Good day.

May 13, 2011 § Leave a comment

Today, I am transported to heaven! The doctors have seen my legs and done incredible scans with their machinery, and have told me that I will walk properly again with much help. I am so happy, my heart has flung itself open – a jealous door I have been guarding over my year of anxiety and sorrow over this – as a flower with a thousand petals! The sun upon my face is the kiss of my silent Angels, who have held me in their grave and gentle wisdom over this awful time. I am laughing like a God gazing on the yellow corn as it ripples in the wind, or hurling lightning from the mountaintop. I am thanking myself and the universe as the co-creators of my life, I am sending love from the spring of my heart to everyone who has need of it, my heart unfolds into the corners of space and the stars are laughing with me in joy.

I sound mad, I suppose, and today I am, mad with happiness; as though a great, deep ocean were before me, and I have run to its edge and thrown myself in, surrounded by cool, clear water and the beautiful mysteries of the undersea. I am eating strawberries, and the red juiciness of them, their rich colour is as bright as a jewel. I am finding the little joys of the world amazing most days, but on this day, even the birds singing are like little fanfares that play ‘Well done, Cairo, it is a long, difficult road, but you walking it like a King.’


The many secrets of happiness.

May 10, 2011 § Leave a comment

The idea of happiness being a thing to strive for and win like a prize, instead of the thing that is always in you if you know how to look, is I think, one of the great obstacles to the human contentment. We think we will find happiness if we move away to the country, or get married, or are rich. I’m sure that these things do contribute to how much a person is enjoying their life, of course, but they are not little milestones on the way to the mythical city called Happiness!

I have a few things that always remind me of my own innate joys and makes me full of God again. I would like to share them with anyone reading this diary so that they can use them if they like.

Kovalski’s Happiness List:

* Give your things away.

I do not need so many things. They are creeping up on me like little mountains of items picked up hastily in charity shops and bookplaces. What drives me to keep clothes and things I don’t need? Is it a sentimental feeling? Do I wish to remain the person who wore those cool trousers forever? These books I will not read again, why are they still here? Little things, bits of memory, clutter. Get it out, be light in how your possessions weigh upon your life, otherwise they will drag you down with their weight. I do keep all my canvasses though because this is my art.

* Look at little miracles as though they are big miracles.

Yesterday in the graveyard I am sitting next to a patch of wild violets, their purple in the sunshine incredible, and all around lush grass so emerald. The petals of the tiny flowers so perfect and intricate, and then a butterfly white with little dark patterns traced upon its wings landed briefly touching the earth. The love put into every fine detail of these little things made me strange with awe. Somewhere above my head galaxies of a million beautiful stars are moving, and here I am with the tiny perfect flowers, and my heart was full of the mysterious power of creation. This is what I mean by the big miracles in little things.

* Making friends with suffering.

Suffering hurts, I have nearly died many times, through illness and accidents, and now my legs mean I cannot walk far. I am having madness sometimes, too. But I have tried to make friends with my suffering, and learn from it that no pain is bigger or more powerful than my heart. Nobody is alone in their pains, we are all experiencing deep sorrow, and a person may have less or more sorrow than you. It is good if you believe in God and our selves as God also, to remind your self that you know what you are doing, and the reason will become clear to you for your sufferings in the long evolving of your life.

* Remembering what it is all about.

If you are of the spiritual and artistic mind, then what it is about is Love of God, helping the world be better and enjoying and realising the experience of being your self through immense creativity. It is easy to be forgetting this when the suffering and the amnesia of living are upon you.

* Watch your thoughts.

Sometimes your thoughts will be running away with you and taking you to anxious and bad places. It is good to watch your thoughts, and laugh at them when they are misbehaving. The neurons on your head are really quite plastic and will burn little synapses and things wherever you tell them, when you are mastering your thoughts, your brain is rewiring itself into a happier being.

There are some of my secrets for being happiness.

What will be.

May 9, 2011 § 1 Comment

I am praying that my appointment at the hospital goes well next week. As I visited the church, I dragged myself and my reluctant legs out into the graveyard; looking at all the stones time has weathered, all the mounds of grass where bones are quietly melting into the soil. I saw in the eye of my mind the skeletons under the earth, sleeping forever, and thought about no matter what we are dealt in life’s game, we all end up here one day.

This thought is morbid for a nice day, no? But I do not think so – I was sitting by a patch of the most delicate purple violets, come to a vibrant life under the gaze of the Sun. I saw the little roots of the pretty plants reaching into the earth where the people are resting, and I was happy in my little quiet moment thinking much about the Infinite. The Angels are still not telling me anything about what will happen to my legs, and I must learn more to detach. A thing happened at the weekend that gave me the fresh sight, that one of my housemates left the gas on during the night.

I thought, after I had profusely thanked God that we had not died in an explosion, how sadly ironic it would have been, to have spent my last days fretting and worrying about my future next week, when such a future may have been wiped out in a heartbeat this weekend! How stupid, I said to myself, what will be will make itself known in good time, and these near misses must only highlight how futile the anxious state! Does the gnawing of fingernails and the biting of lips prolong our little lives by even the one second? How reminded I am to thank God for all of my precious seconds!

Rapture and torture.

May 7, 2011 § Leave a comment

It is true, truth like the greening of the land. I am in love with Penny. I yearn for her in the pit of my stomach, I sigh, weep, bite my fingers. I hover like a bug about her in the kitchen, inane jokes flying from my lips. At night, I bury my face in my hands, it is impossible. She has kissed me, but so drunkenly, I do not believe this is what she feels for me in her heart. Ah, Love! What wonderful torture, like being beaten, whipped by an imperial beauty, like poor Severin in Venus in Furs.

I feel I am being taught to submit to the female, to kneel before her, her wishes upon my head like a garland of roses, thorns pricking my skin. The unattainable is the thing all humans most desire, like the apple of knowledge, the flesh of the wise salmon. Like lightning she has struck my heart all the more because she is forbidden to me, chaste and dressed in white. I must think of her skin as cold china, unresponsive, not thrumming with warmth or need to be touched. Like a nymph of the wood, glimpsed through green leaves, she must remain elusive, half mythical.

Worries and futile hopes, like frail baby birds.

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.

Little thought.

May 5, 2011 § Leave a comment

There is but one sentence in my diary on this date, and it is this:

Oh, the Pyrrhic victory of getting that which you most hunger for in your soul, as needful as clean air, essential as bread.

The many roads of destruction.

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?

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