Category: Survival

The Lifetime Survivor’s Club

10/12/2017

Sometimes I burst out in tears
Life breaks me
I’m a big enough man to admit that

My vulnerability
Does not limit me

It unburdens
Like a release valve
A restorative soul salve

It seems

I have a susceptibility to suffering
Sensitivity to constriction
An aversion to tradition amplified by
A predilection to co-dependency and addiction

It’s never ending
Bending over black words
Blue moods
Frayed nerves
Feeling disturbed
Solemn, submerged
Sort of like slowly
Sinking
Slow burning

Too much thinking
Excessive entanglements
Periodic heavy drinking
Anything to escape, suppress
The murkiness, the mess
That surrounds me
Almost drowns me

Only so many metaphors
For depression

Not an easy lesson
Try not to stab myself with the biro
Not to sink below minus zero
Cold appeasement
Self withdrawal
Better treatment
An overhaul

It may sound like I’m being dramatic
Making it sound harsh and tragic
But this is no exaggeration

Yet neither am I an aberration
It gets us all
It just feels like I feel it more than many

Often and intensely
A darkness with density
A hereditary propensity
To spiral

Continually recovering
From some weird new affliction

Self discovery
Through trial and error

Over time
Acclimatised
To some degree
To this world
In all it’s melancholic splendour

An venerable
If temporary
Member
Of the Lifetime Survivor’s Club

Sharing the dubious honour
Of upholding and abiding by

The valour of surrender

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An Artistic Machine

6/2/2016

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I'm now an artistic machine. A very human one, indeed, but a machine in the sense that my artistic involvement with life, absorption and output is constant, synchronised, automatic.

I paint and write every day. I think about projects, current and future, the much of rest of the time. Even when I am not physically producing, I am inputting and assessing things from a creator's standpoint. I notice what I am noticing. I store thoughts, ideas, observations for future integration.

When I use the word machine, I do not intend to de-humanise my process in any way. If anything, I am even more organic, fallible, sentient in my approach than before. It's primarily the output to which I allude and the churning nature of my inner mechanics. Over time they have been constantly updated and fine tuned to my circumstances and environment. They have been put through a steady stream of rigorous tests, physical, moral, emotional and metaphysical. They have been pushed close to the point destruction numerous times and because of it, through adapting, have become stronger, more streamlined, with more clarity.

I have stubbornly surrendered my bold and reckless feelings of immortality and replaced them with new sentiments of acceptance of limitations - temporal and physical, gratitude and 'make the best of what you've got to work with' attitude. As do all, eventually, I have had to face some hard, hard lessons, my knees have been buckled, my belly has been sucker punched, I've had the air knocked out of me. I've been on my knees, begging, flat on my back, bleeding and in the wilderness, stumbling, utterly lost and distraught.

And yet, here I am, still. My resolve has hardened, my outlook has broadened and in-look has substantially deepened. None of this I asked for. It was thrust upon me. Life! Life! I've got one. It is messy, ragged, precarious and precious. Fewer things now are taken for granted. Essentials: like my teeth, my eyes, my hearing, my digestion, my mobility and my consciousness. All of these things have been put in jeapordy over the last half a dozen years.

When I look in the mirror now, I cannot fool myself. The open eyed and open minded young man who for so long commanded the helm is no longer present. He has been replaced with a more hardened facade. One that is wrinkled, sand blasted, worn. Youthful zest has been replaced by weathered knowingness, the slightly weary and wary gaze of a survivor.

Of course, none of this is unique to myself. I know that. It's a rite of passage. What I am doing, is expressing the process and outcomes in my own away. I am recording my experience of this stage of life passage. Sharing it. The reason for putting it in words is two fold. One: it's an interesting challenge for me, one that helps bring form and clarity to it all, adds to my insight, fractionally lessens the burden. Two: for eventual readers of these words and thoughts there will be, for those who have been through or currently going through similar, a comforting and perhaps fortifying assurance. We're all the same, we're all one - that vibe. And for those who are younger, yet to reach this point, these messages can serve as a harbinger, a map, a parable that may serve as a guide, a foretelling.

