I'm going to be honest with you. This may be quite a depressing post. Nothing terrible has happened, nothing traumatic or earth-shattering. But the realisation that pretty much the majority of people that I know in my social circles are either a) in a long-term relationship, b) married, c) married & pregnant or finally d) married, with children, has left me feeling surprisingly sad.
The search for a soul mate - because that is what I'm after (are we not?) is a search not for the faint-hearted. I think I've been also been surprised by the number of women that I know who exclaim they don't want to get married and then the next time I speak to them they are sparkling their diamond rock at me with utter glee. What the hell is that all about? Because the depressing truth is that most women, and I use that word lightly because I would actually like to say all women of the hetero vernacular, would like to be married, if not married with kids. Those who doth protest are frankly full of bullshit. And if we can't be honest with ourselves, then what's the point? As much as I want to make a successful career and I kid myself that having that and feeling proud of myself will suffice, I don't think it will.
I genuinely miss coming home to someone and sharing my life with that person, the rough and the smooth. Sure, it wasn't a bed of roses and sometimes being in a relationship was pretty shitty - but what is the alternative? Just because I'm single does not mean I'm going on lots of dates, nor does it mean that I'm even particularly attractive to the opposite sex. It just means that I'm not going out with anyone, have to attend other people's weddings and baby showers, and try and block out the realistic (cynical?) view that none of these events may be part of my life.
I did warn you this might be depressing reading...
PS
I forgot to say that I really wouldn't mind having a pleasurable distraction from work, study, and all my other million commitments - so even a fun date with a vaguely attractive man who can make me laugh would be a good start at the moment
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Cumbria Calling
Hurrah, I've finally managed to log on (internet access is pretty dodge around here). So, I'm here in my little cumbrian retreat and it's been over a year since I last wrote on here but let's not mention that. And I don't think I can promise that it's not going to be another year again! But I'll do my best.
I'm cosying up in my little cottage with my electric heater and blanket on - surrounded by books, papers and notebooks. It's been a very interesting few days - am only just beginning to attune to the absolute silence here - there is the occasional baah and moo, and the cock Eric of course but aside from that for the first time ever I see what they mean about the defeaning silence.
It also means you can hear your thoughts all too loudly too. I've cheated a bit by bringing my laptop and I watched It's a Wonderful Life for the first time ever last night. I'm gradually breaking myself in so that I can go on a completely silent retreat or at least one that doesn't allow any booze or I'm sure any laptops or soppy films in.
On the whole, it's been great - there have been a few moments when I've thought what the hell am I doing here and why didn't I go on some nice self-indulgent holiday where there's loads of people and I don't have to think and I can get hideously drunk, dance to bad pop music, get sunburnt, and have a swim....but hey, I'm here and there is a reason why I went for this option rather than the above so had better pay attention to that.
I'm re-reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way - and I'd like to share my self-care list with you - I am hoping that I will crack on with the list when I'm back so here goes:
1. Go sweaty dancing (also known as 5 rhythms)
2. Learn to meditate - mindfulness
3. Do my morning pages
4. Learn reiki
5. Feel the soil in my hands
6. Do regular exercise
7. Collaborate
8. Be kind to myself
9. Find out more about Sufism and Gurdjieff
10. Go on weekly artist dates
11. Wild Mary Nights (this will mean something to some people but I'm hoping all will be clearer when I actually start them)
12. Give up alcohol
Not a bad list
I'm cosying up in my little cottage with my electric heater and blanket on - surrounded by books, papers and notebooks. It's been a very interesting few days - am only just beginning to attune to the absolute silence here - there is the occasional baah and moo, and the cock Eric of course but aside from that for the first time ever I see what they mean about the defeaning silence.
It also means you can hear your thoughts all too loudly too. I've cheated a bit by bringing my laptop and I watched It's a Wonderful Life for the first time ever last night. I'm gradually breaking myself in so that I can go on a completely silent retreat or at least one that doesn't allow any booze or I'm sure any laptops or soppy films in.
On the whole, it's been great - there have been a few moments when I've thought what the hell am I doing here and why didn't I go on some nice self-indulgent holiday where there's loads of people and I don't have to think and I can get hideously drunk, dance to bad pop music, get sunburnt, and have a swim....but hey, I'm here and there is a reason why I went for this option rather than the above so had better pay attention to that.
