Will you join me?

Shall we associate or merge?

Would you like that?
And would I?

Will you say “Let me take you out to dinner”

And “Here let me carry that for you”
And “I’ll see you home after”?

Oh it’s all give and take, I give you take

When push comes to shove, I push you shove
Don’t be alarmed there is no mistake
It’s a human dilemma, let’s call it love.

Shall we be concerned with messages in the night?

My whispers in your ear’ole?
Heavy breathing and the mighty act of sex?
Or do you believe in celibacy and shall we skip that one?

Oh it’s all give and take, you give I take

When push comes to shove you push I shove
Don’t be alarmed there is no mistake
It’s a human dilemma let’s call it love.

Shall we be together in the kitchen?

And will you wash while I dry? Or shall we take turns?
Do you make avocado stuffed with prawns?
Or can we skip that one too?

Oh it’s all give and take, we give we take

When push comes to shove we push we shove
Don’t be alarmed there is no mistake
It’s a human dilemma let’s call it love.

Shall we run laughing through the woods and call it happiness?

Shall our bodies sleep together in one bed and call it love?
And will you laugh when I cry? Or shall we take turns?
How about it?
Will you join me?

Why? Am I coming apart?

(from LITTLE AUDREY’S STORY)

SONG
I think of you tenderly when we’re apart
I am holding you gently and kissing you softly
And melting the splinter of ice in your heart
But the river doesn’t flow backwards
And rain doesn’t fall upwards
And birds don’t fly upside down
And you don’t love me.

When I think of what might be it all seems so clear

There’s a trusting between us and a future before us
And a loving quiet confidence holding us near
But the river doesn’t flow backwards
And rain doesn’t fall upwards
And birds don’t fly upside down
And you don’t love me.

I wish I believed it was over and done

That there’s nothing between us but sorrow behind us
But I only believe that the great day will come
When the river will flow backwards
And rain will fall upwards
And birds will fly upside down
And you will love me.
 HIS COY MISTRESS a true story of unrequited love

The yellow brimstone butterfly was beautiful; everything about him

breathed life – intense quivering life – charged with the amorous dance
of summer. And he fell in love of course, for that is what he was there
for.
Maybe it was her stillness that attracted him; a quaint awkwardness,
almost spastic, helpless and stricken – as if she had been told to stay
put and dared not move. His tender heart was moved to pity. His
ceaseless fluttering invited her to dance, but she was shy, her head
bowed slightly in denial, immovable.
She was irresistible – he clung to her dazed and soothed by this
impenetrable calm. She came from a tranquil family; her brothers and
sisters were immobile too – but none had the quaint, dazed, faded
look that so appealed to him, for she was not in the first flush of her
youth it must be admitted, and the once bright orange of her flanks
had dimmed to dusky peach.
As the summer wore on day after day he returned helplessly to his
cruel beauty, who seemed unmoved by all the fragile passion of his
soul. Imperceptibly the shadows lengthened as the days grew shorter,
and he knew that time was running out, for he would not have much
longer to live.
Would she not once respond to his ardour with a sign of life? Would
she not breathe one sigh to recompense the long hours of helpless
attendance on her loveliness?
But then one October morning as the mists of autumn shrouded the
quiet garden and the leaves were turning softly to a rustling gold,
tragedy struck. For she was gone! Inexplicably she and her family had
disappeared as though they had never been.
Disconsolately he peered through the window of the shed for a sight
of her – and there was his love, his adored and stricken mistress, now
forever dumb, lying prostrate in a plastic basket along with all the
other clothes-pegs, as the garden darkened in the autumn rain.
He sat over there and I sat here
Across the gleaming coffee-table
Staring through the roses and champagne
Frozen, an Egyptian moment.
Above all he was here at last,
Here in this room,
Weaving his legendary spell.

It was most serious this business,

It could be the making or breaking of us,
Fear was our friend, and circumspection,
For much hung in the balance.
Time was our friend too -
Fourteen years we’d waited for this moment,
This Egyptian frieze -
No need to hurry.
Now we could take our time.

