With apologies to Shakespeare, here’s my take on a smattering of great writers. The Bard himself, trawling for ideas, getting known. The Blogging Beast. Dickens, the ultimate showman and self-promoter. Why travel extensively to reach hundreds when you can reach the world at the press of a key? His novels were published like modern soaps – short episodes ending on a cliff-hanger. Perfect for a Blogging Diva. Walt Whitman, man of the world, man of the universe; blogging into the dark nights reaching fellow souls, speaking of their pain. And wanting nothing back. The Wise Blogger. Kafka, using the Blog as pivotal to touching a disembodied society searching for answers to which there are no questions. The Humanitarian Blogger. What’s your take on your favourite writers as bloggers? I’ve been blogging now for five days – that’s hours and hours at the computer to produce a dozen posts. But I’ve also been learning and refining. Not just learning the mechanics
Having recently had a Very Late Diagnosis of ASD – I think I can confidently say that 68 is very,
I think in verse. Not always. Not every day. But – I think in verse. when I’m distressed when I’m heading to shutdown, but more especially meltdown when my head is just so full of STUFF that I can’t get my thoughts into coherent speech when my fear, anger, self-loathing take hold of my being when I need to order my thoughts before they lead to self-destruction That’s when I think in verse. And I have to write it down. I have diaries and journals and notebooks spread over many years recording my anguish. Sometimes with an image. Sometimes scrawled page after page. Sometimes just a few lines. Usually it works, helping to dispel the negatives inside my head. Distilling into a page or two feelings that would take minutes and hours to express verbally. When I’m feeling OK I don’t write like this because there’s no need. I’ll still write, and I rarely re-draft, it’s still cathartic, but it’s
Today is Monday. Last Friday we had visitors, a family friend of my husband from way back who I’d met
Routines – knowing what’s happening, what’s going to happen, what’s expected of me – are all vital to keep me
What pulls the trigger, flicks the switch?
Turns me into devil or witch?
All that’s positive, all that’s good
banished to hell and bathed in blood.
Search for balance, search for worth,
ways to banish the inner curse,
seek the good of self before birth.
Before rejection – before the pain
before abuse and negative gain.
When evil rears its ugly head
all positive thoughts remain unsaid:
no happy heart, no peaceful soul
no reasoned mind to deflect its goal;
darkest thoughts in darkest cell
no glimmer of light within the hell;
no breath of air just stifled heart
no wings of hope for new-born start.
All efforts now to begin anew
wearying, crushing, exhausting to do.
Tears come far easier than resolve ever does
cutting or overdose a much better option;
so lonely inside myself, hating what I find,
inadequacies of body, inadequacies of mind
can’t look forward, don’t want to look back
don’t want to face all the things that I lack.
Where is the me that sees what is good?
Will it come back before blood is spilled?
Why just the me that knows all the ills?
When can I banish the me that kills?