overwhelmed

Having experienced a life of some ups and a lot of downs but, basically, having navigated my way through, albeit somewhat bruised, a few years back, I became overwhelmed by a variety of circumstances that gave me a sort of toxic shock. Some of these things, especially health, struck at the heart of the coping methods (particularly meditation) that I had hitherto found helpful. Having been knocked down, all sorts of other psychological nasties that I had thought I had digested began to swoop in and feast and so began some years of colossal indigestion!

So weakened, I was, that all the efforts I made seem to come to nothing and left me feeling more powerless and besieged. I found that even when there were moments of fresh air, it wasn’t long before something came along to crush these new shoots. To add to this I felt utterly humiliated and shamed by my inability to cope so drew back from others as there didn’t seem to be anybody who empathised, let alone able to help. Mostly the expectation and pressure from others made me feel more frustrated and impatient with my situation which, of course, worsened it.

Just recently, in spite of further challenges, I feel the beginnings of a shift in outlook. Although very early days, I sense the glimmerings of a recognition that, despite circumstances, they are able to overpower me only insofar as I am prepared to feed them with my fear or my craving for escape to somewhere else. This involves accepting that my life has changed utterly, that it cannot be as I want it and developing an openness and curiosity to discover what it can be.

It seems I am a stranger in a strange land. Still digesting...

a phlegmish weekend

As I’ve already mentioned, most of my recent posts, especially whilst I’ve been visiting my parents, have been a little grim, to say the least. I’ve had rather a lot that I’ve felt compelled to get off my chest.

I’m hoping it will clear the way for rather more fresh air, appreciation and perhaps even some random smiling, though I’m also sure that there’s still the odd ‘oyster’ to be ejected, so take care!

beat up

The first of a handful of times I’ve been attacked and beaten up was when I was at college. I was walking along a main road in Cambridge at around 9pm, feeling a little downcast (which can act as a magnet for would be attackers), having found that the disco I’d intended to go to wasn’t on that night, when someone passed me then tapped me on my shoulder. Thinking it was someone I knew but hadn’t noticed in my self absorption, I turned round but was surprised when he asked me what I wanted. Before I could reply, another man appeared saying, ‘What are you saying to my brother?’ then attacked me. Knocked to the ground, completely bewildered, I did my best to fend off their punches and kicks.

Eventually, I got away, not severely injured, with some bruises and what became a black eye. I headed to a friend’s room in college to relate what had happened though decided not to go to the police as I was going through an ‘anti-establishment’ phase and had a dim view of both the police and penal system.

It wasn’t until I’d returned to my own room that I became upset and cried. Rather than this being ordinary self pity, it was because this completely random attack had undermined my ‘faith in humanity’. Another way of putting it was that I was upset following having discovered my trust had been naîve and misplaced.

trust

The only viable kind of primary trust is trust in oneself or, rather, developing the confidence that we can engage meaningfully with what arises in our lives, for we will surely have our mishaps! From that we may be able to develop a realistic degree of secondary trust in others.

It’s not that others are necessarily devious or malicious, although some certainly are, it’s based on the recognition that all of us are fallible. Indeed life itself produces an abundance of mishaps. Even if we are fortunate enough to live a relatively pleasant life, we will suffer some losses along the way and, in the end, death, the biggest mishap of all, perhaps, will surely catch us up!

For those of us who are susceptible to low self esteem, developing trust in oneself presents a considerable challenge, although the alternative presents greater problems. I know from bitter experience, if one has put too much trust in another and they let one down or, even worse, betray one, then one’s self esteem sinks lower still.

Although, faced with many difficulties, so very much still a work in progress, I am trying to build the appropriate confidence to engage with mishaps as they arise and, as with friendship, appreciate, rather than depend on, the goodwill of others when I am fortunate enough to encounter it.

in praise of poignancy

Poignancy, certainly not to be confused with sentimentalism, is when something pierces our heart. Our usual train of thought is momentarily interrupted and we are touched by sadness that is inextricably joined with joy. All kinds of things can spark this and, during these moments, we are at our finest and can really appreciate the preciousness of being human.

walk on by

For the sake of completeness (the perfectionist emerges), here’s a clip of Aretha Franklin (not to be confused with the drag artiste, Urethra Franklin), singing the haunting ‘Walk on By’

early Roxy

The Roxy was a tatty old cinema that I used to go to occasionally when I was a child, to see such sensations as 101 Dalmations. It later became a bingo hall and was finally demolished to make way for what is now my parents’ GP surgery.

Early Roxy Music I loved, above all for Brian En[’s synth work, for Bryan Ferry’s louche appearance and wicked lyrics.

Two of my favourites: Ladytron and remake/remodel.

scratchy synth & touching vocals

Here’s a Coco Rosie clip I came across thanks to @Kevinmorosky who I discovered by chance as a ‘nearby tweeter’. The wonderfully scratchy synth in ‘By your Side’ reminded me of some of Brian Eno’s contributions to early Roxy Music who I loved eg remake/remodel, or Ladytron, whilst some of the vocals reminded me of the haunting, touching trumpet in ‘Walk on By’, one of my favourite sad songs. The lyrics are also very sentimental and un PC but they appear to the unrequited, gooey romantic ‘housewife’ in me (aghhh! Get her out! Get her out! How embarrassing).

my cat

I’m leaving my cat, Tigs, with my parents this weekend as they have kindly say they will look after him, along with theirs, whilst I am away later this month. Altogether he’ll be here for a month and I’ll certainly miss his company, especially when I’m back in London, although I might get some glimpses via Skype.

My mother adores him and will, no doubt spoil him. One of her cats will hate having another cat around whilst her son will probably enjoy the odd scuffle in between catching birds though hope Tigs won’t pick up that particular habit!

Here’s a clip of Tigs welcoming me home.

hello darkness, hello grim

Seem to be caught in an undercurrent of the dark and the grim at the moment. Trying to blame it on spending time with my parents but must own up, myself, to a lot of the ‘ongoing’!

