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...
Monday, 3 August 2009
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
A few humble musings #1
To Her Lost Lover
My name paved your streets of gold.
But like the city, we crumbled.
Our foundations, were shaky.
One fatal blow.
I can't look at the moon anymore
and not think of you.
And when I remember your smile,
your morning hair, your playfulness,
my heart still hurts. I can't help it.
You were my heroin, my drowning anchor.
White dog, country house, lighthouse living -
none of that will be ours anymore.
And now there's a new one on the scene.
A slightly longer-haired clone.
And so good luck to you.
The man in the moon
who could never sleep alone. Who dreamed
and screamed in the night if the bed was empty.
It doesn't matter which body you lie beside or
which face you look at, as long as the mirror cracks
from side to side
on the other
side of the room.
I loved you. And you loved me.
We hurt. We hurt.
And now in the wild fields of Africa, you breathe.
And sleep, and dream, of tennis and Bush and Blair.
And of one whose dark hair and eyes torment you still.
Of that I'm sure. But are they mine or yours?
I look to the sky and you're not there anymore.
All that connects us now is
Silence and the space between.
Suspended, withdrawn,
my arms are not long enough to reach you.
Daylight beckons.
And I must go.
copyright Alix Hearn. 10/8/08
My name paved your streets of gold.
But like the city, we crumbled.
Our foundations, were shaky.
One fatal blow.
I can't look at the moon anymore
and not think of you.
And when I remember your smile,
your morning hair, your playfulness,
my heart still hurts. I can't help it.
You were my heroin, my drowning anchor.
White dog, country house, lighthouse living -
none of that will be ours anymore.
And now there's a new one on the scene.
A slightly longer-haired clone.
And so good luck to you.
The man in the moon
who could never sleep alone. Who dreamed
and screamed in the night if the bed was empty.
It doesn't matter which body you lie beside or
which face you look at, as long as the mirror cracks
from side to side
on the other
side of the room.
I loved you. And you loved me.
We hurt. We hurt.
And now in the wild fields of Africa, you breathe.
And sleep, and dream, of tennis and Bush and Blair.
And of one whose dark hair and eyes torment you still.
Of that I'm sure. But are they mine or yours?
I look to the sky and you're not there anymore.
All that connects us now is
Silence and the space between.
Suspended, withdrawn,
my arms are not long enough to reach you.
Daylight beckons.
And I must go.
copyright Alix Hearn. 10/8/08
The art of editing
I'm quite fascinated by the things we don't say in conversation, or when we write. What am I omitting from this blog, what are others, what are the things that we don't share with each other. In a way, what we edit says more about us sometimes than what we actually choose to air. This is also true in the therapy room - what is not said, the unsaid, what the client brings forth and what they hide. No wonder the power dynamics are so interesting in the therapy room...
So, what are the things I don't share? I've always believed I'm one of those people that wears their heart (and their neuroses) on their sleeve. But I also believe I hide my light under a bushel, I'm not aggressive in showing off my talents and saying look at me! Since being a young child I always wanted to write, then I wanted to be a journalist, then an actress. Alongside these aspirations was a deep belief I also wanted to help people, to heal people, that I could listen and absorb and not judge their darkest thoughts and secrets, that I wanted to be privy to their stories.
Over the years, I have doubted myself as a creative being. I'm pretty sure there is a link between the suppression of creativity and ensuing depression. So even though I'm slowly beginning to write for the sheer pleasure of writing I still can't share with others (particularly those who work in the arts / creative worlds) that I am creative, I long to write and have found the facilitation of other people's creativity over the years, deeply damaging to my own creativity and my sense of being a creative individual. Or is all of this an excuse?
Others seem to have no qualms sitting down to write, and just get on with it. Deadline or no deadline. I, on the other hand, make lists, procrastinate, beat myself up, ridicule myself, and give up before I've even put pen to paper or finger on keyboard. The deadly saboteur is well and truly alive in me. Not sure if NLP alone can tackle this strong critical voice. Believe it or not, there is a fear of failure and a fear of success. Which may make little sense to those who just write, who may not even have to edit out those critical voices, who are aware of their potent creativity and are happy to use that inherent talent and skill. And yes, I am envious of that. Or maybe it's not really like that at all, and people just don't wear their neuroses on their sleeves, as I do. In fact, I know that's true. But my blocks are still there, I just haven't managed to successfully edit them out yet. But I will.
So, what are the things I don't share? I've always believed I'm one of those people that wears their heart (and their neuroses) on their sleeve. But I also believe I hide my light under a bushel, I'm not aggressive in showing off my talents and saying look at me! Since being a young child I always wanted to write, then I wanted to be a journalist, then an actress. Alongside these aspirations was a deep belief I also wanted to help people, to heal people, that I could listen and absorb and not judge their darkest thoughts and secrets, that I wanted to be privy to their stories.
Over the years, I have doubted myself as a creative being. I'm pretty sure there is a link between the suppression of creativity and ensuing depression. So even though I'm slowly beginning to write for the sheer pleasure of writing I still can't share with others (particularly those who work in the arts / creative worlds) that I am creative, I long to write and have found the facilitation of other people's creativity over the years, deeply damaging to my own creativity and my sense of being a creative individual. Or is all of this an excuse?
