Turned on the radio this morning, forgetting I’d last listened to 5Live, not R4. The sound of a Formula 1 race is not a soothing way to start the first few seconds of the day. Brooooooooooom! Zoooooooom! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrowl! Sounds like the inside of my fucking head all the time. Don’t need it replicated out of the magic talking-singing box beside my bed. Off button is my new favourite thing.
It also occurs to me that listening to Formula 1 on the radio is a really rather pointless thing. Some sports just don’t translate. Surely you need to see the drivers who all look the same, in cars that all look the same, driving round and round and round tracks that all look the same, occasionally overtaking one another, mostly not, never crashing in horrific ways because that’s not allowed since Senna died?
I’ll rephrase that. Surely Formula 1 has become one of the dullest sports on earth ever since the death of Ayrton Senna because they became obsessed with safety? Yes it was tragic. All drivers’ deaths are terrible but they climb into the cars knowing disasters can happen. Or used to. They weren’t hoping it would happen and therefore make the race more exciting for the viewer or the gathered crowd. But they were brave enough to accept the risks. The risks are reduced these days. Deaths do still happen because fast cars and split-second decisions will never be an entirely safe combination, but the guys twenty, thirty, forty years ago were increasing their odds of being killed or seriously injured every time they climbed into the car.
Why am I even writing about this? I haven’t cared since 94 when, as I say, Senna died. Brooooooooooom! Zoooooooom! Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrowl! No, I haven’t turned the radio back on, my head is making those noises all on its own again.
Reverse King Midas turns everything he touches to shit.
The backwards alchemist transforms gold into base metals.
Bastard elves crap in shoemakers’ carefully crafted work.
How to believe in goodness
In a world that rewards avarice
And punishes the poor?
How to find faith in progress
When all evolution has done for me
Is supply me with the dexterity to kick myself
In the testicles
Over and over and over?
The world begins and ends this very moment.
The past erects a scaffold,
The present walks me up the stairs,
Puts a stinking bag over my head,
Pulls a lever.
At last the future dies.
At last I care no longer,
Hold no hopeless hopes close to my heartless heart.
I feel like hundreds of giraffes have been running around inside my skull, smashing their heads against my brains and shitting all over the place. It must be Saturday.
What a brilliant surprise. I arrived at my favourite coffee house having forced myself to get up and out, to experience some sunshine and celebrate the murder of a magician by some ancient Romans. Is it possible to do things under duress when you’re the one who has decided you ought to be doing them? If it is then I duressed. A lot.
I arrived at said coffee house and saw a familiar figure standing ahead of me. My dear friend Tony who had a triple heart bypass a month or so ago and has had all manner of complications and been back in hospital much of the time since, was standing there waiting to be served! A very welcome sight indeed, especially as I knew he was having a procedure to drain fluid from the lungs – one of the complications – only yesterday.
Even better news, after we’d had a sit in our usual place and caught up a bit with the various and varying struggles we’ve both been experiencing lately he had to go off to the hospital again. Not for further treatments but to pick up his lovely wife Dawn who has been pretty unwell herself and in the Royal Devon and Exeter for some time too. Hopefully over the weekend we will all be physically and mentally well enough to gather together for caffeines again, along with Darcy the Wonder Dog who must have been very confused by what’s been going on in recent weeks (she has, I believe, been looked at by a friend who owns Darcy’s cousin so at least the port little woofer has had family to whine to).
Another friend came in while Tony was with me so it has been a sociable spell. I am now exhausted but so very pleased things are improving a little for two very dear people. And with my psyche assessment looming and the meds at least stopping me from wanting to plummet from tall buildings things are a wee bit better for me too. Long may such small but significant progress continue.
Now Is Henry Winkler of our discombobulation.
These are words. They are springing from my fingers as I tap at a keyboard. Miraculously they then appear on my computer screen. Eventually I and all the other infinite amount of monkeys will recreate something already written. Perhaps we should write more original material instead?
Some memories are grit in the corner of the eye;
No amount of washing,
Or rubbing at them lets them rinse away.
To which imaginary redeemer?
I’d sooner count the pebbles on the shore
Or beg the sea to wear me down to sand.
Forgiving and forgetting are internal,
Are diluted disinfectant,
Distilled from dirty, faecal-clogged unholy water.
Keep your gods,
You may have need of them
Should you start wailing in the dark.
I’ll wipe my eyes again,
Another pointless exercise:
And pleading with the sea to come
To wear me down to sand.