Bières de la Meuse

Je n'ai que des souvenirs

Saturday Night Thoughts

In a few months I'll be sixty-five, which is all sorts of .... interesting.  I was talking to my best friend from when I was sixteen just now, and we were wondering what happened to our lives.  Fifty years, nearly, have gone by from those days when we were filled with hope and our whole lives lay ahead of us.  We believed passionately that we would make the world a better place, that we would make our mark somehow, that we would have happy lives.  Yet here we are, both of us, just a few months away from being able to go on the old age pension.  Him a widower, me arthritic and in pain.  Both of us much poorer than we'd hoped.   And with so little done.  The world has gone on, indifferently.

I can't say I haven't had a good life.  By comparison with some I've in fact had a wonderful life.  The grief which pressed so heavily on me a few years ago has lifted.  I shan't forget my friend Henrik, or my parents or my father-in-law, but the agonising grief of their deaths has hardened into a scar.  You can call that "healing" if you want.

I still miss my little dogs horribly, though.  Their love was so generous and forgiving, so un-judgemental.  Sometimes I think of them and I find myself weeping.  I wonder that God -- or whoever orders these things -- should acquiesce in such suffering.

Really, I shouldn't  complain.  I have enough to eat, shelter, books and music, a loving family.  I live in a safe country, with a decent welfare system, my health is tolerable.

All the same I still can't get my head around the terrible grief and loss we humans must endure, of how you will suddenly be ambushed by a random memory which leaves you weak with sorrow, of how happiness is always tinged with remembrance.  The other night I dreamt of the little dogs, all asleep on the bed, and was overcome with grief to wake and find it wasn't true.

Bizarrely, despite my grief and memories, I am also sometimes intensely happy. Without reason or logic.  Happy, just because.  I know that if I examine the cause it will flutter off, so I don't.  It's a sort of blind happiness, owing nothing, so far as I can see, to circumstance.  A divine pat, perhaps?

Did my parents suffer this angst too?  And theirs before them?  It seems to be something that the  young don't feel, perhaps because they haven't suffered grief like we oldies have.  Or maybe they do too.  I can't remember it, in myself, when I was young and brash.  But then, the young are so self-centred. Or at least, I was.  Perhaps it is precisely this grief that makes you fully human.  I don't know.  The happy certainties of sixteen have vanished.

Even the old aged pension is an oddly mixed blessing.  It means I'm entering that last stretch of life, the slow curve downwards, the decay.  I find myself forgetting things and wonder, is this it?  Only I can't forget the things I would like to.  God has a sense of humour.  A very black one.

It's bedtime, now.

A la prochaine, mes amis.

Weight and psychology

When I was a lightie, I had a hellish time at school.  I was (am) Asperger-ish/mildly autistic and I was also effeminate.  In the brutal hell of a boy's school that was enough to make me an outsider and enough to provoke continuous bullying.  In one incident, I was partially blinded in one eye.  To this day, fifty years on, I have to dig deep into my reserves of courage to go into a room of male strangers.

I coped by retreating into my own world, and by eating.  Once a week, on Thursday, we drove into town to do the shopping, and we went to the library.  How magical that was!  I was allowed to take out two books.  I would read and re-read them over the next week, and my favourite way to do this was to lie on my bed sipping a cup of cocoa or eating a sandwich or a bowl of peanuts.  It didn't help that I was part of  family that loved food, and my mother would always push us to "clean our plates", so I would dutifully eat more, even though I was full.

I slimmed down in late adolescence and my early twenties, because I was so busy: surfing, mountaineering, walking, riding.  In those days, young people didn't have cars.  We walked everywhere.  For example, I used to take the train to uni, then walk a couple of miles uphill (U.C.T. is on the slopes of Table Mountain).  I used to ride my sister's horse up our street, which was a dirt road, into the nature reserve on the slopes of the mountain.  I would walk to my friend's house, which was a good five miles each way.  In summer, I would swim a mile 3 or 4 times a week.  My waist was a remarkable 28, my chest 38.

