The Fear Factor

a letter, unread:

Dear Jamela,

There’s one thing I know for sure, there’s nothing I fear more than losing you.

I’ve just woken up from a nightmare (covered in a cold sweat etc.). In the nightmare (I remember it vividly because I woke with a jolt), I had done something to annoy you and, as a consequence, you had blocked me. I was desperately trying to contact you, but each time I did you’d read what I had to say then blocked that communication channel. Finally, every avenue was blocked so I kept on going to your house (this was a dream and your house and family were here in Holland). Each time I’d go to your house (which was a different one each time) a member of your family would tell me you no longer lived there but I could hear you dancing, or singing, or talking or even playing tennis… I kept trying to get into these different houses to see you, to apologise, to explain myself but on each occasion I found myself trapped in a bathroom, a bathroom from my childhood, a bathroom with carpet on the floor; a bathroom that kept turning into a padded cell of a lunatic asylum.

Anyway, that was a nightmare, nothing more — I’m remembering now that book, Why we Dream. I don’t believe that nightmares are anything other than our brains sorting out and processing information. Nevertheless, as that book kind of suggests, we can somehow take guidance from these dreams/nightmares and that I plan to do. I will be thankful for every day I have you with me as a soulmate, I will work hard to understand each and every one of your personality traits in order for me to treat you right. You have given me so much, you continue to give me so much and, to me, you are the elixir of life; the epitome of my happiness; ‘the’ reason to celebrate and cherish being alive.

It was just a dream, just a dream.

Yours in life & in love,
James

Heaven — is with you

Heaven
The Kiss
by Gustav Klimt (1908)

“The mind is a universe and can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
― John Milton

Hell — is without

Hell
The Scream
by Edvard Munch (1893)

“Life moves very fast. It rushes from Heaven to Hell in a matter of seconds.”
― Paulo Coelho


p.s.
Welcome to the twenties! They say to be happy, inter alia, we should (a) go to bed early and (b) embrace boredom. I can see the logic behind such advice but am I likely to follow it? I think not. I am a hedonistic human being and this is something that I cannot escape. Oh! The (futile & fruitless) Pursuit of Happiness.

The book mentioned — Why We Dream: The Transformative Power of Our Nightly Journey — is written by Alice Robb and is reviewed in this post: Dream on

Dream

on the vexing subject of anxiety
Understand your anxieties
Try keeping a diary of what you are doing and how you feel at different times to help identify what’s affecting you and what you are best able to take action on.
on the vexing subject of anxiety
Get to grips with your anxieties
When you’re feeling anxious, it can help to use a problem-solving technique to identify some solutions (e.g., writing them down on paper), this can make the challenges you’re facing feel more manageable.
on the vexing subject of anxiety
Shift your focus
Some people find relaxation, mindfulness or breathing exercises helpful because they can reduce tension and focus one’s awareness on the present.

Elixir
A magical or medicinal potion. — “The seller of snake oil promised Oliver an elixir guaranteed to induce love.”


Epitome
A person or thing that is a perfect example of a particular quality or type. — “He looked the epitome of elegance and good taste.”


Hedonistic
[adjective]
To be engaged in the pursuit of pleasure; sensuous and self-indulgent. — “Julie dreamed of a hedonistic existence of sex, drugs, and hardcore house music but in reality moped around in her dressing gown in her suburban living room.”


Lunatic asylum
A psychiatric hospital.


Padded cell
A room in a psychiatric hospital with padding on the walls to prevent violent patients from injuring themselves.

