Saturday, 8 November 2014
Saturday, 1 November 2014
[Image description: a photo of sky above mountain peaks,
upon which the following text is overwritten -
You don't ever have to feel guilty about
REMOVING TOXIC PEOPLE
FROM YOUR LIFE.
It doesn't matter whether someone is a relative,
romantic interest, employer, childhood friend,
or a new acquaintance - you don't have to make
room for people who cause you pain or make
you feel small. It's one thing if a person owns up
to their behaviour and makes an effort to change.
But if a person disregards your feelings, ignores
your boundaries, and "continues" to treat you
in a harmful way, they need to go.
- DANIEL KOEPKE
© Simple Reminders
I have separated myself from very toxic parents. This was done on the advice of my G.P. (family doctor), psychologist and psychiatrist more than a decade ago. My mental health has never been better and I can genuinely say I am now a content and happy person. My previous (the afore referenced) G.P. noted within a matter of months the amelioration in my confidence levels, previously never experienced by myself. I can never wholly clear out their toxic legacy; but I have done my level best.
A couple of years back, a friendship that was adversely affecting my amour-propre was brought to an end by myself after discussing with the chap and finding no way to improve matters.
One of my cousins, whom I love dearly, is extremely negative, so I try to avoid as much as possible, especially when feeling low myself. But I should never wish to cut the person off completely, as there is much good in them.
Knowing that specific folk are toxic to one's health, is the first step in preventing them from causing one harm. It is never an easy step and one ought to fully consider all the ramifications before ending any relationship. However, I personally can vouch for the benefits of ending toxic affinities.
Wednesday, 29 October 2014
A traditional English country garden with a splash of contemporary modernism is what one first espies when approaching The Rooms: well, gardeners will. Architecture fans will probably note the late nineteenth century suburban Gothic façade. One enters an über-chic palace of modernity with carefully preserved original features enhanced by cooling Nordic hues. Our habitation for the night was room 3, which can be either a double or, for my companion and myself, converted into a twin.
A 32-inch wall-mounted television set with integral DVD-player faces the beds. What is rare, is that it is actually set at a comfortable height and angled perfectly for both beds - no-one needs to lean at an odd angle! Hanging space, storage, drawers and the drinks-making facilities are all hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling, well-padded headboard. There is a console-table serving as a desk cum dressing-table next to the window, above which hangs a large mirror. A DAB radio, tissues, water and glassware stand ready for use.
The beds have extremely comfortable mattresses, firm and supportive and comfy. Bedding linens are of a high quality and are soft on the skin. A choice of soft and firmer pillows or both are available on each divan.
Unfortunately, next to one of the main roads into the town-centre with double-glazing that failed to insulate from external noise, I hardly slept at all. When it was time to rise, I was totally shattered.
The completely tiled bathroom is a wet-room set-up with Grohe taps and Roca santitaryware. Plenty of thick non-scratchy towels were stacked available for use. Two towelling robes were also at our disposal.
Draw-backs and criticisms to the room:
* not sufficiently sound-insulated
* main light-switch only partially worked
* my bedside light-switch did not function at all
* no functioning light in hanging space
* two light-bulbs in the sleeping area were non-functioning
* thick cobwebs above the curtain-pole
* large cracks between tiles in en suite
* NO WIFI !!!
the breakfast room;
© The Rooms]
The breakfast menu is quite extensive. One helps oneself to juice and cereal. Tea-/coffee-pots are brought to table. My companion sampled the fishcake and ordered some toast; I the home-cooked ham & poached eggs. We were not asked if we wanted anything else. However, we were offered Bucks Fizz’, but we declined. The cuisine justly deserves its various plaudits.
On checking out we were not asked, “How was everything?” or anything similar. This makes me suspect that the proprietor is aware there are issues, as we were not asked for any feed-back or for reports of any issues.
We paid £125 for bed & breakfast, but most rooms are more expensive. Whilst The Rooms is quite lovely, it is certainly not value for money; we could have stayed in an hotel for a similar price.
