Greasy Seasonings!
Filed under: Acting, Cafe Critique, Food, I'm not sure, Life, Literature, Mates, Politics, Remembrance, Yada Yada Yada, nostalgia, poetry
To all who have visited my site (mispelt ’sight’), and even those who haven’t, may your seasons be unmentionably pleasant.
Happy Holidays
The Dark
Are you afraid of The Dark? The Dark within, I mean. If you’ve been as Dark as ink, do you try to make sense of it, perhaps find reasons (or make excuses) for it? Or do you ignore it? Perhaps yours is The Darkness that is best avoided, or do you secret it somewhere inside and allow it to colour the way you see the world? Does yours feel powerful? Or is it like a boiling lake of blood, ready to expel forth, uncontrolled at the slightest provocation.
Does the seething undercurrent of turmoil control you, or do you control it? Do you know? Do you… care?
I am responsible for my feelings, and I have a right to them. ALL of them.
Crisis… What Crisis?
Not belonging to a club of which you wouldn’t want to be associated might seem okay. But what happens if the ‘club’ is everywhere and all pervasive and if you’re not a member you’ll suffer for it? Sounds Orwellian, doesn’t it?
I thought life was supposed to have a way of sorting this stuff out; that the older we got, the more comfortable we became in our skin. Naive, perhaps.
Does all this sound obtuse? Let me explain. I feel like… well… let’s just say I am not at my best. I feel so much pressure from so many different quarters that I’m not operating very well. I feel, in a word, destroyed. Another term might be that cheery little thing they call… Read more
Hello Again
Hi folks. My heartfelt apologies to you for making no new entries. My tardiness was unavoidable, however as my computer undertook a much-needed reboot.
I am happy to say that this reboot was very successful and I’m now back with you.
Thanks for your patience and support.
Geoff
Zero to 100
The hit comes. Then the cough, the shudder. It comes to life. It calms down, levels off. The needle now at 6. It’s idling. I listen to it’s breath, wait for rhythm. There’s something wrong. Not running right. What could it be? Is it too cold? I wait. The same. It won’t settle. Wait. Does it not have time? Let it happen. All good things come to those who… .
Too cold. Impatient, but… . Not satisfied. Maybe I’ve waited too long. One step at a time. Yes, that’s it. Crawl, then walk, then run.
It’s stopped. It’s been a while. The stillness. Vibration, silence. Silence.
100 is a long way off, so I won’t look. I’d be happy with 10. Well, 30 anyway. Incomprehensibly, I touch the side; run my hand down along the side. Feel. Touch. Rough. Cold.
Safe? Oh my God. Has it come to this. Too safe? I have to hit 100. How can I do that? I’m unsure and not at all well. I stall.
I’m not sure of anything anymore.
‘Read Racine,’ she said. – Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
