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Friday, 30 September 2011

Wrinkles are the best prose

Gold: When something bad happens you have three choices.  You can either let it define you, let it destroy you, or you can let it strengthen you.  

Read this, and thought it was beautiful.  Typically I'll counteract it with something morbid of my own, which from years of observation, I know is depressing, but true. Taking Madame Tilly for a trot around the block today I stopped in some bush behind a playground looking out over all the houses that littered the valley.  Those cement boxes were so separate from each other, so anti-social and isolating.  You wouldn't think real life thinking and breathing people lived in their own separate worlds and dramas inside each house.  We're all too alone when we face our issues.  Looking at houses I never think twice, I always imagine them as empty shells, but they physically ground the lives of people.  They establish reality.  When I look at my house I attach thoughts and emotions to it - it becomes more than I pile of bricks or wood.  Maybe nursinghomes are the same - people look at them and don't think twice about the occupants.  The old should be flaunted and highly respected in society, rather than hidden away and fed mince and custard and re-runs of M*A*S*H, until they finally die, receiving, at the most, three visits a year.  One for their birthday.  One for mothers or fathers day.  And one for Christmas.  Like sitting in a prison cell and being given rations.  8 years in 3 different nursing homes.. I don't think it's an exaggeration.
I could go on a self righteous rant about how everyone is too self consumed, wound up in dead-end soul numbing careers, complicated marriages driven by self absorption, dole bludging miscreant children, hedonistic overly-indulgent lifestyles...but what would it solve?  It would be a lie to say I hate looking at an excess of my own words, it would be less of a lie and more correct to say it would only make me feel high and mighty.  But what use is an illusion?
What use is a chick preaching to the roosters and hens, it's laughable.  I know that most people don't have a choice.  To truly have no choice in life is a crime against humanity.  I think the problem is that people don't realise they are cogs in the Wheel of life.  The same cycle, the same traps, the same routine numbness, with sprinkles of meaning and fulfilment and genuine love here and there.  Or else, they realise too late.  Maybe that's what a mid-life crisis is.  I want to know what an end of life crisis is called?    
Anyway, I know it's not all that bad - at least they have each other... at least, the ones who are independent feeders and movers.  And they get to watch movies together on this massive LCD screen TV and play bingo and hardcore wrestle!!!  Actually..I made the last one up... or did I? 
A poem spoken to the cyber emptiness, just because I can.  



Old Woman 

Who is that with hooded eyes?
Whose eyes are like the ashen skies
which cloud and dim and roam for miles,
a shadowed look
and lonely smile?
And as the curtains billow high
the eyes that sigh for days gone by,
cry:
"A mausoleum, a crypt, here sit I,
in regimented loneliness where old souls die,
for the love of family faded and dimmed,
I: an empty cup with an overflowing brim,
grew grim as I sat contemplating the lie:
no guarantee of love from family ties. "

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