Hoping to rediscover perky and quirky again soon. In the meantime, readers may wish to peruse some of my earlier posts (eg May) to relieve current doom and gloom!

small talk

Following recent posts, I’ve reflected regarding small talk. I don’t think it is necessarily dysfunctional. As mentioned previously, it probably doesn’t have the bandwidth to express complicated stuff so it is quite hard if one has a lot of ‘ongoing’ in one’s life. Recently I’ve found it a bit much as it is easy for innocent enquiry to present dilemmas. For instance, if someone asks me about my work or health, I am faced with the option of lying and the tension consequent with that (which worsens my physical conditions and makes me want to flee, pronto) or get drawn into a quicksand of explanation (rather like this blog really!).

On the other hand, unencumbered by too much baggage there is the opportunity to chat quite simply, genuinely, meaningfully, with an economy of words, without treading well worn banalities.

appreciation I

I’ve always been inclined, naturally to express my appreciation of things and, especially people. I also recognise that it is valuable thing to express to others and it enhances their self esteem.

On the other hand, well meaning compliments, not really based on facts, but intended to make you feel better, such as that offered by family of friends doesn’t sit well with me. Still worse, I find the ‘affirmation movement’, though perhaps well intentioned, entirely bogus and counterproductive.

To be meaningful and effective, appreciation really has to be genuine otherwise it has a hollow ring that only the most narcissistic, naîve or gullible can overlook.

One of the reasons I found it very hard to work in design studios was the hype and bullshit that is common currency in that industry. On the other hand, many years back when I got to know the film maker Derek Jarman whose work I had previously quite appreciated and was really blown away by a video he’d shown me over his Super 8 work, I felt almost too embarrassed to express my enthusiasm as I feared he might mistake it for brown nosing. Although, there were some dubious ‘fans’ around him at times, I can to know him as a genuinely kind and talented man, who didn’t take advantage using his alternative celebrity. I appreciate having known him both as a person and an artist and, since his death in 1994, I miss him greatly.

perfectionism

I was talking to an acquaintance on the phone recently and was saying, ‘I’ve never thought of myself as a perfectionist but...’ when there was a glitch on the line (either my VOIP or her cordless) and when I could here again she was saying, ‘I’ve always thought of you as a perfectionist.’

I would certainly confess to always wanting to do my best, as a basic inclination rather than from my brief time in the cubs and even briefer time in the scouts! I think, however, I am realistic about this and hope more for ‘good enough’ than perfection. On the other hand, I am aware of getting very uptight about falling short, particularly when others are judging me and can get overwhelmed by demands that I can’t really all meet. At that point I often become neurotic and very prone to both trying too hard and over stretching myself which has brought unfortunate consequences.

My current ill health might have begun with a car accident but has certainly been exacerbated by burn out with work and struggling with what was essentially a no win situation where I was working voluntarily for over two years. In the latter difficult situation, I knew I could never ‘fix it’ so that it was just right but really hoped I could make a positive difference. Not only was I hit hard by my failure to do this but was also ambushed by some people who I had considered to be friends who, to add insult to injury, had misconstrued my efforts entirely.

This hit my self esteem very badly and I really lost confidence that I could achieve anything very much. Attempting to return to work after this period, I also discovered that I really couldn’t take the pressure any more.

I don’t have big or perfect ambitions, I just hope I can find a place where I can be considered good enough and, occasionally, appreciated.

dysfunctional communication

Dysfuntional communication arises when there is lack of attention, deception, perhaps unintentional, through denial, or intentional avoidance, manipulation or dishonesty. Unfortunately, at the moment, the little verbal communication I have with people is largely dysfunctional.

The only regular conversation I have is with my parents. It is dysfunctional because it is driven by denial and avoidance of things that must not be said, let alone challenged. It is like having to carefully navigate around high explosives, whilst walking on eggshells. Of course, this isn’t helped all that much their attentiveness (except to denial) is not good so that one is rarely heard and usually talked at and over. This is why I find it so burdensome and draining or, simply put, so sad to talk with them.

In about a week I am due to join a ten day course in France with a several hundred others, a few of which I know. Unfortunately, given this is a meditation course, there will be a gay couple that I know quite well there too. I say unfortunately as, having regarded them as friends over a number of years, in spite of some hints there was something amiss, I lately discovered, via a mutual acquaintance, that they are largely driven by petty ambition and paranoia to the extent that they have been quite ready to manipulate and undermine others which has lead to various unfortunate consequences, including my marginalisation within our local group. I know from the experience of others that it will not be realistic to mention this as, at any slight hint of criticism, they will go nuclear in an instant. It seems that the best option will be distant politeness.

telling the truth

Although I didn’t have a particularly religious upbringing, I am driven by an imperative to always tell the truth. In an extreme situation, to protect another or avoid sudden death or injury I would be quite willing to lie and I can spin out a lie for comic effect so long as I can reveal the truth at the denouement and I’m not teasing someone cruelly with it. The occasional ‘white lie’ is possible although even that gives me pangs of unease so dishonesty is something I will go to great pains to avoid even if it might seem to make for an easier life. Certainly, I find it chronically painful to sustain dishonesty and the closer I am to someone, the more difficult it is.

I am, however, quite adept at sniffing out a lie though this ‘talent’s’ usefulness is slightly diminished because I don’t like confrontation and, because such a discovery often upsets me, I will sometimes try to ignore it, clinging to the hope that I will be proved wrong. The latter has not happened though I have ended up being conned on a number of a occasions because I have so desperately wanted to have my intuition proved wrong.

in crowds

I have never felt all that comfortable within crowds of people, even less so as I have become more reclusive and felt more marginalised.

A few years back I attended a family camp for some 400 fellow buddhist students, in Alsace, although most of the attendees were German, with a few English people. I appreciated what an enjoyable environment it was for the ‘target demographic’ but I really felt like a fish out of water. I don’t have a family, I don’t particularly enjoy the company of children and was probably the only gay man there, although there were a few lesbians. On the other hand, had I been there with a partner, I wouldn’t have found the whole thing so antagonistic and, I should add, I knew some single straight people who were there who felt a little bit the same, although they had at least the opportunity to flirt even if not a date.

Crowds of people, including many that I know at little, I also find quite hard as one’s attention is pulled hither and thither, with the anxiety that one might unintentionally ignore someone and the superficial nature of one’s acquaintance with people usually means that there is not the ‘bandwidth’ to support much quality communication.

