By the very nature of life something will at some point out of the blue give you a rush. Not a momentary high but a feeling of liquid sugar in your veins. To that point you may have thought you’d had that feeling before and perhaps it was a good solid facimilie, an excellent imitation that felt delightful but until you felt the real thing….
At which point you knew it was as thin as tracing paper, as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. The black and white to this new rainbow hued kaleidoscope of shimmering pulsating reverie.
You’d dreamt of it a few times only for it to melt away, a soft disappearing image leaving drifting clouds of the feeling, evaporated like rain on stone on a scorching July day.
And for all its intoxicating dizziness and your mind open and fresh, a flowers petals nourished by light… You dont know what to do.
Many things have happened since my last post, some sad, some life changing but the fact remains I must post more often.
I’m still working in Doncaster but the end is nigh. Once more I’m searching with waining anticipation for a new role. Once more I’m delving deep into fathoms deep search lists with promising well remunerated posts and pressing, with wilting enthusiasm, the flashing neon ‘apply’ buttons.
I’ve lost track of the number now since being tossed aside by the NHS cost saving vigilantes (only to pop up of course in my secret guise as the phantom contracter costing the NHS more money…).
I could be bitter and twisted, cynical and weary but I’ll just settle for resigned. I can’t change the lumbering beast, steering it’s way across a desert with shredded sails and a wonky rudder. It’s full of hard working people and full of good intention but the sand blades are rusty.
Now what’s this? Part-time Sooth Sayer/ Mage wanted for 3 month contract, to cover witching hour and other mystical projects. Must have 100 years experience of labyrinth management stake holder/ pheasant communication and magic. Perfect fit!
Over time I often find
The little things I left behind
Under rocks the crawly things
A world of seething wriggling life
Sideways glances withering looks
My word my heart a hidden nook
Down down a spiralling chase
Will I forgive that mocking face
And so I now find myself in a land I don’t know, a dimension where the laws of physics or some such mystical nonsense no longer hold sway. It must have been while I slept. Perhaps it was those greys the little blighters, deciding a trans-dimensional shift was the order of the day ignoring ritual back passage shenanigans (they must get very bored and to be honest I’m sure it’s a chore).
In my previous existence not telling the truth was a sin of a sort and not looked upon as a way to influence people, make friends or get a job. In fact one sniff of such dishonesty and your copy book was blighted, burned and the ashes scattered. A little white lie could be just as damaging as a dirty big honker (though a million plus parents will tell you differently I’m sure, it’s all down to the situation and season).
Here it’s different. In fact the bigger the lie, the more outrageously crass, the bigger the reward. It’s as though the lie becomes invisible, it becomes a mis-truth which we all know boys and girls is not the same thing as a lie, it’s cosy and smart and smiles a smile you just have to forgive… Or forget.
I’m in bed by 6:00 most nights, I leave the window wide open. Those big eyed guys from the far flung galaxy – where a trip to earth is like a holiday at Butlins (but with extra bodily embarrassing games that make carrying a water filled balloon clenched between straining buttocks look safe) – are welcome to come back and take me home.
Pehaps it’s a little dramatic? The title has a certain rythmic measure. In truth I’m not but I can feel the bonds loosen a little, it’s a feeling I get every now and then, when my comfort zone is challenged. To some extent I’m quite used to it, it’s a constant theme from which I keep wrestling back some control, my being settles back in to its hole.
I am an introverted extrovert, or a person who has developed a mask I wear when I’m out and about that gives some a vision of being in control, calm, confident. But within I’m still that 17 year old who couldn’t crack the barrier, who broke out in sweat worrying about speaking to strangers.
Of course some success breads confidence and part I of me knows I’ve achieved some things my 17 year old me wouldn’t believe. Not massive things, no world records or multi-million pound businesses, but forging my way in the world and doing my job well and being a good father.
But it’s always there, ready to jump out. Sometimes the mask is hard to keep on.
I was watching a fairly low budget horror film yesterday in my last night before renewing my exile (currently Doncaster where I hold sway over a cheery group of trainers during the day and by night relax in the heavenly Angel Cottage). The premise was interesting if not exactly new: a group of friends (amazingly 30 somethings playing, yes, 30 somethings, bucking the trend for screen teenagers with crows feet and flecks of grey in thinning hair), on a holiday in the middle of the wilderness disappearing one by one. It held my attention for a while.
I looked at my blog and noticed that I too seemed to be vanishing, piece by piece, year by year. This is my 7th year in residence in the land of blogs, a fantasy plethora of lands and domains where the thoughts, ideas and creative splurge of many can be thrust out kicking and screaming to be feasted upon by the many, the few or none.
I enjoy the process but year by year my creativity and the creations can clearly be seen to be diminishing. I’ve been lost in a routine of work, rest, work, life’s mundane crawl swallowing me piece by piece and didn’t take the time to let myself breath, creatively speaking.
I also note that I’ve been here before, trying to get my fire going again amidst a shower of promises which I don’t manage to fulfil. So this time I’m going to hope rather than make a bold statement, lower my own expectations and try to build up my online self. I may well spout words lacking of wisdom or full of beauty, I may fill the cyberness with literary waste or rare hidden gems. But please if I fall into the void again throw me a rope and I’ll try my best to climb back up.
I walked with naked fear along the line, never too far from the edge but just close enough to smell the lingering breath, the bitter sweet, the sugar and acid bite. But I couldn’t look. Even though the urge wrapped around my soul, ate into my mind, begged and pleaded for me to move a little closer, to sneak a peak, I resisted. Why?
My eyes. Forced so tightly shut my face ached, hurt, trembled. Hot and cold in turn, a soft but decayed breeze, almost damp, fetid irritating against my cheek. I held my breath, inched with painstaking brevity. Why?
Seconds crawled by, so slow, so went the minutes the hours the days the years. Always the pull to vere away and let the danger take me. Always the effort to keep momentum, to force my way ahead into the distance. Why?