We did.
It was too long, a fatuous interlude,
His roses and champagne irrelevant.
Where was the passionate pilgrim of his soul?
A sober matron, middle-aged and kind
Hoped he was doing well,
Knowing in her heart that he was not,
Knowing her eyes were sad, her body tired,
Putting out the bottle with the empties,
And hoping he’d had the money for the roses.
(from OPEN THE GATE)
A SIX-YEAR-OLD’S LOVE SONG

Where you live quiet horses ride

And trot together side by side
And lift their noses to the tide
Where you live
Where you live.

Where you live all the daisies come

And sit together in the sun
With blinking eyes and coats undone
Where you live
Where you live

Where you live coloured fishes gleam,

And hang suspended in a beam
Of sunlight in a silent stream

Where you live

Where you live

(from LITTLE AUDREY’S STORY)

LUCIFER – a love story

THE DAY THE GREAT TREE CAME DOWN I vomited and fled to the beach,
where my shameless dog offered his stick to a stranger. This young
man I shall call Lucifer, for he had fallen further and deeper than most
minds can fathom.
Once in a lifetime you may bump into someone you don’t know and
realise they are your other half, the one for you. They may be forty
years older than you, thirty years younger, or of another race or colour,
and you may already have a life partner, but however inexplicable and
inappropriate – there they are. It’s a moment of truth. It has nothing to
do with romantic love; there is no throbbing gush from the heart - it is
recognition, that’s all. And the reflex is to turn away and pretend you
haven’t seen them, for it is inconvenient.
But if your dog has a different agenda and persists in knowing them,
then you are stuck. And my dog was still slavishly offering his stick to
the poor man who was being seduced into the remorseless
consequences.

He was some way off leaning comfortably against a blue motor-bike,

and had an uncommon stillness about him, a self-possession that
registered even at a distance. He was clean-cut, neat and well-ordered,
with immaculate fatigues, and dark close-cropped hair. (I should have
registered at once that this was a military precision, but I had much to
learn.) And he was handsome – he had the allure of a male model.

As it happens I am a disorderly, feckless, low-maintenance kind of

person, happily adjusted to a life of inglorious freedom, and in no way
interested in dishy young men thirty years my junior. But for some
reason he was interested in me, and advanced courteously but firmly in
my direction. I made to brush him off, but my dog’s stick-throwing
gambit had now hi-jacked the afternoon, and after a while I realised
that things were not what they seemed.
The young man was dying.
At last he began to talk, and I knew then why I was there.
Shiva’s work had begun.

I DO NOT KNOW THIS MAN’S REAL NAME or his address, or where he

had pitched his tent, and I later wretchedly deleted his phone number
though I believe he still has mine. His mobile phone was his office and
the centre of his life and held all the personal data and information he
needed. He wore stylish shades and a large black motorcycle helmet
which obliterated his identity, so he could only be recognized by the
registration number of his bike, (though I believe he had at least one
set of false plates.) He had a hunting knife tucked into his leather boot,
and a gun secreted in one of the three huge panniers of his bike, for he
carried all his worldly goods with him. He lived off the land and ate well,
for he had been trained in bush-craft and survival techniques by the
Paras. The only thing he bought was beer. And cigarettes. How he
managed to look so spick and span was a mystery to a slob like me,
but no doubt the army taught you that too. All in all he was impressive:
fully self-sufficient, mobile, and ready to take off at any moment. He
needed to be, for, as you will have guessed, he was on the run.

HE TALKED CANDIDLY, WITHOUT RESERVATION, putting his life in my

hands for he knew he could trust me. He had been in love with
soldiering since his childhood when he had joined the cadets; the army
was his life, nothing else mattered. His detachment and resignation
revealed him to be the working cog of an idling machine, waiting to be
used again. He never would be, because the army had thrown him out
without pay or pension when he became too ill to treat or support. For
he was dying of lung cancer and had been unable to give up smoking.
Who can blame them? He didn’t. But of course he had no other source
of income; he had been trained to kill efficiently, silently, matter-of-
factly, by an elite force that knew how to mould a man to its needs.
That was his job, and he was good at it.

I have talked to an ex-member of the Paras recently who told me that

this Rambo-like response to their conditioning was very unusual – most
trained killers retire gracefully into Police or Security work where they
feel at home and are no risk to society. Lucifer could not pass the
medicals for these august professions, so this path was not open to
him; he had been sucked into the worst possible scenario and now
feared for his life. For he knew too much and was putting a drugs
cartel in danger. He had been their hit man and knew where the bodies
were buried; now they wanted him dead. So he was putting his
expertise to good use, and had gone to ground like a professional:
stylish, ingenious and competent, he had thought of everything.

