It's Positively a Fairytale

An abandoned wardrobe with one door propped open in a sun-dappled clearing. Had someone, or something, come out or gone in? There was one winter coat hung up inside, next to some empty hangers, which swung as if recently disturbed by human touch and not by the chilly breeze that ruffled my hair, which had a free-standing mirror been there, beside the wardrobe as you might expect to find in a bed or dressing room, would show a halo of frizz around a oval face, paling in colour, now my solitary walk had been interrupted. 
Standing stock-still, whether in wonder or terror, does little for the circulation, particularly if there's a nip in the air that can make your nose run and your eyes smart, as mine were beginning to do, in defiance of the sunshine that had made contact with my person. But rather than resuming my habitual pace and walking on, as anybody normal would have done, I decided to take refuge in the wardrobe. To tuck myself behind the embossed door that was closed, and looked as if it would forever remain so.
To what purpose? That I can't tell you. Not even now, in hindsight, when I've had time to pull apart the events of that fine, crisp morning. To rest, to take shelter would seem obvious, but I can't say that was my conscious, or overriding, thought. I don't usually loiter on my constitution, not unless it's glorious, as in heavenly and warm, outside, as well as dry underfoot. No, I don't remember there being a thought at all, it was more of a magnetic attraction: invited by its yawning door to look, to get inside.
Where I thought it might smell of mothballs and where I might be able to avail myself of an extra layer. It didn't; it had a mild smell of damp and resin. And I couldn't, for the coat, although realistic, on closer inspection was craved from wood like the wardrobe itself. Though wood of a different kind I thought as it was lighter in tone, like the camel, wool-lined coat my nan used to wear before it was kept as a spare and before it was handed down to my mum. I think she still has it somewhere...? It's amazing the mundane thoughts that pass through your mind when confronted with the incredible.
It wasn't much warmer inside for part of a back panel was missing, through which could be seen the forest floor and was big enough for a child or small adult to crawl under. Of course, a woodland creature, say a squirrel or a rabbit, would have managed it with greater ease. Naturally, I tried, and succeeded after some breathing in and tugging, though I could have gone back out the way I came: through the fixed open door, but this felt adventurous, and I had convinced myself that by doing so I would be transported to another land, like in the C.S Lewis story, or at least to another part of the forest.
Nothing like that occurred (the unimaginable rarely does, which is weird when you can think it, make it up and even believe in it), but I did, after brushing myself down, righting my apparel and straightening up, resume my walk in an entirely new direction, with the back of the wardrobe as my starting point, and in spite of the little adult voice in my head saying: you could have saved yourself the trouble and gone around.
I set off with renewed vigor and warmed by the exercise, not knowing where I was going or what I was making for, which was quite frankly downright dangerous and stupid since I was quite alone and without any provisions should I get lost, although of course since I'm telling the tale you know I didn't, though I will shortly, as in 'sling yer hook', once this story's over. Still, such a move was reckless of me, and unusually so.
The woods, in this part, (I was choosing to delude myself at this point), seemed awash with sunshine, a stronger light than I previously come from so that everything green was shot through with it. I had to walk with my eyes down or shielded with a gloved hand, which meant I very nearly missed the stately witch, and a little further on the majestic lion, who I thought had a kind but troubled countenance, whereas the witch had had an artful expression. It was obvious she had the upper hand, and ruled this land as if she were a cousin of the Snow Queen, since those who find her, and only her, frequently repeat the journey.

Vulnerable to Sightings

The weird and wonderful. The random and the obscene. Where there is life, there's always the chance something might happen...
And it does if you remain with the living, even if you place yourself outside or stay in touch with it half in dream, with that vague opium-like feeling where you can't believe what's unfolding. That which is being closely observed by your very eyes, that which draws you to stare even though the sight is quite revolting, like the poor table manners of modern weaned children as supervised by modern parents. What is this waving of the fork? and the licking of the knife? Both implements held with a strange grip, of the sort I've never seen before: their hands somehow twisted round the handles making it impossible to spear and saw, so that instead they're fed like chicks when they should be much further along in their development. See. Do. See. Do. The parents do the same: inexpertly cut and tear and then throw these morsels into their gaping mouths. The table a picture of debris, as if there had, at some point in these proceedings, perhaps to entertain these youngsters, been an unsuccessful attempt to whip the tablecloth from under the dirtied cups and plates, although to my knowledge this establishment didn't use them, preferring to wipe clean with a disinfectant spray and cloth rather than brush down. Still, an exception could have been made I suppose...the mess might not have been theirs in spite of the bare facts laid out.
This family went unnamed (and untamed) in my record of them. There were too many like them. Then, under observation, as of now. For they are the new nuclear family, to which most humans conform when they form a unit and multiply and begin undoing years of civilisation. Grunt. Point. Stare. Draw with a finger in the sand or with a stick on a wall. Fight over food. Eat with hands. Talk with mouths full.
What I'm trying to emphasise is that they're not as rare as they would have been had they been visible, or an arresting a sight as, say, in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, and as compared to other modern sightings I've given labels to: The Mini-coopered Clown; Countess Dracula; Helium Boy; The Bushwhacker; and The Pop Art Transsexual, and stored along the banks of Memory River.
This river has as many twists as it has turns, which to some of you will sound like the same thing. They're not. Turns are more ordinary, more straightforward; twists are more happen-stance, more liable to appear when they weren't there before and go back on themselves more easily. Twists enter the river and make a current, a small ripple of novelty, and there'll you find their banks are lined with the people to match them: the unusual, the eccentric, the amusing, though they may not have appeared that way to others. It's as individual as saying 'oh, my goodness' or liking tomato sauce sandwiches. On its own, spread on slices of buttered bread and without the chips in-between. Or vinegar on Shepherd's Pie. These guilty pleasures aren't made up, I did both as a child (I don't now – I have others), at home and where, it should be noted, they were eaten civilly. Children can be fusspots, I get that (I was one!), but let's not recommence that argument so soon, as there aren't the words and frankly, I don't have enough breath in my body. It has, after all, very little to do with river banks and those that pitch their tents alongside them. Then move camp as their nature and nature itself compels them to, and which, whilst it confuses, adds to their originality. 
These characters, though real and far from imaginary, that appear at random and I, with my keen observation, take note of are all too strong, for having made an impression they continue to people my inner world and call themselves up uninvited. Set up shop. Set up home. Fish. Boat. Wash their naked selves and scrub their clothes. Make a fire to warm and cook by. It's a very back to basics, nomadic life, which they must like for they've allowed an imprint of themselves to remain here. Though occasionally one or two, worried they're weakening, will renew their thread to me with a live sighting or use a prop to trigger a fresh remembrance.