In some respects, twitter is often like that. I find my anxieties and scattered attention so often leave me depleted, although I have been fortunate enough to have met people with whom I feel some authentic communication cam develop.

attention

I remember hearing years ago, from someone on the alternative scene, that attention was energy. Certainly, if our attention is scattered, it reduces the possibility of discovering value. Value not so much a thing that is necessarily going to advance our status or prosperity in a material sense but, rather, the experience of appreciation of the quality of richness in our lives, others and ourselves.

Many varieties of contemplative technique, based on mindfulness and awareness, offer these possibilities in the sense they arise naturally as a by-product rather than something striven for and fabricated.

In regard to communication with others, whilst avoided some stilted application of this, simply taking one’s time and being willing to pay attention, listen carefully and express genuinely bring a value to all involved. Without this, it is all to easy for the communication to become drained, devalued and, sometimes, even dishonest.

authentic communication

Although me might have good intentions, there are few of us that aren’t susceptible to some self delusion, so a degree of self reflection and a little self scepticism too, perhaps are helpful but it is having a genuine intention to communicate genuinely that is most important.

Conversation based on a gentle genuineness is a most precious thing as it can touch our hearts, heal us, energise us and inspire us too.

my aunt II neighbours

My aunt still lives in the house my mother was born in and, in spite of two major clear outs by myself, once some 15yrs and once, after she had a fall, 18 months ago, has returned to a state of squalor, especially the kitchen and the stench from the cat litter tray which is sad.

Whilst not really a racist, she did become fearful as more non white faces moved into her street. Ironically, the Asians that have moved in have actually become the most neighbourly of her neighbours, putting to shame the white ones who have lost many, so-called ‘English virtues’.

my aunt I

The happiest moments of my childhood were probably spent with my maternal aunt, until she became reclusive through infirmity, was great value. She never married, having had unfortunate relationships with men but was quite an extrovert and an eccentric.

In my early teens, she took me to the theatre and bought me Babyshams. She also took me on a holiday with her ‘gentleman friend’ (who she’d been engaged to in her youth) and his son from one of his several marriages. She was also inclined to confide snippets of her youthful indiscretions which always entertained me.

She had a knack for bumping into minor celebrities and was brazen enough to converse. On a train journey, she managed to coax Percy Edwards into going through his repertoire of birdsongs. Whilst visiting Devon, she met and conversed with one of the Dimbleby brothers. On a subsequent visit, she did the same with Bamber Gascoigne and asked him whether he was there to visit the former. He said, ‘Yes I am, actually, do you know him?’

In later years, I met up with her when she was visiting an exhibition at the Royal Academy with her Art Evening Class. She was looking a little like a bag lady and I cringed as I followed her around with her poking her finger at the paintings with comments like, ‘That bit looks a little like a pussy cat’ and ‘Look at all the paint on that, it’s so expensive, you know!’ Painfully embarrassing at the time but very funny in retrospect.

embarrassment of family

It was always a bit of a challenge visiting a café with my mother. If there was cream supplied with a coffee, there was always the ritual of trying to get it to float on top by pouring it over an inverted spoon in an attempt to replicate the ‘sophistication’ of a Berni Inn coffee but it was the sugar bowl that would provide the most embarrassment as she craftily bagged some extra sachets. It was preferable that these were not used later as, by that time, they were already infused with the aroma of face powder and polo mints.

Some years back, an acquaintance, who had become a highly paid corporate lawyer, decided to take his visiting mother out for an expensive meal in the Oxo Restaurant and was feeling quite pleased with himself, as the waiter arrived to take his order. That is, until his mother produced a hanky from her handbag, dabbed it on her tongue then reached over, apparently to remove some smudge from his face.

My father’s witty party pieces in the Berni Inn were to ask for a ‘giraffe’ of wine and, when asked to pay for the bill, replying ‘serpently’. Fortunately he was never one for that classic: ‘Dad Dancing’.

inheritence

Oscar Wilde famously said that it was the tragedy of women that, as they got older, they became more like their mothers and that the tragedy of men was that they don’t.

I beg to differ as I can all to vividly recognise traits that I have inherited down the maternal line. My mother has always had low self esteem and has spent an inordinate amount of time trying to hard to please others and avoid upsetting them, whilst bottling up a lot of frustration and resentment. She is overly sentimental and, having grown up during WW2 has a strong waste-not-want-not mentally which has lead to it being very difficult for her to throw things away.

As I was growing up, I appreciated her more relaxed attitude compared with that of the acutely house proud mothers of friends. Now, seeing a house swamped with clutter and a diabolical kitchen, I see the downside. Even more uncomfortably, I also see how much like her, in spite of my efforts, I have become.

I hope I have also inherited her kindness and generosity towards others and loyalty from my father but in times of difficulty, it is the downside that is all to easy to see.

father

My father is far less physically infirmed than my mother, although his hearing is impaired. Unfortunately, other faculties have become impaired but, perhaps through fear of this and difficulties with caring for my mother, he seems unable to adapt. He is easily distracted and gets very impatient with things. I’ve never had an easy relationship with him but have tried to engage where I can, but recently it has become almost impossible to converse with him meaningfully.

I have had to accept he just likes to complain about things in general and make disparaging comments about things or people he sees or hears and that to engage with this with anything other than an acknowledgment leads to either being talked over or unsought conflict. He especially doesn’t like being offered solutions. I suppose it may just be his way of letting off steam but it makes spending time with him, like with my mother so hard and painful.

Tension between him and my mother is high and often breaks out into abrasive argument. Spending time with my parents is like watching a car crash in slow motion.

mother I

My mother, also 81, as had seriously declining health, beginning more than 20 years ago with a botched hip replacement operation, then a diagnosis of acromegaly which led to a heart condition and a pacemaker, punctuated with pneumonia and various medical mishaps. Unfortunately, like many of us, she also is her own worse enemy with low self esteem and coping mechanisms such as denial and simply trying too hard that has compounded her physical problems with psychological ones.

Efforts to try and help her are routinely met with hostility and even aggressions as she responds to them as if they are attacks. Last weekend, whilst visiting my brother she passed out and the emergency services had to be called. She was well looked after and they concluded that, aside from her general condition, dehydration had caused a drop in blood pressure. She has been advised she needs to both eat more and drink more fluids but doesn’t because she doesn’t feel like it.

