Hold On

Goodbyes sharpen sorrow sought in knowing,

Questions why and how death transmutes all time,

Farewells find pained pleasure in past knowing

Shared memories, now shrouded, once sublime.

Goodbyes taint the wonder felt in chances

Life would last and sad endings were a lie,

Farewell’s  truth, untempered circumstances

Lost, the fleeting moments, censured to die.

Tho’ goodbyes break hearts with swollen starkness,

Unsheltered from the form of wailing near,

Tho’ farewells fling souls to doom and darkness,

Whispered voices can ease our unshed tears.

Goodbye to fears and could have tales we told,

Farewell to grief, each heart the light must hold.

May Music, Day 16 – Don’t cry out loud…

…or in company.

I’ve cried for any number of reasons. Even at an advert one time. But, I don’t typically cry at sad. Unless it’s real life. And I don’t like crying in front of people. A quiet weep or a rollicking good muscle-jerking flood both have their places in my life. But, preferably, on my own.

In fact, I get quite annoyed with anything that seems contrived to make me want to cry. Like that bloody movie, ‘The Champ’!  I hated that! The whole thing was designed to play on emotions.

Like watching those shows that reunite long lost relatives. Why make a show out of it? Just do it for folk, if you’re gonna do it. No, they have to bring on the violins and tug at people’s mushy bits. That bugs me. Don’t mess with my emotions.

I’m more likely to cry at things that make me happy when it comes to movies and songs.

Not when ET died. But when the flowers blossomed again and I knew he was alive even before I knew he was alive!

Like watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’. Not because of the music played but because anything that makes me feel all squishy inside at the inherent goodness in people makes me weak at the waterworks.

So, a song that I cried at? Which is what Twindaddy is asking as question 16 for day 16 of his 25 days of music challenge. I’m drained with this, btw, just in case you’re interested.

The last one I can think of, I’ve cried at every time I’ve heard it. It’s the last scene and song of ‘Les Mis.’. Fecking sobbed my eyes out. Right enough, I did that for most of the movie but hey ho.

The first time I saw it I was with my two eldest daughters at the cinema. Poor Mary-Kate was inconsolable. Claire was all, Wtf! And I had a raging headache by the end of it from trying to suppress the tears that were blurring my vision most of the way through it and certainly by the end. Streams escaped and I had to stifle sobs, trying not to draw attention to myself. I hate crying in public.

We had to go and drown our sorrows over dinner that night. Laughing soon rectified the headache and any desire to cry. Especially since said eldest daughter ribbed and ridiculed the whole movie. I won’t go into details on Claire’s brand of humour but we all felt much better after a few wines and laughs. Tears then too. Of a different variety. And I love crying with tears of laughter.

The last scene was, well I better not tell you what happens, in case there are still some people who have yet to see it.

!!!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!!! Do not watch this if you haven’t seen the movie!

I’m greetin’ just watching and listening to it for the umpteenth time. Happy and sad and fabulous to the Fth degree. Sniff…

Shug’s not looking too well in this. But what a marvellous job he and all the other actors did.

So, if I want a wee greet….it happens!…I watch this movie. Because, of course, I bought it to ensure that I could have the viewing pleasure all over again and, locked in splendid isolation with a box of Kleenex, I enjoyed a major wailng session…..guaranteed snotters and puddles. I like that sometimes. It’s a wummin thing. Or maybe just a me and Mary-Kate thing ‘cos she does that too. 🙂

Muscles And Madness

I don’t think of myself as amusing. Or funny. I’m not a joke teller particularly. On the odd occasion, I do nail one. But there are too many moments when I forget the punchline or have to return to a bit I’ve missed. Then if anyone ends up laughing it’s usually at how awful my telling of the joke was.

Having said that I have been known to reduce people to laughter and I’m always highly amused whenever my anecdotes or musings have this effect.

Most of the time this occurs from my embarrassing moments.

Once I get over the embarrassment I usually find myself sharing the tales with others and I suppose laughing at yourself is at least not laughing at someone else. People, for some reason, like it when you take the piss out of yourself.

So for me trying to be funny doesn’t really work. It just sort of happens. Or not.

I don’t go around deliberately sharing embarrassing moments or anything like that but if I find myself in company and the mood is light-hearted I kind of can’t help myself. There’s usually a certain amount of drink involved. Though not always. Like now.

It’s never malicious. Well, how can it be if you’re laughing at yourself? I just think that some things deserve to be shared and then people share all sorts of wonderful things about their embarrassing moments and I get to piss myself laughing at them. At their behest.