I'm re-reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way - and I'd like to share my self-care list with you - I am hoping that I will crack on with the list when I'm back so here goes:
1. Go sweaty dancing (also known as 5 rhythms)
2. Learn to meditate - mindfulness
3. Do my morning pages
4. Learn reiki
5. Feel the soil in my hands
6. Do regular exercise
7. Collaborate
8. Be kind to myself
9. Find out more about Sufism and Gurdjieff
10. Go on weekly artist dates
11. Wild Mary Nights (this will mean something to some people but I'm hoping all will be clearer when I actually start them)
12. Give up alcohol
Not a bad list
Monday, 3 August 2009
Enough already
So, I'm beginning to think I am getting too old for big nights out. I seem to have spent most of last week either drinking, drunk or recovering - none of which are that attractive.
I had an enjoyable, if not completely unexpected evening out with a few colleagues - dancing on tables in Ping Pong ensued.
Then, I had another work outing to an experimental poetry evening at the ICA. A-mazing. I laughed, I cried and it made me want to write and write and write. I found the ICA just a bit too cool for school but the poetry was truly stunning and that's all that mattered. The latter part of the evening is best forgotten - suffice to say that muggins made a right tit of herself, which is nothing new but I really feel I should have learnt by now. Moving on.
It was Fi's 30th on the weekend which was drunken and just a little bit debauched. Currently, I am not feeling on top form and I have a press night tomorrow and then I'm leaving for The Wedding at stupid o'clock on Wed morn. Oh. Dear. Just a quick word about The Wedding - so-called because apparently, according to an astrologer, this is a very important event for me, so sadly I am expecting great things. And if it doesn't deliver? Well, I'm going to write some more bloody poetry and put myself out there. And consider internet dating. Yes, dear friends - I fear it may be time...
I had an enjoyable, if not completely unexpected evening out with a few colleagues - dancing on tables in Ping Pong ensued.
Then, I had another work outing to an experimental poetry evening at the ICA. A-mazing. I laughed, I cried and it made me want to write and write and write. I found the ICA just a bit too cool for school but the poetry was truly stunning and that's all that mattered. The latter part of the evening is best forgotten - suffice to say that muggins made a right tit of herself, which is nothing new but I really feel I should have learnt by now. Moving on.
It was Fi's 30th on the weekend which was drunken and just a little bit debauched. Currently, I am not feeling on top form and I have a press night tomorrow and then I'm leaving for The Wedding at stupid o'clock on Wed morn. Oh. Dear. Just a quick word about The Wedding - so-called because apparently, according to an astrologer, this is a very important event for me, so sadly I am expecting great things. And if it doesn't deliver? Well, I'm going to write some more bloody poetry and put myself out there. And consider internet dating. Yes, dear friends - I fear it may be time...
Thursday, 30 July 2009
The Night Horse
The lines are mixed, twisted, confused.
Suffused with G&T and wine.
It's futile. It's all futile.
It's beyond pointlessness.
Check shirt, red waistcoat -
you got it spot on.
Corrosive, penetrating.
So what do I do?
What do I do?
What to do?
Stand, face open, arms outstretched?
Or?
Much easier.
Oh yes, much easier.
Do I sit. And return.
To this. My one love.
To this love. The only
constant. I give up.
I give up. Eyes wide open,
Head up. Neck straight.
Deep inhalation.
Wait.
So it's off to the nunnery I go.
To the nunnery.
Nunnery yes. To the nunnery
I go. I see fields, and deep water,
and flowers, and sky and bloated clouds.
I see bottles, cafe windows, and startled butterflies,
and burnt robins and cut grass.
I see floating newspapers, and tiredness
and laughing faces and haggard eyes.
I see green shoes, and cobbles, and wet pavement.
I see chewing gum stuck to the underside
of my seat, and mumbling behind.
Painted nails. Chewed fingers.
Nibbled pens. Empty hands.
Greasy windows. Sad eyes.
Lost embraces. Orange lights.
Numbers. Words. Paint.
Data. Signs.
Arrows. Hands. Fists.
Stomach. Fingers.
I feel cold air.
And warm breath.
Too intense.
Two in tents.
Twisted ankles. Broken toes.
