Folds

If I tilt my head

Narrow my eyes

Shapes of energy sway

The folds of your colour

Shifting in my corners

You always remain

All you

Scrolling through a list,

for some arbitrary task.

Your name speeds past. 

The other names aren't there.

Only you. 

 

Your label is not your essence.

But it captures it

and pulls out my heart.

Fills my eyes.

All you.

Moon child

Today I stumbled across my moon child ring. It's profoundly impractical and probably doesn't reflect my 46 years on this earthly plane. All this being said, I'm now wearing it with aplomb. It reminds me that I am a mystical child of the moon. I can weather the storm and I will, in time, emerge beautifully. 

🌛🌕🌜 

Midnight gospel

I've started watching Midnight Gospel again. It's wonderfully weird and strangely philosophical. Probably exactly the right thing, right now. 

42

I decided to read the urban dictionary's perspectives on the meaning of life. (There was nothing on Netflix and I'm avoiding the packing of boxes). I didn't expect to find anything of note there and yet.....

"It is like a drop of water that has risen from the sea and in a shower has fallen in a puddle, then drifts into a brook, finds its way into a stream, after that into a river, passing through mountain gorges and wide plains, winding this way and that, obstructed by rocks and fallen trees, till at least it reaches the boundless seas from which it rose. But that poor little drop of water, when it has once more become one with the sea, has surely lost its individuality.

You want to taste sugar, you don't want to become sugar. What is individuality but the expression of our egoism? Until the soul has shed the last trace of that it cannot become one with the Absolute."

by Heavyoak September 07, 2006

This is a reminder to keep an open mind. Only then will one find pearls of wisdom. 

Slow poetry

I finally found my way back to The Lake house today. I'd meant to watch it with you but somehow it never happened.  

I love its beautiful, slow poetry.  Its rolling landscape. The way it feels like an old photograph that connects times and simultaneously captures a moment of it.  

It transpires that one of the characters has your name. It's strange because once that name meant nothing to me. Now it means everything. I guess there is a nod towards transience there. No doubt you'd appreciate the symmetry. 

And yet, it's still you. Always here. Filling my moments with your absence, as much as you did with your presence. 

xxx

Mockingbird

What is here without your ever-last?

Time becomes an enemy.

The silent mockingbird,

Of all that has passed. 

Mindful

I'm told to eat healthy food and remain present in this moment. Apparently, this moment is where the miracles occur. 

I've just eaten half a pack of cheesy wotsits, completely mindlessly. I also half cleaned the oven tray. Moreover, I don't even like wotsits. 

I think the universe might need to work on its conceptualisation of miracles. Either that or lead me to some much improved savoury snacks. 

🙏

Filters

Step into the open

Don't hide behind 

Allow me to see you

With unencumbered eyes

You

I'm sitting where we sat on part 3 of our first date. Though I think we were on the next bench along. You drank your wine because, as I came to discover, you either drank or you didn't. There were no half measures or vague in betweens. 

I remember that I sometimes tried to limit your dionysian approach to life. Now, as I sit here without you, I realise that you can only be exactly who you are. I cannot remove the tide from your sea and I wouldn't want to. Anything less than full SS is the floor without the parkour.

I will forever miss your beautiful energy. 

You were and will remain unlike anyone else I've ever met. 

Love you. 

🧡🧡🧡

All things must pass

Sunrise doesn't last all morning 

A cloudburst doesn't last all day 

Seems my love is up 

And has left you with no warning 

But it's not always going to be this grey 

All things must pass 

All things must pass away 

Sunset doesn't last all evening 

A mind can blow those clouds away 

After all this my love is up 

And must be leaving 

But it's not always going to be this grey 

All things must pass 

All things must pass away 

All things must pass 

None of life's strings can last 

So I must be on my way 

And face another day 

Now the darkness only stays at night time 

In the morning it will fade away 

Daylight is good at arriving at the right time But it's not always going to be this grey 

All things must pass 

All things must pass away 

All things must pass 

All things must pass away

HRT, Pat

"That'll be the HRT, Pat". said Peter Kay impersonating his mother maybe 15 years ago. As I recall, he was joking that his mum seldom hung up the phone correctly. She thought the call ended after she'd "put it in its holster". So Peter would be there, on the other end of the phone, wanting to dial out again, saying "mum hang up the phone". He joked that she thought she could hear little voices and blamed the side-effects of HRT. I have no idea if any of this was true. I laughed though. We all did. 

Back then, lots of Peter Kay's words were relatable. Except that. The HRT, Pat. I knew it had something to do with getting old and it felt as remote as a planet, some light-years away. 

Fast forward to 2021. I'm 46. I've arrived at  planet aged and it's as inhospitable as Venus on an angry day.  There's no map. There isn't even badly articulated, vague directions. 

Every woman shares her birth story, in graphic, unwanted detail. It's practically a competition. It's the penultimate of womanhood. The pinnacle. I was in labour for 3 whole weeks. It took the doctors 3 hours to stitch me up. Or the other spectrum. I was totally free from all drugs. I didn't even have a paracetamol (which in reality is like trying to put out a volcano with a slush puppy).  

But no one says "ohhh, in a meeting the other day, I sneezed and wet myself a little bit. Tee hee. These things happen." Or "you know those hot flushes you've heard about, well they feel just like the flu. Not mini flu but proper flu, where you have to roll to the toilet." It's just not the kind of stuff women chat about. This only serves to make us feel, me feel, well, less of a woman. 

How can I be rocking my 40s when I'm ill, grumpy, spotty and struggling to control my bladder. When they said 'life begins at 40', were they referring to something so totally removed from your 20s, that it feels like starting again? Rather than sexy, powerful, wise woman. It's a lot of scared, confused, hormonal lady. 

Still. I'm trying to negotiate it all, whilst working, home schooling and waiting for Lockdown 10. something or other to end. Occasionally, I even hoover the carpets.  

Parchment of love

It is not the page that denotes the parchment of love.

It is two sides of the same paper. 

Gathered in its inky permanence.

Different words, in a shared story. 

This our us, asymmetric in our synchronicity. 

Our asynchronous symmetry.