January

Turns out, I wasn't on the mend. I may be now. Maybe.

Here is my lament on the month of January, which is the peak of my literary achievement this month.

Oh January! January!
Thou art a month of poo!
Oh how I yearn for February
When January is through!
You always start with such high hopes
Never to fulfill!
And I am left here, rather dopey
In agony and ill!

Laments have to have lots of exclamation remarks in them! Fortunately, my pain meds are still working very well, so agony is one thing I've had thankfully little of, except on that one day I forgot a pill. Modified Release means that you don't hurt at the point you're supposed to take them, not until a few hours later, at which point, when you take the tablet, it'll take another few hours before they'll begin to kick in.

Fingers crossed I shall be writing something interesting soon (it's about the third time I've said that, I realise), but no promises.

Man and Supery-dooperyman

(Emma's theme for next week's Disability Blog Carnival is Superman. I found it hard to connect this theme to disability, so the hurried and somewhat tardy result is a little odd. One of those it's my blog, it's up to me how silly it gets posts.)

I've never got on with Nietzsche. He is a basically a 19th century gangsta rapper; he thinks he's really hard, he's brimming over with contempt for his fellow man, but ultimately he is so inadequate that he probably thought that sportswear and chunky gold jewellery were a stylish combination (and 19th century European sportswear, the effect would be far worse). In case you are unfamiliar with his work, Nietzsche's rap would have gone a little like this;

I'm a moustachioed mother from the mean streets of Röcken,
My old man was a pastor but my faith in God got broken.
I'm not hanging in the Ghetto as I'm not too keen on Jews,
Basically, my ethics are whatever I choose.

What they call "morality" is all born out of fear,
Love and compassion can kiss me on the rear.
Human beings aren't equal; that's obvious to see,
And guess who is the best of all? That's obviously me!

I matter more than others, because I am so great,
Most people live in suffering because they're second-rate.
Whereas I am really clever and I am really strong,
And nothing that I do or say could ever be wrong.

Even if I'm violent, and shoot up all my foes,
Even if I beat up my bitch and sleep around with hos
(Although to be quite honest, my love-life is a farce,
And when I talk of women, I am talking through my arse.)

I'm sorry about the language, but foul words like arse crop up all too often in the rap music I listen to - that hardcore rural English rap as opposed to the effete American urban variety. I mean, drive-by shootings in anything that goes faster than a tractor is for sissies.

Betrand Russell said in his History of Western Philosophy in 1946 that, despite his own distaste for the chap, Nietzsche's philosophy had come into force in Europe as much as those of his liberal and socialist peers. On the positive side, Nietzsche's ideas did influence various artists and philosophers - notably the Existentialists. The assertion that God is dead was a pretty amazing one, however banal it may appear as a sentence.

However, Hitler had the hots for Nietzsche, and whilst you can't say that Nietzsche was a Nazi, he might be seen to beckon in that direction. Anyway, this was about Superman. And disability. Somehow.

Nietzsche strongly believed in hierarchy, valuing those qualities associated with being a good warrior-hero; strength of will, a certain sort of courage, physical qualities as well as ruthlessness and guile. Romanticised if not actually romantic. In Thus Spoke Zarathustra, a tedious rant which I recommend you avoid, he talks about the Übermensch, translated as Superman or Overman. He writes;

The most cautious people ask today: "How may man still be preserved?" Zarathustra, however, asks as the sole and first one to do so: "How shall man be overcome?"

Man is weak and we must rise above weakness. Thus begins an idea which has persisted in medical science and cultural attitudes ever since. It's not just about saving life and making life more comfortable, it is about making man himself better.

A desire to improve oneself, one's life and one's society is ancient and widespread and entirely commendable. The only controversy is about how this might be achieved. The Superman is one particular take on this; he is innately superior, without weakness of any physical, psychological or intellectual variety. He is an uncomplicated product of what we would now call eugenics and the triumph of the will which Nietzsche is always harking on about; people doing what they want to do as opposed to what they feel to be right.

