Love & Masochism

Fee-males, fee-lines,
he thought he ought
by now a lesson learned
as he felt the scratch from chin to eye,
yet still bewitched he yearned,
itched for the stealth of those
who ate his soul with lapping lick
slinked as they slyly stole his heart.

“Cats, cats, cats,
everywhere cats,
but then stepping
out from the crowd,
a single crab.”

And much to his surprise
he found fascination in her flapping flab
and grabbed lustily at her heaving thighs
as she sexily sidled up to him
and punched him meanly
clean between his eyes.
She grouched as he ouched
and yelped in pain,
moaned that he groaned,
punched him again and declared
if he wished to exist in her domain
he should irritate her not,
be grateful for what she gave-he got,
and he submissive for the want of her
discarded those cruel cats
whose pain made him purr,
knew true in his heart that he,
he did
prefer
her,
his sexy snapping brachyura.

 Anna :o]

What is this strange thing called love, that despite its potential to cause great pain, it brings out the masochist in us as we enter the uncertainty of it again and again in our search of a life partner or maybe a ‘just for now’ relationship?.

We profess love of our family and friends – but others interpretation of offered love can be suffocating, stifling, downright cruel.  Of course we cannot chose the family we are born into and may not like them very much at all and may teeter on the edge of near-dislike or dislike itself.

I guess we all have our own interpretation of what love is – is it a basic human need to be needed or is it a protective emotion that binds us together as a species, brings cohesiveness to our particular tribe and thus societal stability? If the latter – it is clearly not working.

Nevertheless, despite its potential to cause pain I am in love with love, love being in it – although I am not quite certain what it is. Can you love someone every minute of every day or do levels of love fluctuate? 

Looking at my handsome one now as he dozes on the settee, do I love him at this very moment in time, is there a passion of emotion there or do I view him (?)only as my chosen (and very likeable) partner? At this moment of time I would say the latter, yet he may wake and utter some words, do some deed and I will be overwhelmed with emotions that pleasure my mind and fill my chest to almost bursting point – and this I think is part of loving, love operates at many fluid levels/depths, love is societies binder - and indeed sometimes a bind…

As the Bishop said to the Actress “How do you interpret Love?”

Today’s post is the result of Isadora’s prompt post at Real Toads in which she asked us to write a post based on the Hamilton Cork's first lines – my chosen: “Cats, cats, cats, everywhere cats, but then stepping out from the crowd, a single crab."

La via che va tra la perduta

       

“Per me si va ne la città dolente,

per me si va ne l'etterno dolore,

per me si va tra la perduta gente.”

(Dante’s Inferno, Canto 3.1-3)

La via che va tra la perduta

There is no warmth here;

the inner glow of being me

is somehow elusive

and I can’t (quite) remember

why I’m here...

There is no warmth here;

the inner glow of being me

is somehow elusive

and I can’t remember…

It is cold here,

a numbing emptiness,

a loneliness,

a chill permeates

my every screaming fibre. 

Fear is cold as ice,

splitting,

exploding      every atom;

fear                        fear

excites the torment of,

the dread of tomorrow,

the dread of things… (forgotten)

as I desperately

try to grab,

to hold

to keepsake

memories of today

that disappear

with every fleeting moment,

disappear into the grey.

Something

(I can’t quite get hold of what it is)

is drawing me

like moth to candle,

something

cold and dark and uninviting,

yet it draws me,

draws me

like a spindly beckoning finger

and as I linger at its gate,

foreboding tells me

I should not enter

yet strange longing urges me to stay

and I can’t quite remember why I’m here...

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.

 Anna :o]

Fred at dVerse asks us to write in a language which is not our own.  Although some of the above is drawn from Dante’s Inferno, that written in English is not my own.  It is based on the language and thought process of someone (I was privileged to know) who was a dementia sufferer. 

There is no pleasure to be achieved from dementia, no yearning to earn its tag – for the sufferer or the carer –and following diagnosis worlds begin to disintegrate, friends gradually cease to visit, even relatives – loneliness, isolation and fear ensue.  There is very little – and I mean very little - community support, perhaps a six-monthly visit to your psychogeriatrician, an annual review from your GP, an occasional visit from CPN or social worker and that is it – and they do mean well, they really do – but until you are diagnosed with dementia or care for someone who has – until you live this life - you really don’t know a thing - you may think you understand and can reel off wisdom acquired through the requirements of your profession - but you don't understand at all.

