May 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
Indie is out of the hospital and back with us – I do hate to see the pain he has wrought in his soul like twisted metal, but he looks a little better now and is going to alcohol counselling from now on, I am hopeful that this is the start of a new life for him; although I have asked him if he is going to be attending auditions again; and he waved me away like an insect, perhaps it is too raw to think about picking up the thread of his dreams again; but is this not the best way to quench a thirst? To dive into the river?
Jette has still not unbent enough to apologise for her part in the row, and is like a little whirlwind in the house to avoid everyone, slamming doors like a poltergeist. But I have seen Penny, and although things were most awkward, heartbreakingly stiff and formal, I had to cast my pride away and say sorry for being most drunk and stupid. She says I must not worry about a thing, but I sense the distance like a wall of ice between us.
My lover for her is like a candle spluttering, half extinguished by winds. Sometimes I do not think it is merely I who is the ghost in skin, who cannot give of themselves to love because I am living in another and more fantastical world, but many people who are like me; who wish to find love in their heads, in their ideas, and cannot hold the reality of flesh in their arms. Idealising people into who we wish them to be, and not who they are.
I am casting it out with painting, how creativity is the vanquisher of sorrows! They are more experimental than my usual work, and play with bolder colours and abstract lines, there is no focus to them, however, and I feel this is an expression of the lack of focus in me also. Perhaps I am keeping my paintings like a diary instead!
One of the other reasons I named myself Cairo is the meaning of it, that is Victorious. I will be, I am victorious in life. I am winning all the little battles that rage in my heart, my mind, although sometimes the armies are thick and heaving, and it is hard to see who is best. But I, in my little room, with my diaries and canvasses and the so tiny songbirds outside who sing soothingly to me in the darkest places, I am the victor. I must be – else, what meaning can there be in such a cramped and insecure half- life?
May 16, 2011 § 1 Comment
Today has seen the collapse of our house. I have tried to visit Indie in hospital but the big cast for correcting the muscles in my legs makes it difficult to travel, I wish I could sit there with him today, listening only to the sounds of lives spared and not spared. The fierce industry of hospitals, their many denziens scarred by the process of living.
I became drunk last night and have had the terrible row with Penny, in the kitchen, there was much shouting as I told her we all are knowing that her boyfriend is not nice to her, is maybe even hitting her. She threw things. Jette hear us arguing and comes downstairs, and is horrible and tells Penny the truth that I am hating her man because I am in love with her. I stammer, and wool is suddnely thick in my mouth and I cannot deny the thing. It is as though a cloud above my head has split in two, and rain is now pouring upon me in a shower of little needles. A creeping horror steals into me, raising the hairs on my skin, a cold shadow falls across my heart even though my face burns with anger and misery.
The air that has gone still, full of tension, like a heatwave. Penny’s face has closed up like a prison door, and I feel my heart being locked out of her forever by something as solid and impersonal as iron. She turns on Jette like a little lioness, and shouts things that have long been kept silent in her; Jette is a jealous bitch who has no happiness, who is a ghost of a person, who has no emotions or lasting love because she cannot handle them, she is immature and stupid and selfish, she has no real thoughts or art of her own and so must scorn the work of others even though she could never in a hundred lifetimes hope to create its equal. Jette recoils as though lashed by a whip; her face is so proud, but it falls horribly like a landslide, and everyone runs out of the room in tears but me.
So, there is silence, there is water on the floor, and china shards. The people next door were having a barbeque but have gone curiously silent to listen to us ruin ourselves; slowly, their voices begin to carry again through the window, and I pick up the broken things and wipe the floor, as though I am robotic. Penny’s room, next to the kitchen, is quiet. Jette is blasting out loud music from upstairs, and I left the house and walked slow and painfully down the road to the little cafe that keeps my paintings on the walls, to still the furious beating in my chest and drink some more.
May 14, 2011 § 1 Comment
Indie is in the hospital.
His drinking became so bad, he was even drinking first thing in the morning – the doctors have taken him there today to look after him, and say that his alcoholism is being a cry for help. We have known that he has the depression badly sometimes, but breaking up with his boyfriend was as they say the last straw. He is going to go to counselling and an alcohol rehabilitation program. I am praying for him.
Jette is not praying for him, and is being her usual self, cynical and hard. I did not even tell her that my hospital visit went so well, because she would take my news like a butterfly and crush it between her fingers. Penny I have told, and her smile for my good fortune was as the lovely sparkle of the Sun when He is playing on the water, sending me into a little trance – but even with her things are changing for the worse.
She does not love me, I think, at all. I think she has only been kissing me drunkenly to upset her Dutch man, who is straying from her. I have not helped myself by being drunk and stupid, acting out and getting into fights, ranting about the past. sometimes I just cannot help it, I am trying so hard to be happy and thinking the positive every day, but when I am drinking, the past comes out like a stain and darkens everything around it.
I am holding my good news like a precious letter to my chest, to keep it safe, and almost more, to use it as armour against the ravages of the world. Stupid, stupid, the grief of the world turns for everyone, and my present happiness is but the lid on the whole rotten barrel of myself.
May 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
Sometimes, Jette is so horrible about my thoughts about God, calling me stupid and fearful of the emptiness, putting down faith as though it were a child’s toy that she has long outgrown. She is so full of scorn, for God, for love, for anything that is happy and simple, and now she is being nasty to Penny because she is having troubles with her Dutch man. Says that she is silly, that she would not be stuck in a sad place because she is too clever to be trapped in the monogomas relationships, which, like marriage, are dull and conventional. I am trying hard to remember that her fury and bitchiness stems from the deep unhappinesses, but it is very hard sometimes!
