Terrified

How do I get out of this abyss?  I’m calling out for help but there’s no one there.  Or maybe there is but they can’t hear.  I wake up crying.  I’m still here.  I’m not supposed to be here.  I should have left a long time ago but there is always the thought, in the back of my mind, that maybe things would get better.  But they haven’t and I am still paralysed by this all-encompassing fear.  I’m pushing people away because I don’t want them to be hurt when I have to leave them.  Even my mother.  Especially my mother. Now, at least, she can say I am a work in progress, that one day I won’t feel like this. But the thing she created will destroy itself.  I keep waiting for it to pass – this hopelessness – but it isn’t passing.  It’s getting worse. Anguish, an ache inside with no discernible physical cause.  And I can think of only one cure.

Faded Photographs

..of World War II on Flickr.

 

 

 

If This Is A Man

 

Will you train your guns on me?
For I am stronger than she will ever be
Will you unleash your dogs on me?
For one day you will come to see
That I am your true enemy

Can’t Stay Silent Any More

I won’t stay silent anymore. I won’t provide a link either. The people concerned know who I am.

Kate McCann is indeed a disgrace – by your standards, Mr. Hirst. Let’s analyse the situation. One woman is defending the honour of her husband (a role, I am sure you will agree, that was designed for women). And the other (Ms. McCann) is strong, articulate, successful, independent of her husband and has a (gasp!) career. Yes, I can see why you would prefer the woman who lives vicariously through her husband to the woman who has forged an independent path for herself in what remains an essentially misogynistic society. And then there is Gerry McCann: a heart surgeon from a working class background who, like his wife, became successful and overcame every barrier thrown across his path. Yes, you have very good reasons for disliking them both. They succeeded where you comprehensively failed. (As, if I am honest, did I).  No wonder you’re bitter, envious, twisted and vengeful and these feelings which, I can imagine, you cannot control, are consuming you from within. Please get some therapy, Mr. Hirst, before you do something that you and the sycophants who cleave to you may regret. Regards, A Well Wisher

Addendum: This was posted in the comments section of a blog entitled ‘Justice for Madeleine’ (I’ll stick to my policy of not providing a link but it’s not that hard to find.) and it wasn’t published. I think I may have touched a nerve there.  Someone doesn’t like criticism, that’s for sure.  The self-appointed ‘Voice of Madeleine’ is some bloke who was recently released from prison after having served twenty-five years for the manslaughter of his elderly landlady in 1979.  He is ‘on license’.*  Yeah, I know, you couldn’t make it up. All I can say is ‘consider the source.’

*And now he spends his days productively ironing sardines and emitting streams of utter goo.

Yet Another Addendum: Gotta say though that whatever I may think of the bloke referenced above, using his dog against him is TOTALLY SICK and those park keepers should be shot or at least given a slap.

Portraiture II: Disembodied

The Queen and the Soldier

The soldier came knocking upon the queen’s door
He said, “I am not fighting for you any more”
The queen knew she’d seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.

He said, “I’ve watched your palace up here on the hill
And I’ve wondered who’s the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why.”

Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.

He said, “I see you now, and you are so very young
But I’ve seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I’ve got this intuition, says it’s all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?”

The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, “You won’t understand, and you may as well not try”
But her face was a child’s, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.

And she said, “I’ve swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I’ve bled”
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.

“Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won’t march again on your battlefield”
And he took her to the window to see.

And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.

And he said, “I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don’t understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange.”

But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.

Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on

Suzanne Vega

Potraiture

Utterly Pointless Screenshot

(Or this week I be mostly ‘reading’:)

Site of the Week: http://boagworld.com/   Verdict: Beautiful clean, crisp, clear, coherent design.

Angel With My Face

Depths of the Night

This is stream of consciousness stuff so please forgive its idiosyncrasies and inaccuracies. I am so afraid right now. I am overwhelmed with anxiety. Or maybe I am letting myself be overwhelmed by anxiety (a touch of self administered Cognitive Behavioural Therapy there.) It’s the old free floating anxiety only ratcheted up so that now it is sheer terror. I’ve used this metaphor before but I cannot think of a more appropriate one: I feel as though rodents are gnawing away at my innards. The fear is within me and yet it is all around me. I cannot escape. I am a prisoner in my own skin. ‘Why are you afraid?’ people ask and then look baffled when I tell them that I just don’t know. My skin is tingling as if jolts of electricity are passing through me. Every part of me is enslaved by this fear. And the drugs that I am taking to help me combat this are not working. I don’t think I want to be here anymore. Not if it’s always going to be like this.

Just Popping In…

Catching up on my feeds. I found this old but interesting article from Deborah Lipstadt which describes how to link to sites without ‘boosting their ‘Google ranking’:

http://lipstadt.blogspot.com/2008/06/monitoring-bad-internet-sites-without.html

Obviously, she is referring to racist/anti-semitic sites but the technique could be used on any site. HTH.

And now I’m popping out again