This situation is far from unique amongst those of us with ageing parents where we yearn to help them but they resist all our efforts. Containing our unspoken frustration and sadness, it’s left for us just to be there for them, the best we can.

an accident postponed

As usual, my father, who is 81, kindly picked me up from the station at 8.30 last night. As he turned right off the London Road, he would have hit and seriously injured, perhaps killed a woman crossing the road, had I not shouted at him to look out. The car stopped only a foot or two from the pedestrian.

I asked him just afterwards if he’d not seen her and he said no because her clothes were dark however, I noticed, as alerted him, that, instead he’d become distracted and was actually not looking where he was driving. Nothing more was said.

This is not the first time – a few month’s back, another car, he’d again not noticed, would have hit my side of the car had I not alerted him. There’s nothing I can say to him regarding this as he is extremely defensive and evasive about even the smallest comments, perhaps because he is fearful and in denial of the effects ageing has had on him. My mother, having been disabled for some time, is dependent on him driving and to mention these incidents to her would cause her more distress and increase the already very abrasive tension between her and my father.

Thus there is no one I can talk to about this, let alone help the situation. I may have averted these accidents but fear it is only a matter of postponing the inevitable. I try not to dwell on this and other concerns about my parents and any potential victims but sometimes the worry gnaws away at me.

wounds

Emotional wounds never completely heal. Depending on circumstances and the choices we make in response to them, they can allow further suffering to blossom or offer the channels through which tenderness can be experienced and opportunities to truly connect with others, in a heartfelt way.

explaining

Having read the blog mentioned below I am struck by how much can be expressed vividly with so few words. As you will have seen, I find myself writing far to many, as often as not driven by the need to be understood, having felt so often judged, misunderstood and rejected.

I hope this has been a wake up call for me, reminding me that, in spite of a great many words of explanation, I have not been able to convey what I want to so rather that flogging that particular dead horse I might dare to be more economical. Dare to accept that some will connect and some will not, some will appreciate and some will not and that enough is enough.

blog pace

Having just read the touching blog http://dreadw.blogspot.com , I’ve come to realise that blog pace really suits me more than twitter pace that so often makes me manic and anxious.

I’m not saying I am abandoning twitter, though will probably try to take a bit of a step back. It’s more that I have felt so much appreciation, hearing another speak from the heart, without the often desperate, feverish cleverness of twitter just heartfelt candour with an economy of words that often eludes me.

Thank you @dreadw for reminding me of what’s important in life.

twitter friendlies (tendrel part III)

As mentioned, I have recently become immersed in twitter. Initially I was snapping at the heels of the famous, hoping to get noticed and getting inordinately happy on the very rare occasions when I was, though they don’t usually follow back!

Fortunately, after a few weeks, I did manage to connect with some ordinary people who were every bit as entertaining but with the added bonus of being friendly too.

Recently I chatted to a couple of people in the real world who spoke about how they’d moved to another country, looking forwards to a fresh start, perhaps reinventing themselves. For me, joining twitter anonymously, was a little like that but like them, before long I found myself predictably reverting to type probably on account of the baggage I carry with me (like many do).

Having become more reclusive in recent years, rarely talking with others except very casually or in the daily dysfunctional, limited phone conversations I have with my mother and my aunt, so not surprising that I find myself vomiting on twitter - to the extent I had to create another account for this blog and a new blog for the first!

I have found my entertainer self re-emerge, usually to excess, then feel how wearing it is to be trying to be the witty outrageous one all the time. It can feel cheapening and trivialising (plus there are constant anxieties that people might take things the wrong way) but to express my vulnerability, hurt or sadness has made me feel like such a party pooper.

All is certainly not sweetness and light in twitter world, not helped by tweets missed by one’s software. On the one hand, I can often get into a panic someone might think I’ve ignored them whilst, on the other, have got upset when given the cold shoulder although, on one occasion, someone had just missed my tweet. There are so many opportunities for paranoia and, unfortunately, unpleasant things can happen. I’ve already had one queer bashing with censorious tweets and cold shoulders based on people completely (and very hypocritically) misreading something I’d written.

Fortunately, though, there has been kindness, some understanding and even apologies too that have got me through the more painful times when I was ready to flee twitterland forever.

rebalancing (tendrel part II)

It has been observed that most relationships are not evenly balanced, that there is usually a belover and a beloved and (ironically, as my first name is derived from the Hebrew for ‘beloved’) I have almost always been the belover.

After the end of the relationship with the first love of my life, aside from all the manipulation and betrayal I discovered later, at the time, I hadn’t even realised that he’d stopped pedalling at the back of the relationship ‘tandem’. In retrospect, I realised that too many of my relationships had been characterised by this severe investment shortfall and disregard on the part of my ‘partners’.

Seeing this I have perhaps over analysed my part in this but can honestly say I haven’t chosen those who were unavailable or unloving. Firstly, I haven’t been spoilt for choice and, secondly, when this has become apparent, I have withdrawn rather than chasing what I can’t have.

The same has been largely true of my friendships with other men too. I recently read a surprisingly astute article on loneliness (http://www.oprah.com/article/omagazine/omag_200606_lonely/1), which talks about how most people need at least one person they can really confide in and perhaps two to go out and do things with.

I have had friendships where I have had to come to terms with the lack of the former and made allowances, only to find that the latter wasn’t on offer either. There’s a point that, whilst not expecting to be at the top of a friends list, one is disappointed to realise that you’re right at the bottom so it even takes forever to get a call returned let alone hope to organise anything.

Beyond this, travelling to foreign parts, I’ve realised that there are so many hustlers that will use one’s politeness and the value one puts on friendship to manipulate. This happens to many visitors but, in some places, a single, unaccompanied (and so judged to be gay) man is a target for men to prey upon and try to manipulate. In the past I have made the mistake of falling for some advances, only to have demands of money or threats of violence follow and also had similar dishonesty and greed in entirely platonic relationships too.

The overuse and abuse of the term friend and friendship has cheapened these terms. True friendship can only develop with time, along with trust, as you get to know someone. What I offer in friendship is respect, loyalty and honesty (even if the latter can be awkward at times) but have learnt it is wrong to expect it to be reciprocal, having found myself to often contributing their share too, to make up the shortfall and that doesn’t work!

