When I leave The bottle store With my cardboard cask Of cheap dry red And my carton of ten Hard cider cans And sometimes a bottle Of spirit heavily discounted, if there is any – Jameson’s – if Irish luck will have it, I joke “see you when I sober up”.
They laugh.
I told a friend I had somewhat over indulged In discounted Dimple The night before She asked me why
Why did I get drunk? Or why do I drink? Or why Dimple?,
Suspecting, I expect, Some deep psychological trauma Driving me to drink. Some motivation of a morbid mind. I told her “Because it was there”
The timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness. And knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.
— Kahlil Gibranu
Or Nightmare
— Alan Freshwater
Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable
Warm, red wine Goes to my head Makes me forget that I still need a friend…
I am not refrigerating red wine any more I am not refrigerating red wine any more I am not refrigerating red wine any more I drink it at room temperature.
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Drunk on warm red wine.
I fortify my red wine with some fortified red wine I fortify my red wine with some fortified red wine I fortify my red wine with some fortified red wine Any port in a storm is what I say
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Drunk on red wine fortified with fortified red wine
They have to call it Tawny, Port is appellation controlled. They have to call it Tawny, Port is appellation controlled. They have to call it Tawny, Port is appellation controlled. But it mulls up just the same
Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Drunk on red wine fortified with fortified red wine
Tawny in the red wine warmed up in the microwave Tawny in the red wine warmed up in the microwave Tawny in the red wine warmed up in the microwave
It’s a short cut to inebriation mate. Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Glory, glory what a hell of a way to go Drunk on tawny red wine heated in the microwave
Mulled wine sends you off to sleep in a few seconds flat Mulled wine sends you off to sleep in a few seconds flat Mulled wine sends you off…
I have become quite convinced the apocalypse is coming and the extinction of our so-called Civilisation is inevitable. Whether that means the extinction of humanity as a species I cannot tell, but I can see that humanity as a concept is almost extinct already. We are getting less humane again.
There is no humanity, no empathy, nor even self-awareness in the fascists and religious authoritarians who are leading the world into political and environmental chaos.
Nor is there any in the fools who complacently allow it to happen. These are the terrorists, the zombies, who are coming for us all.
Part of me wants to survive long enough to see it happening. To die fighting it. But I fear for my children, and all the children of the world. I don’t want to see them suffer the coming terror and pain, the grievous disappointment of knowing it was all avoidable, that we let them down.
Us. You. Me.
I blame you, who did not believe because in your limited experience you could not accept that someone who dedicated their whole life to understanding and gaining knowledge about the world , might possibly know more than you. Understand better than you. Be more humane than you.
I blame myself, who saw the science, understood the data, believed the predictions, yet did nothing. No. Nothing enough to combat the coming chaos.
1 Timothy 6:10: For the love of money is the root of all of evil: which while some coveted after, they have strayed from the path, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.
WordPress gave me the above prompt to induce my creative juices.
Most people don’t understand depression. Hell. I didn’t understand depression. I’m not sure I do even now. I only know I have it. And it is manageable. Powerful knowledge of which to remind oneself when necessary.
It was a doctor in Fiji who first diagnosed me. But I was in denial. Even though in my early blogging I had indeed already diagnosed myself back in 2007. I stopped taking the pills before I returned to New Zealand. In Katanning, Western Australia, I was more concerned about sleep apnoea. Dealing with that, and then the politics of local government, took all my energy.
A kindly doctor I had the good fortune to encounter in the Kimberley reconfirmed the diagnosis and put me back on the medication that I’m still on to this day. He told me I would be on them for life. To them I owe my usual equanimity. I wrote and ode to them. Tongue-in-cheek sincerity.
Which brings me to my poor attempts at poetry. My aspirations are not high. I cannot compete with Mr Yeats the great, or Dylan Thomas, or even Bob Dylan. I am still awestruck by the erudition and skill of Shane McGowan. Far beyond my capabilities. I need an interpreter to understand almost every song.
I string words together for a purpose. A personal purpose that should probably be private. But I still have a need to communicate. Especially when I am a bit depressed. The pills can only do so much. I have to do too.
I have learned to deal with sadness, as some might call it, or pessimism and hopelessness, as others might, with my words. I greatly appreciate the power of words. Just to say certain words in a certain order can indeed be a magic spell that will dispel the morbid thought. Or even make one laugh. How magical is that?
But here is the thing: The Morbid Thought must be said. It’s part of the spell. Spoken clearly or referenced obliquely, it must be Said. Sometimes, it must not just be said, but communicated. That’s the problem. Is what I mean to say what someone else hears or sees?
