I have not written in a while: Forgotten magic

As the title suggests, I have not written in a while. In fact, nothing has bludgeoned me to near death and love, elusive, depraved, aberrant as it is, has yet to inflame my loins again. How can one write in such average perpetuation of the self? See, I do not attend to slick prose or poetic cadences anymore; matter-of-factly, I write.

My new home congregates the shore with its neo-liberal pose, lavished in tech-savvy humbug and staw-thin, lax repetition of buzzwords found dominating tech common rooms. Dublin, compared to London, is a small-town described in American horror movies. Unlike America, though, its population in thin, healthful; just as in America, they are approachable, unlike Londoners.

I am contriving a new home here, along a quay crisscrossed by luxury apartments which are erected on offices and over-priced stores. The first two-weeks past in government building, new-carpet incensed financial edifices, attempts to tether relationships and alcohol-free lamentations in nooks. I can write now that I am settled, with a job and roommates. Let’s see what Dublin has to inoculate my veins so I can write with blood once again.



I miss being in love

I miss being in love; inlets blush at every ebb of the sea like its lover was retreating. One recalls how love adorns nature – wind caresses your skin as felines rummage through nooks.

Without love, neither ebbs nor flows ignite your sensations; nature placates, and the wind brings the cold, like when your lover is gone. At least we have cats.

Entry in a while

There’s nothing to write, not an iota to sprint across to grasp. I work, wake-up for it and fuel myself with the dark-blend liquid – coffee – which reflects spots of light like well-processed oil, 29 litres lasts me a week.

Our office windows have no vistas, we are congregated beneath a grandiose ceiling. My manager sashays when her hair radiate, crowned on an adorned ablong face. I am infantile. So are the rest. But I digress. The coffee machine has an absent ownership status. Some say all can use it. Others claim the beloved device decays under an occupation by an “espresso club members”. One of the Italians explained it to me the way a politician tries to justify his deplorable act. Neither he or I understood the premise of his words. Was I allowed to use it? Who knew if the people who used it did not. So I pour my coffee in between breaks and snigger in vantage points.

A macro observation of mental health: A micro piece

Being organic, social species gifts us reason, consciousness, the innate ability to learn languages, signs and symbols. But certain things are congenital to this gift also: That is a propensity for illness and ailment. I refrain, personally, from using the word “mental-illness” because it only seems to apply, as any psychiatrist will admit, to those who cannot continue ‘functioning properly or to their full potential’. For instance, a neurotic patient is not considered “ill” until neurosis hinders certain facets of their life: Agoraphobia is not an illness if you are constantly around large numbers of people. So the all-encompassing “mental-health” is felicitous. For the suffering of those who can hide should be acknowledged.

Our societies are rife with rising uncertainty. People fear how the other views them, amplified by the unremitting projection of life in a public arena. Models perform around us all the time; successful people flaunt their heights and promise those that “working hard” will foist them above the rest. However, reality is not that symbol and far more chaotic. And, so, unreached goals, shattered dreams or a particular version of it, triggers anxiety in many; the chaos, instability, within the web that is reality, turns an uncertain, anxious mind into an erratic box of loops. To stabilise reality, we find one loop to project the whole onto: Only if “so and so was so, life would improve for me”. Psychoanalysis christened this phenomenon “the object of desire” or “the object cause of desire”. And thus, neurosis is born. However, the anxiety a-prior is sufficed to inoculate ideas that hinder better mental-health, and so the person reaches to tether him/herself to psychiatrists, counsellors and psychologists etc.

Mental ailments can lurk in the lives across the strata of society: we saw many famous people – Truman Capote, Ernest Hemmingway, Sylvia Plath, Robin Williams – reach the point of suicide or alcoholism, ending their magical lives, at least it was told to us. It is certainly true, and always the case, that each individual mental instability should be examined within the context of the particular social group, partially shackled to state of things beyond their immediate circle. However, poverty brings forth a deeper propensity for mental-health issues, particularly depression and anxiety.