Left with a take it or leave it situation, all one can do is to try and rebalance the relationship for what it really is, which usually means taking a step back and may even mean allowing it to wither, however much the sense of loss hurts. If people aren’t there for you, reaching for them to lean on in moments of need is hazardous and you can even end up with a knife in your back to boot.

Hoping for friendship let alone clinging to it, I have found to be a hostage to fortune. Instead I try to appreciate the moments when others show me kindness, respect or a readiness to listen and empathise. As a matter of course I try to offer those things to others whenever I can, not as a bargain but as a no strings attached gift, though it’s hard not to hope.

to connect (tendrel part I)

As mentioned in my very first post, tendrel is a Tibetan word (equivalent to the Sanskrit nidana), meaning interdependent, connecting or, sometimes coincidence.

This first part (of a trilogy of posts) is devoted to, what might be called, my prime directive, to connect meaningfully with life in general and people in particular. Perhaps my hope is another description, in opposition to my fear of being misunderstood and disconnected or alienated from the world. In spite of my best intentions and efforts, instead of achieving the former, after 50 years, I seem to be tormented by the latter.

I should start at the beginning or the earliest feelings I can remember regarding this. As a child I felt precarious, on the fringes, that I was not like most of the others I met and had a nagging fear of exposure, followed swiftly by rejection. This was because of my temperament but also, undoubtedly because of a precocious sense of my sexuality, from about the age of five. Rather dangerous territory and some may suggest some form of sexual abuse might have precipitated this. Of that I have no memory, so can say nothing except it coincides with the time I was circumcised, and, as I have mentioned before, I have had the tendency to try to seal off the many difficult periods in my life.

Perhaps through a less than robust sense of self worth, having a ‘best friend’ or partner has been a real need throughout my life, though these relationships have had an uncanny tendency to be severed by separation and betrayal, particularly those with other males.

My first best friend at primary school was Jonathan who, coincidentally, turned out to have similar inclinations to myself, but his family moved away when I was 11 and I lost touch with him until about 30 years later when I met him again through a series of coincidences. I discovered then that he was gay like myself – the only other one I knew at school. I was separated from the next one following an inter-parental kangaroo court in my front room following a heinous outdoor peeing on sock incident when I was about 14.

At Cambridge University I felt like a fish out of water, a Comprehensive school boy surrounded by lots of Grammar and Public school types although became close to one of the former. This friendship was considerably less than supportive although he was a bridge to Louise, who subsequently became my closest friend.

Although I had dabbled with the gay scene since just before I was 18 (still illegal then), it wasn’t until I had a short relationship with an older woman that I was able to see through my bi-delusion. Having sorted that out, I hoped that things might be easier but felt completely alienated from the gay scene that prevailed in the provinces and only had one brief sexual encounter that I could count as enjoyable. I faced a dilemma. On the one hand I knew what my inclination was, on the other I couldn’t see myself adopting the mannerisms and outlook of other gay people I met.

In time, I had my first brief gay relationship, though we didn’t click well, but he was the first person I’d met that was interested in anything more than a one night stand. Coincidentally, when I met again with Jonathan, years later in London, it turned out, he’d had a realtionship with him too!

Arriving in London in the early 80s, I did find a group of people I felt I could connect with at an alternative arty pub called The Bell but, unfortunately, ‘liberation sexuality’ held sway then and I was even condemned by a boyfriend (via a mutual acquaintance) as wanting to ape a heterosexual monogamous relationship. Being willing to try to let go of preconceptions I explored alternatives which definitely proved not to be for me.

Eventually I met the first love of my life who soon moved in and we lived together for two and a half years. Although we had many common interests and I adored and fancied him the more time we spent together, it was far from easy. Looking back on it, I made far too many allowances, not wanting to be too demanding and later realised how much I’d been manipulated. Some months after, he’d abruptly and off-handedly ended it, I discovered that he had been addicted to cottaging (on a daily basis) and had also enjoyed entertaining mutual friends with tales about his adventures. Fortunately, he hadn’t contracted HIV but all of my gay friendships at that time were poisoned by this betrayal and the ‘advice’ of other gay people was just to sleep around as much as possible whilst straight friends kind of shrugged, bewildered, or put it down to the inherent shortcoming of homosexuality. No support from any quarter.

In spite of doing my best in terms of my conduct and selection of partners, without any exaggeration, I have been treated shabbily by almost every man I’ve become close to.

Parallel to this was my developing closeness with Louise although she had moved with her son from my home town to Devon to try and make a break from my University friend. Having a different inclination and gender, she couldn’t connect in some areas but we became really close (though usually separated by geography) until she died suddenly some five years ago.

My last relationship ended, again a little shabbily, in 2000. My closest friend lives in Monaco so I see her rarely and, as she has many demands to meet in her life, chat only occasionally.

I got through these many upsets but not without being wounded, at times it’s seemed chronically, fatally, even, so aside from the common ravages of time at this point, I can’t say I feelin the best of emotional health either.

I’ve written this over long post (though substantially edited and summarised!) not to elicit crippling pity but, hopefully, a little bit of comprehension about where I’m coming from and what is important to me.

Finding, myself on the margins (hence a name, elsewhere), I do still try to make the best of it, the time for intimate relationship may be passed but I still hope for connection.

blogus interruptus

The more eagle eyed amongst you will have noticed it has been some time since I last blogged. I blame this hiatus, firstly, on having stopped smoking and, secondly, on account of having become sucked into the twittersphere (though not using the account supplying the enigmatic, elliptical and often pretentious tweets to this blog).

I have momentarily emerged from tweeting absorption to blog again, perhaps because, firstly, there’s something else I should be doing but am trying harder to avoid and, secondly, because I have started smoking again (though, hope springing eternally, I plan to try stopping again very soon, honestly)!

exfoliating words into the ether

There’s been something of a lull since my initially flurry of postings, perhaps as with most blogs, the initial novelty soon expires. The relative anonymity of these things is an encouragement to write, perhaps it’s an opportunity to express what goes by, normally without comment or expression. Perhaps it’s some kind of therapy, getting stuff off the chest so there’s a little more room for other stuff to come in, an exfoliation of things passed.