Tuesday, 28 October 2014
No poetry for months and then two poems in a row. My ditties tend to be my less than most popular jottings from a statistical perspective. Nonetheless, they are a part of me: of who I was and, thus, who I am.
This one was written about a decade ago about the person I have most loved thus far in my life-span. Today I publish it to mark the young man's birthday.
The mansion rose from the waters,
towering above the settlement;
the river, its moat;
on closer look
its wooden façade appeared
or covered in a layer of soot.
Even as he approached
the journalist was startled
for laughter was heard
cutting the pendulous air;
his jaded heart
let down the barriers,
shed its studied cynicism
a gleeful chortle
Inside: blinds wouldn’t go up;
windows’ shutters remained stuck shut;
plaster flaked in discomfiting chunks;
soft furnishings grew mouldy;
woodwormed furniture lay collapsed
where once it had proudly stood;
no pictures hung on the walls;
gilded treasures and objets d’art abandoned,
all hideous grotesquerie;
chrome and acrylic minimalist items,
installed here and there,
festered unused, unpolished
and coated in dust.
The servants tottered, torpid:
marionettes with strings half cut.
Her ladyship and the paterfamilias,
in Edwardian morning dress,
greeted the reporter:
the lugubrious formalities
and so-called pleasantries
cut short by laughter -
the joyous sound of a child.
Behind the ark spread the mooring,
a flowerless alpine garden.
Freikörperkultur was the fad:
the writer shed his inhibitions
and all in which he had been clad;
he reposed on his front,
bathed under the bright clouds
in the unfiltered UV-rich light,
his milky skin warmed;
laughter suffused his being;
his tightly controlled humour relaxed.
And finally the child emerged:
The man jumped up;
grabbed a rug;
swathed the boy.
The blanket, holey,
let in the cold.
A steam-train rumbled in;
quaking shook the land,
the station’s promontory;
root vegetables spilled from a barrow
to the shaking ground.
almost with dignity,
the mansion fell in on itself,
a house of playing cards,
The dreamer, somnambulantly
made his way to his carriage,
clinging on to a solitary root;
a memento of love’s demise;
a promise of love’s future fruit -
an unconventional marriage.
But no more laughter.
with my love…
Friday, 24 October 2014
[Image description: the Mediterranean from Málaga]
postcards (from Málaga)
wish you were here:
on the Paseo del Parque
sitting on this bench
olive, satin green, bare wood
watching the red and black ladybird
crawl up the leg of my jeans;
pigeons herding by
on the white marble plain
dappled with guano
stained by age
and accidents' cracks;
your hand on my thigh.
wish you were here:
an unblemished azure sky;
the salt-air of a calm sea
cerulean and aquamarine
bejewelled with gems
of coruscating sun
the chanting wavelets
lap the honeyed sand gently;
trawl for their morning catch;
while hirsute joggers limp past -
here, they do not run -
mesomorphs are prized so dear;
palm trees rasp against the breeze
shivering in the unwelcome chill;
you come to mind, and
I horripilate to the thrill.
wish you were here:
in the Alcazabar ruins
fragments of Roman lore
Moorish exotica restored;
setting for nuptial reminiscences;
literally breath-taking panoramas
of this Legoland city
from towers and look-out points,
and timeless vistas
tell of half-remembered historias;
lunching on a marble tombstone
unpeeling my oranges
as those spectres once did
savouring the thirst-quenching liquid
trickling down my throat
my fingers all sticky
from this self-indulgent fest;
in the future I believe Hope, lest…
but you are there, my very own.
wish you were here:
on the mountainside
in the fir and rowan woodland;
the fresh scent of pine
absorbing my nostrils
in olfactory delight;
the harsh glare of the sun
defused and blurred and softened;
of clover, sage and unripe lemons
an intoxicating verdure;
marred by the detritus
of trysts and assignations
of the echo of al fresco coitus
and juvenile masturbations;
and I want you, need you now
of that I am so sure.
wish you were here:
at the El Telón bar;
the wondrous aroma of coffee
its unique woodiness
its heady spiciness;
perhaps the only
proof of God's existence;
every time I pass a café
experiencing a spiritual epiphany;
and my prayers