I was trying to think back to some recent moments of embarrassment and I suppose the worst would be when I accidentally twooted my leg, in the bath, to WordPress and Twitter. I deleted it, of course, so don’t go looking. But I was mortified. Then I shared it with my sister who has a knack for making me laugh at everything and anything. By the time I had told her and had a marvellous Facebook chat with her I was doubled at my own stupidity and, I admit, I maybe did leak a bit from the nether regions.

The reason for this I think is because genuine laughter makes you lose muscular control. Why else would my face crease into contortions I have no ability to control? Why else would tears run down my cheeks? Why else would I fall from chairs? Or pee my pants? It can’t just be because I’ve had seven kids. That wouldn’t affect my face or my gravity.

No there is definitely a lack of all muscular control when you are genuinely amused to the point of pissdom.

I think back now to my earliest memories of pissing myself with laughter and no children had been birthed. In fact I was pretty much no more than a child myself. Maybe about 12.

The first I recollect was organising a show in my dad’s garden hut with my best friend at the time. We rigged up a curtain, created some seats for our audience and charged some of our friends 10pence for the privilege of listening to us sing. There was diluted juice and homemade fairy cakes too. We knew how to take care of our guests. Unfortunately, my friend was no singer despite believing she was.

When it was her turn to sing she belted out a rendition of some song that was about a being a conductor on a bus. From behind the makeshift curtain I could see our audience raising their eyebrows and nudging one another as if to say, ‘WTF! We paid for this?’

I couldn’t help it. I began to laugh. You know the shoulder-shaking kind that you can’t get under control? And I felt awful for laughing at my best friend’s attempts to wow her audience. X-factor take note. I couldn’t. I tried all the usual things. Biting my lip. Thinking sad thoughts. I just couldn’t. And the more I tried the worse it got. Until. I pissed myself. There behind the curtain. Then I saw a new look dawn on the faces of our audience!

Dis-fucking-belief! They couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it! With a puddle at my feet I had certainly managed to take the bad look off my friend. Without even trying. Not my best debut.

Another occasion I pissed myself was trying on clothes in a local boutique when I was in my early teens. Why does no one tell you that you should always wear sanitary protection regardless of age? How is anyone meant to know when the giggles will erupt?

This little boutique welcomed my sister and I most weekends because my mum had an account there and whenever we ‘needed’ a new item of clothing we could go in and fend for ourselves and try things on to our hearts’ content. No stalking shop assistant checking to see if we were stuffing clothes down our knickers. If I’d known what was to occur I would have stuffed something down my knickers. Anything. Well, anything absorbent.

Sis accompanied me into a tiny cubicle while I tried on a dress. Now I had taken the correct size but for some reason I appeared to have grown two arses and a second set of boobs. So I struggled to get it on. Quite a bit. But I was determined. We giggled at my efforts and once it was on my sister told me, as only sisters can, ‘Nah. It looks shite on you.’ I laughed and agreed. And then it happened. I couldn’t get the fecker back off. V. started making all sorts of comments about having to wear it forever. Or having to go and pay for it while still wearing it. In fact, I think now that I might have tried it on on top of my clothes. That would account for the tight fit, I suppose.

The more comments she whispered the worse I got until I could feel my facial muscles lose all control. I heard a rip. And then those other muscles lost some measure of control. You know the ones. The ones that pelvic floor exercises help keep strong for just such occasions and for other ones that I won’t go into here.

But who the hell needs pelvic floor exercises at 13 or 14? No. Laughter definitely releases more than just pent up emotions.

Now I have many more such anecdotes but I think I’ll save those for individual posts. Except perhaps to say that if you purchase a little accoutrement from an online sex shop that attaches to the top of an electric toothbrush be sure to remove it before charging said toothbrush. And before a child asks what sort of toothbrush is that? And before you can only think to say, ‘It’s a gum massager.’ I didn’t laugh then. I blushed. Hubby, standing behind 12 year old, might just have peed his pants though. At least going by the tears running down his face. True story. And very good value for money btw. Comes highly recommended.

Now the purpose of this post is that Ali has created a new award called The Damp Laundry Award. And she nominated me and two others. The proviso was that I wrote a humorous post and nominated three others to do the same. Now Ali has something of the bawdy in her humour. Which I so get. Not my fault. Three brothers you see. And two sisters who share the same delicious humour.

So. Did you at least dampen the crotch area slightly? Or have my efforts been in vain?

And now to my nominees.

Being The Memoirs Of Helena Hann-Basquiat

Peace, Love and Patchouli

Gingerfightback

And now I get to post this.

damp laundry award Thank you, Ali!

 

Sad Tears. Happy Tears.

