Posts Tagged ‘ego’

Pity Party


You are cordially invited to the first annual Pity Party.

Come one ; Come all*

(*All entrants must be over the age of 35 with ID to gain admittance.)

All refreshments will be provided:  a salt water punch made from the tears of middle-aged men and women who’ve just woken up to realise that their first instincts all those years ago as teenagers were correct – they ARE fools.

There will be a finger buffet of stale wet bread served with wrinkles and flab. Hot charred bingo wings and beer bellies marinated in despair. For vegetarians there will be a salad of fear with a disappointment dressing.

The dress code is informal: Come as you are, not as you want to be.

There will be party games. Everyone must bring their own personal sack of misery, stored whichever way suits them best: a monkey on your back, a leaden backpack weighed down by stones pulled out of rivers you never had the guts to walk through.

Ladies: bring the make-up case full of the artificial faces you spent $$$$ needlessly creating only to be washed away each night before you went to bed. Bring the dresses that no longer fit you but you promised yourself one day would again. Gentlemen: bring the comb you wished you still needed and the empty wallet once bursting with borrowed money. Both, fill your pockets with the broken dreams and desiccated plans that once got you out of bed but now just weigh you down like so much small change. Stick your ancient fake smiles now cracked and unusable into your suit pockets; throw in your unused and dried up wombs. Bring along all the things you’re trying to hide, all the inexcusable and unlovable secrets. Relax and take an evening off from convincing the world how ‘fabulous’ everything is because, let’s face it, you aren’t fooling anyone anymore.

Etiquette must be observed at all times: Don’t walk away. Don’t pre-judge anyone else’s misery pile unless they have taken their shoes off for you to walk around for a mile in.

Upon hearing the gong sound, all misery must be placed into a large pile in the centre of the room, a true bonfire of the vanities, a yard sale for the soul. And then once we all feel loosened up and relaxed enough, we’ll have a poke around in the entrails, picking out, comparing, choosing which of each others misery we’d like to take back with us in exchange for our own. A baby shower of unwanted gifts for the slowly dying.

It’s going to be a great night, I trust you will be able join us…



On/Off, Up/Down, Don’t Walk/Walk.

Walk with me…

I want to walk in early evening summer forests with you, talking about the real things.

I want to walk deep, deeper into the forest than we’ve ever walked before. Walking close, our hands occasionally brushing. I want to feel connected to you and to the forest that burns in the fever of life around us, and we not as observers but as celebrants let the energy of existence flood through us.

I want to hear our voices lose their harsher edges and become rounded by the deep and absorbent green moss growing all around us. Each sentence spoken given its own natural punctuation by the crackle of distant bonfires, old dry oak logs splitting and spitting in the white heat, the brittle and sharp sound snapping out against the surrounding trees, noise pinging off the trunks like a sonic pinball, the blueish smoke that accompanies it smooth and natural on our nostrils.

Looking up the smoke hangs in the air like a delicate mist, the orange sunlight weaker now as the approaching dusk gives the smoke the illusion of jungle rainforest steam leeching off the verdant leaves, wispy fingers delicately stroking the fronds.  I want to discover secret trails through the undergrowth, crouching and shuffling low under ancient gnarled branches twisting around us as we climb through to the deepest parts of the forest. The hidden heart.

What light gets through silhouettes the branches like brain stems over-arching us. The air gets damper as the green heart of the centre slowly reveals itself, sinewy roots and branches thick like veins now. Despite the exertion, sweat is now starting to cool and stick to our tops, moonlit mint on still shiny backs.  The canopy closes over us like hands locked in prayer. The sun sets, the temperature immediately drops, the birds increase their chatter sending out final messages before the total darkness and the shadows win.

And here at the very centre amidst the pine cones and kindling, we will sit and play chess again. ‘Id’ & Ego, black & white, heads and tails throwing everything in to find the balance that is at the centre of everything. I can’t explain it but as sure as I know the sun will rise tomorrow so I know there is balance on a comic scale. I don’t know if that’s an objective truth or a subjective one, but human brains are constructed to be dual and conflicted: left hemisphere pitted against right hemisphere each acting as a sounding board as a double-act throwing ideas off each other till they arrive at the funny. Real Self v. Ego slugging it out, an eighty-year bout inside the brain-ring of a human mind as internally divided by design as Heaven & Hell. Locked in a stale-mate battle for supremacy of reality during the day, but always slapping each other on the back and going off for a drink at curtain down, once the director calls ‘cut’ and eyelids close. After all, what’s one hand clapping in an empty forest?

Whether sun and moon, good and evil, night, day, north/south pole, husband/wife, the asleep, the awake, the hot the cold: the truth be told, there is always the balance. At the centre of all of us sits our divided selves playing chess on the eternal board of enlightenment, Tic Tac Toe…

My move again…