I WAS SITTING ON THE END OF THE JETTY hoping for a swim, but the
tide had gone out, so I had no retreat when Lucifer approached. I
wondered what he wanted and felt a bit bemused – maybe he did too.
There is something absorbent about me that sucks people’s life-stories
out of them like a sponge: their immediate response is to expose the
horridest details of their past, (you would be amazed how many have
committed murder), and I’ve learned to avoid parties and public
transport. I never betray these confidences of course, and have become
a sort of modern-day wedding guest at the mercy of any passing
Ancient Mariner. Maybe I reminded him of his Grandmother, who
seemed to have been the only beneficent figure in his youth, for his
parents “gave him away” to a wicked uncle and aunt who stole his
inheritance. But there was an instant intimacy between us that made
the whole thing inevitable: (the Sorcerer had said “Love has no age”,
and I didn’t believe him; but now I knew what he meant.)

This dying business seemed to be wearing the man out; he was not
well enough to be a fugitive and my heart ached to help him, to give
succour and support, for in spite of his soldierly bearing and know-how
he seemed alone and helpless.
(I later found out that he had friends like everyone else, but they knew
too much about him, and he dared not expose them to danger; the
mob was close on his heels. He longed to see his Grandmother, but she
was the one fixed point where he was most at risk. When I asked if
there was nowhere he could seek refuge, he said he had plans to work
as a shepherd in the Swiss Alps where no-one could track him down. I
never found out if he did – and as he had only months to live it all
seemed a bit of a fairy-tale.)

A DYING MAN HAS INSTANT APPEAL, especially if he is young and

handsome, and looking back on it I can see the Daphne du Maurier
allure. I am not sure how much he exploited this – it would have been
difficult not to – but although I was sucked into his orbit I was not
high-jacked by the agenda. Mobsters and thugs on the run have little
interest for me and I was not as curious as perhaps I should have been.
I find violence wearing, (having been exposed to it a bit in my life), and
to be honest I paid little attention to the narrative. Perhaps Lucifer had
seen my eyes glaze over, for he spared me the gory details initially and
they only emerged in horrifying glimpses as he was forced to bare his
soul. For that was my job it seemed – to listen with an open heart and
to care. I wanted to do more of course – to do something practical and
motherly - to look after him – but that was not what he wished. He
needed to confess the unimaginable crimes he had committed to
someone who would not betray him because they loved him.
That was all.
Because he was dying perhaps? Who knows. He must have been a
criminal psychopath to do what he had done, and I believe the mob
were themselves frightened of him. He had no moral agenda and no
conscience. He wanted to talk about it because it gave him the horrors,
not because he felt guilty. But he cared about giving me nightmares
too, and I only heard the worst as he went through the door for the last
time.
It broke our hearts to part. We urgently needed to be together and stay
together, but we knew it was Goodbye. For I was in danger too; I now
knew too much. Shiva’s Dance of Destruction was laid bare before me
and my eyes were open.

I WAS TOO OLD TO FALL IN LOVE, but it was the first time I had
experienced this golden thrust of the life-force straight from the heart,
and I grieved for him. However I now knew why he had sought me out:
his soul was filled with horror, he dared not sleep at night for fear of
attack, and he was dying. What to do?

The last three years had taught me a lot about the dark: I had survived
repeated attacks on my life by a powerful magician who was
undoubtedly possessed, and I was still attempting to cope with the
daily machinations of the poor souls next door who were trying to get
rid of me. I could now identify mental illness, possession and pure
craziness. And Lucifer seemed to belong in none of these categories.
His childhood had been difficult but not violent, and he had never been
physically or sexually abused. He was apparently sane with no funny
look in his eyes or aura of hidden menace.
But he was a born soldier and, I suppose, a psychotic killer, who had
the good (or bad) luck to be trained by an elite force to perform with
the greatest efficiency. His proudest and most cherished possession
was the military beret that he kept always at the top of his motorcycle
pannier within reach. I don’t know how often he wore it.
He was bereaved, in a permanent state of grief for the army that he
loved, and he missed it every day. And it may be that he was dying of
grief rather than cancer.

