I judge myself harshly. I try not to do the same with others. I know I do though. I hear it inside my head. Endeavouring always to attempt to see the world from their point of view, such judgement is, in time, ameloriated. We do we do it? Is it a form of self-bolstering? I don’t know. It’s a learnt behaviour certainly. Just be kind. That’s all. Just kind. Be kind to your own kind. Which, by the way, is everyone. Humankind be kind. That’s all.
I wept for them yesterday. Though all the time knowing that I was also weeping for myself and the grief I feel at having to live in a world were such suffering is experienced by so many. And not knowing what to do about it. She wrote of a man who’d lost all his family and how he just kept walking around the rubble in circles. Around and around, circling the ground. I cannot watch such scenes, reading about them is bad enough. And yet, we must know. We cannot hide from it. Ever.
He writes of our need to ‘fix’ the space – to control it, to impose order on it, to find a safe place within it. He is right. It takes me back. And I miss it.
A good word. A solid word. A kind one, mostly. The take hold, to have hold of, to hold, to hold fast, to hold still, to hold tight. May it hold. That peace, that shaky peace. May it hold fast, tight, still and endure.
It’s been a nasty affair, the brokering of it. But it will mean peace, at least for a time until the belligerent organisers of it once me decide to take up their arms. Let us be satisfied that the lost will be returned, though more dead than alive, and the hungry will be fed. Thank you.
They’ve hurt these last few days. I feel the rawness of the bone. There is no cushion, just hardness against hardness. I want to manage. To keep what is mine, that is, what has been given me (including the pain) and live as well as I can with it. But it’s the sometimes catching, that throws me. That unexpectedness of pain. Give me strength.
And may the peace deal brokered today hold. Let there be a cease from the fighting, the killing, the maiming, the stealing, the hunger, the pain, the fear and loss. Please.
She came in during the end of my dream. It wasn’t her, the one that I drew for almost two years. No, it was someone else. A smaller woman, quieter, less-educated, still, accepting, kind, I think. We sat her down on the sofa, the other women and I, moved the box-cum-coffee table so that there was room for her feet. I noticed the skin on her bare legs were discoloured, patched with liver spots and a few bruises. She wore a summer dress, patterned and colourful. Self-contained, she sat quietly, giving no explanation as to why she had come. And we asked for none.
It floored me yesterday. I gave up, succumbed and took to my bed. I don’t know what it is. Ask Google suggests that it might be gastroenteritis. Possibly. I don’t want to eat, and my stomach gripes. And I am weak. I must rest and see what comes but I feel so guilty not working. I dream of Derrida and know that I must write about him but my head is like spaghetti.
I feel unwell. I’m not myself. Have I poisoned myself with too much magnesium. I did as she suggested and upped the dose. I’ve been bloated and nauseous ever since. It has to stop. I try to behave normally but I’m failing. Every bone aches. I am under the weather and very very sorry for myself.
I remember visiting my mother and her new husband there, years ago. In the palm lounge a man was playing a piano, there was the sound of teacups being replaced on saucers and the chink of silver teaspoons against china. It felt separate from the noise of London outside. We talked of staying there, over breakfast. Two nights, two days, most of which I would spend sleeping. The price was ridiculous. Of course. I can still fantasise though. That costs nothing.