Speak Deeply

Hello. I have written a thing which I'd like to share with you. It's called  Speak Deeply, and goes thusly:

Speak Deeply

For the longest time in my own mind my greatest crime was that I have told lies at the memorial of a twenty-two year old suicide. Lucky for me, I talk in my sleep and my voice is quite deep so the bass in my tone  bounced my words off of the moon. In that echo I heard my own voice forgiving me with the knowledge that what I said made her mourning mother laugh and grin.

That said, I never want to have to do that again. So take the time to lift your voices with mine, my friends.

When you speak, try to speak deeply.  Whenever you can, speak openly and freely; speak so deeply that you can heal the wounds caused by silence. It's not an exact science, but it is a good rule of thumb to always try to speak deeply, like you're mining for gold with your tongue.

Speak so deeply that you risk breaking the amps, that you shatter the glass in the lamps which light up the pain, that you rattle the chains and the clamps which keep people in place, which stop them from saying "please help me" while looking into another's face.

Speak so deeply that you set off echoes in someone's head and that in the place of 'I hate myself' they hear the words 'You matter' instead.

If those echoes ever scatter, turn your larynx into a jackhammer; use your seismic voice to tear down mountains and reveal the sun. Make them see that even in darkness that they are loved.

 Let's use our lungs to create a gale so that, when the rest of the world has failed, we can catch people mid-air and land them back on the right side of the safety-rail, away from the precipice.

Next time someone stares into the abyss, I want them to be able to miss their own pain and sense of hopelessness because they will be too distracted by this, the voice of our deep-voiced choir. Let them be gratefully surprised when our song blows out the match struck to light the funeral pyre, only to leave a more joyful light.

Stand guard with me throughout the night; be ready for the fight against aggressive demon-flight. Join your voice to mine as we roar this life-affirming battle-cry, defiant against the parts of ourselves that whisper we might lose this war.

Speak deeply, boom your bass-voiced bellow, shout at that spectre wielding the scythe and wearing the black habit:

"This is MY life, and you can't have it!"

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

Hello. Sorry not to have posted for a while, the real world got in the way a little, you know what that's like. I have written a thing which I would like to share with you. It's called Should I have a Daughter, and goes thusly:

Should I Have a Daughter

Should I have a daughter …?

That wasn’t a question, it was a pause for thought.

You see, I wonder what I ought to tell her.

First thing, I suppose, is that she shouldn’t back down

When she’s right just because someone yells at her.

Equally, though, she should know to apologise when she’s wrong.

It’s not that nice, but it doesn’t take too long,

Then, when she’s done, she can go back to being friends with whomever she’s just made amends.

Second thing is that she can believe what she likes,

But has to be able to justify her thoughts,

For I will challenge her.

No daughter of mine is going to be a knee-jerk of any sort.

Nobody likes a bigot.

So I shall disconnect from the plumbing that particular spigot.

(That’s a posh word for ‘tap’.)

Third is a thing at which I myself am crap –

It’s a good lesson, though I’ve barely learned it:

You only get the reward if you’ve sweated and toiled and bloody well earned it.

To do well, to aim high, one has to grit one’s teeth and really try.

But if trying’s not enough, and she still fails,

Then I’ll be there with a consoling word and a lovely, lovely ale

Which she can drink by the pint.

My pale, hairy arse will that be thought of as being unladylike!

Four: I hope I can give her the space she needs,

But if she calls me, I’ll storm on in –

A knight in shining tweed!

Zeus helps whomever leaves her in tears for a day or a year,

Or dares to forget her.

For I will give them such a vicious hand-written letter!

And I’ll charge the bastard for the postage!

But what I want for her most is that she will be interesting.

For the interesting will inherit the Earth.

And then they’ll go, “Oh, thank you.

Oh, that will come in handy. Oh look.”

Then they’ll go back to they’re book.

For my daughter will read and she will like it.

That sounds like a threat, but it’s just a prediction.

In my family reading is an in-built predilection,

A source of affection.

She’ll read in Latin, I hope,

So we can talk about life in a “dead tongue”,

And I can share the ancients’ wisdom on how to cope.

It’s my hope that this list

(Though parts of it were written half-pissed)

Will be sufficient preparation.

I want for as long as possible

To save her from the realisation

That Daddy doesn’t know everything.

