A celebration


Crawl into my ambulance, your pulse is getting weak
reveal yourself all now to me girl while you’ve got the strength to speak
Cause they’re waiting for you at Bellevue with their oxygen masks
But I could give it all to you now if only you could ask.
And don’t call for your surgeon even he says it’s too late
It’s not your lungs this time, it’s your heart that holds your fate

Springsteen, For you


Do I use this blog as a kind of therapy? I don’t believe so. I’ve certainly seen people doing that. The Blogosphere is full of deeply personal writings about pain and angst, thousands of words poured out like water upon an audience who, by and large, simply click ‘like’ and move on often without ever bothering to read what someone is bleeding all over the page. I’ve seen some people just fade away in fact; all bled out.


I’ve been moved to tears by several posts over the past nine or so months. Sometimes you see caring souls trying to reach out to those in obvious crisis, but what can anyone really do in the comments section of a blog post?

It’s not that people don’t care. I honestly believe that they do. However, a kind of fatigue sets in if all you ever see of someone is their pain. They become 2 dimensional at some point, seemingly lacking the multifaceted complexity that makes us human.

 We saw this happen a few decades ago with the endless stream of images that came out of Africa of starving children dying in the dust. At first, we cried, then we got angry at those who allowed it to happen, then ever so slowly, we began to resent the victims; those constant reminders of the sham nature of our own existence. The same thing is happening now with all the endless wars.

I do believe writing is a great form of therapy. It allows us to externalise our thoughts, be they positive or negative, to examine them in a more tactile way. Writing down our thoughts and feelings helps us to see the patterns of our lives. Where we are trapped in a closed circle of behaviours and when we are slipping towards a downwards spiral.

The extracts I’ve blogged under the title part past part fiction are examples of my own attempts to write myself free of the damage in my life. I wrote those pieces long ago and have since come to terms with that damage, which is the only reason I have been willing to share them publically (I believe they represent some of my best writings and, as this is primarily a writing blog, deserve to be read).

I constantly encourage Jersey girl to write for the very same reason. This post, by her, is an example of what happens when she does. I’m in constant awe of her ability to translate emotion to the written page. One day we will write a book together and nothing will be held back.

So no, this blog is not my therapy. It can be, by turns, therapeutic, voyeuristic, and occasionally confronting but I’m definitely not using it as a means to heal my personal wounds and I try not to bleed too much in public. That is not in any way a criticism of those who do. I admire the courage it takes to bare the soul in the rawness of personal agony.

That’s just not what I personally came here to do. This blog, first and foremost, is a celebration; a celebration of love, music, writing, and of life.



Words and image are my own.




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