The mental health foundation published a study in 2016 outlining the strong links between poverty and mental health: “Poverty increases the risk of mental health problems and can be both a causal factor and a consequence of mental ill health.” The study then goes onto unravel the  process of certain links and its future ramifications, even after the person(s) have been lifted themselves out of poverty in later life.

Childhood experiences and certain learned anxieties can persist, often sub-consciously, manifests in ways seemingly different to the original source of problem: For instance, the anxiety and low self-esteem a poor child feels in a supermarket can later in life manifest as a neurotic urge to save money, going to extremes that occupies the majority of one’s time.

Mental health is not stabilised with a mere “cheer-up” or “kind words” aimed to lift the esteem of the suffer. It is a serious and important facet of human-life that radiates in our current epoch more than ever. We need a better – more open attitude to discourse about mental health, as organic beings who can communicate through language, signs and symbols.

I never began: So this suffering did not commence

Does it have a beginning, the end; can anyone measure the stars? Birthdays commence: instability is omnipresent. I am, please contrive any other myth, merely a child, as you are, my dear friend, a child swimming the polluted oceans formed by the stream cascading: So flows the chaos of humans. I am a simple kid, a mind erratic, divergent, repellent… But I am a baby: The love encapsulated, an embrace un-phased on the threshold of this void, the simple and only reality. Nothingness takes root nowhere: It is root. Sharing, caring, loving is not a simple gesture: It takes the gestures to manifest. I cared, shared, loved, humiliated; but the sun bestowed it rays on me: Can the prismatic skies play a movie in my eyes. But I do not take capsules, even though love confines itself – orifices adhesive – to tablet, values: And so spoke Moses of his love. The mountains – this void visible below, conjuring the image of our life at full speed, to fall and lose yourself, rot and scream through the journey, finally shatter on impact – unscrewed his heart, tablets a mere pretentious art, and his love seeped, overflowed: His will evolved beyond the transcendence of the state. But I am not a state: This current state of things, this beloved trip in circles, a concentric vortex, cyclone ready, catapulted my love into the abys: The abys stares back at me; I face the tree, back spun, mountains towered beyond. I began nowhere, transcendence of time mirrors the farce of “me”. The fool simply commenced. Superfluous is life, so covets the screams of the creator. I shall be a creator thus. And so is my beginning, not linear – omnipresent, like time. Untether me: Charm the fetters to suicide.

Diary entry four

Time passes me by. Can time really exist, beyond my constructed experience of fleeting moments – they roll; the lake passes like it. I am inert on the bench riveted on the promenade, smoking the cigarette I declared the final ‘smoke’ months ago. The afternoon’s blue sheen over the sky has faded into its purple, red and orange pre-night shade. The night is the sky’s shade. Every pull forces today to fade, into the distance where timelessness is; it’s the prismatic sky that conjures: The intermittent point between, a pause before the fall of darkness, where evil and good dissolves time into nothingness. The past a mystery to the human mind, a mind so fragile in its own delusions, distortions. I feel sick from normative thoughts, platitudes reverberating across the table, the furthest corner, the bar, jingling that silver cutlery set: This is all in an amenity I’d rather absorb myself in. I yearn to convocated with the folk, the dealers, prostitutes and the tech-savvy hipsters; I want their distortions surrendered to truth after a battle with norms and performative action – around romantic tables. I like the inebriated; the vaunted sap of literary orations, a soliloquy. This lake’s stream can take me there, to the place, timeless, where people are free, smoking, drinking and shaming the constructions of this fabricated reality; this schizo-nomadism is to counteract the world’s absolute schizophrenia. The leader, heart limpid and pure, could not survive the inculcated psychosis requisite to the deluded, calms minds – able to sell sweat, tears and blood of the worn-out to the warned fiend of material gain, merely to be thrown, burned into the smoke of my cigarette, fading with the prismatic sky, into the darkness, nothingness of timelessness.