I have no agenda here: you can’t criticise the army for training men to
kill, or for abandoning them once they prove a liability due to their own
stupidity and weaknesses. I am only saying: violence exists buried deep
in the heart of man, and it can only be redeemed if there is a proven,
strong and determined desire to do so. It is not a disease; it is a
characteristic of life on this planet exemplified by the incandescent
power of Shiva’s Dance of Destruction.

But what to do about Lucifer?

I could not prevent him dying of course, but maybe I could help him
sleep at night. Did he have the right to a good night’s sleep? Probably
not. Did I have the right to help him? I don’t know. But maybe I could
ensure he never killed again. For he was certainly damned in one sense
or another and was drenched in horror and darkness. Could I flood him
with the Light that overflowed my Paradise and call upon angelic forces
to redeem and sustain him? I thought this might work, because our
hearts were so intimately connected that I could bathe him with love
and know he received it.
So that is what I did, for many months, and I know he was cleansed and
healed by it. And he knew it was me. And our relationship was fulfilled;
there was nothing more to be done. We would never meet again – it was
over.
(from SHIVA’S DANCE)
THE MARRIAGE BETWEEN SEA AND SKY

The children met their eyes were shy

Their fingers touched but gingerly
The turning tide was in her eyes
And deep in his the brimming skies
They watched each other carefully.

He asked if she would come and play

She said she must be home by tea
But when she tried to turn aside
She found she could not leave his eyes
The brimming sky had turned the tide
And caught her unexpectedly.

He said he’d teach her how to fish

She taught him how to dance and sing
They laughed and played and in their eyes
(The turning tide the brimming skies)
A waning moon began to rise
And caught them in a silver sling.

But as they played along the shore

A monstrous wind began to rise
The tide was turning fast he saw
And she perceived the darkening skies
They tried to turn they tried to run
But both were caught and held inside
The lowering sky the rising tide.

He said the tide was dangerous

She said the sky was threatening
He said the sky had never changed
It was the waves that were too tall
She said the waves were just the same
The tide had hardly turned at all
It was the sky that was to blame.

And as they argued on the shore

And each proclaimed the other lied
They never saw the crashing skies
They never heard the deafening tide
The mighty ocean swept them o’er
And left them drowning side by side.
(from LITTLE AUDREY’S STORY)

FALLING IN LOVE
When we fall in love there is a sort of organic gasp, the system goes
into shock and we are put on red alert to defend our circuits from
overload and burnout. We are in the grip of something beyond our
control.
At Level 4 we now suspend judgement and close down, unable to fulfil
our function as arbiter of moral values.
At Level 5 we are reckless and beyond restraint, transmitting lunatic
messages of rapture at the perfection of the beloved who may well be
seriously below average. And without Level 4 to tell us to “Get a grip,
this person is not worth it”, we overload, forsake reality and take
refuge in Bali Hi Disease: “I want to take you to a special island.”
At Level 3 we fall into an ardent swoon, planning the wedding and a
blissful future.
Although our instincts at Level 2 warn: “Watch out, this one’s weird.
We’ll get hurt.”, we have been abandoned by the common-sense and
humour of Level 4 and languish with unrequited love.
At Level 5 we pick up on this and start writing suicidal poetry. The
system is in meltdown.
And we are off. Our tiny bark is sailing into a sea of pain. The poor
benighted object of our passion is hoisted onto the masthead as a
mascot. The sandcastles of coquetry were long ago washed away by
our first foolish infant babblings of delight and we have lost all status,
all mystery, all power. All we have left is ourselves. And our pounding
heart.
We have gasped, we have sobbed, moaned, gazed, meditated
profoundly, then sorrowfully, then critically, and finally pragmatically
on the portrait we have painted of them, and now we have nothing left
but suffering.
Do not suppose we are fools; we are not dupes of our despair, we
know they are not worth it. We have plumbed their depths, assessed
their dysfunctions and their hang-ups; and now we love them for their
tiny imperfections, their tricky shifts of mood, their odd dislocations,
the passing shadows of their past, their sadness, their failures and
their grief.
God help us we understand them. We know more about them than God
himself. We see the darkness and the underside and coldly,
pragmatically, they ravish us and render us helpless. We do not even
love them anymore; love has got nothing to do with it. We are sailing
into the roaring forties without hope. Hope? We do not even expect to
survive. We are here for the pain. We have this appointment with
ourselves to suffer here, now, and like this. Our lives are trimmed to a
point, focussed on anguish. We are artists. We paint in absinthe with
blood-soaked brushes. Indomitable, we haul our weight of sorrow day
after day, and we are beautiful in our suffering.
And nothing can be done until time stabilises the situation, allowing
Level 4 to return rational and refreshed from a good break. Eventually
the new relationship will be assessed according to normal criteria and
Bali Hi Disease will have run its course.
And there may even be a happy outcome.
(from THE TREE OF AROUSAL)

