In mind of my father, I would like to say: [Poem follows]

This is a piece of work I  have written in memory of my father, who died just over a year ago.  I have been grieving over the loss of him since his death, but for the first few months I was so busy organising the funeral and dealing with family conflicts viz his will, and liaising with my sister over the house & contents sale that followed his death that I didn’t begin the popularly understood phases of it until the spring this year.

When the fire burns will you cool me down; Will you love me enough to be there, still love me when I’m cool (!) too?

Then later on, nearer to the first anniversary of his death and burial, but before the estate had been divided, ‘case closed’, I entered a different ‘hypo-manic’ phase of grief.  I recognised the signs and resolved to remain mindful for fear of a full ‘relapse’  due to (unresolved) trauma and grief, and I relied on friends to help me to learn to take control of this little beast, – the adrenalin driven ‘depression with severe anxiety’ which appears to psychiatrists as colourful symptoms of ‘early stage onset’  of ‘hypo-mania’ which might be treated by daily visits and drug popping but no case for involuntary hospitalisation if at all unless hyper-mania is suspected to be imminent.

Janie beng very zany – and not in a good way : it just gets toooo much!

Family names are different. To some family members it is ‘here are early warning signs – what can I do to help’ . To others it is ‘she’s effing mad as apeshit, and as crazy as a box of frogs’ and then exasperation and impatience, even intolerance ensue. Other friend’s are patient and accepting and nurturing – that’s the best medicine of all.

That my dad and I were and are ‘classic and colourful cases of bipolar disorder (class 1)’ we both know. He’s gone now, but I hear him (no not literally, calm down) laughing. I’m still here.  I miss him dreadfully but I’m far from done with my little spot in ‘heaven on earth’. I’m creating a chilling space out of what is yet a house I’m hiding in; it’s going to be the palace of my life and loves.

Even alone sitting in my own house, houses either side of me, one of them audible and connected: I can get to feel claustrophobic. Especially when one of them’s connected all down one side. So -I’m gonna keep some of my wild patch amongst the apple and plum trees just as it is. Then beside it I’ll have a ‘the shed’:  a place for chilling while I work, rest and play,  ‘away from the madding crowds’.

It’s where I will go when I want to get:-

At Rest, Mindfully.

In mind of my father,

I would like to say:                                                                      [Poem Follows:]

Dad Formal & Serious

My father’s not going,

my father’s not gone:

He  was never much in –

though  nature gave

him that clefted chin,

those ice blue eyes;

that laziness in his swing

That swung in everything  –

Including the drumming

And the piano blasts

All singing, All smoking

And the music that jazzed

Wherever he was.

He is a swinger, a jazz man,

An artist of soul

Who mere mortals judged

And pilloried

When the shit hit the fan

inner pain, outer glimpse

And that’s music too,

A story of love,

And Tragedy-

Comedy,

His Labours of Love:

Jainey in a very zany pose – her dad was never photographed when off his nut lol

He loved too much, too deeply,

For the tall proud swan,

Though not enough,

as a cash-flow king,

For the one who took her place:

Cute little kestrel

Who was a cute little kestrel ,

Beady-eyed, who doubted

this Cash-Meister big-time.

So she curled up,

in disappointed fear,

Something to grip onto for dear life and death

Around the cash that was left –

And wouldn’t part with it.

Leaving him lonely.

And that was the nub of it.

the ultimate cause of the heartbreak.

His Acute yet prolonged Despair

The true love of his life was music:

Cameras, cash & women came

a close-run second to that.

But  his fatal addiction

was women..

Though his appetite for

Savile Row rags,

Handmade Italian shoes

and his Frank Sinatra hat,

showed a passion for finery

Be yourself:- a beautifully ridiculous genius.

That needed cash

that wasn’t made quite right.

You could see it

In the way he smoked  his fags

–           It was his critical weakness point:

That cute, possessive little kestrel with her eyes on the look out for his wanting any cash.

When that went, too

He lost the taste for living,

and found the air too stale to breathe.

So, while no-one

continued to listen,

Got trapped & killed at Depression Stage; NHS & Charity partly responsible according to Janie Greville.

He fucked off

to the bar

(in the sky).

You’ll find him there still:-

The gate-way to heaven above, bouncers below keeping the masses out. Dad at the bar near the piano & drums, probably chatting with Doll.

In peace – at last!.

For Anthony Pierre Greville, Born 14th July, 1930 – Died 4th October 2012.

His spirit was purified by Sept 28th at the very latest; his soul was released, during a private family service, about three weeks after his death.