I’ve cried a few times over this holiday period. Yes, Hogmanay, I find a very melancholic night. I hate it actually. I don’t want to view it as the end of a year and reflect on another year of life passing. I want to see it as one more day in the unfolding days of life. But, for some reason, every year, I find myself weeping. I’m fine the following day, as if it never happened. It’s not alcohol induced. It’s just a sad sort of melancholy I cannot avoid in the hours leading up to the bells. And I know I was not alone in feeling this way. I have read a number of posts from others who felt exactly the same.

I want to share with you though another evening of tears. Happy tears.

Christmas Eve. My 20 year old daughter came home to spend Christmas and gave me my Christmas present on Christmas Eve.

It’s a beautiful leather bound journal with carvings and leather bindings. It’s gorgeous.

But she inscribed it to me. And here is what she wrote. I cried. And I hugged her for her love and understanding.

To Mum,

I got you this journal to say that not everything you write has to be read by the world and not everything that is read by the world is actually how you feel.

When you feel angry or frustrated or sad or lonely, I want you to write in this and be reminded of how proud I am of you. How proud that you’re my mother. I want you to write in this and remember that I love you very much, that we all do and that will never change. I want you to write in this especially when you feel that no one is listening or that something is just too difficult to say and know that I will always be here to support you. I want you to write in this, mum, even if it is just one word and I promise you that everything will be okay.

And then one day, if you allow me, I’ll read it. I’ll read it and be reminded that it’s okay to have flaws and faults because the strongest person in my life also did. I’ll read it and remember how brave you are and how your courage helps me through my darkest days. I’ll read it and know it all already because nothing you could say or do could ever disappoint or surprise me. I’ll read it mum and be in absolute awe at your talent. You’re amazing – never forget that.

Merry Christmas.

MK xxx

I’m crying again as I type this up. It is the most beautiful gift I have ever been given. The journal is lovely. The words take my breath away.

I am sure we all have people in our lives who feel this way about us. I happen to have a daughter who, like myself, loves to articulate what she feels. I am honoured she feels this way.

We all have those who love us unconditionally, I hope. And maybe we should try to say what we feel to let others know our love too. This has set me up for the rest of my life let alone the new year.

Dream Lives

Trying their best to ignore what they feel,

To live in the present, where everything’s real,

Dreams are ephemeral dice.

Knowing that others’ needs must be met,

They sublimate thoughts, attempt to forget

Chances to live their lives twice.

 

A strange twist of fate to glimpse for a moment

Alternate path that seeks to torment

And prods at the softest of hearts.

She’s just a girl with longing and tears,

He’s simply a boy, heart ridden with fears

And the two must stay far apart.

 

Recollect selves but dream the sweet dream,

Imagine the moment where nothing seems

Impossible to realise.

Shift back to now,

Remembering how

Reality is somehow more wise.

 

Never forget, though, that dreams may come true.

It’s strange and confusing but often they do

In the weirdest of wonderful ways.

They sanctify souls that search for all bliss

To know heart’s desire, love’s sweetest kiss,

Till nights’ searching fulfills all the days.

Reason

(Sun. 22/2/09)

A long, long time ago in a land far away a princess awoke from a deep sleep.

Daylight had begun to filter through the windows casting a tentative finger into the darkened room. Lucy lay still, waiting. Furnishings in the turret room were still in shadow. She could identify every piece without much thought. There, over in one corner, was her mahogany dressing-table with the ornate gilt mirror hanging on the wall above. To the left her wardrobe stood guard, massive in its presence, the four doors stretching over most of that wall reaching almost to the door. To the right of the window a large desk covered in neglected papers occupied all of that side of the wall. From her position she had a clear, unobstructed view of the window although she could see nothing through it for the filmy curtains allowed in light but no image of the outside world.

She waited. Would the sun grow stronger and brighten her waking hours as she hoped? Or were there clouds without that she could not see? She waited. Immobile to any action other than this.

She did not think of anything while she lay staring at the window. All thoughts were kept at bay, locked in a separate tower in her mind. Time would determine further thought and action. The clock sitting on her side-table ticked by the minutes while she lay inert.

Faint noises from the outside began to permeate her senses. The sound of an occasional vehicle passing in the nearby street. A voice not too far-off raised in command to a dog which responded with an obedient bark.

Outside, the world was beginning to come alive.

For Lucy the world could wait a little longer. Perhaps forever.

Still she did not stir. Waiting had become a perfected occupation. If only she knew exactly for what she was waiting.

No night in shining armour would rescue her from this place. She shunned the thought. The light darkened imperceptibly. No one in the room below was demanding her attention. She had nowhere that she had to be other than the space she occupied.

The room had grown darker still. Clouds had begun to encroach on that little measure of light and Lucy tensed her body expectantly waiting for the onset of further gloom.

