Morbid Fascination

When I was younger I recalled having a set of murder case book magazines I used to collect with glee each week chronicling the life and gruesome murders of famous serial killers. There is no glory in their acts and really nor should the retelling of their acts be best sellers but they are. If I were related to one of the victims would I read with such relish? I doubt it very much but the truth is most disconnected people find the macabre engrossing.

I've started reading a short novel called "The Blind Owl" by Sadegh Hedayat. This is one of a number of books I bought years ago from Rebel Inc and never got around to reading- though I read a few. Some of these books have made their way from the loft down to the book case at various times and although I have 4 or 5 new books to read at the moment this one caught my eye.

There is a preamble in each book discuss its merits from various would be authors in various states and various places. In this one the discussion takes place in a Dublin pub between Scottish author of 'Morvern Callar' Alan Warner and someone named 'The Large'. Quite tedious actually but one paragraph stuck with me.

WARNER: "Have you heard of Francesco Borromini, he was a baroque sculptor, a rival of Bernini's?...This guy was something else. A not-quite-good-enough artist...he'd never created a work of art so he decided to commit suicide. The old Roman way, fall on the sword...but same we he botched up everything else in his life, he even fucked up the sword business: fell on it incorrectly and died after hours of agony. Thing was, he crawled over to his desk, as he bled to death, he wrote this incredible, blow by blow account of the thoughts and processes going through his mind. Complete work of art! Incredible!"

I had to have this account. Yes I had to read it. Seduced by this tale I had to read the dying words of this man that were regarded a work of art. Inadvertently this failure of the arts had created art accidentally by way of ending his own life. That had to be worth a read. If this fellow had decided rather than lying down to death to instead write for us then it would be ignorant not to read it.

So off I went with Google as my guide to take to the place I so desperately seeked only to find disappointment. The tale was not actually as recounted by the author. It was a different tale entirely and I was disappointed. How selfish of me.

Francesco Borromini was in fact a well respected architect in 17th century Roma. So much so that he was at one time sponsored by Pope Innocent X. But later his style became frowned upon and later in life he find all his commissions dry up. This led to a despair and worthlessness that manifested itself in melancholy- a general term used at the time and for centuries after to describe a mental illness. This was a severe case leading to him being unable to leave the house and suffering fits. It was in this state that Francesco Borromini one night committed suicide. He did, as Warner said, take time to die but in this time he did not write a great work of art but instead received his last rights and wrote out his will.

The promise of a tale of morbid fascination turns out to be just another sad anxious story. Not sure which one applies to this blog but have an inkling.

Flowers and torment

The maelstrom of images swirl too quickly leaving me disorientated for a moment as the humming top in my head spins to a blur threatening to launch at any time and take the top off my head with it. The scene is unreal and it by the artificial fluorescence powering all big supermarkets amid a cacophony of near silence- except for the humming in my head, the whizzing. It is a poor display in front of me. Where there should be a beautiful rainbow of varying colours and shapes I see emptiness. Where there should be various aromas which should melt together into an alluring fragrance and take me back to summer gardens I find myself robbed of scent. Flowers. More to the point flowers for my wife. Mother's day is nearly gone as its ten at night but here I am in the supermarket buying flowers on behalf of my children having not been out for 2 days and hating every minute of it.

I stare but don't absorb. I can't stop staring and that is the problem. Where I need to focus I have to much focus and cannot flick out of it. My eyes scan between the empty spaces at the pathetic offerings but still my mind is spinning so quickly any observations just bounce off. On instinct I grab two small bunches. They are poor specimens. I am no expert in flora or fauna but these look unconscious and maybe even in a coma but really it is all they have and in this situation I must make do.

Behind me is the path of least resistance- home- but ahead is where I must go to the checkouts. No point in wasting more time. I take the heavy steps to the checkout and pay for the items. As usual I try to throttle myself for something to do as the agitation needs some physical outlet. There was a time I just looked blankly lost in my own thoughts but now the anxiety manifests itself physically like this and takes over my hand to rip the Adam's apple from my neck. I try to remain calm despite the attack so no-one comes to my rescue. They are all as I once was moving slowly lost in their own worlds elsewhere. Mindless creates happy in their own heads, lucky bastards. They don't look at me and even if they did they would see an illusion. They may see the one handed assault but think nothing of it. They wouldn't see what the other hand was doing. This hand is straining to hold the taut thick elastic. This elastic stretches over my shoulder and all the way home to where it is bolted down to the sofa in my living room.