Picture credit: River Rug, 1903, C F A Voysey

Everywhere and Nowhere

You know what they say: past a certain age you become invisible. If you're a woman. Although at what age? I've never been clear about that, thinking perhaps they meant the age of whiskers, and dry, creased-lined powdered skin with too-bright rouge. I've not reached for the rouge (or the hair dye despite the appearance of white hairs) but have I think sailed past whatever marks you as distinctly visible. As a person that's noticed. I never got much to begin with but I got some, not when I walked into a room, nothing like that, just noticed from time to time, which somehow though it could be self-conscious making said yes! I'm alive.
Okay, so there were occasions I hated that felt observation or level of scrutiny, but only in the way someone might dislike something but also secretly love it, like being tickled, even if I wasn't entirely sure of the reason why. Was it in jest? Was it in admiration? The former I could believe, the latter no. And yes I would also want to run, to hide, to shield myself, to act like I wasn't aware but also let whoever know that I was.
It was a game. A risky game. A dangerous game, maybe. For an innocent to play.
The late teens and twenties are for flirting with life, though now I believe it starts younger – too soon, too soon - with modern traps that aren't as forgiving. Though it's probably truer to say I started late, if I ever really started at all. An all girls' school will do that: divide its pupils into two streams. One, more closeted and shy, the second to the all boys' school across the way. Boys, those alien immature creatures.
No, I was always from a distance sort, if I admired anyone, and my nature, as it is now, was contradictory: wanting to be noticed but be invisible; wanting recognition but not to be praised publicly; wanting to be liked by my peers but not to be singled out by the popular crowd who would only tease and bully. Just whispers and giggles, that sort of thing. This they did randomly; it wasn't sustained. I was too dull, too ordinary, too good even for that. Girls together can be cruel – even amongst your own set. There's always some falling out. Someone out of favour. Our friendships too close, too exclusive.
I mostly ended up in triangular relationships, where either we all got on or one was out of sync with the other two, and felt and knew it too although nothing to that effect was ever said. It would all be subtleties: significant looks, in-jokes from classes shared and the occasional shaded put-downs. We all did it: this one-upmanship and competing with each other for friends, sometimes without realising it because it was so ingrained and because it was worse to be unpaired. Groups were marginally safer but only if you could fulfil a role i.e. the pretty one, the naughty one, the clever one, the sporty one, just like The Spice Girls, but girls being girls could still turn: against each other as well as those outside their hallowed circle.
Girl Power! takes on a new meaning, one that implies girls transitioning to women can be bitches. Sugar and spite. Unless this was caused by the lack of boys. I was grateful for being spared a deeper shade of beetroot red, because public speaking in front of a classroom of girls, under a spotlight I unwillingly sought, was nerve-tremblingly. Going to a mixed college was an eye-opener I can tell you and didn't instil further self-confidence in me because there I was still 'the swot'. On a determined course to ace my studies, which was not as my fellow students may have thought a case of being top but a case of perfectionism because whilst I was good with the written word I didn't excel in examinations, but naturally this didn't endear me to them, and when teenage boys (as well as girls) dislike this about you it's very difficult to build anything with them, any foundation of respect or friendship. And when you're quiet and seen as studious, you're also seen as standoffish when that couldn't be further from the truth. Your shell just needs to be cracked a little. Tap, tap, tap, are you coming out...?
Youth! No, it wasn't dismal, not by definition, but I kept making the same mistake of one or two close friends, which left you in a pickle if their attendance was below 100%, and where being really noticed (by girls and boys) was best avoided, unless you were mooching round a shopping centre or on the dance floor, making and catching eyes.

Picture credit: Paris la Nuit dans un Dancing de Montmartre, Manuel Orazi

The Pop and Sting

What I'm about to give voice to has been done to death, though the subject has never quite died, and I won't if I visit it now put it to bed or even say things that haven't already been said twelve months ago, but it's worth doing over (sensibly) now the hysteria has been tempered. Though with my luck (or gift of foretelling doom),and I add this as a disclaimer, another case will have cropped up to coincide. And as the piranhas feed another will be revealed and held to account, or something more will be alleged to the first, and on it will go...building into a vicious or delicious frenzy, depending, of course on your view, if you have one. But not having one can prove problematic too.
Deja vu? Yes, isn't it just?
The hunters are hunted; the hunted (and once caught) now run after them, bringing with them a battalion that will not only shame but demand censure. It's this excommunication that troubles me, which as I've said has been visited before by persons more qualified i.e. news people, who have put forth better arguments – for and against – in the wake of the alleged incident when the public are less likely to be open to that debate. Now is not the time and all that, but later could be too late. Generally it is; for swift actions will have been taken under pressure.
How in the wrong you can be made to feel if you don't agree, with either the hoopla or the ostracism. Trial by media. Sentenced by the general public – for life or Hollywood's version of it which might mean there's a comeback after an appropriate stretch, but until then the named culprit is shunned, from their person to their work; all work. Justice will be served, and this is it.
Everything the culprit was associated with disassociates itself. If their work involved other people, they might now distance themselves from it or contribute to the rumours, or if it can't be distanced from the scenes in which the culprit starred might be re-shot so as not to risk offending the audience and the industry to which they belong. If it's work of the sort that's committed by the culprit's hand as in bought by fans (books, paintings etc.) then it might be banned, not by a court recognised order but by the general mood of the public, dictated by the most articulate and the strong, to which the rest are expected to follow, and generally they do, willingly, because to think differently (to disagree) would be suicide.
You must, by now, have an understanding of what I'm holding forth on without me, rather unreasonably, clearly laying it out, because I, again rather unreasonably, expect people to be thinking along the same lines as I do, (ah, see we all make that mistake), and so you might ask why the smoke and mirrors? why defend a monstrous person whose acts, like them, are heinous?
That's why the smoke and mirrors. Though the smoke is thin, of the wispy grey sort, and the mirrors don't deflect as they ought. Because that's where you're wrong, and I assumed you would make that error, this is not a defence of whomever, but of their work. Yes, the worst (and the best) way to punish a culprit if they're a public figure i.e. a luvvie, an artist, a writer, is to boycott their art: everything they've been in or about to be in; everything they've painted, sculptured, captured; everything they've ever written. It makes a very public statement (like their art), but isn't it fascism thinly disguised? Like that recorded by history: the confiscation of art, the burning and the banning of books. I, personally do not wish to see these types of punishments resurrected. But I'm too late in saying that, aren't I?
Does a masterpiece stop being a masterpiece the instant the artist is charged with or found to have committed a loathsome or criminal act? That's the question I repeatedly put to myself, as do others, when any news of this sort breaks, and my answer, in essence, never changes: No. Does it fill me with horror and so prevent me from being able to appreciate their talent? Yes, but no. The art, in my view, is not the person: that person we don't know, that person we don't get to see, who perhaps performs deeds we would be horrified rather than inspired by. The gift they access is separate and so I set them apart.

