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Words are our mercy

I have to read a few quotes of Oscar Wilde’s 100 page letter to his lover whilst incarcerated in prison for homosexuality called ‘Profundi’ ( read full article at end of post)

A few people I have spoken with about Wilde’s works dislike him.

He wasn’t a sexist. How could he be? He was for civility or equality and many of his musings and poems big up women & make fun at men.He was abhorred by society for being a homosexual.

For loving some one with his entire being.
Most of us may never feel that intensity of love. To love even if your life is at stake, your career – your status takes utter devotion.

Society is cruel,it really is and from reading this post I truly believe that words are our way to freedom. The one thing / people that we are not at mercy to .

Words are our mercy.

Quote Natasha Bodley

A trip to Oxford reading prison is now on my bucket list.

I became so emotional reading parts of it in this article.

One of my favourite parts of his letter Profundi

I want to get to the point when I shall be able to say quite simply, and without affectation that the two great turning-points in my life were when my father sent me to Oxford, and when society sent me to prison. I will not say that prison is the best thing that could have happened to me: for that phrase would savour of too great bitterness towards myself. I would sooner say, or hear it said of me, that I was so typical a child of my age, that in my perversity, and for that perversity’s sake, I turned the good things of my life to evil, and the evil things of my life to good.

What is said, however, by myself or by others, matters little. The important thing, the thing that lies before me, the thing that I have to do, if the brief remainder of my days is not to be maimed, marred, and incomplete, is to absorb into my nature all that has been done to me, to make it part of me, to accept it without complaint, fear, or reluctance. The supreme vice is shallowness. Whatever is realised is right.

[…]

Society, as we have constituted it, will have no place for me, has none to offer; but Nature, whose sweet rains fall on unjust and just alike, will have clefts in the rocks where I may hide, and secret valleys in whose silence I may weep undisturbed. She will hang the night with stars so that I may walk abroad in the darkness without stumbling, and send the wind over my footprints so that none may track me to my hurt: she will cleanse me in great waters, and with bitter herbs make me whole.

BRAIN PICKINGS

The quest for inner Happiness

I can’t put roots down in a home that feels alien to me. I blank out my world. I dread the familiar haunting of this abode called my home.

How it represses me and chokes me. Yet,I  come back to it like a castrated casualty of  Love’s wars. Conditioned to part my lips for misery….

Misery is the strangest bedfellow.

Assumes multiple faces.

Finds solace in one;

 then toys the mind into trickery.

Absolute in believing the worst.

The quest for inner happiness is insatiable.

Risqué  life impulses

hover to the centre;

reflective to reveal the self

absorbed.

Truth becomes lethargic to express.

Denial in a tangible form is easy to confront.

 Fluid is Something

a perpetual change in reason or emotion won’t be summoned into entertaining with a mere appearance.

Who really has it together?

The innocents shake up this universe.

People’s culpability to surprise succeeds in frequent currents.

Inner warfare barely contains the raw diet of pain -self-inflicted.

faltering when an impromptu glimpse outlines  Guilt slack at the shoulders.

How to do better?

How do we balance every eventuality?

From the withstanding of spirit, affection, carefree joie de vivre?

to never waiver to out compromise sacred boundaries.

A crave to fly

Be at liberty to roam and murmurate with free agenda.

Yet acknowledge the need for the skies and physics reminder of my limits.

To reveal the divine order that is Nature.

Simplicity,

Uncomplicated preambles, snapshots of existence;

must respect

complexity,

staggering through the wilderness, a  heart-

beating… though composed of wood.

Daedalic  to the fracas of life.

Mom -living with a Manic Depressive

Who is this lady? She is elderly, yes. A grandma,a mother a sister, an aunt, a great grandmother. I don’t know. I have forgotten. Hang on a minute… Aaah yes there was this one time that I was sat in her house -plush, ‘propre’ , stylish and I couldn’t sleep. I kept on getting up to go to the cupboard on the far right of la cuisine that housed all the gigantic Cadbury’s chocolate. I ate and I ate and I ate some more. I always seemed to be able to eat more.

I didn’t it like it when she bought the dark kind. So bitter. So classy, so not me.

But back to la cuisine. Footsteps pander lightly behind me. I turn and look around and I look into the eyes of a lady with pure class-sans maquillage. This seems to counter my non- class evolved youthfulness.  The lady asks me a question ‘Ca Va?

I’m expected to answer with the same ‘ca va.’ but it is something like 3 am in the morning. Obviously ‘ca va’ is not appropriate for this setting.

I don’t know why I can’t sleep, I confess. I’ve shoved a load of pills down my throat in an effort to be like the one whom I shall refer to as the Manic depressive. The lady sits me down and makes me a Sleepytime tisane – . Good herbal shit. We sit at the kitchen table with our ‘Sleepytime’ tea, I can’t remember what we talked about.

