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
Thursday, 12 March 2009
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.
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