This may seem a scary and radical prospect, but are these ideas so far outside our experience? Certainly there is a strong argument that much of ante-natal screening and the elective abortions that result is not about the elevation of suffering, but the elimination of (perceived) weakness. Healthy people try to make themselves better than they really are with cosmetic "corrective" surgery and treatments and self-help gurus who promise them a competitive edge in every conceivable area of life. Despite abundant evidence to the contrary, there is increasing talk of genetic "causes" for mental and physical ill health - or being responsible for "intelligence" and personality traits. Meanwhile, this is what we're concentrating in schools all the time; to be valued, one must have a very narrow version of intelligence that allows you to pass exams and which everyone will pretend you were born with.

Naturally, disabled people are left behind in this project for all manner of reasons. It is also a futile project, however seductive it has been for some. You cannot be a better person for being intelligent, or being able to run fast, or for being beautiful. These aren't things you (or your parents, or doctors or anyone) ever get to choose, but neither do they do you or those around you any favours without your own intervention.

So I have an alternative; the Supery-dooperyman (or in German, the Über-DüberMensch).

Thus spoke the Goldfish. Strength is not a thing that the Supery-dooperyman is born with, but something he develops through experience and demonstrates through his actions. Being clever or having physical advantages counts for nothing, but the Supery-dooperyman takes whatever talents or attributes he happens to have - however modest, however great - and makes the best use he can. The Supery-dooperyman realises that fear is not at the root of compassion, but often at the root of contempt; sometimes the greatest test of our courage comes in considering another person's point of view. The only valuable hierarchies are, as they are in nature, in a constant state of flux; the Supery-dooperyman understands the transient nature of all things, including himself. The Supery-dooperyman may do whatever he likes, but in order to do so, he knows he must not always do exactly as he feels - if you punch everyone who deserves it, you're unlikely to be in a physical state to enjoy more long-term interests.

If we could all manage that, we would have overcome a great deal.

Oddly enough, the only musical reference I can think of to Nietzsche is at the end of the chorus of Blur's noisy classic Song 2, when Damon Alburn sings "All of the time, 'cause I'm never sure why I need you/ 'Cause I, Nietzsche." Go listen; I don't tell a lie.

Babe in the Woods

Alexander, frontman of Tinker and the Taylors has had a diverse career since his rock debut at just one week old. Having explored both Classical and Glam Rock genres, as well as a stint in Hollywood, Alexander returns to music in a reflective mood. The Goldfish caught up with the infant prodigy to talk about sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Photographs by Mummy.

Tinker and the Taylor's new album, Babes in the Wood has a lighter, folkier feel to previous recordings with far more giggling than wailing. Alexander plays the piano on several tracks and whilst it soon becomes an intolerable din, he does at least try to play just one note with one finger at a time.

I ask whether this departure indicates that Alexander remains very grounded, despite the temptations that accompany international stardom at such a young age?

"I think it's hard enough being one year old, let alone when you're famous. I suppose can plead guilty to one or two showbiz mealtime tantrums and, if I'm totally honest, there have been one or two toys that I've treated like mere playthings. But at the end of the day, I want to be known for my music, not because I've been photographed leaving some seedy crèche, or mainlining Calpol."

During the last six months, Alexander has gone from being unable to sit up or crawl to being able to walk confidently. How has this changed Alexander's perspective on the world?

"I've been told that when you first fall in love, you suddenly understand what all those soppy songs were about; similarly, learning to walk has given me a greater appreciation for the work of Nancy Sinatra and Aerosmith. But most significantly, it has helped me cope with my fans. Before I could walk, strange women would just pick me up and cuddle me whether I liked it or not, but now I can run away."

We talk about the album, and the highly political nature of many of his lyrics. In the unashamed protest song, The Nappies, They Need a Changin', Alexander revisits familiar territory when he sings (roughly translated)

Come gather round people, wherever you roam
And admit that the babies around you have grown
Our toe-nails need cutting, our hair needs a comb
Our clothes, they are rapidly straining,
And you better not think that smell's our new cologne
For the nappies, they need a changin'.

