Friday, 26 March 2010

Appalled Toleration, and Empathy

Well---These six things doth the LORD hate : yea, seven are an abomination unto him:
/ A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood,
/ An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief, / A false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren---
I've had it with the family pretence.

That's that off my chest. Don't ask about it. I'm not going to speak about it.

Onto far more pleasant matters. Me, and my jet-propelled goldfish brain whirling in its bowl, or as another metaphor de jour had it: a blocked toilet I keep flushing that keeps overflowing, that I keep flushing. Just too much noise in here ladies and gentlemen.

I'm keeping the lid on the toilet. The water is spurting out the sides. But to all intents and purposes, the bog looks fit for purpose. The ceramic stand is tapdancing, but the lid and seat are holding a steady, if wild-eyed gaze. I do not know why the cistern is boiling over. The mental mops are working overtime.

Once again, I've been called a good listener. Empathy, they call it, maybe. I've had too much of that. Maybe it's my best point; maybe my crippling hobbles, hobbledehoy, hob, etc. Empathy hurts too much. I could never be a professional listener. Ever.

And unrelated incident that actually let the tears out this night, yes, how ridiculous, nearly forty-year old crying in the nightgarden - didn't help the toilet-disaster - but a symptom maybe. What was it? Oh yes, remembered watching Carve Her Name With Pride when I was 6? 7? maybe 5? and howling my eyes out at the end. Over three decades ago. There must be a reason I've avoided thinking about that film. I should watch it again maybe. It was at my Nanny's. I suddenly inhabited the room, in front of the two bar electric, the wobbly fan-plates above the orange bulbs, with the broken corner on the plastic coals. The tartan blanket on the maroon one shade of orange too bright to be called maroon.

I don't know why I'm telling you this.

What is the point? It's not helping me, that's for sure. But I bloody miss that woman, my grandmother. Went and looked for her grave last month. Hadn't been for maybe five years. Normally find it within a minute. It took thirty. I was panicked it had been removed. So the new dead could be planted. I was even resigned to the fact, while panicking. Then found it. Filthy dirty. I should clean it - I tried, and wore out my hanky, just as I did that time before - but what is the point? Let the dead bury the dead, etc.

Oh I will just shut up. Sorry to rant and ramble. Off to inhabit memories.

Take care all. Dx

p.s. Today's Shelley (loved this since a kid):

Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,--
Wail, for the world's wrong!

2 comments:

Pandora said...

No words of wisdom, but sending empathy. Take care of yourself. Pan x

Mossy Mom said...

I miss my granny too. I visit her grave some. She had been gone 13 years. But she shares a headstone with a peodophile so it is hard to visit her.