the philosophy of haha

When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried?

 

The last half a dozen years or so, I haven’t belly laughed anywhere near as much as I should.

 

Apparently seven hugs a day is the minimum requirement for a happy and healthy life; I would add to that at least three body-rocking tears-inducing belly laughs a week.

 

Two old friends, out of the blue, emailed me today about this blog. One was the most sweetest kindest praise I’m sure I don’t fully deserve (but will happily accept as awesome motivation), and the other was concern over the state of my mental health (“bloody hell, your blog’s a bit depressing.. are you ok?”) – made me chuckle.

 

The thing is, I used to be funny. I used to be able to write with a comedic bent. I used to make people laugh. When did that stop happening? When did I become so serious?

 

So now I’m trying to remember the last time I laughed until tears rolled down my face. I’m trying to rediscover the funny.

 

Oh, I’m in luck – I remember. At work, of all places. My alarm didn’t go off and I woke up five minutes before I was due to start. I threw myself out of bed so fast I was still half asleep and my right leg was still fully asleep, leading me to walk as though I had cerebral palsy, banging into every wall more than once as I stumbled sideways into the bathroom.

 

That, coupled with the shakes, made it.. let’s just say, entertaining, to try and get my legs into pants. I didn’t even try and attempt to wield a hairbrush.

 

I burst into work half an hour late, panting, pillow creases still adorning my face, hair like a madwoman, and started telling the story of my morning, giving a visual demonstration of my physically-challenged walk, which made me and thankfully my very understanding boss laugh so hard we cried.

 

Why can’t every morning start like that?

 

Have you ever been around someone with an attack of the giggles? How hard is it not to join in? In 1962 three schoolgirls in Tanzania got the giggles which spread to 2/3 of the school population before going on to infect another 14 schools and countless villages, only ending about two and a half years, and 1000 giggling people later. Now that’s contagious.

 

Let’s forget the fact that laughter reduces pain, releases endorphins, brings down stress levels, pumps oxygen through the body and increases blood flow; it’s just so damn fun – why don’t we do more of it?

 

And from now on I solemnly promise to try and throw in a couple of chuckles among the darkness.

 

 

The most wasted of all days is one without laughter.

-- ee cummings     

 

bug profundity

A bug spoke to me today.

 

He said I was miserable.

 

Still not sure how.

 

He was a small speckled dot on my desk. When I nudged him, he moved and started on an aimless trek. And said I was miserable.

 

He meandered slowly and placidly toward the keyboard then casually turned and headed for my desktop map of the world, and said look at this desk. Look at the misery formed at this desk. As I trudge across it, so you trudge through life sitting at it, directionless, dusty and dry as a desert.

 

He paused at New Zealand and rotated as though he was taking in the rest of the world. You should be out there. You should be walking the earth. You should be learning in the school of the world. Don’t you remember your dreams? Your yearnings?

 

Strange that he paused in the place where I started this life.

 

He walked the Pacific Ocean heading for Russia, and fell on his back, legs flailing. Ok, maybe Russia’s not for you.

 

He righted himself and headed back to me. Think about it. There’s nothing holding you here now. In this place. Now is the time to go.

 

And he went. Down the side of the desk. To where, I don’t know. I didn’t look. More mysterious that way.

 

He’s right. I’m miserable. There’s actually nothing holding me in this place. I should go. But to where? To do what? I feel useless not knowing how to answer that. Bug didn’t hang around long enough to enlighten me in that regard.

 

Could it be that my spirit guide is a nameless speckled bug? I always thought it was a gecko.

i am origami

i am origami.

fold. crease. fold.

unwrinkled paper

shrinking in size.

every fold. crease. fold.

creating a weak spot.

greasy fingers that

fold. crease. fold.

and leave a residue.

who folds?

who manipulates?

what am i?

box.

crane.

stick insect.

flower.

or just

a piece of paper

once smooth

now wrinkled.

double-vision

To be misunderstood.

 

How long do you call it ‘misunderstood’, before you start calling it ‘reality’?

 

How long does it take for you to turn, “people misunderstand me. I’m always misunderstood” into, “people must see me how I really am. I’m the one who’s got me worked out wrong”.

 

I’d really like to know, because the only thing that holds me back from adjusting the focus is my rage, and the fear that if I embrace everyone else’s misunderstandings of me as reality, I’ll slip into a deeper, darker, den of despair – a padded den, in which I can more easily, quietly, slowly, beat myself up.

 

Does everyone have an aspect of themselves they think they’ve got worked out, only to have everyone else think the opposite? Even random things, like humour, or level of compassion, or body image? Or is it just me?

 

I’m always wary of people who think I’m this fantastically wonderful person, or great at something in particular, because I don’t see myself that way, or at least at their level of wonderfulness. It’s not an act of self-deprecation, I just honestly don’t think most of my every day actions warrant what others think of me.

 

It puzzles me.

 

It also works the other way – if people see certain actions as awful, or slutty, or immature, or just plain wrong, but in my head I know I’m not doing anything wrong, I just don’t get it.

 

The difference is, when people think better of me than I think of myself, I’m confused, but I try and take their word for it. I don’t think I’ve deserved even half the praise received while I’ve been on this earth, but I try and graciously accept it.

 

However, when I’m thought of worse than I think of myself, I do one of two things: up the hackles and bring the rage, or more commonly, doubt myself until I’m a shaky mess rocking in the corner.

 

I’m sick of people making me doubt myself. I don’t know how to stop it, except for rage and indignation – and they’re not much fun to have as house guests. They’re always tearing the place apart and doubling my electricity bill. When they finally leave, it takes a lot for me to put the house back together.

 

But the alternative – doubt, is like an infestation of termites, eating away at the foundations until my house collapses (Ok I think I’m over this analogy now).

 

Anger, or depression.

 

There has to be

a door number three

-world, please?

wounded

 

sick of licking my wounds.

sick of wounding myself in the first place.

sick of my supposed reputation.

sick of not being trusted.

sick of being treated like a child.

sick of self loathing.

sick of games and politics.

sick of my egocentricity.
sick of this ride.

 

unimpressed

with the rest.

 

for shame

those who are to blame

and i at the top of the list.

 

retreat

regroup

radio silence.

now is the winter..

There is nothing like a calm, sunny day in the middle of winter to remind you why the freezing, stormy, wintery days exist.

 

If every day was fine and 22 degrees we’d never know the difference.

 

Perhaps my soiree through the weedy thicket of singledom (again) is so I will be able to more fully appreciate the sun-dappled forest of love in a relationship the next time round.

 

Or, perhaps my love life, now currently in winter, needs to go through a spring clean before I hit the warmth of summer.

 

In any case, I’ll take the odd day of sunshine and warmth during winter while I wait.

 

I just hope it’s a short winter and a long luscious summer…

 

blush

 

 

 

 

hope survives in me:

a pretty boy makes me blush -

a heart recovered.

 

feelings stir again.

no longer shying away,

hidden from more harm.

 

human spirit wins.

the capacity to love

has not been trampled.