He’s just as scared and confused as the rest of the world,

But he’ll try.

That’s a promise to you,

My (as yet, completely hypothetical) little girl.

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

Pluck This Day

Hello. Terribly sorry not to have posted for a while; I've been trying to pass a degree and as such not had the liberty to write. One of the things I've been studying this year is Horace's Odes, my favourite of which is 1.11 - known to the world as Carpe Diem. I have written a little thing based upon it. It's not a pure translation, but it is trying to do one or two of the things the original does within the rules of English verse. I think it's quite good and would like to share it with you. It's called Pluck This Day and goes thusly:

Pluck This Day

Do not seek it’s a crime to know,

When the gods may decree we’ll go.

And don't concern yourself whether

This is our last year together.

So join me here. I’ll pour some wine,

And while we’re chatting savage time

Will have passed without much sorrow.

Pluck this day. Ignore tomorrow.

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

On Humanity

Hello. I should be revising right now. I don't like revising and I think my brain is being helpful by giving me other things to do. It gave me a little thing which I have dutifully written down and would like to share with you. My brain didn't give me a title so for now it's called On Humanity and it goes thusly:

On Humanity

D’you ever want to put your fist through a table? You don’t, not because you’re not able, but in case some shocked person screams out “That’s mahogany!” The agony of your personal Odyssey isn’t anything new. Don’t you forget you’re not the first to get the hull of your trireme wet. A thousand generations or more since ancient times have left their native shores and set sail for distant climes. A thousand generations from a myriad of nations have braved these seas before you learned how to breathe. Despite the odds stacked against them your ancestors squared their shoulders, set their feet and met them. They sailed through the crashing boulders and crossed the raucous seas. They reached the Caucasus and retrieved the Golden Fleece. You are the successful result of a billion years of evolution and with every revolution of the wheel of fate your ancestors grit their teeth and set a faster pace. No other creature has sent one of their own into outer space. Only one percent of our DNA separates us from chimpanzees and we have crosswords and blackberry jam and artistic jamborees while (nice as they are) they’re naked and live in trees. The ease with which we put ourselves down is strange since the bricks of our molecular arrangements were forged in stars. You are the dust of stars so you really must start getting some perspective. Do some good, write some ringing invective. Make sure the world’s a better place by the time you leave, because, sir and madam, I believe we are not the fallen descendants of Adam and of Eve. We are risen apes. If that thought escapes you for a single day and you hate your life and regret it or rue it, forget all else save that you’re human and humans are great so I’m sure you’ll get through it.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Toccata and Fugue

Hello. When I was maybe about 10 Dad got an organ. It was a great big beast of a thing with three keyboards, banks of stops and a full pedal board. To get it into the house involved four men and a carpenter to take out the bay window. I have written a little thing about this memory which I'd like to share with you. It's called 'Toccata and Fugue' and goes thusly:

Toccata and Fugue

I lay there on a Sunday morning,

An hour or four after sun’s first dawning,

And piercing through my yawning into my head,

Through two layers of floorboards and a couple of dog beds

Came a series of chords –

The sound of JSB arranged for organ and canine voice.

If the dog had had a choice we’d have had Toccata and Fugue as a ceaseless litany

To which I'm inclined to agree.

Nothing is finer than this tune in D minor

For sending me back through the years

To when, through naive ears,

These notes first astounded me;

They both lifted me up beyond the stars

And concretely, firmly, grounded me.

Those notes bouncing and soaring off hardwood floors

Will forever feed the spark of joy in my spirit

When I remember Dad saying “No, get off my keyboards,

I know the sheet music and there’s no mention of a feline in it!”

This piece will always send my brain back home,

Even when it’s not home and my parents move out.

Though to do that they’ll say “For sale: one organ. Comes with a free house.”

One hopes you're well,
yours,
ADWoodward

Be You

Hello. I have written a thing. I started writing it not knowing where I was going to go with it. Having just read it back to myself it seems to be a love poem to someone who might not exist. Either way it's call 'Be You' and I'd like to share it with you. It goes thusly:

Be You

My lady, I like to think of myself as gentlemanly so I don’t wish to be unsettling, but can I climb inside and be you? Poor choice of phrase. I don’t mean to say that I’m unhappy with my gender; I don’t remember that being one of my fears. Not least because I’m quite attached to this beard.