Cause this whole fucking experience goes way beyond what you can imagine. Each of us is tested not only to our limits but beyond our limits. Who knew? Who signed up for this? We all did, apparently. And then what? Mission completed, we vacate. Game over. We return to the vastness.

But in that gap, in that time between eating dirt and turning to dust, during the few years or decades left, in which I currently reside we are treated to a fierce new flavour. My mouth is full of it right now. My head is, too. It possesses me, in fact. It informs my decisions and choices, artistic and otherwise. It's a whole new stage. There is no manual, per say. You've got to pick and forage for your plans and strategies of your own. But as long as the passion has not died, as long as there are a few more "fuck you"s to mutter, a few more dreams and aspirations to not give up on, a few close and meaningful individuals to care for and about, as long as there is breath, there is hope, there is reason to carry on, to continue to grow, build, make and materialise.

You learn that as long as it's not one of those times when you've got no choice - then you've got choices. And you know now, you've learnt; choose wisely. Or recklessly. As you see fit. It's your life trickling through your fingers... make the best of what you've got left.

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Headspace, Heartspace, Outlook and Inlook.

23/9/2015

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I browsed through some of my poetry book from fifteen, sixteen years ago and I was struck by how much time and circumstance have changed my headspace, heartspace, outlook and inlook.

I was reminded by the poems that I used to have quite the romanticised view of the world. Reading them I was moved by the sentiments and surprised by the depth of feeling and, to be honest, kind of impressed by the verbal dexterity and inventiveness.

A lot has changed. The last half a dozen years have served up a series of challenges, one after the other; financial, medical, emotional, physical, circumstantial.... all the 'al's.

In old school parlance - I was put through the ringer. So much so, in fact, that in sessions with my counsellor we have identified that I have manifested symptoms of PTSD. And it feels that way. Like I have been in the trenches, been bombarded. Worn down. Mettle tested. Stretched out and strung up.

I do believe I am making my way out of it. Some of the heavier blue-grey clouds have lifted. The notion of peace, of an occasional mild happiness is not implausible.

Reading the poems from back then made me realise how I've been worn down by situations and circumstances beyond my control. In each case I have mustered up my best defence, dealt with things as best as I can, tried to stay positive. But I never anticipated just how taxing the cumulative effect would be.

I don't think there is any going back. At times i wasn't sure I was completely willing or even able to continue forward. But now, I am rebuilding. Using what I've got, dusting off some of the old tools, repairing the broken pathways, patching up the gaping holes...

And in doing so, finding and accepting a different me, an older and wiser self, a survivor, a veteran. I have come to terms with surrender. I practice gratitude. I strive to be more of service.

And slowly, day by day, my hunger and my hope are becoming reanimated, revitalised. I have missed them. My whole being has been compromised and my wounds have still not healed, but I am able to walk on my own again, the will is there again, it's stronger now and my only choice is to buck up and stand up and try again.

I tried hiding away, running away, denial, avoidance. I tried suppressing the emotions, subjugating the pain, rationalising the wrath. It may have worked partially at the time but now I need a new strategy. I need to forge forward with what I have got, gather up the broken pieces, the dream fragments and the shards of idealism and see what I can make.

This is the journey of a human. This is life.

What a surprise.

In a way, I am lucky to have another chance. Not everyone does. Some beautiful friends have died already. Giving up is not an option I will again consider. I want to be there at the end. I want to write poems again.

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The Lifetime Survivor’s Club

An Artistic Machine

Headspace, Heartspace, Outlook and Inlook.

ART GETS ME HIGH

Author & Artist

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The Lifetime Survivor’s Club

An Artistic Machine

Headspace, Heartspace, Outlook and Inlook.

﻿ART ﻿﻿﻿GETS ME﻿ ﻿﻿HIGH﻿

﻿﻿Author & Artist﻿﻿

Archives

Categories

ART GETS ME HIGH

Author & Artist