I have a habit of forgetting things, you see. It is so frustrating. I go back to bed feeling cared about. Why didn’t I feel grateful then?

No regrets. Have no regrets. Okay. I try not too.  I wish I had paid more attention, then maybe I wouldn’t forget so much.

I can hear her laughter in that loud roomy part of my brain, it’s threatened me it will become a real auditory sound that knocks me sideways with fright turning me into a paranoid wreck.

I have to remember that laugh. She used to laugh at my jokes. She loved me. She told me she loved me all the time.

She also loved another – another woman-my mom. Angelic looking, graceful, naive and I don’t know – wonderful?  This lady helped me out with the angelic-looking lady. Yes, I remember, one poignant night, the angelic-looking manic depressive and I had a vicious fight. I took a braai fork to her neck. I was fucking going out to drink and get strung out on drugs and Miss Manic Depressive could mope in her stupid illness and fuck right off.

Well, she took that big FU literally. We had this stock of prescription pills that could take our local pharmacy out of business – bad joke- that’s why I rely on comedians for such amusements (Omid Djalili and  Gabriel Iglesias being two of my favourites ). Nothing like a next-day hangover and a shrill ringing phone to make me grab a handful of downers. I’m not ready for the sunshine just yet- maybe not ever. The lady on the other end of the phone wants to know if the manic depressive is okay. Of course, she is ok……

I turn over

…but she isn’t. She is one tunnel turn away from death. I need some Rohypnol and valium and I need that lady on the end of the phone.

She says she is going to get the next one hour flight from JHB airport to Durban and I need to get the manic depressive to a hospital. I don’t have health insurance. I’m 15 years old.

A cocky shit who obviously knows it all but nevertheless in my narked upstate I somehow manage to get the angelic Manic Depressive a space in a run-down public hospital in Africa  – in a- I kid you not – broom closet. Sick people were lying on the floors, covered in congealed blood, in the corridors of this hospital. So I count my blessings that we had some type of room and a bed.

The lady meets me at the hospital. It’s touch and go. We are rooting for survival on this one.  Black tar leaks down out through a tube from some part of the manic depressive’s body.

Hours pass.

She is okay- stable.

She is in a coma.

The Lady transfers her to a more upmarket private hospital. She has the master card. We spend the night next few days at the Oyster Box hotel – in a chalet. She takes on me and my two cats. Lilac and Mocha- and we all sleep in the same bed united by our love for the angelic manic depressive one.

We don’t know if she is ever going to walk again. I mean it was an overdose with powerful intent. No, pithy cry for help as some believes a suicide attempt is. The angelic manic depressive has a new name angelic, rapid cycler  Bipolar.lady in The other lady is my grandma- as you probably have figured out. We go and see her every week. She broke her hip back in Feb 2015 and can’t walk anymore.

Okay… so that happens with a lot of old people. Yeah, but this lady, my grandma has been stripped of her dignity, identity, memories, and she can’t remember she can’t walk. She is stuck on a loop – every few moments she tries to get up and screams in frustration when she can’t. This lady sitting in the middle is my relationship with someone I love who has Dementia and Alzheimer’s.

I know I’m not writing something fucking profound but she means something to me and her family. She is living a world with no faces, no colour and the world speaks another language to her. How is she meant to interpret all this shit?! People talking. Loudly?

Other elderly people not moving- crying, shouting, fondling themselves to remember that they too can feel.  My Chronic Anorexia 10 stone self could envy my grandma’s current weight. 5 stone if that. She forgets how to eat. Imagine that?

What type of existence is this?

This is where I get political. Let people die with dignity.

I signed up for the campaign years ago. Who is this lady? She is so much more than she looks. She has had a life people probably can’t even dream  up and a life where people would also be horrified how she survived such heartache, ( love is the answer here, folks) but for today we can’t go back into the past too much without forgetting. I don’t want to forget, not today. Those two memories I can hang and frame in the gallery of my mind. They are mine. No one can take them away from me but Alzheimer’s can. Dementia too. You know what really makes me sick about all this? When a person with these illnesses die, Alzheimer’s and Dementia don’t take the credit. The diagnosis of death is usually a secondary symptom. How twisted and messed up is that?

Does she remember her husband? Where does she go?

I should have been a Neuroscientist or something. I want to know what is going on in her head and fix it. All clichés but they are my clichés for today. Can you believe people are being diagnosed with these maladies at as young as 25 years of age?

I would rather choose to die than have everything taken from me. Would my Grandma say the same? I wish I had asked her.

Me: ‘So Gran, let’s talk about something so morbid as to how you would like to die.. ‘

I’m putting it out there. Me? I don’t want to suffer and I don’t want to feel pain and I don’t want to not be understood. That is not living that is stuck between two perverse worlds. I want my family to pay the ferryman and for him to take the money and take me along the river Styx to Elysium and let me die with dignity.

Information on the dying dignity campaign  http://www.dignityindying.org.uk