Picture credit: Textile design - Huntsman - 1919, C F A Voysey

The Nights of No Reckoning

2.40am, and ten minutes after I'd been woken, I flung aside the curtain, its metal rings clinking on its pole, with a formidable glare ready for the perpetrators, who had stolen into my dreams like a thief and his accomplice to steal from me what could only be obtained at night: peace and quiet; rest and illusions, but the violent twitch of the curtain must have alerted them for the confab instantly stopped and instead I found myself glowering out at nothing and no one.
My annoyance lessening steadily with each bewildered scan of the all-too empty scene. Where had the duo, for I had assumed from the voices it was no more than a duo or at the very least a person talking into a mobile, scampered to so quickly? It wasn't possible that one or two persons could have exited so swiftly without sight or sound, not in the blaze of the on-all-night security lights that I'd had to procure a black-out blind for and yet still don a none too fetching eye mask to leave the land of living but which didn't protect against noise.
Noise that possibly only an overly sensitive person would become aware of, breaking into their light sleep or preventing a deeper layer. Noise of the sort that could be felt to be inconsiderate, which on other occasions had been tolerated to the extent they were awake but remained motionless, lying under the duvet, irritated but unwilling to leave its body-heated swaddling.
This, after four nights of similar and lying motionless with the occasional muttered or shouted swear word, was the night, as you will have gathered, an overly sensitive person (namely me) broke that passive pattern prepared to, if need be, be aggressive with a barely thought-out plan of attack: a blasted exchange or a washing up bowl of water.
That, as you already know, didn't come to pass (or has since) which sometimes I feel downhearted about for opportunities such as that are rare. I never get the chance or the justification to be 'nasty', although neither plan a or plan b would have given the result I desired, that of quiet, and would instead have further fuelled the flame of indignation.
But back to that night, another night of no reckoning, as my bewilderment turned to intrigue, stood there like a blundering Watson without a Sherlock simply marvelling at the lack of running footfalls and echoed hoots of laughter, and as if I expected the conjurer of this mysterious act to show his shaded face. To perhaps look up at me as Romeo might his Juliet, although all he'd probably see is a window framing a child in pyjamas.
A pale face pressed to the glass and a form silhouetted with light as if I'd been torn out of a comic strip or were a film poster, captured there for all time, at the same age, in the same unflinching pose.
That of course didn't transpire. Why is it so easy for me to put myself into another's position, even though to my knowledge that other or others that night didn't exist?
Here, a measured voice might interject to state the reasons why: She's highly imaginative, and believes too much of what she reads, in at least the possibility of it. She's not easily shocked or surprised, and believes that you can't, though others say it, be both. How can you both? she demands of whoever feeds that line to her, regardless of whether it's direct or via a more public radio mike or camera crew. It's her one impossibility. An oxymoron that cannot be, so it's pointless saying it....ha, ha, ha....fade like Michael Jackson's Thriller as the needle slips and scratches.
An ongoing commentary that you can't hear which explains you to others would at times I think be helpful. Was it? or was it just weird? The latter probably...I've lost control...this anecdotal account doesn't know what it wants to be. How can it? when it was a one-time, one-night only event, which unlike an LP or video that can be repeated hasn't been, though some of the same elements have reoccurred as surely as night follows day: after midnight conversations and curses sent up to the ceiling or in the direction of the bedroom window as sleep's been stolen from me, but never, to date, have I been tempted or that frustrated to pierce these talkers with a glare.

Picture credit: Girl by the Window, artist unknown

I See Sausages

Sometime last year I noticed a weird effect that I hadn't observed before, that when I wore contact lenses certain parts of my body seemed magnified, not to ridiculous proportions like that of a circus mirror, just somewhat bigger width-wise.
Toes and fingers instantly took on the form of cocktail sausages: fat and stubby, and not the elegant piano-playing hands and dancer's feet I was told I had, not that I can list those accomplishments amongst my better qualities, but having them was halfway to being convincing i.e. they looked the part., and well, sometimes assumptions even if they're wildly wrong are pleasing for the ego is stroked.
Anyhow, this alteration to my perception quite fascinated me, and as to the study of these shortened members well! I was absorbed, which sounds rather narcissistic doesn't it? as if I were a babe recognising myself for the first time in a mirror, except in this instance I wasn't using or looking in one; I guess eyes could be described as such if they weren't my very own and were reflecting other individuals like that of a window you walk by, but no, instead they were shamelessly navel-gazing. Actually, they tended to bypass the navel and focus entirely on the toes, seeing as usually when this occurred I was in a forward-bend or about to lunge or strike a Warrior pose, all the time experiencing Monkey Mind, trying to fathom out why? why? They didn't appear this way earlier or yesterday when my eyes were aided with my at-home spectacles. Can toes be fattened? I know fairy tales suggest they can, but where's the evidence? Am I it? And so on...which is very unhelpful for the mindful aspect of yoga.
Later my hands would be just as closely scrutinised as if I were admiring a ring on a finger: held out level with my face, slightly star-fished (the correct term, I think, is splayed, but I prefer star-fished but then we each have our oddities. You should hear some of the words I mispronounce or can't for some reason sound out), and turning them this way and that to conceive every nail and knuckle, and where as with the toes I'd see fat little sausages which would delight a butcher and instantly called up a counting song:

Ten fat sausages sizzling in a pan,

Ten fat sausages sizzling in a pan,
One went 'pop' and the other went 'bang',
Now there's eight fat sausages sizzling in a pan

and so on...until there's no fat sausages sizzling in pan since they've all gone 'bang', 'bang' bang', 'bang', and which in calling to mind made me question their swollen appearance, as well as why my eyes were lying to me for that was the only logical explanation, unless, of course, how I normally saw them (naked-eyed and through specs) was a grand illusion that no respectable scientist could replicate.

Perhaps this would have been a case for Oliver Sacks? But I know of nobody quite like him, that I would trust, as I did him, to go to for answers, though there are others who think they've plugged the gap, but what they're really doing is repeating and with less masterful skill too. Another I might have gone to would have been Levi, but it's not really his field of expertise. And when I say 'go to' and 'gone' I do mean in the way of reference; I'm not deranged, I know they're both deceased. Michael Mosley? Well, he's very much alive at least...he's affable...and his concern is with the body. I'll mark him down as a possible should these symptoms recur whenever I correct my sight with contact lenses.
An optometrist? No, they'd think I was mad, and only separate my thinking brain from my eyes. That's what most medicals professionals do whereas I'm of the view it's all connected. I don't buy into one problem, one appointment because the body is a network of readings, similar to a map of the underground, where a signal failure somewhere can cause disruption along the same line as well as that of others. Though that view has really very little to do with the sausage effect, because I'm already aware it's my eyes and brain in conjunction; that somehow the little discs I insert are tilting my vision.