When I say ‘be you’ I suppose the intended inference is ‘be so close that it makes no difference.’ You see, I don’t like me but you do and if I could be you I might see what you do. I want to see why someone might or might not be with me. See, it’s a mystery. But if I could grow certain things within me and keep others in the shade maybe my hates and fears and loathings would wither and fade away and so give me more space for art and joy and unbridled laughter no longer afraid of who might hear.

 And if I could be you I could know the things that you fear. And then when I’m me again I could help with a chaise longue clipboard and pen and stroke my beard and say “Hmmm, und how does ziz make you feel?” and make your dreams become more real.

 Or, if that doesn’t work I could use bad jokes to while away your days as we sit on beer-stained bar-room couch asking “What sauce do you eat on your chips when you’re in a Frenchman’s house?” The answer’s Maisonnaise. It’s funny because it’s bilingual.

There’s not a single thing I want more than to be close enough that it’s hard to be apart or afar; like the heart of a neutron star. The force of our attraction could fuse our quarks together so that strange and charm seem to be spelt with the same letters so as to be indistinguishable, and our closeness would make a light that’s nigh-on inextinguishable.

Now, there’s a chance that all this gravity could implode and make a black hole, but truth be told that’s quite rare amongst the stars which is what I’m aiming for.

I wonder if I’ve already met you and if I have if I’ve not lost the chance to open up this ark I keep within my chest and forge a covenant with you. If I do do this in the future I hope it doesn’t melt your face off. Because I like your face.

Maybe these people I’ve met are just your shadow on the walls of Plato’s cave. If that’s the case then I say “Bring on the day of our meeting come what may along the way!”

But if I’ve met you or not met you or will never get to meet you, please promise you’ll always be you. Be you, not the person I may have imagined. And if you can, maybe love me after a fashion.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

Old Pooh

Hello. My Grandad's favourite poem was Us Two by A. A. Milne. I've written a thing based on that which I'd like to share with you. It goes thusly:

Old Pooh

Wherever I go I think of Pooh

But Pooh’s not here with Me.

Whatever I do I miss old Pooh.

This is great, Pooh’d like it, too!
Dinner and chat and a drink or two

This is a poem for Pooh by Me,

This is a poem for Pooh.

“What’s wrong with the country?” I said to Pooh

(“With what?” said Pooh to Me)

“I think it’s the times and the people, too”

“Just what I think myself,” said Pooh

“You’ll sort it out one day, won’t you?”

And we planned our regime did Pooh and Me,

I planned our regime with Pooh.

“Let’s look for Fleurie!” I said to Pooh

“Yes let’s!” said Pooh to Me.

We opened the cupboard and found a few

“Yes that is Fleurie, all right” said Pooh.

“As soon as I saw the labels I knew”

"That's what they are," said Pooh, said he,
"That's what they are," said Pooh.

“Let’s drink the Fleurie!” I said to Pooh

“All right,” said Pooh to Me

I found some glasses and filled a few.

He wasn’t thirsty so I drank his too.

Lovely old Fleurie and down it flew

A bottle of wine with Pooh and Me,

A bottle of wine with Pooh.

So wherever I go I think of Pooh

‘cos Pooh was dear to Me.

“I’m nice bloke,” I said to Pooh

“And it’s down to you” and Pooh said “True”

I wish you all could have met old Pooh

So please raise a glass to Pooh for Me,

Please raise a glass to Pooh.

One hopes you're well,
yrs,
ADWoodward

You Gotta Have Friends

Hello. I have written a little bit of therapy which I'd like to share with you. It goes thusly:

You Gotta Have Friends

Or:

Three Point Two Seconds of My Daily Internal Monologue

I don’t like me, never have, probably never will.

You might say that’s silly but still,

I think I’m a prick.

Not a nice idea, but I think it’s true because it really seems to stick

. Normally it doesn’t matter because this is great and you’re great and Hey look! I’ve got a beer.

But at other times it’s painfully clear.

A law of existence,

Indefatigable in its persistence,

Something that gives the world its tick –

Matter’s made from stardust and I’m a fucking prick.

You ask:

“Why don’t you go into your own head and figure out what’s up?”

Ah,

Now, there’s the rub.

