Wednesday, 22 October 2008

Was going to get rid of the blog, but thought I'd carry on a while longer

3rd installment for the 'trauma' rubbish research project. 20 minutes of writing. It's a load of shite. Don't bother reading it:

My deepest thoughts. All my thoughts are deep. (Ha ha ha ha). They all pierce down to the blackest pool at the base of my heart. Traumatic. What a pathetic word. Having your hand chopped off for being on the wrong side is traumatic. Our little over-privileged whingings and whinings about our imperfect upbringings are just disgusting really. Easy enough to point fingers, to blame the other, but when all is said and done it all depends on my mood on the day. My mother could be a bad bag of slop, of selfish impulsivity, but then again, aren't we all? On a good day I shrug. Who cares? And as for death, for the wresting away from us of the illusory anchors that we hold dear, well, it happens, will happen, and nothing good ever came of denying it. The point is, the point I think I have been trying to make since I started this ridiculous exercise, is that trauma is all relative. I have had what other people regard as traumatic experiences. Other people again would dismiss my experiences as irrelevant, immaterial. Suffering is relative. Trauma is relative. I do not look back and feel experiences as traumatic. Since I was in my teens, at any rate, I have always been aware of a part of me that greedily slurps up the experience, that wallows in it, enjoys the nuance of the misery of the particular event. No, not enjoys, but 'appreciates'. Not in a classificatory manner necessarily. Perhaps in a comparative fashion. Everything can be new, but it's all the same. Nothing new on earth. I wouldn't say that one hardens to experience, but after a while there is a sense that it washes past, leaving what is important undamaged. Or maybe the part that is undamaged is so badly damaged that new damage cannot damage it further - already it has deliquesed (sp?) to the point that its individual particulates are separate, mere points in a muddy suspension. Shaking the jar doesn't disturb the superficial nature of the soup. I am probably not a very useful subject. If I didn't have three young children then suicide would be a very real choice at times. However, my sense of responsibility - of right - of pride - of stoicism - all a gift from my children - keeps me going. I remember the silly things that changed my world view. All minor stuff that everyone learns along the way: teachers know little, policemen are fascists, judges are bent, businessmen are thieves, politicians are corrupt, the church is full of kiddy-fiddlers, all this is old hat, irrelevant, tedious. We learn these as children, our mouths open, our eyes widen, and then we frown, raise our eyebrows, and carry on, perhaps more warily than before. I believe I have a deep-seated terror of being abandoned. Countering it is a strong self-reliance. I like my own company. I like solitude. Perhaps I've developed those as strategems - coping mechanisms so to speak... Time is running out. What is traumatic at the end of the day? Once you've learned that dying is quite an easy experience - as soon as stuff is out of your hands - as soon as you fall, or lose control, as soon as the world starts whirling round and round and the dirt starts flying and pouring in and the trees make a mad green scribble against the sky... as soon as one learns that life is pretty meaningless and worst of all, the best you're going to get, then the rest of existence can be viewed with grey equanimity. Enjoy it while you can. Relish trauma for the sense of aliveness it bestows. Sooner chop your foot off than shuffle through life a corpse. Pain is undervalued. Suffering is a sauce that makes the bland leaven vivid, zingy, tasty. The hourglass is empty.


edit, if I could write 8 hours a day at that rate and I happened to be Tolstoy I could have knocked off War and Peace in 40 days.... hmmmm. And p.s. the misspelled word was deliquesced.

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