Picture credit: Wallpaper design, 1889, C F A Voysey

Smallish View

Some of us, maybe it's most of us or relatively few, but let's start as I've begun, ambiguously with some because then nobody can be offended nor state a sweeping generalisation has been made by one who obviously doesn't know, and so, some of us, as I was about to say, take a smallish view.
Or should that be have? Hm that all depends doesn't it, on whether it's a picture they're taking, of say a current situation, or a view that's already formed, as in held and stood firmly by and not developing as the circumstances it applies to further develops.
Got that? Right, I'll continue...this notion of a smallish view is not the workings of my mind, but that of George Bernard Shaw, although I have to say I do agree, if not wholeheartedly then with at least three-quarters of my ponderous heart. The top right-hand chamber remains unconvinced, and is more confident that England as an island, as a people is less insular than it might have been in Shaw's days; that we do look outward though we still might not comprehend or react until a minor event, some ricochet from a bigger catastrophe, natural or man-made, has hit us. Square in the eyes, hard on the chin. Except that when it does our outrage and the action we demand is disproportionate to the actual happening that jolted us from sleep.
There were people dazed and confused during both World Wars too, or so I've read. Life, of a sort, carried on, even though 'their boys, their men' had gone to war. News items were read of and put aside, unless of course said catastrophe going on elsewhere, mostly on a continent across the sea, suddenly intruded upon and interrupted a man's breakfast, then all hell broke loose. Shaw wrote of this in a preface to Heartbreak House, which set my mind whirring: did that really happen? War, brought home, caused an almighty stir of the likes we see on social media, and gave the men in the trenches a good laugh, because of the over-reactions to what was to them (and can only be viewed in hindsight) a trivial consequence. A single bomb falling and upsetting a man's egg cup was an unworthy side-show to their own hardships.
The anecdote could however be a fiction used to good effect by Shaw, his point still clear to me years on: that like religion we cherry-pick our views of the world and how big or small we make it, or at least that's my understanding. Perhaps I've misunderstood (it wouldn't be the first time) or made of it what I wanted to make it, and we all do that don't we: align our steadfast opinions to any topic, and prior to the issue being raised in conversation – public or friendly – so when the instant comes our stance is fixed and nothing will sway us? Our view might get more entrenched, or there might, like a set jelly, be a couple of momentary wobbles until it returns to its fixed position: upright or slightly leaning to one side.
A good example of this, in practice, is the common-held view of those we consider wealthy (although our measure of wealth is subjective) which can include: those born to a life of seeming luxury, those who make everything they touch turn to hard cash and amass properties and other material goods, and those who suddenly have a burdensome life relieved through some sort of windfall, that a lot of money automatically solves every problem and makes all whom it benefits instantly happy and evermore contented.
It doesn't. It cannot. But that you cannot know until you've for some reason or another been in that wealthy category, and no, I've never been, to my knowledge, thus categorised, but then would people tell you outright if they'd made that assumption? Probably not. It's not an observation you draw attention to or discuss with whomever is the perceived demonstrator unless they care to admit it openly; no, you just observe quietly or mention it in passing to others, when, of course, the subject's out of hearing or not in the vicinity. The actual having of money, as in figures multiplying in an account somewhere, has the power to make life comfortable but also has the power to possess, and in turn make you want to possess: residences, items and people, evoking unappealing qualities as well as attracting them.
The point being that your view, whatever position you take as I've already stressed, depends on where you start from or where you've got to in age and experience.

Picture credit: Conversation Piece and Self-portrait, 1910, Spencer Gore

The Theatricality of it All

Sometimes you can't help but like the characters you shouldn't: they have the best lines, the best anecdotes, the right amount of sarcasm at a level that is acceptable and tolerated by those within their circle, as well as you, the reader, though you might think they're getting away with more than is just, but then this is a novel and you cannot be certain how much of this character is real or fictional, because if based on a real person he or she can be exaggerated, yet if true (but the real person is unknown to you) they can come across as so unbelievable as to make you assume their character has been exploited by the author simply for the act of appearing in their novel.
Maybe when reading (and enjoying) satirical personages, how they came to be and why shouldn't be contemplated, because it does if meditated on too deeply lessen their comedic effect, when their manner, although somewhat egotistical, is free and mocking and their chief attraction. Their utterances eloquent but abusive and delivered with smug smiles and curling lips and ridiculous flourishes. Their heads and hearts swelled with their own self-importance and pride as their opinion is sought, although unasked for it's often still given and listened to with the same awe, even if clumsily put or lacking in conviction. Snide comments are their bread and butter; truth is not necessary. Truth as in an accurate and true account of whatever they're relaying, truth as in their own held opinion. That's not their purpose as an addition to a house party, nor their aim.
Such characters are the entertainment: there to distort and to provoke; to be deliberately disagreeable and generally to amuse, if they're in (and as a host you hope they are) good humour because if they're not they can be either very dull or very cruel. Neither is what you the host or you the reader want, for what you want is for them to shock, to titillate, whereas if they refuse to engage or slump in a corner then the party, even if you're not actually there, is a ruined affair.
Their craft is this part they play: a role they made for themselves and perfected, and which is soon, if successful and popular, expected from them. A mask they have to wear which although it gets them invited everywhere can be tired of if for some reason they don't, won't or can't perform. An act such as this must not give way to normal human emotions or display them unless doing so furthers the farce. If they disappoint too often they'll soon be out of favour and forced to find it elsewhere.
Friends, in their proper sense, are rare, but then such characters, as they've made themselves, don't look for any, for if they did so the mask would have to slip, and then they fear they'd be found out, which as it happens many actors of different genres do, though for this type of whom we are speaking it's more related to their intelligence rather than their acting ability. They will be discovered to be merely pontificating and to, in actual fact, have very little to say for themselves. They have no opinions, but that of others. Any knowledge they have has been gleaned from reliable and unreliable sources and so they evade careful questioning, but are unafraid to turn a scrutinising eye on those who attempt to discover them. They are well-read, but only enough so that they can repeat verses and passages made fashionable; they know a little politics, just enough to get by; they know the intrigues of the social circle they happen to be in, enough to gossip or spread lies; and they know plenty of tales about people whom they profess to have met or heard tell of, though usually the persons and the circumstances are fabrications.
Their audience, however, is captivated, though not all wish to be and yet they find themselves nibbling like a greedy fish at what looks to be a most convenient wiggling snack to then find it's nothing of the sort but some man-made inedible resemblance on a concealed hook which is incidentally tied to a line. More than a couple of lines that in a very short time produce laughter, with and against the orator, and uncontrollable shaking; even on rare occasions silent shaking, as with their convulsions the sounds of laughter are swallowed or choked on, sometimes too with tears that make their eyes glisten like stars.