She is not so sympathetic for Indie as we, she says that he has a choice, to change, to stay from the drink. That he has brung the tall tower wall of his misfortune upon his own head, and that she will drive him to the hospital if she has to, but that she will not sit and talk with him over his troubles as we do. My soul recoils from this hardness, as a man backing from the ledge of a big cliff, or a deep, deep well filled with dark water that may hide secrets and bodies.
I do not know why someone who is able-bodied, and attractive with a nice job and a safe warm home should be so angry. I am not trying to make small her experiences of the past, I do not know them and she does not like to discuss her past – but it is very saddening that a beautiful young girl with seemingly no troubles must scratch and snarl against life and others. As you know, I myself am having the manic depressions, and I often wonder if Jette has mental troubles, too. Just because something is not seen, does not mean that it is there.
I am glad, secretly, that Penny is having problems with the man. I am ashamed of my motives for this awful pleasure, but lately her smiles have been like little sunrises to me, and I have tricked and teased them from her as often as possible. Oh, but this is the Pyrrhic victory I did mention a few days ago. At a party, she was very drunk and did kiss me a little, and I did not know how much I wanted her until then. What a triumph! But the terror of such a short-lived happiness! Perhaps I am falling in love, but what could I have to offer her? I cannot leave the house some days with my legs, I am sometimes horribly mad – no, it cannot be. She does not want the insane artist with bad legs for a lover, I am ‘not her type’ I think. Although her face, her silver voice, her graceful rounded limbs and rippling hair -like a pre-raphaelite, an Ophelia in thrift-shop skirts – is becoming to me as vital as my own red blood.
May 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
Indie is in trouble.
His boyfriend has split up with him over his drinking the day before yesterday, and so now he has been drunk for two days. It is awful to see, his eyes are red and swollen, his arms blue and black from falling over outside, he is hoarse from crying; his voice reduced to a sad creaking, a whisper.
He has not eaten properly for many weeks, we think. His clothes hang from him, his skin, once so tanned and healthy looking, is sagging and dull and blossoming with pimples. His bracelets jangle around twig wrists, his eyes bulge like a hanged man from the deepening sockets in his skull. I think he is needing to go to the hospital, but he will not go. Penny and I are telling him that he must or he might die, but he refuses and says that he just needs a few days to sort himself out. The worry eats at her pretty face, creating lines around her mouth that is usually so smiling.
Her cheese-faced man is not so good for her I think – he is a passive thing, he lets the world bowl him along, like a tumbling weed, he has no directions, and like the rough weeds he is sharp and thorny in places. More than once I have seen her face streaked with the tears from his bitter words, and I think more than once a yellowing bruise upon her skin, like fading petals, is due his fists. She though, will not hear testament against him, and swears his love and honour to us when we are worried for her.
I cannot waste my thoughts on him now, when Indie is so horribly sick. If only there is a way to take the alcohol from him, but he says that he will harm himself if we do, with a knife or with pills. I tell him he is harming himself already, kicking his liver to death, and he lashed out like a snarling bear. He is so thin, wire covered in flesh; the corners of his mouth turned almost comically down, like the lips of a clown. I am certain that if he does not stop drinking then we will find him soon choked on his own vomit in bed, or simply dead in the road. What can be done with such stubborn will to destroy oneself?
April 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
There is a difference I think, between wanting to die and being ready to die. It is a morbid topic for such a beautiful day as this, but last night in the bath I was thinking more about the knife edge of the contrasts of life. Where the brightness ends and the shadow begins, a deep severing slice across the days, that turns the bone to ash and memory.
I am scared of death, Like I think, most people. I would be sorry to leave this jewel world in pain or in fear, and striving to see one more dawn, hear one more note from the bird’s throat, hold the hands. I would like to go with a long sigh, a breath of wind to stir the wild meadows of my soul, and cast the flower petals in the air, so they are blown far over the blue hills into another mysterious land.
I am not expecting to live the long life, not because I drink and am silly with my health sometimes; but I have the manic depressions, and take pills from the doctor. They make things better. Sleep was once such a hard thing, an animal I hunted through the night, always many steps ahead of me. The pills catch the sleep, and deliver her to me like a maiden whose soft hands soothe my brow as the day fades, and this is like cool water on the fires in my head. But because of these madnesses, I think sometimes they will take me with them.
I am more sad at the moment because my legs are bad after an accident the last year, and I walk slowly with sticks – and the world is so bright and full at this time; if I could but wander in the green grass and across the hills as I so used to love doing, and feel the blossoms fall against my cheek in the wild woodlands. Or go to a bar and talk with the people, or be free even to go further than the end of the road without help, yes, that would be much happiness! That would be the Sun and Moon in my hands and a crown of laughing stars about my brow! But I have talked with God about my legs and They have not given me an answer so I think this destiny is known only to Angels who are silent for now. I can only keep the little fire of Hope alive in my heart, and put my faith in the good doctors.
If I could meet my younger self before the accident, I would tell them many things. I would tell them not to be worrying so much, carrying a little thundercloud in their head. I would tell them to enjoy the pretty sunshine and not worry about whether people like them or think their words are worthy. I would say to not think about how you look but to enjoy your body that works for you and not to waste the days doing things you hate. I would also tell them to not leave the house that particular day – but this is maybe beside the point! And to myself now? If I was that healthy person looking into the black mirror of my future?
I would say you must get ready for some long talkings with God, and know that the world will get so much smaller but sometimes brighter in colours, and that you will paint and write more than you have ever before, and you will be sad, very sad that your old life has vanished, but accept with greater peace the end that waits us all. And in your journey you will meet the people who are also young and cannot walk, or breathe without special tanks they must carry around, who are being eaten from within by angry cells or kept to their beds by the immune diseases – and you will marvel and cry at the iron wills to live and laugh, like hardy plants who weather the white snow, and remain always green until Time has plucked them from the garden.