Living with the Truth Stranger than Fiction This Is Not About What You Think Milligan and Murphy Making Sense

Sunday, 2 October 2016


Funny Peculiar

         True love has to be proved.
It is an exclusive club,

         True love requires sacrifice.
with its own initiation ceremonies.

         It's funny really –
The membership fee was quite reasonable.

         but I'm not laughing.

18 August 1989
This is a peculiar poem. You can see that from the layout. There're two voices alternating but I've never thought of them as separate individuals, rather two voices within one mind. I think the reason for this is I have mixed feelings about love especially “true love” so called. I like the idea of it and for some it might seem as if it's real because they've never found themselves in a position where their love—specifically its trueness—was called into question. Did I love F.? Yes. I thought I did. And yet I became (or allowed myself to become) obsessed by B. whom I did not love and whom I knew I a) did not love and b) had no future with. Who in love does that? You hear men boast, “I've never looked at another woman.” Well bully for them. I doubt it's true. They looked. There's no crime in looking. So some say (most peeping Toms I expect) but it's not true. Or if it is it's still a sin. 

Do atheists sin I wonder. They probably use the word because it’s a convenient word and we all get the idea: you did something morally reprehensible. I wasn’t an atheist in 1989 and it’s a word I still shy away from if I’m honest. In 1989 I wanted to believe even though I knew within myself I was a very poor fit. So how did I feel about my feelings for B.? Because I was supposed to I went through the motions of feeling guilty but deep inside I struggled to see what was wrong with what I felt. I’m not actually sure feelings can be wrong; they just are; you feel what you feel. Other people may not like that you feel a certain way and it may well be inconvenient that you do and cause problems if you act on those feelings but what was I doing that was so wrong? Milking the poetry out of the experience. I was fulfilling my function. Or was that all rationalisation? Hard to say now. All I knew was I was so damn mixed up, confused as hell on so many levels.

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