Picture credit: The New Spirit in Drama and Art, 1913, Spencer Gore

A Man at Ease

A man sits in shade with his eyes closed, not thinking and not doing anything, just sitting and enjoying the autumn sun and yet miles away. You might think if you chanced upon him he was resting from his labours – a spot of gardening maybe, a bit of weeding, a bit of hoeing, raking leaves and lawn mowing possibly – for he has the look of a gardener and his apparel hints that might be the case: lightweight shirt and trousers, both bit a bit creased and dirt-soiled, especially the elbows and knees, a sturdy pair of dusty brown loafers and a straw hat with a black band, but if any of these suppositions are true then they weren't done from pleasure, but duty.
That much I do know about this unnamed man. Though I don't know his character or him personally. I wouldn't be able, for instance, to recommend him as sound or wise or provide a reference as to his nature, nor an accurate account of his life.
No, but if I chanced across him as you did, I would be able to state with some firmness that he wasn't the type to undertake physical labour as a paid occupation. He doesn't mind doing it when it needs to be done but it wouldn't have been his life's work. His is the mind of order, and that extends to property – that he's the sole carer of and in possession of – although his frame doesn't often lend itself to these particular tasks. Still, he's not one to shirk and he'll give anything a go, knowing it's more satisfying to use the body rather than engage someone else's sweat and muscle.
Let the mind wander, could well be his motto at such times, and which he will have employed to good effect on many occasions. He might even think of himself as a leaner, better educated and not so discontented Mr Polly, who is whiling away his remaining years, which others, if he himself drew this comparison, would dispute because he seems the very opposite embodiment of Alfred Polly; and yet something in Polly's character appeals to him on some whimsical level.
But right now, as you've observed, he's sitting quite peacefully in front of a whitewashed wall and in the shade of some shrubbery and apparently not (as far as you can tell) thinking; you're close enough to see his brow is unlined, his eyelids aren't fluttering and his chest moves at a sedate and steady pace. Each rise and fall a long count of three as if in the role of seeker in a game of hide and seek before proclaiming 'Here I come, ready or not.' But as he's not (we've assumed) thinking I'll assume he won't be counting either, so that this is just a relaxed posture of well-being which to you, the beholder, presents itself as a delightful picture, because even though his left leg is crossed over his right and his arms are neatly folded suggesting tension in his wiry frame, he seems entirely at ease.
At enough ease to be spied upon at any rate, for I'm almost certain he feels your sweeping gaze. His is not the countenance of a man asleep; no, he is very much awake and present in his surroundings though his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, are fully closed. The shutters down as if the sun were too fierce, when the light has only a muted brightness and doesn't glare or shimmer as on a hot summer's day.
You, I think, have reached the same conclusion as I that he's listening – to the gentle wind rustling leaves and to the flutings of birds – and is sitting upright, rather than slouching, to appreciate its quality as if it were a recital by a symphony orchestra. Perhaps on other occasions he faintly hums along, but then nature has a vast repertoire of tunes so that the same notes heard are rarely in the same arrangement that he thought so sublime; it will be easily surpassed by another.
His position then, if we follow these presumptions through, is that of an participatory audience member for he has provided his own means - a chair from inside has been brought outside, and he has attempted to make himself comfortable by removing his jacket and casually draping it over its back – in order to, for a moment, feel at one with the world.

Picture credit: The Gardener Vallier, Paul Cezanne

Vainglorious Living

Can nobody see what's being foisted upon us? Does nobody care? More debt, more debt. Options on how to pay taken away, encouraged to spend more, to spread the cost and never pay off, never in our lifetime, so that the debt never goes way but essentially stays and hangs over our heads like black marks; and most of us have fallen into the trap of fixed rate, fixed term deals where companies take a fixed fee every month, rather than quarterly, which has to be paid by debit or credit card. Card, Card, Card!
Are we blind? Yes, but madder are those who stick to SVTs (Standard Variable Tariffs) and cash, whereas I, being of that camp (although they may have got even me to switch now), think it sensible, as do those who want to pay for what they use and not what they might in future, and to budget as suits their individual needs. We're told to live within our means and yet no system currently supports this.
This address (to the public at large. Well, to the few readers present) is more than a little late in coming and has been, before now, addressed to kitchen cupboards, living room furniture and the bathroom mirror, and yes, one or two points may now been different and this economic push to spend, spend, spend and not save may have quickened or slackened, but I couldn't, after having delivered it in a muddled rant-like manner to appliances many times over, restrain my fingers any longer from typing. Frankly, all eight digits and two thumbs were flexing and itching something chronic, and the only solution was to finally let them trip over the keyboard.
Buy now, have now, pay later or never at all. Pay up-front (i.e. in full) and be worse off. Don't have the money, borrow. Don't save for bills, for emergencies, for holidays etcetera, spend it and worry when the unexpected happens, then take out a loan to cover the costs. Don't pay for your degree, take lesser paid jobs so you don't have to and have the debt follow you everywhere (where is the incentive to do anything else? where are the jobs?), and build on top of it e.g. rent, work expenses and commuting hell. EVERYTHING can be bought on debit and credit! and with no receipts so monitoring your own habits is difficult. Got paid?, gone by tomorrow. Overdrawn?, be more overdrawn by the end of the month. In the red, what's new?
We're doing everything big business and banking wants, to a certain degree because they, surprise, surprise, want even more. They want constant transactions and data. They want cashless, because that's how they make their money. We must be crazy to be giving in so easily, lured by speed and ease of use, and yet it's not enough, it will never be enough, and so they might, just might, engineer a crash, to get rid once and for all of cash hangers-on and savers.
In some ways, this idea scares me more than the possibility of war (and certainly more than Trump, although I imagine he could be all for profit at the expense of consumers), because if the circumstances were set up right, what could we as civilians do? If such a crisis occurred, it would happen quickly, with little warning, as would the resolutions put in place, and there would be no, or little, public opinion in the matter. Oh yes, there might be a temporary backlash, a small demonstration but numbers would be few and the plan would still be forced through. The plan to penalise savers for saving, to slash interest rates to nil, to wipe out paper currency, and to charge for any services that involve a bank employee somewhere. Some of it's already in motion, some of it's coming...
It reminds me of Saint Sebastian, tied to a post or a tree and shot at with arrows. Or maybe we've had that part and were rescued and healed (from the previous financial crash and recession) by ministers who informed bankers in no uncertain terms we weren't ready and bargained for more time; and now the Emperors (they number more than one and are either ridiculously young or middle-aged, with some more vainglorious than others), fed up with waiting, are nearing the point where they'll club officials and even more of us to our deaths (depression, insolvency, and precarious living) if we don't yield (and permanently) this time around.

Picture credit: St. Sebastian, Botticelli, sourced from Museum Outlet.

Be Like Stalks

There's only one way Humanity can go, and that's in the opposite direction to that which it thinks it's going.
A bold statement. Because naturally I'm in favour of the argument I'm about to make, although the outcome is not a given and will more likely depend on the way the wind blows or a flip of a coin, if coins can still be had that is. Some of you might be reading this now and thinking 'what were coins when they were at home?' and would have turned to the 'Notes' section had there been one or to an Ancient except they're aren't any, because coins, whatever they were, are so long ago and not part of your humanoid experience; nor does present society value their once existence or acknowledge coins at one time held a value at all. Shillings, pence, pounds are all bygone currencies which can't be mentally computed and aren't even housed in any museums which earnest android scholars could attend, but now is not the moment to provide this lesson, if indeed we have reached that state.
Perhaps it's still to come...as is the undemocratic future I foresee, although we will think it democratic because we won't see that in our fight for equality we are actually procuring the opposite, by quietening voices, including our own, and cutting off our own and others' limbs. Being equal in all things has a cost.
And that cost is freedom: to be, to do, to think, to own as in to possess, to dress how we like, to speak as we find.
Democracy and equality can promote intolerance and the State clamping down so that more laws are passed and freedoms removed to form an equal society. The individual ceases to be. The minority exists but the majority has the vote. The will of the people is upheld, not that they realise the pickle they're getting themselves in. Pickle, as in jam as in a fine mess and not the conserves we British have with bread.
No, this particular pickle is coarser than even those that like it chunky like it, and often-times leaves a sourer after-taste than is usual, or it would but the senses that normally detect this are, in the majority, flawed to such a degree the sensation doesn't come as instantaneously as it used to, or even in some cases come at all; for the exhilaration that arises from exercising their democratic rights (and seeing it made it into law) has a similar effect to brainwashing in that sensibilities get benumbed.
People get high on democracy (it can be as addictive as a drug) and believe their own rhetoric, which is like a wave in that it joins with others if there's a common purpose as with equality, which once obtained could work against us in measures that removes every single quality that is considered to separate, from our style of clothing to its colour; from the length of our hair to how many metres tall we stand; from the origin of our given surnames to the level of our intelligence. Tyrants then, in a sense, would be able to honour democracy because we (as a people) would fulfil the role of dictator: report on each other, thereby enforcing laws we wanted made and were made because such was the demand they were passed into common law.
The notion being (and carried through), as C. S Lewis proposes as Screwtape in an address at an annual dinner: I'm as good as you. And although, as a senior devil, he's exploiting this expression in the negative as a means to creating earthly havoc, it's nonetheless true that this opinion, if held by enough people, could create open hostility and an unnatural order: an entirely equal world which is more or just as demonstratively unhappy and, paradoxically, undemocratic.
This future is by no means certain, yet it's far less uncertain than it was when others, aside from C.S Lewis, also asserted it as a possibility (see Jerome K. Jerome's The New Utopia), as if a powerful machine of falsehood (and desire) has since hypnotised peoples into believing what they conceptualised: that to live under (and abide by) democratic rule is to be like a field of corn harvested.