Each time I go out I must throw the thick elastic over my shoulder and push all the way out there in the world. The further I go the more the strain. I cannot stop and relax for fear of being catapulted at high speed back to my living room. So I take the strain and I pull the elastic hard in order to get further away. And when I return it is not much easier. If I relaxed I would be dragged face first through the concrete at high speed home. Instead I must still take the strain and edge myself home as slowly as I can. This is always the way but its not always the same experience. Some days it feels shorter and tighter. There have been days when it has loosened and I take hope that finally it is getting ready to snap but it never does. Always though I must strain and always these little trips leave me exhausted afterwards as a result. That is the resisting the strain and the constant tension.

Let me also say what took me there at the end of mother's day. One day I walked past "the pound shop" and paused for a moment wondering whether to get an anniversary card. To be able to have that decision is a big improvement in my walking problems, or agoraphobia, as there was a time that this was out of the question and no-one got cards. That day I decided not to go in as I would get it later- nothing was stopping me. This was 2 weeks before my anniversary. On the day of my anniversary I lay on the sofa in pain around my abdomen riddled by guilt at not even being able to get my wife a card for our day.

At the start of last week I paused in the same way outside the same shop- mother's day this time. I had learned my lesson so went in and bought not only my wife a card but my own mother too. Success for me. Just a little success but each one counts. And it was just as well. No physical problems, I said, for many years. I sat down in the kitchen on Friday night and when I tried to get up I couldn't straighten. I had pain in the small of my back. As the night went on it got worse. Saturday I could hardly move. So frustrating though. Another occasion and once again I am unable to move freely- was it always going to be this way from now on?

But at least this time I had the cards. So on Mother's day the girls had something to give their mum. They wrote the card out from the words I transcribed and then filled the card with kisses. My wife was happy but I could see something was missing. A little present. I hadn't gotten anything except a card. Partly this was because I didn't think I needed to, that I couldn't get out and also that I would not even know what to buy for my wife. I could see the disappointment though.

On Sunday evening I felt my back ease a little. In truth when I managed to straighten up it was alot better and later I found walking was actually not the problem I expected it to be. So on a whim on my late night jaunt I decided to go into ASDA and when in there had the notion to purchase flowers. I did so successfully. Again something else I can chalk up- a little thing but another thing regardless.

I am so glad I did. I sneaked back into the house and my wife was in the kitchen on the phone. Quietly I sneaked into the girls room to find them both awake. A minute later I stood there as my wife turned around to find her two girls there ready to present her with a bunch of flowers each for Mother's day. It might have been late but regardless it was worth it. It did make her day and I think we all got a lift.

Additionally though it taught me something else about myself. After a lay off from going out I have always found the first trip the hardest usually scuttling home almost a soon as I am out of the door. That night I was out for as long as I have been over the past year so that need not always be the case. It teaches me that my apprehension is probably at play. Better to do things on impulse. So if it has done nothing else it has helped me at least realise something that works better for me and long may it continue.

Curious creatures

What curious creatures we are. We all have our little ways and eccentricities. I'd like to tell you about one of my own. If I have mentioned it before then I apologise in advance. Above is an item I bought on holiday eight years ago in Prague. The little shop is in part of a museum in the old town square and as the lady wrapped it in brown paper I realised I was never going to open it. Why this is I am not sure. A voice somewhere inside said to leave it wrapped. Almost a decade later it sits still housed in the brown paper.

Recently I have been thinking about it. Why on earth would I buy something and not unwrap it? It is in fact one of the few things I have ever bought on holiday to keep long term. Apart from a football shirt, few prints of the Charles Bridge and some prints we bought in Paris I can't think of anything else. So it makes it all the more peculiar that I would never open it.

Maybe I like the mystery of which I have little in my life. Maybe I want to have something personal, again I have few items like that. On pondering I've come to another conclusion. Its because I know what is inside and I have read the story. There is nothing new in there for me. There will be no little jump of excitement on opening it. That is for someone else- and probably disappointment too. Someone, maybe on of my children, will one day find it and open it up to see what it is. The surprise is for them.

So what is in there? Oh the suspense! I did think about playing a little guessing game but won't. For one I can't remember if I've already mentioned it and also the clues are there to make the guessing game very short. From the image its not hard to guess its a book and as I bought it in the Czech capital the chances are it was written by one of her most famous sons. This one is "Die Verwandlung" by Franz Kafka- or "The Metamorphosis" as us English speakers know it. I can't even remember if I bought the English translation- I've always had an urge to buy a foreign book in its native tongue and go through it with a dictionary of that language by my side. This would have been perfect as it is a novella.

For those who don't know Kafka he was an existentialist and this came through in writing by the use of metaphors in his stories. This book is the only one I have read from the author. Its not, in my opinion, great but I liked something about it. Today it resonates.

