It cannot last

Surreal
the farce
that comes to pass
for brains that feel
with mindful hearts.
‘Tis art that steals
the lesser part
and seals the better
from surpass.
Do not trespass
with high ideals;
don’t think with rigour;
check your feels.
Don’t laugh,
don’t shout;
don’t even ask
but do not doubt:
it cannot last.

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Spirit shots

I reached out…
Love was there:
the kind of love
that restores your faith
in Humanity
in yourself
the kind of love
that renews
that strengthens the very core
that reminds you who You are
touches the heart
fills the spirit…
And I soaked it up

~*~
My deepest gratitude to all who responded to my previous post. I have been overwhelmed by your concern and solidarity; your empathy and kind wishes. My spirit is greatly lifted and a lifted spirit is the most powerful medicine I could possibly have need of. Thereof do I derive all my strength. Thank you, for helping to boost it. xXx ⚡️

But I have to cope, don’t I? It might be all the control I have.

I feel as though I can barely cope, at the moment. This is not a search for pity, though; more an attempt at catharsis and bearing witness by personal account – personal being something I normally avoid, here…

Last week I was hastily dispatched to my ‘local’ A&E with a suspected stroke, where a tired, pressured and rushing assortment of wonderful medical staff showed a high level of concern. Turns out it’s Bell’s Palsy, which is surely a relief, relatively speaking, though it didn’t seem to much diminish their concern and care for me.

Actually, Bell’s may not be life and death but, on top of my long-term underlying health condition, its subsequently increasing list of secondary problems, on top of the fatigue and chronic pain.. having a paralysed left side of my face and the high dose of steroid treatment they advised is exacerbating existing problems and adding many more. I am having to fight harder, with every minute, not to feel utterly and irrevocably miserable. I want to curl up and sleep until I’m better. But better hasn’t ever really shown itself and I’m not getting younger. Plus, I have never been very good at curling up. Likely more animal instinct for movement than a quality of good character, however…

Stress and vulnerability to more stress plus decreasing personal resources to cope with a rapid sequence of challenging physical, mental and emotional trauma is taking its toll. And I’m not even in the high stakes band of disability. It’s not a competition, I know but my heart breaks for them and my awe knows no bounds.

I am, though, in a greatly weakened state, after more than a decade of coping with the consequences of my physical condition; with getting by, far too much, on bloody-mindedness and adrenaline – and then with negotiating the Con DWP’s hoops. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve blamed myself for not being capable; for being more burden than use, to both loved ones and Society. How many times I’ve pushed myself beyond a safe, manageable pace, as if I still needed testing!

When I got home, from the hospital, a mere six hours later, my PIP appointment was on the kitchen mat.

At the doctor’s check-up, yesterday (for the Bell’s), my GP – he’s not mine, of course: a personal family doctor is the stuff of my childhood – well he was equally concerned with the stress and vulnerability and poorliness I was displaying. He asked me if I wanted to try antidepressants. Really, Reader, apart from the fact that they and other useless drugs were once prescribed to me for the purpose of physical pain relief, with quite disastrous consequences, the last thing I want to do is give the PIP assessor an excuse to herd me into a new category of tickboxes, with a whole other set of nasty and arbitrary assumptions, hoops and conditions attached. I’m just too frightened and suspicious, now… I tell the doctor that I may or may not be clinically depressed but that I’ve never sought diagnosis (neither has such been offered) because, all things considered and, when I am not so generally overwhelmed by feeling low and rather extra poorly, my natural state of mental and emotional well-being are probably as good as can reasonably be expected; that my responses to my personal life conditions are surely normal/natural and that any depression is more of a secondary complication, just as are the teeth I have literally killed by clenching as a constant brace against pain. “Yes,” he said, “all things considered”.

But I have to cope, don’t I? Keep carrying on. It might be all the control I have.

the Day of the Woman

Extract from ‘A Prophecy of the Kingdom of the Soul, mystically called the Day of the Woman’

And now I show you a mystery…

The word which shall come to save the world shall be uttered by a woman.

So that women shall no more lament for their womanhood
but men shall rather say: “O that we had been born women!”

There shall nothing new be told
but that which is ancient shall be interpreted.

Hers is the light of the heavens
and the brightest of the planets of the holy seven.

She is the fourth dimension;
the eyes which enlighten;
the power which draweth inward to God.

And she who is alone
shall bring forth more children to God
than she who hath a husband.

And her kingdom cometh; the day of the exaltation of woman.
There shall be no more reproach…

All things are thine, O Mother of God
All things are thine, O Thou who risest from the sea.
And Thou shalt have dominion over all the worlds.

 

Anna (Bonus) Kingsford, Clothed with the Sun

Boris, IDS and Gove

Behold the bellicose outflow
Of phisher wisp politicos

Boris, IDS and Gove
Gish and Guess and Adipose
With grandiose portfolios
Tomorrow’s whiff, today compose

Rebranders of the status quo
Twisting in their pantyhose
[More prick than patriotic rose]
Insisting what they must suppose
In polyphonic piffled prose
To show how much they cannot know

Project Fact

True depiction
Project Fact
Strange as fiction
– fancy that

So clear it all but disappears
Between the banks of
Hope and Fear

It tacks to mete
Each windbag’s cheer:
We should
They would
They might
We could
In moody modals
Understood

Poor Iain Duncan Smith

Oh, Iain Duncan Smith,
Poor you,
Being bullied by “spin, smears and threats”
Aw, boo hoo

Distressed by gratuitous scaremongering, are we?
Pressed your sensitive button, have they?

Feeling threatened by the consequences of
Making “desperate and unsubstantiated” claims?
Has your penchant for the “biblical” been usurped?
Ha! Do you see now, how the irony works?

Oh, diddums
Why so weak?
Can’t you cope?
Stiffen those sinews: where there’s Life, there’s hope,
Remember?
Try harder. Pull yourself together, man.
More smiling; less shuffling
More effort, please.

Do you need a hand up? Try one of those
“Series of highly questionable dossiers”
You cling to. They’re the new hand out,
Available at all recommended public service outlets

A team of scapegoat therapists will draw you up a plan
Happy to strip you of any reasonable doubt;
Coach you, what you must and can
And medicate you meek, messiah man.