Picture credit: The Cornfield, 1879, Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Snakes and Terrier

I dreamt of snakes being roughly shaken in a terrier's mouth. Their heads and tails weaving as if being lured by a pipe from a basket as the terrier throttled their middles. Neither the snakes nor the terrier seemed perturbed; neither side on the attack, this was play, whereas I looking on felt only dread. A dread of what might come, even though I saw the fun, when the game wore itself out. A dread of snakes, since these were only the width of a skipping rope which I presumed to be venomous. A dread of how to go about stopping it, for my instincts rather than my intuition said it should be stopped but how?
This wasn't a dog-fight, these snakes weren't a stick or a ball and this particular terrier I knew wasn't a listen-to-command-and-do-as-I-say type. Terriers generally aren't at the best of times and definitely not when in possession of a stick, rope or ball, or even a car tyre, nor when in pursuit of a pigeon or squirrel. They race down the garden or stand guard under a tree, hell-bent on their course of action, despite their owner's protests, to see off danger or just for the hell of it, really. Terriers are stubborn creatures, especially if they're of the Bull variety and nevermore so when it comes to what direction to take on a walk or even to go on a walk at all. Like a toddler in a temper (without the howling) they turn rigid and refuse to budge, unless you mollify them some way or do exactly what they want, and then they trundle along quite happily and strut like Travolta.
Smug. I'm a Kool Kat, though I don't associate with those spelled C-A-T.
Yes, terriers are a comedic breed.
So, in the dream this knowledge I had of terriers and of this particular bullish one was a help, but not a help if you know what I mean. I danced on the sidelines feeling powerless, though nothing untoward (that I remember) occurred: the terrier continued to vigorously shake the snakes in this mouth and the snakes continued to wave in a distinctly gloating manner with their dark gem-shaped eyes fixed upon me.
There was no conclusive end as you might expect from a fairy tale of either romantic or hideous proportions, just a fading or a waking, I'm not entirely sure which. Though I like to think the snakes turned into silk scarves like those tied end to end and pulled from a magician's hat or the sleeve of some willing volunteer, and hung there limp and bedraggled. Or they turned into a string of sausages, which from a terrier's point of view had it been their dream would have been more creditable, especially if they were stolen say from a table or a window ledge as then the game would have been far more delicious and worthwhile.
But those are waking fabricated endings. The dream I'm sure wouldn't have taken that direction, and if dreamt again would be different to that described.
Where do dreams go once they've been half or fully-realised? I never experience repeats; I never return, nor it seems dream of similar scenarios and on themes I recognise. Though it could be in sleep I'm denser than usual, which would mean I contravene the experts' opinion: my brain is not susceptible at night. But then I too share the terrier trait of inbred stubbornness, so if I proved insusceptible I wouldn't be surprised. It would be a straightforward case of mind over matter.
Perhaps, dreams, realised or unrealised, go to an island somewhere. A dead isle. Where they are merged with others to form a brand new undreamed vision that will wait for the right person to be born or to be in the right place to dream it. Perhaps they're all just catalogued in a dream-paedia: date dreamt, who dreamt by and their location, and the different versions that then followed: what they were later spliced with. It would be a vast task for whomever had to manage it, so there'd be minions: clerks, transcribers, supervisors and incinerator workers and the like, unless it too has moved into the digital age, to be run by electricity and technology. Surely not, surely if such a dead dream isle exists its operation would be mostly telepathic rather than use even our new modern means to manufacture night dreams that seem random to us like a CD player picking the order of play but in actuality aren't at all. A fascinating concept don't you think? with shades of Philip K. Dick or Margaret Atwood.

Picture credit: The Isle of the Dead, 1880, Arnold Bocklin

Abstract Beauty

The change to autumn is unsettling. Sleep is increased by at least an extra half hour, the body's temperature fluctuates and the mind dips and soars, dips and soars like a tiny bird you occasionally spy if you watch the skies closely and at a height you thought unlikely for such a tiny being. Even white butterflies fly higher than you imagined was possible or necessary.
The days and nights grow equal in length, and then quickly resume their habitual imbalance: the nights now longer than the days. The weather grows intemperate and the mornings are frosty; there are rains and strong winds, some of which bite and blow fallen leaves or shake more to the ground. The skies on some days are blue, on others grey, either studded with puffy clouds, or devoid of so that it's a flat grey, like a calm sea before a storm.
The sun still puts in a brief appearance, glaringly or hesitantly, and yet fails to warm the living room and bedroom in the late afternoons, nor at any time of day. They face the wrong way during autumn and winter, when a flood of sunlight would do the utmost good to the residents on this side of the building. All inside sits in shade, untouched by any friendly yellow rays, with the exception of evening when overhead lights are switched on or when the glare from a lit screen spills a patch on the beige mottled carpet, or those from outside peek in. It's cosier (though somewhat chillier!) to sit in the dark than bask in unnatural light; only a lit flame offers a similar warmth as the sun.
Fire is an autumn element. Its spirit in harmony with nature consuming itself: dying, decaying and metamorphosing to conserve energy or become sturdier for the lean months ahead. All of nature on the turn: yellow, orange, reds, which fire can help along, as part of the chemical process, by quickening the decomposition; and if tended to makes faces rosy red and noses hungrily sniff its smokiness. That delicious, fatal fragrance caught on the wind, even from miles away, which the lungs inhale and expand with, to their fullest capacity like a smoker taking a long, deep drag...
...exhale, the breath of autumn: a crisp woody odour with an undertone of wet leaves.
Autumn, unlike winter, is contradictory. It's not really sure what it's supposed to be. The months it falls in prepare the ground for winter, and generate in us, as well as in the natural world, a turbulence that flings and tosses us about like a ship on high seas or a plane in high winds. Rag dolls pushed along by the current, and that includes political leaders and those we've put in place to uphold the civil laws and morals of the land. In other words, those who act on our behalf as a people, or have convinced us (as well as the other leaders they wrestle with and pacify) that they do so.
All is in some sort of turmoil during this transition, which affects the contents of the mind, all minds, as well as circadian rhythms. It's Tolkienesque, it's Ballardian, it's surrealism, this adjustment, this repossession of the ecosystem, of which we are a part. Humans are just one element in this grand scheme that occurs year on year, although we attempt to act against rather than with it. To carry on is certainly the British spirit, as I'm sure it is of other nations, yet in doing so we place ourselves in direct opposition to this in-between stage because it's not what we think of as a fertile period, in spite of its arresting jewel-like colours. 
Change is uncomfortable, but not sterile. Everything is in constant motion: life and decay, life and decay. A disintegration, which in itself can be beautiful and will with patience enable growth. It's slow, not a race to be won. Autumn is only the start, and from this point the finish line cannot be sighted.
Without, copper and amber leaves, already turned, rustle as the winds pick up and pluck them off to turn mushy underfoot when the rains fall and drum on window panes. Birds take to grey or blue cloud-filled skies in spectacular murmurings, as people below rush to and fro and carry coats and umbrellas. Within, the refrigerator hums and every now and then gives a loud sigh as if it were a beast lowering; the kettle, last used three hours ago, clicks at rest like an insect grooming itself. The light retreats and dark edges in.
All is utterly bewitching; all sets the scalp prickling.