She was not disappointed. As each tiny, obtrusive thought began to find a foothold in her consciousness the room seemed to grow darker and darker. The ever-present bubble of fear in the belly of her being began to expand. It began to effervesce, shooting thousands of smaller bubbles along her limbs and through her torso. She gulped nervously, knowing that if she did not get a hold on her thoughts and control the spreading fear she would lose this day too.

It was already too late. The bubble from which the others had emanated and spread had grown so large there was nothing for it to do but burst and it did.

She gulped just as the internal explosion occurred. Her mind imploded simultaneously and one great wracking sob escaped in response to the release of pressure. A giant hiccough. A major bout to follow.

Lucy was no longer still. Or waiting. Her body now moved to the tune within. No harmonious melody was this. An orchestral feat of disassembled notes crashed within her mind, clamouring noisily and creating havoc where a tentative peace had existed a short while ago. To this timeless cacophony her body found a steady rhythm of rocking, an infantile attempt to find soothing comfort from regular tempoed motion.

Rocking was only interrupted by short, moaning periods of turning and twisting as she tried in vain to shake off the phantom that presided and filled her with fear.

If this were only a nightmare she could scream for her mother and, in doing so, awake from deathly dreams and be comforted in the arms of one who could soothe and wipe away the fears and tears.

She wept louder because she was not five and this was no dream. She wept louder but still tried to smother it because her mother lay below and Lucy did not want to see her pain mirrored in the eyes of one she loved so well. There was nothing her mother could do. Nothing anyone could do.

These were her dark days. The days of never-ending nights. Of winter without end. Of sunshine never reaching her soul. The mere thought of endless winter nights shook Lucy to her core and her terror and torment were complete.

How could she live in a world where nothing held any hope or sunshine for her? How could she move from this bed, shrouded in blankets but not cocooned in safety? How could fear and loathing and dismal phantoms find her here? She had hidden herself so well, she thought, from the outside world that filled her with dread. Here in her bedroom in the home of her family she ought to feel safe and secure. That had been the thought all those many months ago when she had all but retired from the living. A refuge in this place of safety surrounded by love was supposed to have been the antidote to her malady. But this zombie existence where her half-life only frightened herself and those she let near had never been the intention.

There was no place of safety, no hermitage where she could dwell in harmony with herself. She was her own fears. Everything that filled her with terror lived within her not in that world she had shunned. The torment and the tears belonged only to her. Her spectres were inside her mind, her heart, her soul. They had flowed through her blood and reached every part fed by it. She was the living embodiment of her own nightmare.

She screamed then. ‘Leave me alone! Give me peace!’

A sudden sound below made her realise her anguished cry had not been internal. Her mother soon would appear and Lucy could not bear, even in these extremities, to inflict that pain.

She gathered every ounce of will she could muster to control her precarious mental balance.

A light knock and the door moved swiftly inward. In seconds her mother was on the bed beside her, cradling her in her arms, rocking her and shushing gently in her hair.

Lucy wept louder. They both knew this physical comfort was only that. Mental anguish is not so easily assuaged. But still, there was comfort.

Wrapped in the arms of love the sobs subsided gradually. Petted and patted, the gloom dispersed. Each, ‘there, there’ chased the phantoms to their hidden closets. In her fingers, in her toes, in her belly, in dark, secret corners of her mind and the blood vessels within her heart. They crept away, diminished by the presence of love.

Only this immediate presence of love had that effect.

She knew they would return, that they would wait for a vacant moment, a vacuum to fill. In the dark days. In the lonely hours. In the empty minutes of each day. They would stay hidden till the next time. Shorter and shorter periods between each time. So short now, they seemed ever-present.

These enemies of life, these fear-filling suckers of life source were resident in her body. She had given them house room. Only she could evict them.

All this now known to her. The ever-eluding question was how? How to banish the deepest darkness? In the absence of sunshine? A bulb? A candle? One small match? A flint to strike the first blow?

A reason to live. A purpose to her being. A command to which her mind and soul would respond.

The now tiny bubble in her belly fizzed hesitantly. Dare it? Was this a good moment?

Still wrapped, but no longer shuddering, in her mother’s arms, she sighed deeply. One huge sigh. And another.

‘Mum, I have to find my purpose. My reason. For being here, I mean.’

‘That’s a good place to start,’ whispered her mother and tightened the hug for a few short seconds before releasing her to start a new day.

Vacuum

Love expired,

Ended, cast out,

Burnt for the flame

Of self-sacrifice.

Martyrdom shot to hell.

Vacuous vacuum

Tenderness trod on

Troubled times

Tears and recriminations

Bitterness ensuing.

Hollow-filled

Hurt

Tears

More tears

Down

Deeper and down.

Phoenix rise

Burnt out

Rise

Refill the feelings

Let life live again.

(14/9/07)