You might be interested to hear of a lady of my acquaintance, Miss

L. R . . . . a rather unruly actress of a certain age who fell in love with
the husband of a friend. This friend, a cultivated and admirable mother
of two, was blind to her husband’s proclivities as noble women often
are, (being unwilling to admit that they have chosen foolishly), and had
no idea he was deceiving her, so the affair continued for several years.
But one day the gentleman developed a serious cancer and was rushed
into hospital. His distressed wife phoned her friend the actress to
break the news and tell her the cancer was inoperable. It appeared his
immune system was too weak and he could no longer put up a fight.
Profoundly shaken by this intelligence the actress did some research
into effective methods of New Age healing for cancer and then asked
her friend:
“Have you ever heard talk of Colour Therapy? They say it can produce
miracle cures.”
The unhappy woman confessed that she had abandoned all hope and
was ready to try anything.
“In that case” said the actress, “we’ll give him the colour red. Let us
search out all that is red in life to give him courage, energy and a new
will to live.”
So the two friends scoured London hunting for red things to take back
to the invalid. He ate red apples, red tomatoes, red cherries and red
strawberries, and drank red wine and red raspberry juice. They knitted
him a red sweater which he wore over red pyjamas under a red
dressing-gown, with a red blanket on the bed and red slippers under it.
On his bedside table they placed red roses in a red vase and many red
books including the Little Red Book of Mao Zedong, (the colour of the
politics being propitious.) And they found him a nurse with red hair.

Then the actress was obliged to leave London to work in the provinces.
After a week she phoned her friend who said her husband seemed
better.
Two weeks later she reported that he had more energy and could go to
the toilet unaided in his red slippers.
After a month he gave a little party to drink red wine and had so much
get-up-and-go that he danced all night with the red-headed nurse and
had a dreadful fight with the doctor and hit him.
The next day he discharged himself from hospital and his wife was
over the moon. It was a real miracle:
“He’s so strong he can do the housework, play with the children, walk
the dog, then go out on the town to drink red wine” she reported.
“Sadly he is a bit aggressive, but it’s worth it because he has
rediscovered the virile energy of a young man. Thanks to your Colour
Therapy he has fully recovered.”

And thrilled with her success the actress left to work abroad for six
months.
On her return she met up again with the wife and found her in tears:
“He’s left me for the red-headed nurse” sobbed her friend. “He said he
had too much sex-drive for just one woman, and I couldn’t stand
sharing him with a mistress. So we’re getting divorced.”
The irony of this did not escape the actress, as she had of course been
sharing her husband with her for many years. But she was still
appalled:
“It seems the Colour Therapy was too strong” she sighed as she
recounted this tragic story to me.
“But hang on” I said. “Don’t you know the colour red stimulates
aggression, the passions and sexual energy? If you had really wanted
to heal him, you should have given him blue.”

(from AN IGNOBLE COLLECTION OF TRIVIA, GOSSIP AND INNUENDO)

The Archangel Gabriel came to my bed one night

Breathing bliss.
And I knew that he had to be an Angel alright
Because of this
Light that he had
And this golden touch
And a voice that said “Do not look too long or you will see too much.”
Then his wings clapped like bones broken
As if to show
That Archangels never speak of love.
And I was even more sorry for the words unspoken
For now I know
That he was not the Archangel Gabriel sent from above
But another Angel called Lucifer come from below.

I will remember him so.

