tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55462952011-06-28T05:45:23.861+01:00BlubA journal of tearsJohnnoreply@blogger.comBlogger431100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1099598943641794262004-11-04T20:00:00.000Z2004-11-04T20:09:03.640ZSitting in the kitchen at Neill Road, again, 9.50am, listening toEwan McGregor reading his account of his motorbike trip round the world, sickening how a superstar lives a superstar life as well. Well, today he rode through Mongolia and had a crisis of nerve, wanting to get off the dirt tracks and onto good Russian road, until his director persuaded him to tough it out, and he found love and Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1097617162139200292004-10-12T22:32:00.000+01:002004-10-12T22:39:22.143+01:00Holby. A father breaks down faced with a diagnosis of his teenage daughter's terminal cancer. "It's not fair. It's not FAIR!" My words exactly, and I repeat them and howl for quite a few minutes, mourning my wasted youth and beauty, those DECADES of energy and loveliness just robbed, taken from me, robbed of youth, life, vitality and most of all love - denied love constantly, consistently, againJohnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1097265130417616302004-10-08T20:45:00.000+01:002004-10-08T20:52:10.416+01:00Sitting in the kitchen at Neill Road listening to Toby Stevens reading the last instalment of Will in the World. About Shakespeare winding down his life, the Tempest quote about the cloud-topped palaces .... we are such stuff etc... everything going to end, dissolve, disappear, as if it has never been. And I will too, am disappearing, dissolving even now.
Level 3
Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1092075464465968482004-08-09T19:10:00.000+01:002004-08-09T19:17:44.466+01:00Funny. I was sitting in The Renoir waiting for The Story of the Weeping Camel to start and thinking it'd been a while since I blubbed, and was I harder and colder than this time last year, when I seemed to be blubbing and getting angry and sad and euphoric and horny all over the place. Or does it just seem like that in retrospect? And have I hardened myself cos of Ono and more recent out-of-hand Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1088612027053557682004-06-30T16:58:00.000+01:002004-06-30T17:18:48.836+01:00She's gone. And she's never coming back. She's never coming back. She never wants to see me again. She doesn't want to see me, speak to me, listen to me, laugh with me, stroke me, hold me, hug me, kiss me, embrace me, come close to me, press her cunt hard against me, thrust her arse up to receive me, drape her legs over my shoulders, slumber beside me, wake up cuddling, blow me a farewell kiss onJohnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1085698960922574222004-05-27T23:58:00.000+01:002004-05-28T00:04:25.830+01:00Reading the end of 'The Dead', Gabriel's sensuous love for his wife and yet his gnawing suspicion of her alien desires and life apart from him... Oh and I dissolved into loud, racking sobs, that this shared life with the adored one was never given me; that it may be too late, as the body closes down and closes out the stronger, simpler instincts and feelings.
And how it's what I want MORE THAN Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1085588450056354762004-05-26T17:18:00.000+01:002004-05-26T17:20:50.056+01:00Libby Purvis's Mid-Week has John Lennon's half-sister - Julia? - and introduces her by playing 'Julia'. It's heart-wrenching, and everyone comments on how beautiful and sad it is. I carry on my bag-collection, tears in my eyes about the sadness of my (and everyone else's) life.
Level 1Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1083730581333986472004-05-05T05:16:00.000+01:002004-05-05T06:07:46.670+01:00Didn't cry - just can't sleep. After third night of heavy drinking (went a little bit easier last night - three strong pints and a half a quarter bottle of whisky).
So why am I drinking again? Especially after a very healthy couple of weeks (see last Friday's '56 and hot' entry, also 'Letters to Luci', same day, with its clue of impending relapse) in which my personal strength seemed to be Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1083670914863129662004-05-04T12:41:00.000+01:002004-05-04T12:44:38.186+01:00Instant spring showers completing 2 sentences in the AW 'Archaeology' exercise (p.125): "8. I am sorry that I will never again see..." My Dad. And "9. For years, I have missed and wondered about..." A vague troupe of shadowy women, all really a composite of my lost Mum. I sob for being an orphan.
Level 3Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1083104569228730152004-04-27T23:22:00.000+01:002004-05-28T00:07:33.503+01:00Ohhh it's horrible - horrible - horrible! - I HATE it!