See, my brain is like a night club:

Slightly sticky, a little manic,

Full of booze and if I spend more than ten minutes there

Liable to make me panic.

You see, I don’t think I’m a real person –

There are other problems but this is the worst one.

I’m a grey, insipid figure in a series of shoddy masks –

Things that I change depending on the task.

There’s this one for being funny,

This for being smart,

This one for being practical

And this for trying to share my heart –

Which never works

Because why

Would you buy

Something which even I,

The seller,

Don’t believe is worth it?

But the real bugger

Is no matter what I mutter

Or shout

I would not be without

My precious masks,

My poorly-painted papier-mâché shields.

For when I’m out in the field

And whichever mask I’m wearing happens to slip,

Even just a bit

I lash out with flailing verbal hits

Because I’m scared

That it’s only the masks I wear

That give me any value.

But there are bad days and good days,

And I’m not in the worst of it right now

And if you’ll kindly let me,

I’d like to tell you how.

I can make me feel like shit,

So it follows I’m a prick,

QED.

But if I am a prick, then why on earth

Do I even listen to me?

The world is full of pricks who do and say things I don’t like,

But I don’t listen to them,

I just turn up the heavy metal and have another pint.

But the main reason I can cope

And life seems mostly fun,

Is that although I don’t like me,

Others do

So at least the job gets done.

One hopes you're well,
Yours,
ADWoodward

A conversation verbatim

Hello. I've been in a dark mood for about a week now, and earlier today a friend got me out of it. There is no rush like the sudden contrast of hating oneself versus being happy. I don't know whether this will give anyone but me a rush, but it was an important enough conversation that I want a record of it. There's some phrasing in the conversation that to my mind smacks like literature so I thought it might fit in here. It helped me and might help you, so I thought I'd share it with you.It goes thusly:

Me: 

How does one go about shutting off that part of one's brain which delights in delivering a rolling litany that one's a cunt?

My friend :

BEER

What's up?

Why do you want to tell people of their cuntishness?

Me:

I don't know. across the last week every time when I've not been doing something else (and a lot of the time when i've been try to do something else) I've had a rolling mass of lists of reasons whose origins i don't know but whose veracity i can't doubt of all the reasons why I have no value

it's starting to get to me

My friend: 

My delayed response is due to having just choked on my own saliva for no reason other than I appear to have forgotten how to swallow. Sorry.

Why do you think that you lack value?

Me:

I'm not an actual person. i'm a series of shoddy masks - one that pretends to be intelligent, one that pretends to be funny one that pretends to be creative and they keep slipping or they don't fit any more which prompts an impulse to lash out venomously while i try to re-affix them for even a few moments. I don't like lashing out and so I sit hoping noone actually looks and sees the poorly-painted papier machee hanging limply from my face

And I'm a prick who apparently can only speak in overly-forced metaphor

My friend:

While that's very artistic Woody, it's complete and utter bollocks

You've clearly overthought your existence a little too much

What you have just described can be applied to any human being.

The fact that you are intelligent enough to recognise it makes you special

You are an actual person and you are a genuine and lovely person. And I know this because I like you, and I am very picky over people that I feel safe around

Me:

Hurrah

My friend:

The issue here is not what you think you are, it's that you have over thought who you think you and in doing so have broken down all the little tiny things that make you special into nothingness.

You've broken yourself down into tiny parts which you are focusing on

Which makes them meaningless

what makes them meaningful is when all of the tiny, broken down, insignificant little pieces of you join together

Because that makes a person

Just as the single atoms of my bedroom floor are meaningless as individuals

But put them all together and you have a floor. Which is important or else I would have fallen into the living room

In short, you are not a cunt. Some small aspect of your personality may be a cunt, but that part is an important part of you and you should cherish it and see it in context with all the other parts of you. Because without the good and bad aspects of your personality you really would have no value.

Does that help at all?

17:47

Me:

Yes.

Thank you.

A Small Recommendation

Hello.

Have you ever been sat in the corner of a room filled to the brim with emptiness of an unknown origin, trapped by a great black dog which with drooling yellow fangs snaps off the words “you’re a cunt” in near-continuous, rumbling litany to keep you immobile and scare off any visitors you might have?

I have.

I probably wouldn't recommend it to friends.

One hopes you're well,

yrs,

ADWoodward