Strung out on

a marooned schooner,

History
History speaks

I was way down, deep deep down below the decks and it’s unbattened hatches, scouring and lurking around like a stowaway seeking succour. It seemed as if there was no tonic to be found; no medicine to mend, for a time, my moribund mood — all the hammocks were of hemlock, no harbour on the chart could afford me birth to lay low in and ease, for a while, my knotted mind — but then, a hint of respite, the faintest of breezes did blow and the sagging sail taunted ever so slightly, I happened upon the following line, penned by one Scott Jeffrey: “There are three main ways to learn about human psychology: read Greek mythology, read Carl Jung, observe others.” He went on to say that while observing others was the most powerful, reading about the psyche helps inform such observations. As currently I’m at sea, I’ve few, and ‘no ‘ new humans to observe, I thus decided to hold course and scrolled down to see which books he’d recommend — this, the going off on absentminded digital tangents, the seeking out of uncharted waters, is what I’m now driven to do — my one&only has abandoned ship and thus, locked shut the open book that we would deviously delve into on a near nightly basis; these nightly trists did span for more than the proverbial one thousand and one nights (they lasted just shy of 6 whole years, 6 deliciously delectable but deeply destabilising years) — but anyway, nevermind (well obviously I do deeply mind but this is my burden to battle with, not one that tonight at least, I’m able to thrash out and fathom in the public arena: Oh! Ladies of Rome, lend me your ear for I’ve a tale to tell of yesteryear) — of Jeffrey’s recommendations was Victor Frankl’s, Man’s Search for Meaning. I didn’t realise what it was about but it is, I learnt, well received and has obvious pulling power. Upon the embarkation of my investigations into Frankl, I stumbled upon Lapham’s Quarterly – a magazine that (and I here quote verbatim), “embodies the belief that history is the root of all education.” To which I say, “here here to all of that.” You see, the magazine’s editors juxtaposed an excerpt from Frankl’s book, in a feature section called ‘Conversations,’ against a passage extracted from Leviathan (Thomas Hobbes, 1651). You tell me. You tell me because, after that, I then ‘stumbled’ upon some eerily touching poetry it seemed to be speaking directly to me. It is alas the sort that’s uploaded on social media platforms as images and thus not easily sharable (of course and probably, that’s the point). I feel I’m going mad (maybe) because I feel it is being written in an indirect but explicit way for me to see and read. I was compelled to ask myself if I’ve now become the Captain of that fabled becalmed clipper ship, doubting my sanity and questioning my very existence but think — I reason to myself — of the Midnight stalker, the Mute troll; I mean, I’m saying, was I not prowling known hangouts? Was I not trawling about in places where I should/shouldn’t be? Where I was/wasn’t assumed to be cruising about in? Maybe I’m not as delusional after all. It is as if my departed other half is pouring out their soul to a receptive receiver who in turn is converting these pains into poetic form and posting them online. But it can’t be, can it? Well, technically it could be. It really speaks to me and the trials that I imagine my absconded soulmate to be going through seem to be those that I read and the imagery of scars could at a push be those that I may be considered to carry… it was said, was it not, that you could have (had) it all…


What have I become
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end.


My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt.



Trent Reznor (but in the tenor of Johnny Cash)

Yeah, they’ve cut and run, left me high and dry to cry out and die a thousand deaths but it was i. It was me. It was i who’d made them walk the plank a hundred or more times, knowing full well they were no good with convoluting currents. It was i that unleashed my vile cat-o-nine-tailed tongue and delivered vitriolic diatribes of great length (with her highness Hindsight these were a consequence of my guilt on the one hand and my anger at not being able to be with my one & only day and night — context, culture and circumstance did forbid that from ever realistically coming to fruition during those turbulent times). And maybe the lost love i read about in those jay-peg image poems is between another pair of nature’s most mentally troubled creatures. We can all of us read into something whatever the fuck we want to read into it; some like the sea of tranquility, others of us prefer the fire and the fury.


Thomas Hobbes
Thomas Hobbes
by John MichaelWright (circa 1669-1670)


som_cover
but when all’s said and done we continue to (over)think
lapman's-history--02
so when night is upon us we continue to wonder
flesh_cover_0
this morphs into a mixture of simple to quantify carnal lust
8173PEH672L
and, alas, deeply felt love that’s simply not quantifiable, is wholly insatiable and can ultimately only tear us into two severed and separated hearts.

✍🏻 Tempestuous

her siren call rings still —

  (1) I’ve been trapped for days
  (2) Summer heat does blaze
  (3) Enrapt by her gaze
  (4) I’m in a deep daze
  (5) I’m into her ways
  (6) I love all she says

The Tempest
‘The Tempest’ (1886) painted by Ivan Aivazovsky

Tempest
noun
A violent windy storm: “a raging tempest.”

✍🏻 100’s (#01)

written in red and underlined twice for emphasis

100-words---01

Opening Lines

"One hundred words, one hundred words." He played those words again and again; six only but, all voiced by his incarnation of Mrs Robinson (her tone, and oh how he wanted to believe, her sultry undertone)  He spent the night with paper and pen. It was, when all was said and done, futile, for too fixated he'd become with seeking to create a 'hidden' vertical passage. It ended up with: thirty two times "I really want you." The following morning he fully intended to deliver it but, ended up transferring from English Lit to Civil Engineering.