There is the opportunity for personal reflection but the shortcoming is that one ends up with a monologue rather than a dialogue and the sparks and flashes of a contrasting perspective, echoes of personal experience and so forth that might arise, unexpected.

Publicity is at odds with anonymity and inhibition so I have mentioned the blog to few of the people I know, not that I’ve been tempted to veer towards bitching or cathartic confessional. I don’t think I’m yearning for affirmation, fame or notoriety but am intrigued by the idea of comments arising from serendipity. There are however a lot of blogs in that sea and, not having anything particularly provocative that I want to say here, perhaps being merely mental, melancholic dandruff, there are unlikely to be that many nibbles, let alone followers!

dead man talking

In recent years, through bad health, betrayal and a myriad of other unfortunate circumstances I have increasingly found myself in a joyless, depressed, anxious place with rising panic in response to the rolling catastrophe of my day-to-day life, unable to do anything to redirect it to more pleasant pastures.

Depression and anxiety have been lifelong companions although I had found that meditation offered an alchemic method of rediscovering joy within this wasteland. Health problems have severely challenged this, subverting my efforts with struggle and so amplified a sense of panic of losing my principal means of digestion.

Last night's edition of ‘Feasts’, based in Mexico, however, offered me a fresh approach. It related how their celebration of El Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) was based on the ancient Aztec view that death was our true state of being whilst life was merely a fleeting, aberrant interlude. Whilst this might initially appear macabre and nihilistic, I found it (like the locals apparently do) strangely uplifting.

I found that embracing this view, relieved my life of the burden of unfulfilled promise, the claustrophobic struggle to repair what is falling apart and profound feeling of shame of my failure to achieve anything in that regard. At least, momentarily, this have given me a sense of joy and appreciation of the the things life is offering right now, freed from some of my expectations, however reasonable those might appear.

I should add, this is not entirely new to me as it seems consistent with the buddhist view of emptiness and that the nature of our minds is unborn and that, if we ease off clinging to the imagined permanence of things and denial of death we become more free to celebrate life for what it is rather than what we wish it were. However, within life’s turmoil, it has been easy to lose this perspective, amidst the pain, and this fresh view has renewed a heart connection and brought me some lightness of being to be a dead man talking.

[ Photo: A gogo gone dancer by Terry Jones http://twitpic.com/33sjm ]

obscure origins 2

Some years back I met a lovely man called Carlos Luis Caceres-Callazo through an old friend. From a Puerto Rican background, he had trained as a lawyer then, to the disappointment of his family, instead of pursuing a career in law, decided to work for the UN High Commission for Refugees. At the time I met him, he had just started working for the UNHCR in Moscow and he entertained us, recounting his experiences there. These ranged from the mafia connected, strange gay bars that sprang up here and there, only to disappear again (including one with a huge glass tank in which naked young men swam), to his bafflement of the regularity he was stopped by the police in comparison to other foreigners there. The penny dropped when he began to work with Chechen refugees – through coincidence or some mysterious genetic synchronicity, he realised his hispanic appearance, resembled that of a Chechen.

Sadly, his life didn’t end well. After Moscow, he was sent to West Timor where, along with other UNHCR workers, he was murdered, burned and dragged through the streets by right wing militia members.

Remembering Carlos

See www.qsl.net/kd4syb/

and http://members.tip.net.au/~wildwood/01junresponsibility.htm

where did all the music go?

Over the years, I’ve accumulated quite a bit of music, first on vinyl then CDs. In my early teens it was mainly Glam, especially T Rex and Bowie, late teens, it was Gong (with their pot-head pixies) and Steve Hillage (blush), dub, then a bit of punk, Poison Girls and Twotone, Ska, 80s electro, Human League, Cabaret Voltaire, Bowie (again), Psychic TV, old R&B, soul, Marc Almond, latin, lounge and the odd bit of Britpop & Amy W. I especially liked dancing to it all, even including Latin & Ballroom at lesbian & gay tea dances. I also listened at home, though I’ve never been able to handle background music whilst I’ve been focussing on something else.

But now, I never listen to it.

Why? I guess like most people music is associated with moments in my life but as too many of those times have painful associations, as I moved on, I sealed them off so that to listen to them now brings up the hopes I had then and the disappointments that followed. They were connected so much to the social side of my life that, with bad health and disenchantment, I’ve lost touch with. The problem with shutting off Plan A when you move onto Plan B, is that, eventually, you run out of alphabet, run out of words and run out of music.

salad days

I’ve lived in London for more than 25 years, first in ‘short life’ and, more recently in a small street level council flat. In each of these places, I’ve had a share of a back garden although I’m ashamed to say that (in spite of having a degree in Botany) I’ve done very little gardening until recently – originally because I was plain lazy and more interested in going out, then because I shared my house with keen gardeners who took over things.

Now, my share of the back garden is a 4m x 4m plot and I’m glad that, a few years back, before my back got to be so bad, I got around to clearing, digging, landscaping and planting. Rather pretentiously, I originally had the idea (borrowed from Japan) of the English landscape in miniature – pool, brook, hillock, predominantly native plants with a hawthorn and wild rose hedge on two sides with ferns, birch, oak and willow. Typically, the result is considerably less refined than this, though most of it’s there, with a babbling brook spiralling from the top of the grassy knoll into a pond. A few exotics have crept in: Gunnera, Passion flower, olive and fig trees and it regularly gets battered by foxes and ravaged by slugs and snails – an Angelica lasted a few days before being reduced to a stalk, lupins, delphiniums and goji have gone a similar way. Attempts at growing butternut squash and tomatoes failed and the yield of strawberries and blueberries has been minimal.

This year I decided a different tack to escape the slugs and snails and planted a windowsill trough with basil, parsley, butternut squash, nasturtiums and a cheap pack of mixed lettuce and wow! So far, so good – I have an explosion of lettuce that is difficult but delicious to keep up with consuming. If you’ve a sunny windowsill, secure your trough safely and keep watering – highly recommended!

being an individual

Some time back I got to know a very likeable Bhutanese monk who was teaching at a meditation centre in the UK. As the weather was getting chilly, it was thought it would be nice to buy him a fleece jacket and, when asked, he requested a maroon one, similar in colour to his robes. Although, eventually, a suitable jacket was found, initially, only a red one was, which he had declined as he felt it would make him stand out from other monks – preferring to keep to a ‘uniform’ appearance.