Fingerless gloves. Scribbling hands.
I see courage. Bravery.
Courage. Bravado.
Sweet peas. Lilies.
Big blue necklaces.
Birthday cards.
Thank-you notes.
Sneezing.
Stasis.
Bad haircuts. Dull notes.
Polite nods. Half-empty beer glasses.
Drunk vodka. Smashed glass.
Scattered petals. Scattered thoughts.
A broken promise. An echo.
A pretty face. Lowered gaze.
Hope.
A heart beating.
To begin again.
To begin again.
To begin again.
Pause. Breath. And I'm done.
Suffused with G&T and wine.
It's futile. It's all futile.
It's beyond pointlessness.
Check shirt, red waistcoat -
you got it spot on.
Corrosive, penetrating.
So what do I do?
What do I do?
What to do?
Stand, face open, arms outstretched?
Or?
Much easier.
Oh yes, much easier.
Do I sit. And return.
To this. My one love.
To this love. The only
constant. I give up.
I give up. Eyes wide open,
Head up. Neck straight.
Deep inhalation.
Wait.
So it's off to the nunnery I go.
To the nunnery.
Nunnery yes. To the nunnery
I go. I see fields, and deep water,
and flowers, and sky and bloated clouds.
I see bottles, cafe windows, and startled butterflies,
and burnt robins and cut grass.
I see floating newspapers, and tiredness
and laughing faces and haggard eyes.
I see green shoes, and cobbles, and wet pavement.
I see chewing gum stuck to the underside
of my seat, and mumbling behind.
Painted nails. Chewed fingers.
Nibbled pens. Empty hands.
Greasy windows. Sad eyes.
Lost embraces. Orange lights.
Numbers. Words. Paint.
Data. Signs.
Arrows. Hands. Fists.
Stomach. Fingers.
I feel cold air.
And warm breath.
Too intense.
Two in tents.
Twisted ankles. Broken toes.
Fingerless gloves. Scribbling hands.
I see courage. Bravery.
Courage. Bravado.
Sweet peas. Lilies.
Big blue necklaces.
Birthday cards.
Thank-you notes.
Sneezing.
Stasis.
Bad haircuts. Dull notes.
Polite nods. Half-empty beer glasses.
Drunk vodka. Smashed glass.
Scattered petals. Scattered thoughts.
A broken promise. An echo.
A pretty face. Lowered gaze.
Hope.
A heart beating.
To begin again.
To begin again.
To begin again.
Pause. Breath. And I'm done.
Saturday, 11 July 2009
Not a poem exactly...
The Bag Man
First there was Molly.
The Bag Man thought a rucksack
was best for Molly. A big green one.
In the rucksack he placed memories, hopes and wishes.
He placed a few fears in there too. His own, of course.
Molly could carry them. She was good like that.
Whilst still packing the rucksack for Molly,
he spied a very pretty pink bag,
elegant with pale yellow handles.
Perfect. I’ll have that, said The Bag Man.
But it wasn’t right for Molly.
Luckily, just at that same time, along came Holly.
The pink bag looked like leather but was actually plastic.
Holly wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,
thought The Bag Man.
But there was still Molly to deal with.
The Bag Man filled the green rucksack right to the top.
It was very heavy.
He helped Molly put on the rucksack.
Well, he was a gentleman after all.
He waved goodbye and went on his way.
The pink bag suited Holly perfectly.
The Bag Man congratulated himself.
The pink bag was just the perfect length
for a dead baby he’d found – best to put it in the bag.
So he did. Around the dead baby he placed guilt, shame
and compassion. He didn’t need them
where he was going.
The pink bag was beginning to smell.
Was it the dead baby?
Luckily, just at that same time, he came across
an even better bag. One that didn’t reek.
This new bag seemed sturdy enough,
white leather with a gold clasp.
This will do, thought The Bag Man.
Yes, this will do nicely.
He handed the pink bag to Holly
and gave her a little wave goodbye.
Then he turned to face Dolly.
And handed her the white leather bag with a gold clasp.
First there was Molly.
The Bag Man thought a rucksack
was best for Molly. A big green one.
In the rucksack he placed memories, hopes and wishes.
He placed a few fears in there too. His own, of course.
Molly could carry them. She was good like that.