Picture credit: The Eye of Silence, 1943-44, Max Ernst (source: abcgallery.com)

A Letter to...Myself Thirty Years From Now

Why is your heart fluttering so? What are you afraid of? Heart flutters, as you should by now realise, are a predicament of age; it's not the same bird you knew from youth fluttering against its cage.
No, it's an entirely different and more beautiful sounding bird. Finally, more at peace within itself, that on occasion will make its presence felt so that you appreciate its mechanism and which would look like a fine time piece if snapped open: all tiny cogs and wheels interlocking and tripping over one another to enable the sweetest music to play, though to your untrained ear it might sound like dull, and sometimes rapid or irregular, thuds.
Whatever happened to that ear? You used to have one, as in twin appendages, for rhythm and music. When did it died?
I can tell you why: because you let it. You stopped listening for the pitches of life that very few others heard. And with it the impetus, the delight in movement alone, for movement's sake died also. By slow degrees the body's dance was lost, as was its natural grace and fluidity. You let it grow tired at too young an age.
That was your fatal error.
Thinking that you could get that same energy back whenever you wanted; that the motivation to do so would be there. Because thirty years ago, if you remember, you were overly focussed on the expansion of the mind and so the body, although not neglected, was less attended to, which is why it's in the state it is. And your mind for all its learning and intellectual leanings is not as sharp either; its astuteness has dimmed somewhat, though its ability to fixate is just as potent.
All this I feel I can say with some assurance. But if I'm proved wrong, I've not wasted my breath. It means somewhere between the writing of this letter and your reading of it you took a turn, and not just about your living room with a book in hand as you were doing at thirty-six and could have continued doing, and made alterations. This then will be a 'what could have been', which both you and I are revisiting because once written you will forget it until thirty years on when I open and re-read this letter. Ah, memory! How it floods back!
Breathe...read on. There's more...
There's still time if habit won. And no, you're not the same now as you were then. Nobody is. Nobody would be.
What were our parents like at sixty-six? That's how you hoped to be – as mellowed as them, and more relaxed and practical with it. But our experiences and interactions with the world are not theirs, so if that has not come to pass then don't be too self-critical. You are you, even if that's not how you set out to be. There is goodness and darkness in all; we are shaped by triumphs and losses, brought low or raised high.
You, I, could have done many things better: been more rational, less moral, less sensitive and more adaptive to environments, people and circumstances, but you met such trials as best you could, often with doubt and trepidation, though occasionally with impulsiveness that you regretted later. You frequently chose the forks in the road that did not serve you but served others. You might think that wise or foolish now. I cannot comment either on those decisions I know of or those I know nothing about. And I advise you to let them go if you haven't already. Don't waste further time analysing what has passed, or wondering what might yet come.
Live!
These are the years to do just that.

Originally penned and submitted to The Guardian  for their A Letter to... feature,  September 2017.

Picture credit: A Girl Feeding a Bird in a Cage, Jacob Maris

Dog Child

Literature abounds with dogs. Greyfriar's Bobby, Jock of the Bushveld, Red Dog, Rudyard Kipling's Dog Stories, The Incredible Journey, though that had a Siamese cat too, to name but a few. And then there's those who were companions to, like Tintin and his faithful dog Snowy or the fox terrier, Montmorency in Three Men and a Boat, but there are also more famous examples: Queen Victoria's Dash; Queen Elizabeth II's Susan, the first in a long line of corgis and dorgis; the politician Roy Hattersley's Buster who gained notoriety for killing a goose in a Royal park; and the poet, Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Flush, whom Virginia Woolf penned a ingenious biography of.
I don't intend to write a biographical account, as the novelist Elizabeth von Armin did, of my extraordinary life and dogs, because my life (thus far) has been unremarkable and without the milestones that most adults in their late-thirties have achieved (or failed at or had difficulties in): partners, children, fulfilling career and the like, so very dull indeed, but dogs I can remark upon, though none were ever truly mine.
They were the family's - belonging to the master of the house or to a unit, that being either my father or my grandfathers. Our dogs mainly looked to the men, except when it came to anything concerning food where the women were chief of that domain: the kitchen and satisfying the household's stomachs. Strange, that the dogs all picked up on that pecking order, not that the men had dominance overall, it was just how duties, for the most part, were divided. Where they naturally fell, but even then borders were regularly or occasionally crossed. My maternal grandfather made the morning cup of tea, baked bread and vacuum-cleaned, as well brewed beer and grew tomatoes and runner beans. And yet, Sam dog, my maternal grandparents' golden lab would fetch his tin of Chum and present it to my grandmother, before trying anyone else who could manage a tin opener.
Dogs have an uncanny ability to read and ingratiate their owners, and the owners either don't realise they're doing it or submit, meekly. You're part of the pack, though the dog is usually the Leader; you might think you are and the dog might let you think that, but in your heart you know you're not, because dogs lie close to our human hearts as if that organ were a cosy fire they were warming themselves by.
A home is not a home without a dog, preferably one dozing with one eye closed, the other half-open and listening out for a turn of a key and returning footsteps. Most dogs greet, unlike cats, and know before you do when you're about to arrive. The welcome you receive is pure joy, occasionally overdone as in you might be bowled over, literally to the floor, and licked clean, but it is, I believe, a show of genuine affection, though it can get wearisome, once through the door, if said dog continues to bounce at your heels or tug your trouser leg.
The Master coming home signalled Mini Cheddars or bread-sticks (I got some Cheddars and a sip, just a sip, of low-alcoholic beer), just as much as visiting a pub meant pilfered crisps under the table or a bit of sausage if a sausage was being had. I was, of course, allowed a Coke and to eat crisps or my scampi and chips at the table.
Dogs know. No other domesticated animal beats their extraordinary senses, nor powers of persuasion (well, children possibly), although I know in that regard I'm biased having grown up around them. I'm sure I thought I was a canine at some point, or at the very least that I had an unusually furry older brother who was once mortal but cursed at birth as in the fairy tales I was exceedingly fond of; or I thought I'd wake up one day and find he was wearing clothes like a character from Wind of the Willows or Beatrix Potter. I was an imaginative child and dogs were playmates who proved far more agreeable than cousins.
The fact of the matter was that I was an only. And when you're an only dogs make excellent familiars. The dog is always there to practise your reading to or listen to secrets; to watch cartoons with or share a game in the garden, so that it becomes unclear as to whom is the faithful shadow.