With such thinly-veiled comment on the Special Relationship with the US government and the subsequent effect on UK foreign policy, does Alexander have no concerns that fans might be turned off by his polemic lyrics? He may be only one year old, but is he still rock'n'roll enough?

"Well, Granddad says I need a haircut. I'd say that so long as you can get someone older than you to disapprove of you in some way, you've still got it."




Come on, much cuter than a cat or a cat or a squirrel. And Rosie is getting to be a superb photographer.

Poetry Corner: I know I am winning

I guess it's some comfort that, if I had any pretensions whatsoever, this stuff would not appear. Anywhere. But I am free of all pretension. I'm barely half awake today (the only state in which it is possible to compose verse of this standard), but there's nothing like the progress of a bloody rotten cold to teach you that, all things considered, you are winning, after all. But it is still a bloody rotten cold, thus the altogether melodramatic climax of the piece.


I know I am winning.

I know I am winning because I am alive
The only line to follow being “I will survive.”
Gloria in Excelis Gaynor, Hallejulah and Hooray!
I know I am winning - at least I am today.

I know I am winning because I am awake
Are you conscious of the difference that consciousness can make?
I know who I am, where I am and roughly why
(In between the periods when such things go awry).

I know I am winning because I have a voice
It might be stronger and much clearer, if I should have the choice
But even if my only words were written on a screen
At least I’d have block capitals to signify my SCREAM.

I know I am winning because I can move
Doesn’t matter how far or fast it is, how accurate or smooth.
My body will do approximately anything I choose,
It’s something that I’ve got right now and something I could lose.

I know that I am winning because I can heal,
I’ve never died of anything, however bad I feel.
And even if I’m tired and sore and somewhat out of breath
I ducked and dived and stayed alive and got one over death.

Poetry Corner: Packing (a haiku)

We must try to put
Our lives in cardboard boxes.
Yet nothing quite fits.

Poetry Corner - Boing!

First off, I should put in a notice that Ballastexistenz is asking for other autistic contributors to participate in Getting The Truth Out, an excellent response to the rather odious Getting The Word Out. I imagine you'd need some guts to put yourself out there, but I reckon it is an important message, if any auties happen to be reading this.

I am still feeling grim, but significantly less so today. So I guess my theory is working out, right?

This poem is even sillier than my normal standards given the context, but I do mean it. Only I haven't yet got the brainpower to articulate it in prose, let alone some sort of sensible and meaningful poetic interpretation.

Boing!

However far I’ve had to fall
And hopeless, it may seem,
Often in the darkest deep
I find a trampoline!

Just when all the world above
Is a distant fading light,
My feet may meet that canvas sheet
And hurl me into flight!

It may not send me all the way
That one almighty spring,
But just now being half-way-up’s
A truly wondrous thing!

So now I have to set about
A slow and steady climb,
Which may require my patience
And it will take me some time.

So rather than a crumpled heap
Deep down in the abyss,
I'm now over half-way-up
And grateful to the Swiss!

(because uh, it was a Swiss chap named Kurt Baechler brought the great sport of trampolining to Europe, of course - everyone knows that!).


Previous Poetry Corners: Ode to my TENS machine/ I just want my body to work/ My fair-weather friend/ St. Valentine's Day Massacre/ Impossible (a villanelle)

Poetry Corner - Impossible! (a villanelle)

A brief interlude from all that nonsense about Oddballs and an unwelcome return for Poetry Corner. This time, I am attempting to advance the cause of terrible angst-ridden poetry by promoting the villanelle. If you don’t know what a villanelle is, click here.

The great thing about writing bad poetry within such rigid constraints is that even if you started writing something with feeling, the pain is quickly dispersed by the form – whatever you do, it is going to sound ridiculous. I recommend that any poetry written between the ages of 13 and 18 should be written in this form

I was feeling rather overwhelmed with everything I need to do, want to do and feel compelled to do at the moment, but now I am much calmer.


Impossible!

I hope somehow I shall prevail,
O'er everything that I must do
Impossible! I’m bound to fail!

Try as I might, to no avail,
My breaking point is overdue.
I hope somehow I shall prevail.

