the crone

opening the door to ideas

Why do we become who we become? I puzzle over this a lot. Fixated that I could’ve been better, done better, achieved more, ‘if only’, ‘if only’, ‘if only…’ Who were you supposed to be? Apparently, who we become isn’t just a matter of nature or nurture. For instance, murderers and psychopaths are both born …

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As this festive time of year approaches, I am reminded that tis the season to lay off staff (fa la la la … la la la LA!). I know it doesn’t scan as happily as the traditional carol, which is apt for such sad tidings. In the past week alone I’ve heard of two colleagues who are now facing a bleak midwinter; I’m …

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Today. Alone. Having time and space to myself at last. Ignoring the washing, the cleaning, the housework. Wasting time carefully, with a range of activities chosen for myself, me, only. Segmenting the day into fizzling an hour away on social networking, an hour on news reading, and hour on novel reading, an hour on showering, …

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Talking with a friend. I realised that life is a series of flaky compromises — a bit like a bland baklava. What’s For Afters? Dirty pan, mucky plates Not wiped clean In a mess Smelly, sticky, ugly to see Cold, coagulated vomitus Thrown up and thrown away Half munched, half crunched Chewed knobs of gristle, …

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Running. At the age of 44 I had a sudden urge to get fit and lose weight. So around 4 years ago I gave running a go. Well, I gave running, wobbling and walking a bit of a go. I used to go out early. Around 6.00am was best. Before anyone could see me. Before …

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I love his face.

His ears reddening, his cheeks reddening, when he sees (knows)
He has done something wrong.

I love his range of facial expressions.

I hate myself for even loving the way his face crumples
in such vividly visual disappointment (in himself, in his toy).

His face speaks a thousand emotions, a thousand words to me.

His thick, thatchy hair (it spikes you to kiss).
His gappy teeth and square ‘little man’ jaw.
His wiry, robust and strong little body.

I want him to get the Stars Of Achievement.
I want him to read The Words.
I want him to reach the rainbow square and show them all.
Show them all.

I want his teachers to like and understand him.
I want other children to love him as I do.

He is so funny.
So, different.

I fear he will choose never to fit in,
and be lost forever.

I hold his warm little hand.
My heart is fierce with protective love; not soppy:
I am fighting my love,
To help him understand the sorrow of having
To ‘Fit in’
To ‘Do as he is told’
To ‘Be like all the others’.

To crush his exuberant madness,
His brainwaves,
His creative force.

To crunch him up,
In a box.
Like school and society want.

Controllable, bland, Vanilla Boy.

Owey, Owey Oatflake.

Hide and hold a fragment of your beautiful, crazy, shiny self.

You have no idea how it will comfort you when you are older.

Asperger's on sports day

It’s the not taking part that counts.

October 22, 2014