This made me reflect on our modern obsession on being individualistic which, perversely, seems to result in hordes of Jordan and other clones, whereas with this monk who was making great efforts to conform, his naturally, uncontrived, individual qualities shone delightfully.

obscure origins

As a teenager, I was on a youth expedition to Jamaica, studying plants and was bemused to find many locals asking whether I was Cuban. More recently, in France, some have thought I was German, in Egypt, Lebanese and, just recently someone thought I might be Moroccan, like himself.

Sure, in bygone times, when I had hair, it was long and very curly. I also tan extremely though abhor sunbathing and tend to keep to the shadows if the sun is hot. However, being white, British, I am a little baffled by this though also a little pleased as I delight in our diverse origins and am very attracted to the idea that random genes showing through might be indicative of exotic ancestry. Perhaps that might also arise from a lifelong feeling of being on the fringes of society or any groups I might nominally belong to.

My father and late uncle spent some time tracing our family history to various corners of the British Isles and the unusual family name to Pembrokeshire – nothing especially exotic except for a maternal great-grandfather called Wallace Omar, so last year we took the plunge with DNA ancestry. Although not quite as expensive as it once was, it’s still not cheap so the most finely detailed options not really affordable. I waited with baited breath for the results only to be faced with the anti-climax of discovering my origins were pretty bog standard Northern European. Yawn.

I suppose I had succumbed to our modern desire to be different, special, individual.

the accent of confidence

Faulted only by her modesty, Sylvie, speaks excellent English. She loathes her accent whilst myself and her many other friends find it delightful. Once, when I questioned her view, she related an invitation she had once had to a meal with a French friend’s family who had an English guest. She had been enjoying chatting with him during the meal until the mother of her friend interrupted, reproaching her for ‘putting on’ the (Clouseauesque?) accent. Of course she felt mortified having been doing no such thing but I can understand how the unwarranted accusation might have dented her confidence.

On the other hand when I saw her with some Francophone friends recently, she was again insisting that my French was very good (it really isn’t) so they were asking me whether my reticence to use it was mere laziness. I should add that, aside from my patchy recollection of French grammar and inadequate vocabulary, I was also hampered by a temporary dental plate (awaiting a new bridge) which made speaking English a challenge. Having inadvertently left the plate at home the following day, however, I did make a brief attempt at conversation.

On a previous occasion, I had discussed trying to learn to speak a language with an English couple I know. Gwen, like myself, perhaps a little uptight, trips, embarrassed by the mess she hears herself making whereas David just stumbles along, confident that he will learn from any mistakes he might be making. I reckon he has the right idea but I still worry too much that I’m being so insulting if I mangle a language. However, a while back, during at not very successful attempt to improve my Arabic in Egypt I sort of managed it...

The most wearying things in Luxor, Egypt is the constant hassle – as a man, travelling alone, any attempt to enjoy a relaxing glass of tea in a Café (even away from tourist areas) is usually interrupted by a barrage of unwanted, intrusive and, often dubious, conversation (in English) from local young men. At some point I realised that, as I had reached the point where (I’m a little ashamed to say) I didn’t care if they felt offended by my poor Arabic, I was free to dive in, drawing on the little fus-ha (standard) and even more patchy a3mmya (colloquial) that I knew, conversing in the direction I wanted, away from their unwanted offers of trade in Egyptian bananas. Confidence, a little boosted, later on I attempted a conversation with someone else who seemed thrilled that a foreigner could speak (a little Arabic) as, even those who are resident there, rarely do. Our conversation covered a variety of areas, including Barack Obama and US politics – though much felt like a poorly tuned radio station, fading out most of the time – I was surprised at what I could follow and it was most enjoyable. 

on the other hand

Recently my Monégasque friend, Sylvie, lent me a DVD set of Pushing Daisies. Although our taste in movies and TV overlaps greatly, I was doubtful that I’d enjoy it as the trailers I’d seen lead me to think it was going to be syrupy clever American pap ...

Delighted to find I was wrong – sure I could see a connection with the excellent Amèlie but they had taken care to make it much more than a lazy clone. On a whim, I watched it with French subtitles which added an extra dimension. My French is rusty and I could see the subtitles were abbreviated but it was delightful to see how they’d chosen alternate French idioms.

Having watched the first series almost back-to-back, I wanted more but my timing was off as the second (final) series had just finished on UK TV (and not quite out on DVD) so had to resort to iTunes via a slow Virginmedia cable. Yes, I enjoyed it almost as much as the first – I say almost because I had no option for French subtitles. I missed that extra cultural richness and also realised that they had also given me a sense of watching it with my Francophone (though fluent in English) friend.

lost in translation

Watched the interesting ‘Feast’ set in Japan last night but found myself irritated by the laziness of translation. Whilst exploring the ‘Big Penis’ festival, the local priest says the penis is regarded as ‘a God’. Whilst I don’t understand Japanese, I did recognise the word she used as kami. Certainly the capitalisation of the word god was inappropriate as is the word, which is etymologically linked to the idea of a Lord or Big Boss – perhaps OK in a Judaeo-Christian context but not here. Deity, connected via deus to Sanskrit deva meaning something (special) than shines (& so touches the heart) might have been better, or perhaps spirit. The Japanese have many kami that symbolise the essence of aspects of their lives, environment that are felt to be worthy of appreciation and celebration (better words than worship) with feasts and festivals. Other traditional cultures have similar notions though use different names (eg Tibetans with drala).

Later in the programme it is stated that the Japanese belief in Shintoism and Buddhism was contradictory, as was their claim not to be religious. The confusion arises from merely skimming superficial meaning rather than examining the experience the words refer to.

Perhaps it is too much to ask of a TV programme made for mass consumption (even on BBC4!) and, although gimmicky, by participating in the ‘Naked Man’ festival, the presenter might – through experience – have got a fleeting sense of what was going on – inasmuch as anyone could on such a fleeting visit. Without depth such programmes run the risk of descending into opportunities to giggle and poke fun at ‘superstitious foreigners’.