Weak my mind and body frail
Yet maybe I can stumble through?
Impossible! I’m bound to fail!

Slow and steady, like a snail,
A viscous crunch beneath your shoe.
I hope somehow I shall prevail.

Perhaps if I can just exhale,
My face won't be so purplish-blue?
Impossible! I’m bound to fail!

Everything I try to do;
My life, this poem; a pile of poo!
I hope somehow I shall prevail.
Impossible! I’m bound to fail!


Previous Poetry Corners: Ode to my TENS machine/ I just want my body to work/ My fair-weather friend/ St. Valentine's Day Massacre

I mean it, man

Now unlike many other countries, most Britons only know the first verse of our national anthem. Since it is the Queen's official 80th birthday, I thought I would attempt to put it right and give you all four verses. Thought there were six did you? Well, the others just went on about the Jacobite rebellion or some such nonsense.

God Save The Queen

God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Her hats are notorious;
God save the Queen!

She brings the tourists in
Although we all think her kin
Are somewhat mad!
But she is head of state
And on this particular date
She awards Honours to the great
God save the Queen!

Her Maj. can’t do fairer
Than give our friend S****
An MBE!
She’s so deserving,
Courage unswerving,
So clever it is unnerving,
God save the Queen!

S**** put up a fight
For our disabled rights
And helped us all!
May she be fighting fit,
So she can make the trip,
She’s such a stalwart crip,
God save the Queen!


So when they ask the question, is the Honours system relevant? The answer, this year at least, is very much in the affirmative. Well done S****!

Poetry Corner: St. Valentine's Day Massacre

This makes two bad poems within the space of a few weeks – sorry! This poem was inspired by trawling though the contents of my Shopping inbox as accumulated in the last few weeks. I was thinking massacre as in a massacre of the English language. Is it my imagination or is this Valentine's Day lark even worse this year? Do people actually buy into this stuff?

The least depressing Valentine's themed mailing, on account of having all number of items it would have never have occurred to me to give for Valentne’s Day, was the fetish shop mailing. Ur, now I must explain… I got on the mailing list by buying an entirely innocent pair of stockings. Long-legged ladies will know that it is impossible to get ladies’ stockings which are quite long enough, so one must wear stockings designed for men. Marks & Spencer don’t stock seamed stockings designed for men. In fact, M&S don’t even stock stockings with seams!

By Jingo, my grandfathers did not fight a World War with smudged eye-liner down their legs so that future generations could wear seamless polyester tights with a cotton gusset. Unfortunately the only place that a chap can get a decent pair of seamed stockings is in a fetish shop and that’s how I got on their list. Okay? Glad to have cleared that one up.

It occurs to me that if you are skint, you could learn this poem (give it a different title like My Lovely Darling Squelchy Princess) and recite it to the object of your affection. I did attempt this myself, but was interrupted during the second line with “Are you going to tell me what you want for lunch today or what?"


St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

Why tie a ribbon round my love,
Or cup my love in silk and lace?
Why smother it in chocolate
Which spoils me for my love’s own taste?

Why wrap pink paper round my love
Red hearts my love to represent?
Why bottle it with rich perfumes
Which mask love’s own distinctive scent?

Why bind my love in chains of gold,
Weighed down with jewels of wondrous size?
Why gild my love so to conceal
Love's naked beauty from my eyes?

Why muddle love with clumsy words,
Or flowers that quickly wilt and fade?
Why fill the room with violins,
And drown out love’s own serenade?

No fluffy handcuffs for my love
No bubbles, corked and left on ice.
Why tangle love in satin sheets?
My love’s own texture will suffice.

Why do I write these awful poems
In the middle of the night?
For in the morning I awake,
And read them – and I get a fright!

Poetry Corner: My fair weather friend

This is a great tradition which is now dying out; when I first entered the blogsphere, it was saturated with really terrible angst-ridden poetry and now we only have a few stalwarts producing fantastically bad stuff. I almost named some, but thought better of it. They might not realise their own talents and find my comments offensive.