Whilst still packing the rucksack for Molly,
he spied a very pretty pink bag,
elegant with pale yellow handles.
Perfect. I’ll have that, said The Bag Man.
But it wasn’t right for Molly.
Luckily, just at that same time, along came Holly.
The pink bag looked like leather but was actually plastic.
Holly wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,
thought The Bag Man.
But there was still Molly to deal with.
The Bag Man filled the green rucksack right to the top.
It was very heavy.
He helped Molly put on the rucksack.
Well, he was a gentleman after all.
He waved goodbye and went on his way.
The pink bag suited Holly perfectly.
The Bag Man congratulated himself.
The pink bag was just the perfect length
for a dead baby he’d found – best to put it in the bag.
So he did. Around the dead baby he placed guilt, shame
and compassion. He didn’t need them
where he was going.
The pink bag was beginning to smell.
Was it the dead baby?
Luckily, just at that same time, he came across
an even better bag. One that didn’t reek.
This new bag seemed sturdy enough,
white leather with a gold clasp.
This will do, thought The Bag Man.
Yes, this will do nicely.
He handed the pink bag to Holly
and gave her a little wave goodbye.
Then he turned to face Dolly.
And handed her the white leather bag with a gold clasp.
Friday, 12 June 2009
Catch-up
So, what's been happening. Well, The Apprentice is now over but Big Brother is back. I unashamedly love it. More importantly, my blogging habit is back. Speaking of habits, I am also addicted to Bewjeweled Blitz - if you haven't played it, don't. Once you start, you will never look back. There's actually quite a bit of news to discuss but I'm getting a bit sleepy now so best to write in the morning light. 'Til then.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
A few humble musings #2
Notes on an earlier theme
It's not that I'm lazy, exactly.
It's more that I Can't Be Arsed.
Empathy for apathy.
There's still time, isn't there?
Time for me, and us, and we.
Reading time, time for cheap thrills.
I've measured out my life in contraceptive pills.
Tantra mantra,
breathe pleasure.
Inhale, hold, 2, 3 and out...
Breathing is also good for anger control.
Get thee to anger management! they said.
I've been angry all my life.
Anger is such a waste of time! I've been told.
And yet, there's so much to angry about!
3 years wasted. Only 3 years, you say.
I've not stopped questioning.
Perhaps I never will.
So yes, I'm still angry.
Angry because there's never any bloody milk in the fridge.
Angry because why do people walk so slowly.
Angry because what it's all been for;
the men,
the dates,
the boozing,
the lying,
the cheating,
the withdrawing,
the withholding...
Angry because I have loved and lost, and what a load of old shit that's been.
And angry because I lost her.
No. Not him. That doesn't matter anymore.
But there's something more here isn't there, there's more to me than this...
I'm at the edge.
But not on it.
Things are different now.
A clearer perspective.
A circuitous route, perhaps,
but the best path to take all along.
It's taken me a while,
a long time,
but my presence is required.
I'm still here.
Still hoping.
copyright Alix Hearn November 08
It's not that I'm lazy, exactly.
It's more that I Can't Be Arsed.
Empathy for apathy.
There's still time, isn't there?
Time for me, and us, and we.
Reading time, time for cheap thrills.
I've measured out my life in contraceptive pills.
Tantra mantra,
breathe pleasure.
Inhale, hold, 2, 3 and out...
Breathing is also good for anger control.
Get thee to anger management! they said.
I've been angry all my life.
Anger is such a waste of time! I've been told.
And yet, there's so much to angry about!
3 years wasted. Only 3 years, you say.
I've not stopped questioning.
Perhaps I never will.
So yes, I'm still angry.
Angry because there's never any bloody milk in the fridge.
Angry because why do people walk so slowly.
Angry because what it's all been for;
the men,
the dates,
the boozing,
the lying,
the cheating,
the withdrawing,
the withholding...
Angry because I have loved and lost, and what a load of old shit that's been.
And angry because I lost her.
No. Not him. That doesn't matter anymore.
But there's something more here isn't there, there's more to me than this...
I'm at the edge.
But not on it.
Things are different now.
A clearer perspective.
A circuitous route, perhaps,
but the best path to take all along.
It's taken me a while,
a long time,
but my presence is required.
I'm still here.
Still hoping.
copyright Alix Hearn November 08
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