Others seem to have no qualms sitting down to write, and just get on with it. Deadline or no deadline. I, on the other hand, make lists, procrastinate, beat myself up, ridicule myself, and give up before I've even put pen to paper or finger on keyboard. The deadly saboteur is well and truly alive in me. Not sure if NLP alone can tackle this strong critical voice. Believe it or not, there is a fear of failure and a fear of success. Which may make little sense to those who just write, who may not even have to edit out those critical voices, who are aware of their potent creativity and are happy to use that inherent talent and skill. And yes, I am envious of that. Or maybe it's not really like that at all, and people just don't wear their neuroses on their sleeves, as I do. In fact, I know that's true. But my blocks are still there, I just haven't managed to successfully edit them out yet. But I will.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
February is the cruellest month
This line from TS Eliot's The Wasteland has haunted me since I first read it. And I kinda agree with it. I feel like I deserve a bit of good news or maybe I'm not doing enough to make good things happen. Things are fine; but I don't want things to be just fine. So I'm beginning to think it's time to shake things up a bit, start to plan new challenges and crack on. I went for a job interview the other day and they said they would let me know by the end of the week. Still no news. I don't believe in no news is good news. The whole interview process was pretty odd to tell the truth; they talked more at me than asking questions, talked over one another, to each other, debated a bit each with other. I thought they were intrigued by me, but maybe that was all wrong. And doesn't necessarily lead to a job offer! So, back to the drawing board.
I'm struggling with the fact I have a foot in two worlds at the moment - the arts and psychotherapy. I don't want to choose between them but integration is yet to happen. On that note, I'm also struggling with crippling writer's block - part of me thinks I have nothing to write, nothing to say, the other part of me has vague lines or sentences, half-cocked ideas running through my head but that's it, there's nothing concrete to work from. I'm not going to buy any more books about giving permission to myself to write or anything like that, as inspiring as they are. I just need to write!
On a more positive note, I spied a purple crocus pushing through the murky ground this morning so there are signs of life after all. Hurrah for that.
I'm struggling with the fact I have a foot in two worlds at the moment - the arts and psychotherapy. I don't want to choose between them but integration is yet to happen. On that note, I'm also struggling with crippling writer's block - part of me thinks I have nothing to write, nothing to say, the other part of me has vague lines or sentences, half-cocked ideas running through my head but that's it, there's nothing concrete to work from. I'm not going to buy any more books about giving permission to myself to write or anything like that, as inspiring as they are. I just need to write!
On a more positive note, I spied a purple crocus pushing through the murky ground this morning so there are signs of life after all. Hurrah for that.
Saturday, 7 February 2009
Time to get back in the habit
Blimey, it's been a while since I wrote on here. I've dropped out of the habit and life has just been rolling me along with it recently. In Surrey, the ground is still very snowy and I'm desperate for some signs of life. Just one snowdrop or daff? I feel like I've been in hibernation mode mostly - I haven't seen any theatre shows, or exhibitions or even read any books. I did go on a date though - the first one since I've been single.
And it was all slightly disappointing if I'm honest. The boy was nice enough, seemed laid-back and not neurotic or too emotionally retarded (although he has got an interesting family background that would be fascinating to dissect). But there was nothing there. He didn't stimulate me intellectually or inspire me in any way - I don't think we even had that much to say to one another. Did I find him attractive? I think so, but after being single for a year, with pretty much no significant male company during that time, it's hard to tell whether it's just my hormones kicking in or specific attraction. He text me a few times but they were all pretty vague and to be honest I didn't know what to reply to him, felt bored and thought it was best all round if I deleted the text conversation and his number with it. He hasn't been in touch since so I'm presuming that the romance is well and truly over. At least I gave it a go and he wasn't an arsehole so there's hope yet. Maybe.
In other news, I'm still making copious lists of everything I need to do and still managing to ignore those lists and find other things to distract myself. Like bad TV. America's Next Top Model and now new Shipwrecked as well as seminal viewing Come Dine With Me and repeats of Poirot. Oh dear. I think it's time to un-hibernate myself and take some control...
And it was all slightly disappointing if I'm honest. The boy was nice enough, seemed laid-back and not neurotic or too emotionally retarded (although he has got an interesting family background that would be fascinating to dissect). But there was nothing there. He didn't stimulate me intellectually or inspire me in any way - I don't think we even had that much to say to one another. Did I find him attractive? I think so, but after being single for a year, with pretty much no significant male company during that time, it's hard to tell whether it's just my hormones kicking in or specific attraction. He text me a few times but they were all pretty vague and to be honest I didn't know what to reply to him, felt bored and thought it was best all round if I deleted the text conversation and his number with it. He hasn't been in touch since so I'm presuming that the romance is well and truly over. At least I gave it a go and he wasn't an arsehole so there's hope yet. Maybe.
In other news, I'm still making copious lists of everything I need to do and still managing to ignore those lists and find other things to distract myself. Like bad TV. America's Next Top Model and now new Shipwrecked as well as seminal viewing Come Dine With Me and repeats of Poirot. Oh dear. I think it's time to un-hibernate myself and take some control...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