(from OPEN THE GATE)

BECAUSE WE LOVE YOU, YOU ARE THE ONE WE LOVE

At Level 3 we see through the mess that you are and we have chosen
you for your nobility, your quick intelligence, your pain, your laughter,
and the glint of true gold shining in your heart.
We are Kingmakers. You are beautiful to us, lit pink through the
shining spectacles of love. Who would not want to be you?
And maybe for a while you will be, sustained by the transforming
power of our great hearts. We are so emotionally strong that God has
unhesitatingly confided to us the remaking of you, (noble, intelligent,
suffering, humorous, golden etc.) and by Golly we do it! Having made
you King, we honour you as your devoted subjects and slaves.
Who you really are is not the point, because if you don’t want to be
noble, intelligent, laughing through tears etc. you jolly well should!
This persuasive scenario is more flattering than roses or champagne
and it may even work, because we’re stronger and more stubborn than
you are. But if you have the force to resist this projection and remain
yourself, several things may happen:
a. We will not believe it and turn a blind eye.
b. We will take you to a psychiatrist. Or
c. We may discover we have a real person opposite us and be so
turned on by this surprise that we fall in love all over again. And this
time you will be complicated, perverse, pig-headed, quixotic, and even
more interesting than you were before.
So you can’t win; you remain our King, enthroned in our hearts, and
we will honour you, plodding faithfully after you into the distance to
love you even beyond death. So there!
(from THE TREE OF AROUSAL)

SEXUAL AROUSAL 3: The Love Machine

At Level 3 our huge hearts are bursting with joy. We’re programmed
for this and have been waiting for it all our lives – Romance, no
expense spared: roses and champagne, candle-lit suppers, midnight
swims by starlight. Give us the music, give us the moonlight and we
wade right in, hearts pounding, to sacrifice ourselves on the alter of
love, faithfully, radiantly, nobly pledged to the beloved. We are sexy,
we are ardent, we are adored and adoring, carried away by the magic
of our passion.
And amazingly we are so emotionally strong at L3 that we may even
make it work. All the arts of seduction are on display: our voices thrill
splendidly, we flash our beautiful legs as we dance, we dress cunningly
to casually reveal our best features, nothing showy or tasteless, sheer
class, calculated to the ninth degree.
Our only weak point is our vanity. We cannot believe we will ever be
betrayed in an ignoble fashion; this would lacerate our throbbing
gallant hearts. And for us at Level 3 this can be tragedy, for we may
never fully recover.
(from THE TREE OF AROUSAL)

In many ways this was the most thrilling and intense stage in our
relationship. Because we never met in the flesh the psychic contact
became charged and exotic. And as my heart opened like a flower I
had the impression we had never been closer; there was something
palpitating about this brush with another spirit – a taste of immortality,
of intimacy beyond time and place. I had no wish to meet him in the
flesh again; these breathtaking moments of closeness quickened my
pulse and soothed my heart while making it race with excitement. He
daily shared my life like a shadow, living effortlessly alongside me;
almost I could hear the footsteps padding at my side. It was casual and
natural – no need for words or unsettling gestures of affection. No
physical contact between us could approach this togetherness and
union. There was only the knowledge that he was out to destroy me if I
would not accept him as my Master. And that was appalling. Then my
heart pounded with the pain of separation from my ever-present
enemy and the wound throbbed.
He had left one more forlorn message on the answer phone:
“I thought we were good friends” he had said dolefully.
“Friends? Huh! How dare you!” I cried.
Each day I woke to the sweet spell, the pulse of the turning knife, but
knew now I could keep going. Leo had won the battle but he would not
win the war. And even while his presence filled my life, penetrated the
woods and hillside in the setting sun, I prayed morning and night that
he would be released from the serial-killer, knowing that he was still
locked into a power-base over two hundred years old, and that a
magician had him in thrall, blocked and imprisoned by his power. And
I awaited the moment when I would be strong enough to take control.
When I could turn the wheel full circle and set him free.
(from SHIVA’S DANCE)

SEXUAL AROUSAL 4: BODICE-RIPPING.