I think about death sometimes. My death, and that of others. The one thing that I can be absolutely sure of is that once I’m dead, I shall have no opinion on any subject, let alone my of own demise.
This is what I want to communicate. I’m voicing my thoughts but I am NOT, repeat NOT entertaining suicidal ideation. I’m far too interested in seeing what will happen next to ever consider going down that road. If I seem to be poetically playing with that idea, I’m not. I’m dispelling it. Even though I’m pessimistic about the future of the planet, democracy, and humanity as a whole, I still want the satisfaction of being proved right, or the possible wonder of discovering I was wrong, after all.
By the time I actually publish anything poetically or prosaically dark on these blog pages, the spell has already worked. I’m sharing it to show that it has worked. Not to hint at my intentions. I hope I’ve made that clear?
I’ve just prepaid my funeral. A simple cremation. It came about because the insurance company to whom I was paying a monthly payment for funeral insurance, was busted for some shady practices. I got a full refund with interest the money would have earned had it remained in my bank.
This came to much more than the cost of a prepaid funeral advertised by a local firm of morticians. So I actually came out ahead for a change. Money in my pocket.
It did take my thoughts down morbid paths though…
Let it be known I want my ashes tossed in the ocean. Any ocean.
Then anywhere you go in the world, just put your toes in the sea and you’ll be standing in a homeopathic solution of me.
Bear with me…
There’s more.
I don’t want a wake. But I won’t be there. So not my problem. Do as you will. I will not wake.
Here’s a little rhyme I wrote. A whimsy, if you will.
Which reminds me, I must update my will.
Early in the mourning, after breakfast What to make to take to the wake? I’d say bake. Lemon Madeira 🍰 cake For grieving hunger’s sake And whiskey 🥃 Grieving thirst to slake My advice; Take a slice, with lemon ice Sing. Dunk it in the liquor Soak it up, wolf it down You’ll get much drunker, quicker.
When Irish whiskey’s on the bar You’ll know where all the mourners are. Who, you ask, will mourn the most? The one who drinks to every toast. And is gargled even before the host
And well before the service.
‘Tis in the morning he’ll mourn more – if only because his head is sore
So here’s to whoever it was that died. Laid out for all to see inside. Then those of us who knew him best Shall carry him to his final rest And then a respectful quick whip-round A tip for the sexton putting him in the ground ~ In my day that was just one pound.
I should have put in an early bid. I’d do it still, for just a quid.
Seriously? Yeah, nah.
It is my kidneys that will determine my demise. Or some as yet undiagnosed affliction no doubt due to my lifestyle. What a lot of choices. Kidneys, stroke, heart attack, dementia, cancer. Tripping in front of a bus, COVID 27…
I won’t be here. I won’t know I’m not here. I won’t be. So don’t say I’m at peace. I won’t be at peace. I won’t BE. I’m still trying to grasp that concept. But it frustrates me.
Because when it does happen, I want to derive some satisfaction from it. Dammit.
If you gotta go, you oughta know.
That is why so many cling to the concept of an afterlife.
I just can’t see myself not being here.
Words. Works. Worms. Were. Was. Got that off my chest.
My psychiatrist is right. Write, he said. Right said I. I’ll write. Right. Until there’s nothing left.
It is two weeks now since I gave up the secular life and devoted myself to meditation and seeking enlightenment. Even as I carry out my humble duties in the herb garden, and turn my thoughts inward through five hours of meditation each day, I can feel my sense of self slowly but steadily fading away.
Pretty soon I shall be the most enlightened acolyte in the world.
at exactly 12:00 midnight 1973-74 Los Angeles it began to rain on the palm leaves outside my window the horns and the firecrackers went off and it thundered.
I’d gone to bed at 9:00 p.m. turned out the lights pulled up the covers — their gaiety, their happiness their screams, their paper hats, their automobiles, their women their amateur drunks…
New Year’s Eve always terrifies me
life knows nothing of years.
now the horns have stopped and the firecrackers and the thunder… it’s all over in five minutes… all I hear is the rain on the palm leaves, and I think, I will never understand men, but I have lived it through.
I just spotted this news item today. It took the Ministry of Health fourteen years to do it, and I have no doubt they have forgotten who came up with the idea. but I’m happy to assert that it was me. This was my own idea. I proposed way back then that if we were really serious about stopping smoking that each year we should raise the minimum age of people permitted to purchase cigarettes. We should make it an offence to supply anyone under that age. No one thought it was a practical plan at the time.
I am pleased to think that this is one of the things I’ve done that might be considered part of my legacy. Even if I only sowed a seed at the time, it grew. This makes me hopeful that some of the other seeds I planted may bear fruit someday.
Through Hollow Lands and Hilly Lands 