I hate being alone. I hate no-one caring what I'm doing, what I'm thinking or feeling, I hate no-one wanting to be with me, I hate going from day to day with no-one to talk to, no-one to hold, no-one to kiss, no-one to stroke, no-one to suck, no-one to fuck, no-one to feel beside me when I wake up in the morning - and no-one to reciprocate Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1082918117062896872004-04-25T19:35:00.000+01:002004-04-25T23:43:51.013+01:00Oooooh that's TOO cruel. On the one day for over a month - I finally wrote a text to Ono yesterday, and have been hoping all day for her reply - and I haven't had ANY text-message for WEEKS! - I get home from a Barndoc shift and - lo and behold! - there's a text message waiting for me! Oh my darling, it's YOU - you LOVE me, you want to come back and see me, thank GOD!!! - and I click to reveal Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1080580765182505352004-03-29T18:19:00.000+01:002004-03-29T18:37:33.403+01:00Watching Honey at the Wood Green Showcase this afternoon, just to wallow in visions of Jessica Alba, though the music in this feelgood kiddy flick - with its extraordinary love-interest between white lead and black guy - wasn't at all bad (or was baaaaaad!) The finale, a Young Ones style fundraising dance-show for ghetto kids to get their own dance studio, reduced me to tears, just the joy of Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1077106014883245002004-02-18T12:06:00.000Z2004-02-18T20:17:01.873ZTalking to Simon last night and looking back this morning through my poetry file - so alive last September and October! - and reading amazed the 26 Dec entry below, I feel Ono's immense value to me, a huge sadness at her loss (it seems to me incredible I repressed that so completely, writing her off as just a fuck-partner I'd be keen to replace), and I type out a text, don't care if she replies, Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1077103537081538092004-02-18T11:25:00.000Z2004-02-18T11:28:24.280ZBig blub around 11 pm on Monday, my 56th birthday, as soon as I started clearing about not getting any birthday cards that day. Racked by sobs for a long time, I seemed utterly alone and powerless to change things, though finally made choices to do regular clearings and be in touch with whoever, whatever.
Sub-sadness too about Ono texting again twice last week, then dropping it again suddenly Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1072433394131143462003-12-26T10:09:00.000Z2004-02-18T16:14:36.873ZWelcome back to Blogland, and to Blubland!
My beautiful girlfriend, Ono, has just gone. It's 9.50am and less than an hour ago I said goodbye to her at the setting-down point outside Heathrow Terminal 2. We had less than a minute in the car, I didn't feel emotional but I wanted the moment past, we exchanged brief, polite, well-wishings, only a light lip kiss (why not a big strong hug? why not a Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1064649915592241082003-09-27T09:05:00.000+01:002003-09-27T09:45:23.946+01:00Friday 26 September
Holding back tears about Ono while at Westleton with Mum and Tim this morning, I finally let go this evening: the cruelty and unfairness of my whole life with love not available to me or, worse, being snatched away just when it seems I've found it. The icy tragedy of wasting my youth, when I COULD cut the mustard, in self-hating sexlessness, and, now I'm more confident and Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1064494874890133462003-09-25T14:01:00.000+01:002003-09-27T09:46:29.196+01:00Quick blub in car, 'Aquele Abraco' and "pra voce que me esqueceu" again, this time with new, added, Ono!
Level 2Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1064345424762057152003-09-23T20:30:00.000+01:002003-09-23T20:30:24.450+01:00Writing '4 Photographs' list poem in Laurence's class, and re-reading it now, I get really sad about Kristen all over again, the juxtaposition of wedding and funeral, in the context of my unrealised love for her, especially...
I feel like Heathcliff forever mourning and reliving that which I can never have.
Level 3Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1063099319200023362003-09-09T10:21:00.000+01:002003-09-09T10:21:59.300+01:00I get emotional emailing a little prayer to Panan: "Please God, protect her young body and soul. I hope that, wherever she is, whatever she's doing, she's safe and well ... and happy ... and loved."
Level 1Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1062865521769825202003-09-06T17:25:00.000+01:002003-09-06T17:25:21.873+01:00Laufet, Brueder, eure Bahn,
Freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen.
(repeated, rising to top-bottom octave crescendo)
Ahnest du den Schoepfer, Welt?
Such' ihn ueber'm Sternenzelt!
Ueber Sternen muss er wohnen.
Schiller's 'An die Freude', listened to today in Beethoven's choral symphony.
