P.S. The hedgehog in the photo is not Diana's hedgehog.
Original photo: Creative Commons licence, by Justin and Elise
I am stranded, as night falls
and a thick fog swirls in.
In this nowhere place,
sounds are muffled,
I cannot tell left from right,
forward from backward,
tomorrow from yesterday.
My courage plummets;
I lose touch with my inner self,
no dreams, no poetry.
I cannot fathom whatever,
however this murky black cloud
descends upon me, engulfs me,
and disappears whenever it chooses.
Days, weeks, months later.
I emerge into light.
My artistic self playing tricks?
The dark night of the soul?
M.S. malfunctioning?
Certainly, suicide territory.
My only theory, will sound
gobbledegook.
My inner self wakes up to the fact
that I am missing and reconnects.
I am grounded, feel secure.
Daft, yes, but you come up
with something better.
Consider Brueghel's painting
'The Flailing of St. Anthony'.
The suffering saint in the foreground,
in the background, a boy skating
and a man climbing an apple tree.
Man and boy seem oblivious
of the saint's agony;
but he has his back turned from them
as if unaware there are witnesses.
The events are simultaneous,
but not connected in any way.
For many years, I have managed my pain
by remaining outside the painting.
Yes, pain has been at the fore front,
but I have still enjoyed
pond and apple tree,
birds and walnut tree.
But recently the pain levels
have increased;
I have found myself
drawn into the painting,
have identified with the flailed figure
and have ignored everyday life,
which has receded away from me
in both space and time.
I am not happy about this.
My prayer for the future is
that I learn to cope with the pain,
dissociate myself from the painting
and appreciate once more
the ordinariness of life:
a man picking apples,
a boy skating in sunlight.
On Friday evening, 1st June, first day of winter, I had an occasion here: thirty-one people and a ten week old baby, for me, the whole of the evening was counterpointed on the lovely sound of a baby drinking (those of you who came may not want to be bothered reading on, although it's not quite word for word).
My good friend, Rachel McAlpine, is a well known writer and, in fact, her most recent book, Scarlett Heels, has been selected by the New Zealand Society of Authors to represent New Zealand at the forthcoming Frankfurt book fair, at which New Zealand is an honored guest. So, Rachel and I put our heads together and decided she would come down from Wellington and read some of her saucy stories to a group of my friends. Apparently, she tried out different stories that were different from those she had given at previous readings, which made us into successful guinea pigs. She did this with panache, in-dispersing the stories with clips of 50's music to arouse nostalgia in those of us who were the appropriate age.
Now, all that sounds quite easy. But, this is Christchurch! Some six weeks ago, EQC took down the chimney in my living room and in the process broke the gas flue which made the gas heater unusable. I was promised a new heater would be installed on Wednesday the 30th of May and I specially requested a heater with a remote. The technician arrived, removed the old heater which although only 13 years old could not be supplied with a different flue and had therefore become redundant. During this activity he registered that the owner of the house was elderly and disabled; he inquired why we hadn't got a heater with a remote. When we explained he agreed he would contact his manager and was sure something could be done the next day. You will not be surprised to hear that nothing was done the next day. I was faced with 31 people coming to a room with cardboard wadding between us and the outside air and no heater. Fortunately the transference of heat from my wood burner room does operate into the living room, but, otherwise, I will have paid a small fortune in electricity getting the oil filled heaters to warm the room up. It is very large and south facing.
Then we had the problem of aesthetics. There was a large cardboard area where the heater should be. I ceased on the idea of removing my curtain from my warm room which has no door into the kitchen, and, luckily, we found that although the velvet was so heavy that we expected it to immediately fall down, the rail fitted perfectly onto the mantle piece without the velvet falling. The room no longer looked so hideous.
Rachel commented about the stories in that she felt the need for sex to be out in the open a bit more, given that when she was a teenager an older sister got pregnant and the rest of the family (all girls) knew nothing about what was going on.
That made me realise how fortunate I'd been, but fortunate through someone else's misfortune. My mothers older sister married without any knowledge and discovered the facts of life on her wedding night. From odd things she let drop, I think she became frigid. Before my mother married, that Aunt talked to my father and together they told mother what to expect. She was determined that Nick and I wouldn’t suffer the same way, so I was told about sex so young, I cannot remember not knowing. In the same way, I learnt about periods and could recognise immediately what was happening to me unlike a Ukranian friend in Melbourne the same age, who thought she was bleeding to death.
My parents enlightenment went even further. When girls in the 1950's got pregnant, they either had to have the baby adopted out, were forced into shotgun marriages or were taken to a back street abortionist. Not so with me, and anyway I didn't get pregnant. When I was about 16 my father said to me: “If you get into trouble, don't do anything stupid. Come to me, and we will adopt the baby.” Many years later I mentioned this to Mother and she could remember that they had agreed that thats what Dad would say to me.
After the stories and the music my friends had wine, cheese, bikkies and dips. And, would seem had a great time catching up. I admit I was tired and cannot be heard above loud noise so I retreated. But, altogether, it was a fun evening.
The inspiration behind 'codswallop' comes from years of collecting crass bromides when other people try and respond to suffering. I started at the end of 1984 when the M.S. came out of remission and added a lot more after Paul’s death in 1985.
One woman, having asked what was wrong with me, offered the information that she was an exorcist. She also said twice that when she saw me she thought “there, but for the grace of God, go I”. After the second time, I asked her what that was saying about me and the grace of God, which fortunately shut her up.
The idea that God tests you only to the limit of your strength, I found appalling. In the first place, I hadn't blamed God and in the second, at that time, I was not at the limits of my strength although I would say by now I am. So that's where the poem came from as if we are all sitting a life time exam.
After Paul had died I was still being told that if I prayed the M.S. would still get better. And even my explaining, that people were praying up and down the coasts of New Zealand for Paul when he was dying, didn't shift his earnestness. I distinctly remember that Christ on the cross called out in near despair “my God, why hast thou forsaken me”: which seems to suggest that God sometimes says “no”, not always a word that people want to hear.
I know I fit the Old Testament model: if I'm suffering like this, God can not be pleased with me but it's strange to detect such thinking in other people, although, I must say, most of their bromides consist of not saying anything at all which I suppose, is safer when you are communicating with a wordsmith.
“God tests you only to the limits
of your strength.” That means an exam.
My mind goes back to a great hall,
tables and chair spaced out separately,
frazzled students waiting for the start command.
But thats not right; it will be
a take-home lifelong exam, with no concern
for the welfare of students, only for
the integrity of the subject.
Answers are absolute. You're competing
not with others but with yourself.
“Many are called but few are chosen.”
That makes three categories:
called, uncalled and chosen.
And not our choice either.
She went out with a growl and a spit;
not grumpiness, you understand,
but arthritic pain in her joints.
She'd been fading for the last few weeks,
great weight loss, her fur no longer plush;
but it was her eyes, they looked haunted,
not fear of death but fear of life itself;
the long day-to-day endurance.
We laid her in a bed of autumn leaves,
under the hedge, below the smoke bush
flaming its defiance into the sky.
The house still resonates with her presence:
her curled sleeping shape
her daily dash down the hall
her deep-throated purr.