But then I got a desk job, and depression, which, to quote Georges Moustaki:

Ell' ne me quitte pas d'un pas Fidèle comme une ombre Elle m'a suivi ça et là Aux quatre coins du monde


                "ne me quittait pas d'un pas".  When I get depressed I eat.  And drink.

So my weight started to rise,  Every so often, I would go on a strict diet, and my weight would fall, but, my psychological need for comfort would eventually have me going back to what I was doing before.  I tried Weight Watchers, and I lost weight, but I was always hungry.  I tried this diet and that, and they all worked.  Temporarily.  I even tried hypnotherapy.

For a while, running and cycling kept my weight under control,  But then all the running I did damaged my knees and ankles,  Today I can't run at all, and can only walk short distances.  On the other hand, I'm not depressed any more.  Often, actually, I am piercingly happy. Despite my joints!

But now I have an incentive to lose weight.  In a year or so, we will be retiring, to a small coastal town in country Victoria.  I'll tell you more about that in another post.  And if I want to walk along the beach every day, then I will have to lose some weight.  The orthopaedic surgeon said that often in cases like mine, losing a lot of weight helps.  And I really do want to be able to walk on the beach every day.  To wear a speedo without looking like a blimp.   So that's what I'm going to try and do.  I have a real goal now.  Retirement, and my happiness when I am retired.

Road sign at Cabbage Tree Creek
Distances in kilometres

Saturday night thoughts

There's this guy I thought was my friend.  I grew very fond of him.  He's clever, gifted, handsome, and bi, so he gets it.  But it turned out that while I was fond of him, he wasn't that fond of me.  Not that he disliked me, more that he's narcissistic.  Everything that happens is always about him.  He doesn't want friends, he wants acolytes.

In the end one stops bothering, you know.  Someone you cared for drifts away, and you try, again and again to draw him back and one day you just stop.  Qu'il s'en aille!  Why wear your heart out caring?  Move on.

Yet I still miss what I thought I had.

She'll be right

For the first time since the Henrik disaster; since my father-in-law, my best friend's wife and my mother died; since the GFC and all that meant for me and our income--for the first time I feel OK.

People always equate sadness and depression.  But they're not the same at all.  Believe me, I know.  Sadness is pain; it hurts.  It's alive.   Depression is a nothingness, an emptiness, a greyness.  First there was sadness and grief.  Then came depression.  But slowly that greyness has faded.  I won't say I have the energy and joie-de-vivre I had 7 years ago, or when I was young, but I feel  better.  It's been a horrible journey; I've been to hell and back, but I've survived.

I've learnt some good lessons.  I shan't trust love or men again.  I shall go on looking for things to be grateful for, making my little lists each day.  But I shall be content.  Which isn't the same as 'happy' but may be better in the end.  Contentment is far better than depression.

I think I'm going to nuke the secret on-line diary I've been keeping all this time.  It helped when I needed it: somebody to vent to, somebody to let my bitterness and anger and depression out to.  None of my 'friends' helped.   That too is a useful lesson.  Just because I'm no longer depressed doesn't mean I don't remember.  Even if I forgive.

And start saving for our visit to Paris, one day.  I want to see it once again before I die.

Onwards and upwards.

Happy new year to everybody

Here in eastern Oz, only New Zealand in the world  beats us into the new year.

It's been a better year for me than for many years.  The gradual recovery from the Henrik/Jack/Arn disaster proceeded; my job got better; we paid off more debt.  All I need to do now is lose some weight!

To all of you: happy new year.

Aan almal van julle: 'n gelukkige en voorspoedige nuwe jaar

A vous tous: bonne annee

A Ustedes todos: feliz ano nuevo.

Just as I have climbed out of my slough of despond, so I hope you all will be well, will be very well in 2015.  Thanks for following this blog.  Onwards and upwards.

Les Toits de Paris

The Seine

Paris, my favourite city.