Diary entry 3

It has been a week already. I left Turkey for a sojourn at. But the heat of life, the emptiness, absence of work – all kept me riveted to this pinnacle banal cycle of sleep, food, thinking but no love. If I get that job eight miles away from where I live, life may present a new array of paths. I could ingress into one. My heart beats motley with the world’s rhyme; the exchange of ideas between my father and the neighbor has fused with the local council’s rubbish removal truck; the radio, detached from this synthesis, is its own world – like me. The world rushes past me. My hands are still cold imbued in the last mistake. A final calm bounces off my walls. The bastion of my withering, that zest in life, zeal for life as a reality, a grandiose outlook, that place where everything made sense by radiating its meaninglessness: where good and evil is invisible; love is manifest between the fusion of two minds; ageing is not existent, only rough waters are seen and the skin is experienced: I want to be there again. But I have exchange love in favour of a cool mindset. The pills sieve me of my self, but my natural existence is too tumultuous: Steady love, passion – smiles may not be nourished.

Peak Liberal Harry-potter abstraction

I resent Harry Potter not only for the horrendous way in which it is written: The ideological basis for this novel series, enjoyed by a multitude, a category I cannot be a party to, has garnished the cosmopolitan, feigned intellectual mind.

His beard tickles her crossed legs: They both nod to calls for equal pay. She fell for his “feminist” slant politics, denoted on the “I am a male feminist” sticker plastered over that apple laptop, bought for him by his mother, who also presented this child with the Harry Potter set during Christmas – half the apple sign yielded to the sticker. On the hills of middle – level power, the Nazis torch brightens their night. “The left is as bad as them,” they say. The ostracized working-class person is diseased into the ranks that boast a white-supremacy; the “left” toil to carve up a new imagination, another state of being, distant from the cries of racist idiocy: Yet, “they are the same.”

It is the Hitler Salute that keeps the boat afloat. Pretentious glasses stained by chai latte, his only worry; crushed avocado falls post five minutes, her only poverty. Harry’s magic wand ordains the lords; the gods, these decrepit lords, pet them, feed their ego: The gentrified town floods her blog. “A new burger joint that no New Yorker knows makes the best fries,” she says. Five months in, once squalid, extortionately priced apartment has inferred them the rank of “New-Yorker”; the 20 year resident is no longer, who enjoys the fries in that place, that joint, full perpetually by those that boast 10, 30, 50 years in years: He is no longer a real “New-Yorker”. They must “cooperate with the Nazis”; as the boat rocks from the ocean of folk, the underclass, lower-class, poor black and white folk, resisting the tides of fascism, the liberal is consternated: His chai latte spills; the waitress is late to ready her crushed avocado. But the supremacist has a right to his opinion, for he keeps the waitress and the barista in their place, away from the immediate insult: The life the lower-class lives. And thus the salute keeps the liberal afloat.

The ocean’s surface, mild to us, too veneered to absorb reality, is the liberal’s crust. In abstraction thus they swim, on the surface, rejecting the shark’s existence.

Diary entry part two: The airport

This is my second consistent diary entry. I ought to be praised for it. The apple sign popped up on the screen of the phone connected to this laptop. Two women, looking perplexed, walked passed me. The duty-free sign is obscuring the reflection of people on the window. Some planes are visible; they land with such speed – one does not feel it inside the plane. The apple sign’s appearance implies a charging phone – this implies “internet”.  But – how mean, low and “under” is it to leave you, my beloved vocation – writing – (to write) so hastily, for an airport’s tumult, no less, for the mere internet. I lied. The airport is not chaotic or busy, and passengers are only visible sporadically. A little cutie pie, a girl, is raising hell – running in circles with her tiny suitcase. The workers are weird. Airport workers seem ostracized, in the periphery of life. It is the only place where all kinds of people are welcomed into drudgery: Perhaps the rejects from each category end up pouring their life, surrendered to an existential crisis, into these wretched places. I refuse to, thus, be an airport employee. “If only that girl was culture,” I say, only her nape visible, as she walks past me with an air of alluring sexuality. Her body refined, slithers into a well-kept face. She walks like Rosa Luxemburg – if Rosa, literally Corbyn murdered her, lived today. I wish such women were theorists and revolutionaries. This post-left, post-structuralist world has cooked our minds away from actual inquiry to image intensive posturing: It is cool to be pedantic, to reiterate facts about Scott Fitzgerald’s sex life. We miss Emma Goldman, Rosa Luxemburg; the factory girls remain a cutesy – zany imagination. Where is Simone de Behaviour?