Health Secretary Jeremy Hunt has proprosed that GPs should screen all those considered at risk of developing dementia and those over 74 when attending a routine visit – with no warning of the intention to screen.  There are so many dangers here of over-diagnosing and over-medicating – please DO read two excellent post by Dr Martin Brunet regarding this here and here.

Please watch the video above – brought to my attention on Margaret McCartney’s blog and read her post here.

NICE has concluded that there is no accurate method of identifying people through screening – please see ‘Basis for recommendation’ so why are the government pressing ahead?  What will happen to the folk who may have to wait up to nine months for a Memory Clinic appointment?  They may be diagnosed with early dementia and then what?  Certainly very little helpful support and definite stigma attached – they may be found to have mild cognitive impairment that will not progress to dementia – but oh the worry while waiting (for the appointment) and the stigma will remain. They may be found not to be in the early stages of dementia at all – but oh the worry while waiting and the stigma will remain…  

 What are your thoughts on dementia screening?

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, author Luca Casarteli 

Peace

image by Daniel Murtagh

They say   when asked,

your dog-collar friends

that you must suffer;

                 anguished
as you slowly

drift towards the end.

They say that He is testing you,

giving you the chance to make amends,

and I wonder if you always knew

you’d writhe

in most exquisite pain

to bring glory, glory to His name.

I am not ready to give you up,

would do all to keep you alive

and strive with prayer

to plead

too soon too soon

please don’t take this man  

who shared Your flesh,

drank Your blood from precious Cup,

but no man is from death immune

and from life’s first breath we begin to die

and Lord you will not hear my cry

lest he should not come unto Thee.

I weep as I watch you wounded,  writhe

and change my plea to that of sweet release

for *nothing ‘gainst times scythe

can make defence

and entreat the Lord to grant you peace.

Tis twilight now

and I gaze as cirrus thin-wisp

the vast expanse of reddened skies,

and in awe of it,

want so to believe

that Heaven does indeed exist,

that when life doth finally cease, 

in death your soul will gently rise

and you will sit with Him

splendid

in Eternal Peace.

Anna :o]

I first began writing the above in response to dVerse's prompt of Peace and distracted by other things it fell by the wayside.  Then I saw Tess’s prompt at The Mag and the woman looking out of the window reminded me of the evening I looked out of the window – the day after my dads death – and the beauty of the skies made me think of the possibility that Heaven may exist.

The poem is of course about my dad and I should give a bit of history.

I was raised in a religious household – but a home where religion was a comfort and by no means oppressive – no Hell and Damnation.  Despite this warm atmosphere I cannot ever remember believing in God.  I spent periods of time in hospital as a child and saw a lot of suffering there.  I can remember my mum and dad saying – when comparing my relatively minor problems with those other children – “You have so much to thank God for Anna” and my response was “But what have they got to thank God for?” and they could not answer this.

My brother ran away from home when he was nine – he too conflicted between his ‘need’ to honour his parents beliefs and the lack of his own.  Upon his return much talking was done and my parents said they had realised a long time ago that I did not believe too.  My brother and I never attended church (with my parents) again after that.  It must have hurt my parents deeply – but wonderful good souls as they were – we were never treated any differently.

When I was ten my dad gave up his job in Law and devoted his life to his God – becoming a ‘missionary’ and a lay-preacher – not the Bible-bashing kind rather a man who gently wished to spread the love of his God.

Some twenty or so years ago – across weeks – he died an agonising death and I asked his colleagues why his God was treating him so.  They responded with the usual platitudes’ “God works in mysterious ways” and “He is testing him” and when I asked why He was testing him – a good kind man who had devoted his life to Him – they could not come up with a satisfactory answer.

So it is fair to say I have never believed in God – but for my mum and dads sake – I truly truly truly hope I am wrong and they exist in eternal peace with their God in Heaven.

*”nothing ‘gainst times scythe can make defence” – wonderful words borrowed from Shakespeare – Sonnet XII.  (It’s okay – he says so and he and I are good friends!)