This Week...

I have been mostly shopping. And yes, I am aware that I shouldn't be indulging in such frivolous pastimes.  I should be wringing my hands and weeping helplessly over atrocities occurring on the other side of the planet. On second thoughts:

The Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can
And the wisdom to know the difference

And:

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, By Fire, of a Child in London

Dylan Thomas

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further
Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

Some 'photies':
(My Liverpudlian therapist is getting me to take photographs of myself from various angles for obvious reasons.)





And another thing:

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.

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