Wonders of modern technology

Oooh! Aaah! Just because you can do it, doesn't make it clever... or interesting.

-- Post From My iPod Yawn!

grand prix

Knowing I have a Monégasque friend, my parents have been asking me whether I’d been watching the Grand Prix. Given that I have no interest in motor racing or any other sport and the fact my friend lives in the old town (in a small flat, almost opposite the palace – so she has posh neighbours!), aside from accidental glimpses whilst channel surfing, I had not.

To my delight, however, she gave me a surprise call last Sunday and began by asking me whether I could hear the race in the background. I said I was surprised to realise I could, to which she pointed out that Monaco is a very small place (which I knew) and that it was said that the cars could be heard up to 50km away (which I didn’t know).

I went on to relate the previous night’s mishaps and she suggested, in respect to the bottle throwing incident, I might like to borrow her delightfully eccentric elderly aunt as, when faced with such petty antisocial behaviour, she is singularly adept at putting such miscreants in their place – and so found yet another reason for wishing my best friend didn’t live so far away. Even with the language barrier, I’m sure her aunt has the presence to convey the appropriate sentiment!

a night on the town

Last Saturday, I had an irrational urge to take a step out of my hermitage and go for drink in a local pub. I’d had an ill starred first date in the Hemingford Arms last year that was commandeered by a fellow drinker – myself and date feeling prevented by compulsive ‘niceness’ to escape. However, I reckoned, if I was to head there alone, I might benefit from the friendliness of the clientele. Arriving at about 8pm, the pub was busy but mainly groups so, after an hour of nursing a pint without conversation, I rashly decided to make a break for the local gay pub just down the road, near Kings X...

Not the wisest of choices as it proved to be practically deserted, reminding me that I had made this kind of mistake before – gay pubs in London tend to be very quiet on Bank Holiday weekends, at least at around 9pm. A further pint was duly nursed there and I did actually manage a short chat with someone who worked there, slightly surprised to hear him, after introducing himself, add that he was also known as Sue. Whilst, generally, my dislike of modern gay bars reinforces my reclusiveness, any nostalgia for days gone by doesn’t include the fondness for gay men to adopt so called ‘camp names’ though I did appreciate the albeit brief friendly conversation. Having endured almost an hour of otherwise solitary supping and deciding that the downstairs Masters & Slaves event was unappealing, I paused for a cigarette outside before escaping home. Standing there with a handful of other smokers, I noticed a trio of ‘lads’ walk past before they paused conspiratorially just around the corner, then running past & chucking a bottle of water (or perhaps something recently excreted) in our direction. Fortunately it hit a parked van in front of the van rather than anyone standing nearby and I found myself wondering about the mentality of someone who finds such a ‘courageous’ act necessary to bolster their machismo.

Heading back home by bus, mind undoubtedly addled, having consumed two pints of lager (such uncharacteristic ‘binge drinking’), with further rashness, I decided to visit my nearest local – quite a ‘basic’ pub. For my delectation there was a noisy wedding reception in progress. A third pint was duly nursed as I lapped up such delights as a couple of intoxicated women danced on the bar, precariously, to such classics as ‘YMCA’ and ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’.

Finally, filled to the brim with an evening of such exotic delights, it was time to head home – thankfully 5 minutes away. Quite surprised not to be bogged down dwelling on the fact that the evening had not really delivered what I had hoped for – very little social intercourse (let alone any other variety) – I arrived back with a wry smile on my face... but also a resolve not to repeat such a folly, at least not until I’d forgotten how ghastly it all was – perhaps in a year or two.

tendrel

In a nutshell, Buddhism, describes ultimate truth/reality as being empty – not meaning nothing but beyond the scope of conceptual thinking whilst this manifests in a way we generally apprehend as connecting patterns of meaning. In classical Buddhism, the negative aspect we make of this is outlined in the 12 nidanas (links of interdependent origination) – a vicious circle where we reactively create our own suffering. Many methods are taught for breaking free from this and becoming liberated. 

The Tibetan term for nidana is tendrel. On the other hand tashi tendrel was what they called auspicious coincidence, usually reserved for moments of good fortune.

It is so easy to get bogged down, struggling with the stuff of life that the idea of escape seems impossible – if only we could get rid of the messy stuff...

Typically, however, Trungpa Rinpoche emphasised that the important thing was not to struggle to eradicate the stuff but recognise the whole circle as tashi tendrel – appreciating all the interconnected, messy stuff as the perfect opportunity to wake up, here, now and delighting in the beauty of our bittersweet lives (and a sense of humour is as essential and the courage to be willing to look at what is happening rather than chasing a fantasy).

Anyhow, enough! The devil (and, perhaps, the angels too) is in the detail so intend to steer clear of philosophising, proselytizing etc. The proof of the pudding is in the eating so hope you pop by for an occasional taste...

inspiration

My main inspiration is the late Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche, a meditation master and all round extraordinary human being who escaped from Tibet, following the Chinese invasion in 1959, finally settling in North America (via India & Great Britain) where he shared a vision and innovative methods for appreciating every aspect of our apparently problematic lives, without hiding behind the robes of mystical exotic.

Recognising that, in spite of sharing much in common as human beings with Tibetans, in the modern world, many things for us are profoundly different – psychologically, culturally and environmentally – which necessitated stepping beyond the cosy cocoon of many traditional approaches whilst being totally authentic to the essence of the wisdom of his training – one strand of which he described as the ‘Mishap Lineage’ – hence mishaporama and appreciating every detail of life – even the uncomfortable ones.

why?

Having recently become a rather miserable recluse due to health problems, hope this will give me a helpful output for otherwise frustrated desire for expression... hoping a sense of humour might rescue this from becoming a personal vomitarium, instead sparking the odd wry/rye smile from readers (if there are any). 

what?

Welcome to my first stab at blogging which, mindful of the erratic aspect of my temperament will leave plenty of scope for all kinds of odds & ends with associated tangentia (some neologisms too – I like language – and am prone to going off on tangents), some pretty random elephants and, perhaps, some serendipity amongst the running catastrophe of discovering what it is to be human in this world we share – in my experience, more thorny than rosy...