Begging Your Indulgence

Four and a half years ago, I opened my heart to you all regarding the disaster that occurred on 26th January 2012.

I know that this is most likely of little interest, but I have to say something - for purely selfish reasons - there! I have admitted it!

I just want to say that I would give anything for it to be five years ago - right now.

Those of you who have loved and failed (and made a commitment that you prefer to keep despite the actions of the other side) will understand.

Until the next time.

612:That Time of Year

Once again February 14th looms. Some of you may already be aware of what to me is a grime "feast day."

This of course relates to events of over two years ago, promises of infinite love, given and received. There were no tacky, pinky, satiny, plasticky greetings cards, no "champagne supper for two" but this was the real thing,

In defiance of all advice and logic, I am keeping my promise; there will be no change - change is not an option.

This year in place of Rupert Brooke I have chosen Percy Shelley:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

 And John Donne:

Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.

 

Until the next time

603: Even Blacker

Today is 26th January, the blackest day in the year, even blacker than 19th January and 14th February.

If you have been, thank you for reading this - oh and thanks to the Lord Jesus as well (not); fairy tales are no consolation.

And it's raining too.

Until the next time

601: Another Grim Anniversary

Yes, the second: 19th January.

It doesn't get any better; sums it all up really.

Until the next time

Bloody St Valentine's Day II

Cartoon from Private Eye

A year ago, I wrote a piece on this accursed day; "Bloody St Valentine's Day."
[Circumstances oblige me to post this a day early].

Returning to things we have done in the pits of depression and despair often prompts remorse, or regret; not this time however.

I stand by every word I wrote and whilst naturally the pain is no longer as sharp as it was a year ago, it is ever-present - as are the feelings that caused it.

Meanwhile, today the BBC has a seasonal piece on the subject of love.  It includes the following:

"Standing in love, though, is the capacity to be with someone and be free with someone. It too feels good [i.e. as romantic love], though for difference reasons. It can allow more subtle qualities to come to the fore, such as commitment and generosity, honesty and openness. It welcomes life."

Yeah, well, this was what I was promised - indeed what we promised to each other - what 'we' were supposed to be working towards.  So that was a load of bollocks wasn't it?

Until the next time

I Wish I Could Write

Today, a very good friend telephoned and expressed the view that I really should cease my depressive outpourings here and indeed, remove those already written.

I explained that these diatribes or cries of anguish and angst serve as an "outlet" and that therefore they will remain.  Attentive regulars (bless you for your patience!) will have noticed that certain posts have actually been removed...

Matthew Arnold, son of the redoubtable Thomas of Rugby (see Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians) could certainly write - and understand; witness his poem Longing:

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,

A messenger from radiant climes,

And smile on thy new world, and be

As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,

Come now, and let me dream it truth,

And part my hair, and kiss my brow,

And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then

By day I shall be well again!

For so the night will more than pay

The hopeless longing of the day.

A man who could write I think.

Like Robert Frost in Reluctance; the last verse expresses my feelings very well:

Reluctance

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last long aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

  

Until the next time.

Love the Unfamiliar Name

[52/29/28]

Well, like all anniversaries, it had to come, and now it's here: what last year was the happy and glorious 11th; no more

The next miserable anniversary will be 30th August (i.e. T + 366).  All Thursdays remain as a weekly and poignant reminder of what was and what should have been.

I am grateful to the late Rosamond Lehmann who included the following two pieces in her autobiographical The Swan in the Evening.

"She turned away from me, and she went through the Fair;

And fondly I watched her move here and move there;

And she went on her way, with one star awake,

As the Swan in the evening moves over the lake."

                                                    (Trad.)

"Who then devised the torment? Love.

Love is the unfamiliar Name

Behind the hands that wove

The intolerable shirt of flame

Which human power cannot remove."

                                    (T.S.Eliot)

Poetry in this case is no comfort - just perhaps a little sympatique.

Edit: the exact anniversary in fact occurs at 01 26 on 12th August, but given the rest of what transpired a year ago, 11th is good enough.  I AM a pedant.

Until the next time

Killing a Few Minutes

In four minutes it will be 11th August 2012.

I have another depressing post already prepared for this tragic date; just waiting until midnight; I can then post the message and with luck, the pills will have begun to work.

This is no kind of life, no kind of life at all.

Sorry.

Ah! Just one minute to go...

Until the next time.

Anniversary Looms

29/28

Saturday is 11th August; how happy I was that day last year.

Thursday is, and will be, horrid.

Until the next time

Another Thursday Passes

28/27


And, now that we are already in August, more depression looms as soon some significant anniversaries will arrive:  11th August, 30th August, with more to come in September.


It only gets worse.


Forget any other bollocks that I have written here; I love her, pure and simple.


Until the next time

Rosamond Lehmann, William Blake And the Spreadeagle

I have just finished reading Miss Lehmann's The Echoing Grove.


In this novel appears a couplet taken from William Blake's poem Broken Love, a powerful thing indeed.

"And throughout all Eternity

I forgive you, you forgive me."

Yes, "infinite love" was her expression.

There's no escape.  Today I found an ancient Penguin - John Fothergill's An Innkeeper's Diary; I had to buy it - she had a copy and introduced me to the story of The Spreadeagle at Thame and Fothergill's often outrageous tales; typical of the things we shared.

Inevitably I had forgotten the dedication:

To ["T"]

Too Good for Words

&c.

I suppose I might have guessed that Fothergill's wife would have to have had that name.

Yet another stab in the heart I'm afraid.

Until the next time