Level 3+: Kristen, and all the rest....Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1062750177908069552003-09-05T09:22:00.000+01:002003-09-05T09:22:57.930+01:00SEPTEMBER
Der Garten trauert,
Kuehl sinkt in die Blumen der Regen.
Der Sommer schauert
Still seinem Ende entgegen.
Golden tropft Blatt um Blatt
Nieder vom hohen Akazienbaum.
Sommer laechelt erstaunt und matt
In den sterbenden Gartentraum.
Lange noch bei den Rosen
Bleibt er stehen, sehnt sich nach Ruh.
Langsam tut er die (grossen)
Muedgewordenen Augen zu.
by Hermann Hesse. Listened this Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1062093551113795422003-08-28T18:59:00.000+01:002003-08-28T23:14:10.576+01:00Puedo escribir los versos mas tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella tambien me quiso.
...................................................................
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
...................................................................
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1062005416168161592003-08-27T18:30:00.000+01:002003-08-27T23:09:21.080+01:00"Tengo fe en Chile y su destino. Superarán otros hombres el momento gris y amargo, donde la traición pretende imponerse. Sigan ustedes sabiendo que, mucho más temprano que tarde, se abrirán las grandes alamedas por donde pase el hombre libre, para construir una sociedad mejor."
Salvador Allende, 11 September 1973, quoted today by Ariel Dorfman in R4 series of homages to Martin Luther King.
LevelJohnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1061835446480161712003-08-25T19:17:00.000+01:002003-08-25T19:26:46.500+01:00Watching Notting Hill Carnival procession, the beautiful, joyous brothers and sisters reclaiming their pride and strength and the streets of Babylon - MY brothers and sisters, ME reclaiming MY birthright so violently stolen from me (see rhapsody on 'Aquele Abraco' below).
Level 1Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1060964602818761892003-08-15T17:23:00.000+01:002003-08-25T19:13:59.146+01:00"Yes I will I said Yes"
Ulysses .... listening to CD while painting hall.
But she always said No. You always said No. No, No, always No to my deepest, my only desire, No.
Level 3Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1060241041071706862003-08-07T08:24:00.000+01:002003-08-08T12:45:21.893+01:00Writing Morning Pages revolving around embarrassing performance with Korean girl yesterday, and thinking I never - and will never - get my desire, I write I want to scream and cry, it's not FAIR, then I DO burst into tears, shaking my fists and blubbing, "It's not FAIR! It's not FAIR!"
And it isn't. Go on, don't be afraid of saying it, it's true.
Level 3Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1060194658320137732003-08-06T19:30:00.000+01:002003-08-06T19:30:58.266+01:00"the dread Of dying, and being dead"
Philip Larkin, 'Aubade', again, quoted in 'Love Again' dramatisation of his (love-) life, videoed and viewed this evening.
Level 2, at thought of the horror of this being more present (or past) than future.Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1060164307203055752003-08-06T11:05:00.000+01:002003-08-06T11:11:26.920+01:00Climax of Zithin'izizwe by Busi Mhlongo, in car.
SO keening and driving and joyous and life 1000 per cent full on whatever! No matter I don't understand a word of Zulu!
Level 1 Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1059993668733888942003-08-04T11:41:00.000+01:002003-08-04T11:41:08.680+01:00"Something inside that was always denied
For so many years"
Lennon & McCartney, 'She's Leaving Home', listening to Sgt Pepper tape while cleaning kitchen this morning.
Level 2Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1059388120023623122003-07-28T11:28:00.000+01:002003-07-29T00:02:12.290+01:00'New Country, New Life' doc series on R4 about refugees: Vietnamese woman who lost her whole family when boat capsized, now has family of her own in Sydney, goes quiet when interviewer asks, if the government changed, would she want to go back to Vietnam? Yes, of course, (voice quiet, smiling-breaking) so many good memories from her childhood.
Level 2: my lost childhood ... my cuckooing out of Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1059235543233782052003-07-26T17:05:00.000+01:002003-07-26T17:05:43.260+01:00There's no more to be done, or feared, or hoped;
None now need watch, speak low, and list, and tire;
No irksome crease outsmoothed, no pillow sloped
Does she require.
Blankly we gaze. We are free to go or stay;
Our morrow's anxious plans have missed their aim;
Whether we leave to-night or wait till day
Counts as the same.