Picture credit: Jennie, Higglety Pigglety Pop! by Maurice Sendak

Slippery to Grasp

A lucky escape or another catastrophic error? Both. Neither. Catastrophic is too strong a word, and that situation has passed, relatively recently in my present, but a little over a year ago at your time of reading. Although I hope due to my prophetic tendency I'm not now facing or have been through a similar scenario and am yet again tormenting myself about my ungovernable urge to speak honestly and my inability to make a decision, any decision, when put under pressure.
I only crumble, however, when a choice is before me and the decision to be reached pertains to me and not to others. Considering others is actually easier, not exactly a piece of cake but it changes the angle at which you look at what's on offer. When there's nothing or nobody to take into account apart from your own preference it's extremely hard, particularly if only some of your conditions are met e.g. location, environment etc., and if the unknown or the sameness releases fear and allows unresolved issues to resurface, so that instead of being open you meet it with stubbornness; more wilful stubbornness than is appropriate to the circumstance.
There is nowhere to go from that. Unless you can push through. I've done both with varying successes and disasters over the years. There have been times I've been relieved when a situation that I've wanted out of has been brought to a natural close; natural in the sense that I hadn't had to confront it, though it may have adversely affected others. When I've drawn the line then the extrication itself has been almost as unbearable as the scene I've wanted to escape from, not because in exercising my rights I was doing anything wrong, but because in doing so I felt I was letting people down. Leaving, though staying wouldn't improve my position. If I remained, from duty or guilt, nothing would alter: not my feelings and not the place, and the same stress symptoms would occur.
Whatever I've done has never really worked out to my advantage, and I don't seem to have learned much because I'm still repeating when I should (by now) know better. But then on that, I'm not even clear. I don't trust my own judgement, especially if I'm overwhelmed and the space for clear-thinking is not forthcoming. Yet, when an event has occurred and died it can also be hard to look back on with any deeper or new understanding. Sometimes that doesn't happen at all. It just sinks, barely retained when at the time it felt so critical. Grows so diminished that it results in confusion if you make any attempt to recall it. If you manage to, for the sake of others, you find you can't explain what happened or justify your reasons for doing what you did. None of what you felt then: the mental turmoil, the emotional distress, matters.
Those 'in the moment' emotions aren't long-lasting. By the following week they will have paled and the nervous energy will have exited, though you might reflect for weeks, months over the decision taken, if not the detail of how it came about. Did you make it even, if it was yours to make in full command? Or did the words just pop out of your mouth? It's not a sense of regret that resides with you as you know the end result wouldn't change if exactly the same set of circumstances arose: you would make the same choices, but if one tiny detail had been different you might have chosen differently, perhaps more wisely, and been able to see the picture for what it truly was rather than what you thought it might entail.
In being backwards-looking, you're able to appreciate your fears yet berate your stupidity for letting them once again get the better of you, though you know at some point another attempt will be made; and you're still not completely convinced (now there's distance between you and it) that you were 'in the right', because did you not act instinctively rather than rationally? Should you begin to question your perception of events as they unfold and your reactions to, as well as your misgivings, both then and later?
A depression of spirits descends as if you've failed some sort of test for the umpteenth time, which due to your inability to grasp has now slipped even farther away, whereupon Hamlet interjects: Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.

Picture credit: A Fish Sale on a Cornish Beach, 1885, Stanhope Alexander Forbes

Heavenly Constructs

People's ideas of Heaven interest me, whether they be of a faith-based view or fantasy-like, similar to a utopian design. None exist in actuality, that we know of, that proof attests to, and when we do get to know we can't once we get there report back, and if, by some miracle, we do, then those living need to remember not to disbelieve but not to believe that when their time comes it will be as their loved one said it would, because this place, space, whenever it is, if you believe it exists, may only appear as you want it to, so that everyone doing whatever it is they do over there will experience it differently i.e. nobody will see it with the same pair of eyes.
Of course, we have that here too, to a lesser degree, where that difference is largely reserved to the trivial: how we interpret colour and the ugliness or attractiveness of something: a person, a building, a landscape, rather than the actual form it takes. We generally tend to agree, for example, that a neoclassic building is neoclassic and not some Grecian or Gothic affair, whereas some imagined heavens allow just that. Anything goes, as they say, so two people can stand before the same structure which one will see as Romanesque and the other as a glittering tower of glass. In other words, these perceptual differences in these imagined heavens are far from subtle, and yet are not, in the works I've come across, compared: a character does not ask another if what they're seeing is the same, because it's either assumed that it is, or if one does have a semi-awareness that it's not (and which the narrative makes clear) it doesn't matter. It doesn't alter the fact of their being there if they do not share the same vision.
Often, the heavens described aren't too dissimilar to life on earth, except there might be more freedoms in connection with physicality and time and manifesting dreams. For the main protagonist, recently crossed over to this new plane, it's a continuation of life and a Disneyland; or reversely, they might be tied up with the past and existing in a void, very much alone, replaying events at will and at random. That the protagonist is there and realises it (or lets on to the reader) somewhere in the narrative seems to be main crux of these fictional ideals, and the rest we are left either to enjoy or question.
Imaginary heavens or conversations with a fictionalised version of a god-figure must, I can only assume, offer some comfort then, as well as amusement, and regardless of your religious convictions because I imagine if you were offended you wouldn't be drawn to such material, unless you wanted (and some people do) to be offended. Humans are perverse in that regard, usually so as to take the moral high ground and to dismiss that which others have a belief in or are entertained by.
Our curiosity, it seems about this unknown place, will never be satisfied, and will always be preached and written of, held up as part of organised religion or as a sort of playground. Maybe we are duping ourselves (and disbelieving, far-too-rational types would say we were) but the damage whilst living, if there is any, is little, not in just supposing a heaven of some description exists. Please do not imagine I am giving credence to a Paradise which is reached at a cost of innocent lives. That's a subverted interpretation by Man, which has as with Scripture been corrupted and caused skirmishes. Organised religion, or anything with a following, can bring out the best and worst of human nature. Although, perhaps that's not the fault of a doctrine, just human behaviour and its extremities.
Would Heaven be any more tolerant? Ideas of generally lead us to think this way – that peace reigns and love has conquered any separatist attitudes – despite their being no certainties that a heavenly existence (if that's the right term) is peace-loving, or even that there is eternal life.
Heavens constructed, by you alone or populated by fiction with or without the influence of faith-based teachings, expand on and perpetuate its mystery – it can appear to you as you want it to and you can be, do anything you like with added abilities. The limitations in your being and to your thinking removed, thereby increasing the appeal of its Creation.

Picture credit: LEGOLAND Minilands (London), Wikimedia Commons