“Oh Sir Jasper do not touch me!”
Sex at Level 2 meets all the Mills & Boone criteria. It is inflammatory,
desperate, dramatic and confrontational. It always involves conflict,
usually with ourselves, certainly with the “other”, and a lot of swooning,
protesting, gasping and moaning goes on, usually for good reason, for
at least one of us is up to no good and shouldn’t be here. The illicit
nature of these antics probably accounts for 90% of the sexual arousal.
The atmosphere is so charged with pheromones that it can attract
males from the surrounding area. “Don’t! Oh don’t touch me!” “But you
know you want it” etc. may herald a swift and volcanic climax followed
sadly by a small puff of smoke. The excitement of the build-up is in
inverse proportion to the aftermath. The thrilling struggle to contain
uncontrollable passions is over. After the bang comes the whimper.
(from THE TREE OF AROUSAL)

A Story of two little dogs

I would like to tell you about my friend who had cancer. She was a
rare and much-loved woman, married to a religious man, a spiritual
leader, of proud Sicilian extraction. And of course he undertook to
heal her.
They had been childhood sweethearts married for over twenty years,
and as sometimes happens in these cases, they had slipped into an
age-old collusion where the husband is built up into a dominant hero
by his wife, to give her an increased sense of security and stability.
This is of course a fictive strength tending to make the husband
weaker than ever, as he knows deep down he is just the clown he
always was, and much psychic energy is devoted to the daily rituals of
keeping the show on the road. This is such a common practice that
most couples are unaware of their role-playing and feel themselves
blessed to participate in the natural order of things.
Until things start to go wrong.

Of course anyone can get cancer, (apparently one third of us do), and
nowadays it is not unusual to seek alternative therapies to augment
the oncologist’s treatment at the hospital. My friend in desperation
tried many of them, possibly too many, as she became increasingly
insecure and dependent, and it may even be that her immune system
suffered as a result. I sensed she was confused and bewildered, and
sent her a small stuffed dog called Happy, who arrived at the
convalescent home before she did and was there to greet her. He was
her guard-dog I said, and she seemed to be much comforted by this.
However when she returned home the little dog was seen as an invader
of the marital bed, and a challenge to the healing powers of her
husband, who needed to control operations himself, so when I went to
visit her I found Happy had vanished.

Soon afterwards my friend had to go back to hospital again and was so

frightened that I sent her another little dog, called Lucky, who needed
someone to talk to. Once again this seemed to do the trick and she
wrote at length about the conversations they had. But once again her
jealous husband could not support the idea of a rival healer and Lucky
was sent to join the Great Doggy in the Sky. I felt rather uneasy about
this, but marriages are private affairs and you cannot intrude on
whatever games are being played.

Although the prognosis for my friend’s recovery was very favourable,

she died not long after, and everyone was very upset.
Six months later her distraught her husband came to visit me.
He was carrying a large rucksack which he refused to leave behind in
the car, although it was parked some distance away. It was his wife’s
he said, and he took it everywhere.
I tried to lift it but could not, it was too heavy.
It seemed to be filled with stones.
(from “An Ignoble Collection of Trivia, Gossip and Innuendo”)

Alright. OK. I’m putting on my hat.

Just get a load of that
I’m on my way.
This time I’m gonna get ya
You can bet your soul on that
And you’ll be glad I met ya,
You betcha.
In the past few days I’ve felt a deep dissatisfaction
At the lack of your reaction
To my evident attraction
And I have to say that I find it a distraction
And it gives me satisfaction
To snub you just a fraction.
(So bugger off you!)

In the last few weeks I’ve felt a bitter sense of yearning

At the lack of your discerning
My deep and inner burning
And I have to speak of your diffidence concerning
The passions you are spurning
And the love you’re not returning.
(I think you’re emotionally retarded frankly.)

In the past few months I’ve felt a deep humiliation

That you’ve no appreciation
Of my constant admiration
But my heart still pumps with a steady palpitation
Though I’ve no anticipation
You’ll accept my invitation.
(I believe there’s something wrong with your glands.)

In the past few years I’ve found it hopelessly confusing

To learn that I am losing
The charms I had been using
And I’ve shed some tears at the way you’ve been abusing
And openly seducing
The girls you’ve been perusing

(Oh it’s not your fault really I know that,

And if there was another sex around I’d blame them.
But there isn’t, you’re all I’ve got.
And sometimes it seems insufferable
That you should get away with what you’ve done to me in the past two
thousand years.)

On your bike you’re a fucking thug

And you can’t do one thing right
Your taste in clothes gets up my nose
So why don’t you bloody well write?