Following I just want my body to work and Ode To My TENS, this poem is another one fresh from my inner teenager. Of course my inner teenager is very much in touch with my feelings - indeed, she is totally preoccupied by them. Whereas being grown up, I try my best to hold them below the surface, struggling and gasping for air. Best place for 'em.

My Fair Weather Friend

How are you doing, my fair weather friend?
It’s been a good while since we spoke.
Seems like a month, I try to pretend,
Seems like a week, you joke.

Did you notice that I’ve had a time out of sorts?
Oh yes, I was terribly missed.
And what were you up? Was I in your thoughts?
Oh yes, every day, you insist.

So how can I help you, my fair weather friend?
Well, would I please lend you my ears?
Can you borrow my shoulders, now I’m on the mend,
Can I hold you and soak up your tears?

Did you notice that I’ve had a time out of sorts?
Did you think that I might be alone?
How was it, I wonder, I was in your thoughts
Yet your thoughts couldn’t pick up the phone?

There there, my unfortunate fair weather friend,
Things will get much better; you’ll see.
Your weight I shall carry, your wounds I shall tend,
One day you might do this for me.

Poetry Corner: I just want my body to work

Following Ode to My TENS Machine you might have imagined that I was too nice to subject you to further angst-ridden poetry, but you were wrong. Funnily enough, I can only write poetry when my brain isn't good for anything else. This is because I only ever write very bad poetry. I know it's bad but it is an expression, an expression of something inside me and as such, I need someone to express it to. That's where you come in.

Actually to be honest, I have had a crap few days but just now I feel like I may be turning the corner. I think Kerry's comment about the painkiller's knocking one out (somewhere below) is a good one; I started my new regime just before I went away and it's only now that I've tried to sit down and work on this volume of codeine - I hadn't thought about that before. So I'm kind of hoping this is a contributing factor and I've not had a more significant downturn in my health.

Question is where I go from here, if in order to be comfortable I must tolerate this level of dopiness. And dear reader, in order to see your friend and blogger comfortable, can you tolerate this sort of nonsense?

I just want my body to work.

Some girls are ugly and some girls are fair,
With radiant faces and lustrous hair,
What have I got? Well I don’t really care:
I just want my body to work

I don’t need to be pretty (and witty and gay),
I don’t need my hairstyle to hold through the day,
And everything else, well it’s really okay,
I just want my body to work.

I cannot eat less or spend hours at the gym,
But that is just fine; I don’t need to be slim,
Though it would be nice to have functioning limbs
I just want my body to work.

I don’t need a lotion to smooth out the lines,
I don’t need a potion to lift my behind,
And as for these spots, well I don’t really mind,
I just want my body to work.

I don’t need bigger bosoms or poutier lips,
I don’t need inch-long red nails at my fingertips
I don’t need firmer thighs or symmetrical bits
I just want my body to work.

I don’t need to tan, tint, to blend or to bleach
I don’t want to take my clothes off on the beach,
Thus I don’t need my arse to resemble a peach,
I just want my body to work.

Some girls have it all; brains, beauty and luck,
I’m no cover-girl; I’m more ‘cover-up’,
But frankly my dear, I don’t give a fuck:
I just want my body to work.

Poetry Corner: Ode to my TENS machine

Since the blogsphere is awash with disturbing angst-ridden poetry, I thought I would add my own contribution.

Ode To My TENS Machine

I want to tell the whole wide world about my darling TENS,
My little matt black box and I are very special friends.
He stays close to me all day long, he never leaves my side,
I tingle when I feel those soft electrodes on my thighs.

He came straight to my rescue when my agony was heinous.
My love for him is deep; in fact it is quite transcutaneous.
This love it has no side-effects; those drugs can be so icky,
Though when I pull the patches off he leaves me rather sticky.

I knew that it was meant to be as soon as I first saw him,
He stimulates my nerves so that I produce more endorphins.
He stops me curling up with pain; he stops that horrid spasm,
Alas however, he falls short of making me [feel any better than as I have described above]

He is the answer to my prayers; the dream I have been chasing,
After just a week he needed his battery replacing.
However much my body aches I know he’ll make amends,
My love, my life, my tingly-wingly, darling little TENS.