and meaningless yet you know that your own life is no better, nor worse.
You fear life yet you have a deep seated desire to indulge in its excesses.
You love the solitude and peace of the country yet you are always excited by the crowds and cacophany of the city.
You are a sceptic who questions and doubts everything yet you long for a spiritual significance to your life.
You are sometimes shy and awkward in company yet long to connect with people.
You always feel alone in a crowded room.
You need love and tenderness yet want to experience all levels of sensual pleasure.
You know so much and understand so much yet you are aware that you know nothing.
You truly believe that nothing matters and everything matters.
You believe the pursuit of money is shallow and meaningless yet you desire the status and power that wealth can bring.
You know, instinctively, that there are no absolutes yet you seek certainty.
You desire to be known and understood yet believe that this need to confess and be granted approval is childlike and weak.
You want to oppose the conventional yet you constantly need the approval that comes with conformity.
You hate routine yet order and stability is fundamental to your life.

You understand that each person has the potential to build Milan Catherdral and Auschwitz, to write Hamlet and Mein Kampf, to be a serial killer and a saint.

You understand these things yet you do not know yourself and you are constantly searching to find something, an inner kernel, that is the core of your being.

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