Get out of my hair you silly sod

I just wish you’d leave me alone
Your drunken fits get on my tits
So why don’t you bloody well phone?

Shut your gob you ignorant slob

I hate the songs you sing
Your lack of class is a pain in the arse
So why don’t you bloody well ring?

Get out of my life you arrogant shit

You act like you’re miles above me
Your air of disdain just gives me a pain
SO WHY DON’T YOU BLOODY WELL LOVE ME?
(from LITTLE AUDREY’S STORY)

SEDUCTION 2 – The Beautiful Game

In the emotional soup of Level 3 we swim with an open heart,
innocently giving and sharing joy. We offer all our milk and all our
honey, with roses and champagne. We love unstintingly and ardently
without a sideways glance. We casually and skilfully reveal our best
points, our eyes shining with trust. We sing, we dance, we write poetry,
we expose our inmost souls without fear of ridicule. We have faith in
the power of our love. But these are treacherous waters and in opening
the portholes of the heart we drown. Love is not what we thought. How
did we give them the power to do this to us? How did we turn a
pleasant rather average person into a love-rat? We are invaded by pain.
We do not eat or sleep; hanging by a thread we pendulum between
terrified rejection and unconditional giving, between childish
happiness and unspeakable humiliation. Appalled and ashamed we
find our precious gifts rejected or even ignored. Our shining radiance
is sullied by dishonour and contempt, and we realize Love is not about
caring and sharing, but about winning and losing. And no-one is
winning here. Something quietly monstrous is taking over: possessive,
callous and self-absorbed. Our fantasies inflate and bloom theatrically,
looming over us, lurid and ominous. We love and hate recklessly; it is
all or nothing, we will kill them or marry them within an hour. We have
not slept for weeks. Our nerves are singing with grief. The beloved,
quite possibly unaware of the drama, becomes our enemy bent on
deceiving or destroying us. Our life, our very sanity is at stake. We are
making the transition to Level 2.

GRAND PASSION – “With my body I thee worship”

How did this torrid phrase get into the Book of Common Prayer? Did
they know what they were talking about? Because if they did they
shouldn’t be conducting Meetings for Worship. Those of us who have
not experienced Passion are well out of it. Those of us who have, know
that we need a heroically robust nervous system, a strong head for
heights, the will-power of an operatic Diva, an iron constitution and an
indomitable determination to survive. The craving to abandon
ourselves body and soul in adoration of the beloved demands a strong
masochistic streak and the power drive of a business magnate. This
has nothing to do with the gentle art of making babies. It is a car-crash.
A violent loss of self. A breaching of the normal defences of the soul,
an abrogation of all human rights and a sacrificial offering of the heart
on the altar of rapture. And it is not even physical; though there may
be a sensation of wrenching open the body cavity to let the heart pass
through. How can we survive this total terrible intimacy to live apart?
And once we have tasted it we ache for the cruel sight, the touch and
flesh of the beloved, as an amputated limb twitches helplessly in mid
air, reaching for the known sensation that will make us whole and
innocent again. At Level 2 we are prepared to pay the price with our
sanity.
(from THE TREE OF AROUSAL)

THE NEWS ROOM

Did you hear that click my love, so soft
Oh velvety and smooth
A silent well-oiled breath, a sigh
A change of pressure in the air
When the door shut with no handle?
Trapped!
And your long body for bait
Or mine
In this room where eyes meet
Brimming with messages
Unreadable.

Where have you come from to this meeting?

What is your news?
Tell me your story
And we will watch the door swing silently ajar again setting us free.
This is the News Room.
The doors have no handles.
Only we have to understand the message
Then we can go. (from LITTLE AUDREY’S STORY)

Sometimes you have to love someone because they need it

He was like that
A great strong man but frozen,
And when I told him I loved him he must have understood
Because each time we parted afterwards
He held up his cheek to be kissed
Like a child at bedtime.
You disappoint me sometimes with your lack of perception
And I wonder if you give enough time to personal reflection
I am often hurt by your capacity to ignore the flights of my
imagination
And by your indifference to my moments of spontaneous inspiration
Indeed the callousness of your response to my creativity occasions me
some pain
But then considering you’re a dog I suppose I can’t complain.

Copyright E. J. Ward 2014