Tous conforts

Yeah, right.  Train full this morning.  Had to sit on the floor all the way!  A whole hour.  Admittedly, that is seldom true; there are almost always many seats.  But today I was hoping to write some more Majorca Flats.  It's been a while.  Sorry.

I loves ya

Neither money nor possessions brings happiness. But love can, even if it doesn't always last.  Agape or eros?  Give me philia.  Eros dies, and betrays. But philia, that curious amalgam of love and affection and concern and sometimes desire; ah, that can bring happiness.  Until it too ends.

Nous sommes tous seuls, au fin.

Mates

Friends with benefits. Une amitié amoureuse.

Don't confuse love with passion.  Our English word "love" just doesn't hack it for all the different kinds of love there are.  Love is love.  Enjoy it.  Cherish it.

Je me fous du passé !

Thinking tonight about love and loss; about ppl who changed my life for the worse; about how I no longer trust love or friendship because of a handful of ppl I thought better than they were; about betrayal and despair and loneliness. 

Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait
Ni le mal; tout ça m'est bien égal !

Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
C'est payé, balayé, oublié
Je me fous du passé !

Avec mes souvenirs
J'ai allumé le feu
Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs
Je n'ai plus besoin d'eux !

Balayées les amours
Et tous leurs trémolos
Balayés pour toujours
Je repars à zéro

Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait
Ni le mal; tout ça m'est bien égal !

Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
Car ma vie, car mes joies
Aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi

[From http://lyricstranslate.com/en/je-ne-regrette-rien-i-dont-regret-anything.html#RKTj2CClOTUKR5lU.99 ]

Tu crois

Tu crois que la vie
est douce.  Mais ce n'est pas vrai.
Pleine de douleur, dure.

Je voudrais te foutre

T'es très beau.

Me big, me strong, me kill someone

Profile and body so like the guy I loved long ago.

Mon âme a son secret, ma vie a son mystère
Un amour éternel en un moment conçu:
Le mal est sans espoir, aussi j'ai dû le taire,
Et celle qui l'a fait n'en a jamais rien su.


Except, of course, not 'celle'.  Not a woman.


Or perhaps:


I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation
prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king
and queen moult no feather. I have of late--but
wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

Le baiser du trottoir

The kiss on the pavement (sidewalk).  A photograph by the great Robert Doisneau.

One day, two men or two women will be able to kiss like that too in public and no one will turn a hair.  In fact they'll saw awww just like we do when we see this picture.

Friday Night Thoughts

Je suis un peu ivre.  Je m'excuse.  Just a little overset.  A little.


I don't drink (alcohol) during the week, for my health and to help me lose weight.  But on Friday night, at the end of the week ... And it is Friday night here in Oz.

So perhaps a little tipsy.  And I'm listening to Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto no 2, played by Julius Katchen.  Paradise.  Sublime.  Orgasmic.

Here he's playing with the LSO conducted by Solti.  Listen to those opening chords.  Holy Phuque.  Holy Phuque.

I used to know (and love) someone who played this Rachmaninoff opus.  Il est mort, hélas.  Que je l'aimais.  Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille ....

Chanson d'Automne

Chanson d'automne

Les sanglots longs
Des violons
  De l'automne
Blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur
  Monotone.

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
  Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
  Et je pleure,

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
  Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà
Pareil à la
  Feuille morte.

[Paul Verlaine]

The long sobs
of the violins of autumn
wound my heart
with a monotonous languor

Pale and suffocating.
When sounds the hour
I remember old days
and I weep

I depart on a vile wind
which sweeps me away
hither and yon
no more than a dead leaf

Paul Verlaine was bisexual.  His poetry is sublime.  I just wish I had the skill to translate it properly.  

Ah well.  We come into the world alone, and leave alone.  For some, along the way in between these two extremities, there is companionship, even love.  For others, seulement les regrets -- et la solitude.

A quoi ca sert l'amour?

What's the point of love?

Edith Piaf singing with her last lover, Theo Saropo.

Genius.




Well, what is the point of love?

Dites-le-moi.