The lettered vessels of medicaments
Seem asking whereforeJohnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1058991553251473002003-07-23T21:19:00.000+01:002003-07-26T17:12:06.440+01:00Dark Angel, last episode re-viewed on video, Max - beautiful, slight, calm and self-assured - saying, "We were made in America, they've got to take responsibility", swaying the transgenics to stand and resist. Joshua's flying eagle flag erected on Terminal City roof in echo of the famous cast of GIs erecting the stars and stripes.
Level 1 Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1058735926622690562003-07-20T22:18:00.000+01:002003-07-20T22:18:46.676+01:00Bem mais pra la
Do distante azul do ceu
Na escuridao total
Se encontrara
Meu destino junto ao seu
Nas maos de Deus, afinal.
Gil, Fogo liquido
Level 1Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1058534146758026652003-07-18T14:15:00.000+01:002003-07-18T21:31:49.510+01:00Same song, in car just now, same line, my eyes dampen and I smile, think, this is like Pavlov! Then suddenly there's a whole lot more when he sings the line with more passion and sorrow the second time - my Mum, the women who never loved me, the friends who don't want me in their life, the whole indifferent world turning its back... and all that LONGING, all that NEED, never satisfied... and Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1058130181259748342003-07-13T22:03:00.000+01:002003-07-14T00:02:19.143+01:00"Pra voce que me esqueceu"
Gilberto Gil, Aquele Abraco
Actually, the whole song. which is WILD, though this line triggered the THOUGHT.
Level 2, in carJohnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057969682750593522003-07-12T01:28:00.000+01:002003-07-12T01:28:02.763+01:00It IS Eliot! Eventually thought of looking it up on Google, doh!
First line of 'II. Difficulties of a Statesman' from CoriolanJohnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057952276286893892003-07-11T20:37:00.000+01:002003-07-11T20:40:20.910+01:00"Cry, what shall I cry?" I'm trying to remember which poem/poet this comes from. I've checked Geoffrey Hill, and a bit of Eliot...
The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations surprised me by revealing an ancient source:
"The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry?
All flesh is grass, and the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field:
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: because the Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057945058024313052003-07-11T18:37:00.000+01:002003-07-28T20:52:40.856+01:00Isolate rather this element
That spreads through other lives like a tree
And sways them on in a sort of sense
And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence
A long way back...
Philip Larkin, 'Love Again' (my italics)
Level 1Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057885975971469522003-07-11T02:12:00.000+01:002003-07-11T02:14:05.113+01:00Crew-members make a simple wooden cross for Peter Blake, NZ sailor/explorer shot dead by Brazilian pirates, and sink it into the rainforest close to the confluence of the Rivers Amazon and Negro. (C5 9 July, videoed)
Filming on this, his last voyage, showed him to be a tough, sensitive man with a mission to halt the degradation and loss of the rainforest. "Every fifth breath we take comes from Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057522070326442442003-07-06T21:07:00.000+01:002003-07-08T12:39:17.653+01:00Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
(Philip Larkin, 'Aubade', quoted tonight in C4 biographical documentary)
Level 1
Toda menina baiana tem un santo, que Deus da
Toda menina baiana tem encanto, que Deus da
Toda menina baiana tem un jeito, que Deus da
Toda menina baiana tem defeito tambem
Que Deus da
Que Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057419695447813912003-07-05T16:41:00.000+01:002003-07-07T00:35:51.693+01:00Venus and Serena in the Wimbledon final: raw power, agility and intelligence blazing on court, sweet girlish sisterhood afterwards, chatting pleasantly together while the ball boys and girls line up, taking pictures of each other and the family. Lovely young women lapped in love.
Level 2
I guess the abstract idea I'm responding to is the thought of being forever excluded from that love, the Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057398131665360292003-07-05T10:42:00.000+01:002003-07-10T00:44:12.930+01:00"Crying is in a way the definition of the human condition. It is about people being overwhelmed by forces that are greater than them. Crying is always a response to an abstract idea."
Bill Viola, American video artist
Johnnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5546295.post-1057361686897195012003-07-05T00:34:00.000+01:002003-09-27T20:15:27.626+01:00Gone midnight... but small thoughts have I of sleep.
Instead - counting tears.
Watch me cry.
Cry with me.
I'll assess the intensity of my response, from Level 1 (pricking, watering in eyes) through Level 3 (freely crying) to Level 5 (out-of-control howling grief)Johnnoreply@blogger.com