"One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams, he discovered that in his bed he had been changed into a monstrous verminous bug."*

That is the opening line and it sets the tone quickly. Its also something I think a lot of us can relate to. From there Gregor, who has become some sort of giant cockroach stuck on his back in bed, lives in his room listening to the world carrying on as normal outside. Over time he becomes something forgettable to the rest of his family because he serves no purpose (or no longer fits in to societies view) and his room is only ever entered to use as storage. Then...well I could spend another few paragraphs going over the content.

*The translation for old German varies per translator and there is no straight exchange. This line is taken from the link provided at the end but the bug has been described in many different ways.

Walking on impulse

I started a walking diary with the intention of getting to my goal- my daughter's nursery. 9 months on I've still not got there yet. It is still my intention. My stomach problems that had me on the sofa for over a week derailed my plans a good deal but I have started over and I'm not back at square one again as I thought I would be. Tonight for example I went to the Supermarket and bought myself a magazine. Something I couldn't do last year.
But today I have had a long think about these walks and decided I need to change things. I will still be doing the walks and recording them but not trying to reach targets. The reason for removing the goals is I have come to learn they are counterproductive. But I still want to keep a record which I will do to ensure I am still making progress or at least maintaining them. But that really has not place on a blog and would be of no interest to anyone anyway.

The reason for removing the goals came to me tonight in buying a magazine. I set out tonight with the intention of walking half the distance that I actually managed because I have been so inactive of late. Physically I find it hard enough. But I am so happy I managed more. What I realised though was that if I set out to get a magazine I probably would not have managed it. This is a process which I recognise from experience.

The first few times I managed to go to the shops it was done on impulse. I was out for a walk, passed the shops and suddenly felt the urge to go in. Some time later my wife asked me to get her something from the shops and I agreed but didn't feel comfortable with it. When I got halfway around I got into a panic and had to turn back. The reason for this was apprehension. When I have been set a goal I always have apprehension and this builds as I near my target.

My walks have been based on goals and I think now on hindsight they have been counter productive. It also works another way. If I reach a goal I race to it and when I reach it I race home again. What would be better would be to go out the door with no intention other than to walk for as long as I am comfortable and return when I feel the need. In this way I won't have the apprehension to keep me back. This in itself is a type of exposure in which I am just making the situation a little more comfortable but I fully believe this is the way forward for me. I will record my walks and some time down the line compare them to my previous walks to see if there is any difference but more importantly if I have made any progress.

Ultimately where I go is not of relevance because my anxiety is not brought on by places. It is brought on by apprehension and the fear of being too far away. The longer I am out the better it will be for me and when I start to feel comfortable being out for longer spells then I can start to do preplanned things and the apprehension should not be as bad.

That is the theory any way. Walk with no destination and act on impulse. Some of my best achievements, maybe all, have been done on impulse with little anxiety.

Dorsal Fin

5 years ago on the back of a virus I got the flu. All my life when I've had this it had lasted no more than 3 days- not enough to keep me off work anyway. Throughout life everyone gets it. Usually I would just sup on Beechams and sleep then by day 3 I was right as rain. When I say sleep I mean at night because I've never been one for spending long spells in bed during the day and instead like to walk it off- when I could.

5 years ago though this flu was different- or maybe I was. It lasted 4 weeks and even after that it seemed to linger. It cost me well over a stone in weight and a month of work. One night among that I had a real fever and had to lie in bed. This is when I thought I was going mad. It's very hard to describe but there was something in my mind which last a second or two but looped over and over. It was audio. Beeps, an endlessly repeated pattern of beeps. It drove me up the wall and sent me to the edge of madness.

It was a one off and I've had nothing like it since but I think it was the start of something and maybe even related to the anxiety that would come later. It was a thought that was stuck like a scratched record. Since then there have been times when something had popped into my head and won't go. It doesn't happen that often but a thought comes and won't go. Not really a thought at such but a word or a phrase. Very strange but I can see how this can be linked to the horrible thoughts I get which won't go during anxiety.

So 3 days ago I awoke to the words "Dorsal Fin" in my head. Why that particular term entered I do not know? It's a mystery. It was there though and wouldn't shift for a good hour. Finally though it went. Then the following night I was getting the bath ready for the baby and it popped in again. Once more it wouldn't go.

Now I know what a Dorsal Fin is but I am no marine biologist. What was the purpose of this? Was it a sign of danger sent from somewhere within or without? Was it supposed to spur a visual with an accompanying soundtrack of the theme from Jaws? I don't know but I thought I'd better at least give it some attention so it might finally disappear.

According to Wikipedia:

Its main purpose is to stabilise the animal against rolling and assist in sudden turns.
Maybe it is something related to my lack of balance. Possibly my subconscious is telling me to grow a Dorsal Fin to aid my balance. That would be scary.