Because the Night...

Night triumphs over day and I close my eyes against the chaos. I seek refuge in panoramic dreams. But I do not retain them. By morning they have metamorphosed into vague, hazy images, misted over memories. No Earthly good to anyone but myself. But they follow me though the day, manifesting themselves in feelings rather than visions. There are few words spoken in these dreams that invade my sleep. A silent film, devoid of dialogue. And these faces in my dreams are shadowy. There is no one I recognise and I never get to see my own reflection.

When morning comes and I awaken I sometimes feel as though I am still stumbling through sleep. My nocturnal visions bleed almost imperceptibly into real life. That is where my false sense of security comes from. No one can hurt you in dreams. Not really.

I Was Once an Omnivore

A devilish wish
I watch as she flies
Through the stormiest
Of skies and something
Deep within me dies
A new-born bird nestles
In my hand. I salivate
As I contemplate
This truly delectable dish

My Mother, the Nurse

She called out to a patient. Her voice was harsh, like the crack of a whip. In the beginning she wasn't sure of how to conduct herself. She was terrified. She didn't know how she should behave, how to react. That fear had faded had cynicism had come to occupy the place it had vacated. It had gripped her and would not let go. She was the nurse that, back in the old days, they had nicknamed PollyAnna. She was a cheerful presence on the ward. She had, at last, found something at which she excelled. But her enthusiasm ebbed away with the years. And now she was flat, drained, jaded.

Redressing the Balance

Those who have been following the divorce proceedings in which Heather Mills and Paul McCartney have been embroiled (until a few days ago that did not include me) may be interested in this. Ms. Mills is 'Lying, vindictive, scheming, manipulative' according to many in the tabloid press. I take it then that their editors will be queuing round the block to offer her a job as these sound like ideal characteristics for a tabloid journalist. And before you start feeling sorry for 'Sir Paul' remember 'The Frog Chorus'* . Now that was a true crime against humanity.

Another article that seeks to redress the balance can be found here. Joan Smith points out that none of the women who formed relationships with 'Sir Paul' were treated particularly well by the press and the public. Many seemed to see the Beatles as public property, incapable of determining the course of their own lives. According to Ms. Smith, Linda McCartney received her share of bad press. She was only elevated to the status of secular saint when she became ill. Even the tabloid press wouldn't stoop so low as to attack a terminally ill woman. And, as the 'Diana' saga illustrated, everybody loves you when you're dead. Finally, whatever Jane Asher's reasons were for terminating her relationship with 'Sir Paul', it was probably one of the best decisions she ever made.

*Listen and puke.

Reality Bites

Most people adopt children. I had to be different. I adopted a grandfather. It seems like he will be here forever. Like Bella. I am standing on the beach and this wave is coming towards me. A great grey wall. Unstoppable. I have become complacent. I forgot, for a moment, that time marches on. I could sit in his living room, eating his toasted hot-cross buns, listening to him recount his war stories for the rest of my days. Those afternoons are precious to me. They are essential to me. The reality is, however, that Nobby (not Nobbie) is ninety one and that wave is inching ever closer. And I turn back to Nobby and we resume talking and I am wondering what I should do to blast that image out of my brain

I don't know whether I'll be able to survive this one.

Currently Listening to...

So long, go on and do your best,
Let all France have whiskey on its breath,
The world may not be shaking yet but you might prove them wrong,
Even long shots make it

So go then, out into history,
and show them how easy it can be,
you might not believe it yet but pretty soon you'll see,
Even long shots make it,

Just don't come home too soon,
Just don't come home too soon,

And I don't care what people say,
we can laugh it all away,
But if I have a dream at all for once you won't be on that stupid plane

And the world may not be shaking yet,
but you might prove them wrong,
Even long shots make it

Just don't come home too soon,
Just don't come home too soon,
I don't care what people say (Just don't come home too soon)
We're gonna laugh it all the way (Just don't come home too soon)
I don't care what people say (Just don't come home too soon)
We're gonna laugh it all the way (Just don't come home too soon)
I don't care what people say (Just don't come home too soon)
We're gonna laugh it all the way (Just don't come home too soon)
I don't care what people say (Just don't come home too soon)
We're gonna laugh it all the way (Just don't come home too soon)

Just Don't Come Home Too Soon, Del Amitri

Courtesy of these people.

Pushing

Pounding on the walls
Pushing at the doors
A rush of air sends
Medical notes flying
Carried on the wind
Cacti on the windowsills
Standing guard
On the border between
My room and reality
Spring flowers
Beyond the glass
Aloof, untouchable
But beautiful
A ceasefire is declared
And I am escorted
Into my morphine twilight

So Afraid

I don't think I can do this anymore.
I'm so tired. And so afraid.
I'm not strong enough.

Nothing to fill the void.
Essentially we are all alone.

Sky the Colour of Tin

Nobby is All...

cynical and sour. He believes that this is one great big fat propaganda exercise. Is he alone? Apparently not.

But then, it could be argued that they would say that, wouldn't they?

Meanwhile, over in the Observer Rachel Cooke asks how she can avoid 'seeming very stupid' when interviewing Stephen Hawking. I can answer that. It might have helped if she had not devoted the first few paragraphs of the resulting article to herself. Note to self-obsessed Laydee journalists: it's not about you, sweetheart, it's about the interviewee. That's the whole point of an interview.

Ooh, all this cynicism is contagious. Off to Sourpuss's Anonymous.

And finally this confirms what I've always suspected. I will elaborate later.