Ted Hughes eat your/my heart out.

‘Poems For Darwinian Children’
The Apiarist

Here’s to aviation laws
they said bees ignored,
when creationists
just hadn’t explored,
the possibility,
the not-so-humble-bumble-bee,
just flapped it’s wings
really, really, hard.

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Big, beautiful bastard.

It is not necessarily at home that we best encounter our true selves. The furniture insists that we cannot change because it does not; the domestic setting keeps us tethered to the person we are in ordinary life, but who may not be who we essentially are.” – Alain de Botton

The road belongs to us all; carved into our bones, sewn onto the palms of our hands. Always warmly familiar, but inconsistent enough to keep us reminded that we are simply not supposed to know whether we are running to; or running from.

I’ve always thought that the particular beauty I choose to find in it lies therein.  Indecision being the mother of chance-happenings, and potentially inspiring experiences.  There is a certain liberty offered up in the anonymity of the road, and a life-long loyalty which is derived from it.

Curiosity killing the cat is philosophy stemming from sheltered existence, ‘the road is fearsome and thus; dangerous’.  But true danger lies in missed opportunity, in what-ifs and death-bed regrets.

The reality of it is that chance killed the cat.  The ‘luck of the draw’, if you will.  Who’s to say- that had the cat crossed the road thirty seconds later, when the big truck had rolled on by, that he wouldn’t have accidentally stumbled upon the feline version of Woodstock? Huh?.

Extensive planning is something I am neither good at, nor inclined to partake in.  It fears the fierce-unknown.  It blindly accepts that what we are is all we will ever be, and all we can ever be.  It accepts dreaming as a guilty pleasure, a futile exercise best left to the ‘dreamers’, a breed to whom the concept of sitting behind a desk for forty-years makes shiver to their very core.  A breed that the ‘planners’ secretly wish will fail miserably, secretly hoping that they will fail so that they can feel vindicated in old age, dying happy in the knowledge that it was ‘a good job’ that they didn’t take any chances, ever, because it didn’t work out for those ‘stupid’ enough to test the water.  Well, called me stupid if you will… they, the dreamers, or should I say- ‘we’, the dreamers, are fine with that.

The world is a big, beautiful bastard.  And I shall be damned if I my only experience of it is second-hand, from the lips and fingers of seemingly braver men than I.

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One Hell of a Wine-Rack.

It’s far too easy, at least for those among us who’ve allowed themselves to fall into the ‘strong at heart, but weak at the knees’ hole, to slip into this somewhat ridiculous spiral of defeatism and self-appointed martyrdom.  To draw the conclusions that you are the sole reciprocant of the passed-buck, THE proverbial one-armed man, acceptor of all blame for all of man’s mistakes, all over the world.  It’s not recommended, but it’s easy non-the-less.  You almost begin to relish in it; maybe partially because it feels like pairing a cause with a struggle.  Over the few days past, I’ve come to decide that the more you think about it, the more the eternal escapist’s get-out clause “it wasn’t me, it was the one-armed man” gets drunkenly analysed, the more you start to think about it’s potential biblical connotations and origins, the more you realise that you need to smack yourself in the boat-race and get over yourself.  There is most likely nothing you could’ve done or can do; and that some poor fella already took for the blame humanity’s impending mistakes two-thousand years ago.

Martyrdom is egotism.  You may be enough of a philosophical politician to convince yourself that it’s an act of selflessness, but the truth is really that donning a robe and crown and taking the weight of the world on your shoulders is simple arrogance.  One solitary animal cannot change nature, regardless of their attire… and granted, the robe was more of a smock and the crown was perhaps a little rough around the edges, but still, you cannot take the idiosyncratic actions of the entire human race as your own because you cannot change nature, intent nor instinct; only direction and perception.

Besides, it is probably about time that I made some errors in judgement of my own and let the guy in the smock take the heat.  It’s the least I can do, pairing a struggle with a cause and all that.  After all he seems to have become quite the celebrity from the deal, so I’m inclined to say that it all worked out perfectly for him.   He got his shot at stardom, men and women the world over get away with just about anything and I’ve never heard a reference to the ‘Jewish Carpentry Movement’ whilst talking about wine-racks on The Antiques Roadshow.  So, I think that for the time being, I’m just going to roll with it.