In midnight in Paris, Mr. W. Allen takes on the notion that the past was somehow “better”. The protagonist is writing a novel about a “nostalgia shop owner”; the author believes ‘another era was better’. The world, in Woody Allen’s surrealist form, shifts to accommodate our protagonist, the author, in the 1920s: He awaits a car every night; as the clock strikes 24:00, he is taken on a ride back in time. Scott Fitzgerald and his lover become the vehicle for his convergence with Ernest Hemmingway, Picasso – and, finally, a girl that makes him pessimistic about his fiancé. After various occurrences that I do not want to enumerate not to ruin the movie for future viewers; it turns out the girl loves another era that passed before her birth. Everyone feels the past was more magical. Our transient and short-lives, even, manage to accommodate what ought to remain evanescent ideas; the world was admirable when we were 15, but at 40 – “young people these days”. Romanticising an era embroiders all “golden” occurrences, images, ideas, thoughts into one denote. The sticky, rough, grimy realities of that era effaced, we adore only that portrait – sieved, wrong, misconceived. The past seldom passes through my mind as golden, neither my heart palpitates for an image or moment exemplifying that era. One thing has sufficed to be uncanny within our generation though: Our young say “young people these days”; “my generation – good lord – the past was better.” Are we the only generation that can honestly assume sometime in the past was better? We are the only generation that constructs such opinions about its own generation: Elders opined about the young they did not understand. We understand ourselves, our fellow travellers in this world: are we this enigma that can be annexed from any correlative imaginations and misconceptions of the past? Bring back Rosa Luxembourg.

Diary entry in Turkey

Anything can precipitate an angry backlash. I am tired of using “a”, “an”, “the” this and that too. Besides other symptoms of lazy writing, my passion, love for witherings has dwindled. The call for prayer catupultes  my nerves into rationlity, again. One perhaps requires the stupidity, irrationality, idiocy religion secretes from its every orifice to remain rational as an enemy to this tumultuous mind fuck business. It 2017, you fuck-face: Everyone has a watch, a phone or some other hideous thing to tell them the time; yes, they will check how far they are in a day of fucking and being fucked while laying the blame on those who are innocent or inferior to them, also being blamed. Ergo, cunt, everyone is aware of the time of prayer. The de facto nerds of yours, in fact, hurtle towards God’s den, the mosque, prior to the call to prayer. Idiot, just quit calling. Your Islamic fools are turning up tbhe volume on the loud speakers, it is limpid to us all, within more secular demographics, to trigger the nerves of those deemed less-religious: if a reaction is precipitated thus, the religious can feign proscecution once again.

These idiots will beat you down everyday, then hone in on you because “you pinched them back”. God repel you are educated, a communist etc. – they will make mourning over this pinch requisite to citizenship and a democratic right. Every policy will be stained with rhetoric about this minor reaction. “You pinched us, ergo we have the right to tax alcohol”. So much is the schizophrenia of the religious. But, as I have scribbled above, they remind me to be rationale. In the fog of mental and ethical imitation, fakery – ersatz – the man who knows he is bad, that the world is wrong, that religion cannot emancipate us, at least in the form it has been contorted – an effortlessly contorted toy – is king.