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Never Question The Lone Equestrian.

Well, what can I say? The first year of this new decade had it’s moments.  Highest highs, lowest lows and all manner of Gibbard-isms.  For the most part I enjoyed the trip.  My old convector heater is humming in the corner, making the whole room smell like bread and burnt dust, there’s a show about the Hammond Organ on BBC6 Music, there’s nearly fifteen litres of home-made booze left over from Christmas and a friend of mine gave me a new t-shirt to wear; so all in all 2011 is starting off in a positive way.

I’d planned on making this year one of unabashed optimism, but I’m still being realistic and approaching said optimism with at least a small hint of hesitation.   And though I think it’s something I can shake, it still remains to be seen.

Love; like holding on to a thousand horses, turned out to be impossibly hard not to lose grip on.  She very well may be a sociopath, but I be damned if she’s not MY sociopath.

So… moving on.  I believe I’m right in thinking that there are very few ailments of the broken-hearted which cannot be quickly rectified with a few weeks of unadulterated, yet selective misogyny.  There really is nothing like an ill-founded superiority complex to pick a man up and drop him right back on top of the hill, or preferably a woman who’s happy and willing to have a little hatred explode in her face.  Although, all I’m possibly coming to decide, bare-arsed truth be told, is that quite a percentage of the fairer of the species are innately and irreversibly self-serving narcissists, swinging loop-tied ropes over their heads, ready to lasso some unsuspecting fool by his easily excited cock.  And you know what?  It works every time and will continue to work, every time.  So really, all there is to do, is to go with it, ride it out, be open to distractions which just might slow those horses down, let nature be nature and keep hoping that you’re in a sunnier place when the ride ends.

Be good.

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Blood & Bones

The singular most important thing I’ve come to realise is that really, it’s all bullshit. All of it. The stories may come from my tongue, but they aren’t my own. The experiences, the places, the feelings in my blood and bones, they aren’t mine; mine alone anyway. I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last. They had all been visited, all been experienced and written about long before I came along and scribbled in a notebook. They’d all been touched, spun and turned into tales and good-will fables far more eloquent than my own… but by no means, did I ever neglect to value ‘the chase’.

All the time spent trying to make sense of this, to somehow bring order to the chaos that is my own humanity, the only inherent and resounding truth is that really, it’s all bullshit. Nothing matters but finding whatever it is that you love and doing everything in your power to hold onto it. The fact that the idea of happiness has become a cliché has nothing to do with it being a flawed or idealistic conclusion to a life or story, but to do with the fact the no matter how much people change the world and their surroundings, they can’t change what is in the blood and bones of every one of us; a deep set need for love and happiness. The now commonplace phrase “everybody dies alone” is nothing but mere semantics, a technicality coined by a cynic, and cynicism is a disease, a disease spread by the terminally apathetic; the weak and the weak willed. Acceptance wasn’t intended to mean “swallow what you are fed without question”, but purely accept that we are the grand masters of our own destiny. We are nothing but our own sick failures. We make our choices and we live by the consequences.

Wealth won’t buy you happiness, though it might buy you love, contrary to what four Liverpuddlians with mop-tops said, but it won’t be true love, genuine happiness. It might buy you nice, shiny things which may appear to make you happy for a time, but eventually the blood, the bones, the resonant and resounding truth with punch you dead in the rib cage and all that will remain will be the longing, the deep-set need for love and happiness, still intact and standing, no matter how deep the grave you dug to bury it. We’re all the same animals after all, even if some try their very hardest to imply deity. And these animals weren’t born evil, some just allow themselves to become it.

Of course there are truths in being product of your environment, but we are still very much product of our own free will. Not a free will given to us by a God, but a free will that’s in our blood and bones. Some are prisoners of it.

Even if our free will is gagged and bound,

our situation inescapable.

Even if our environment is a cage,

literal or metaphorical.

Humans will seek love and seek happiness or die trying.

And even then, another will pick up the switchblade and carry on the good fight,

because it’s in our blood and bones.

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