This entry, like all published in this site to date,  is the intellectual property of MissionMiraculus Ltd., and in particular all the copyrights of its contents belong to ‘J.Knee Operations Ltd’ . Anyone else who is invited to write for this site will keep their copyrights intact with a contract with MissionMiraculus &/or ‘J.Knee Ops Inc’  in relation to it’s publisher rights.

This  piece December 7-8th, 2013

Maya inadvertantly embodies MM-us values; Aesthetic Science in Motion.

The values of MissionMiraculus Ltd (= MM-us) have been articulated across a range of documents authored by MissionMiraculus & Janie Greville. All of this material is Copyrighted with All Rights Reserved. Today, in particular, we would like to draw your attention to the term ‘Aesthetic Science’. Although Janie Greville has coined this term originally, together with a concept of meaning that refers in and outward to a deep and wide network of knowledges and affective references; it is not the first usage of this term.

One company offering cosmetic surgery have misused the term vis a vis the dictionary definition of the term within The Shorter Oxford Dictionary, a common reference manual for such disagreements, and therefore we anticipate this commercial concern will shortly be renaming their company.

A book as been edited by Arthur P. Shimamura and Stephen E. Palmer, with a telling subtitle – ‘Connecting Minds, Brains, and Experience’. This sounds as if the focal zone for the collection of authors in this volume is subjective experience, not including the subjectivity of the  material body – I  may be mistaken, but I shall order and read this volume within the next month and let you know – if anyone else would like to do likewise that would be great.

For the time being I believe we are the first collective genius to create the new theory of ‘Aesthetic Science’ which will literally, in one swoop, demolish both western science and Modernism, with it’s ‘Post-Modernist‘ spin offs. It will in fact a cosmic blow to post Newtonian Britain and the entire world, but especially USA; UK and Europe (including Russia/USSR).

In addition, quite by accident it will lead to an open and forceful alliance between Sweden & the UK – two unusually strongly independent states / countries within the larger territory of Europe, stretching from Norway and Ireland across to Russia, down to the mediterranean shores of Cyprus, Turkey and Afghanistan.  Communities within two latter, and other ‘borderline’ states,  to have both European and Asian identity issues cheek-by-jowl.  Previous efforts to quell the squabbling have been led by the highly warrior spirited USA and UK organisations; notably, the UN is largely USA controlled with UK support and encouragement too often.  The Teutonic inclination to fire before thinking is balanced by the Viking soul of the Scandinavian’s (including the ‘netherlandish) post-imperial wisdom of taking the following approach to trouble: ‘Think about it, map it, analyse it; reach for the most effective, economic, humane, solution.’ We believe that the ‘nords’ have it sorted. War is no more in these lands. Let’s spread the joy, is what MissionMiraculus thinks.

The theory of Aesthetic Science created, constructed and in the wings of publication, is the brain child of MissMiracle’s MIC & Friends; sister company to MissionMiraculus Ltd.  Though the theory in totalis is not yet visible, it exists. Any use or misuse of these concepts with this name or any other created via MissionMiraculus.com; Talkheals.wordpress.com; facebook pages for missionmiraculus, Arrabella Faith & Janie Greville or referred to or discussed across her networks of colleagues and private friends, will be pursued actively in relation to Copyright Laws. Many thanks for your co-operation.

 

 

What I’ve noticed – have you?

Faulty Mechanics Led to Contextual Misery

What I’ve noticed is that there are several different adddresses to this blog – some to art lovers, some to mental health freaks, some to Janie Greville e

nthusiasts, some to poetry.

It’s hardly a focussed audience.

Needs some thinking through.

Any ideas?

😉

Janie

Ghost from the Past

Thank Friendship for Hopefulness

Gosh – Now this is a find that traces the temporal flow of my mental health undulations. I have been feeling so empowered and ‘in the flow’ in recent months, including the period of my intensest grief following my dear father’s recent death, that this evidence of self doubt and ‘hope fading fast’ mood had entirely been eclipsed from my being and memory. It is still eclipsed from my sense of emotional memory, including the question in my mind as to whether at the time I may have published an entry similar to it, but still – here is ‘my (depressed) state on July 1st 2012’. Luckily hidden, I believe, from my father when Michael and I and other members of my family arrived to celebrate his 82nd Birthday on July 14th. An achievement less successful at the University of Birmingham I suspect.

It’s odd, memory – if reminded as I was today by recovering a saved draft for this blog, I do remember that I was pretty low for several months this year – so horribly low, in fact, that I just didn’t want to start the advanced research course I’d signed up for because it would mean leaving my house (‘cave’) and seeing other people (‘being seen by people’). I felt ugly, dirty, unkempt, stupid, empty, and somehow ‘infectious’ in a very bad way. It was impossible for me to believe, in my heart of hearts, that others would fail to perceive me as I was perceiving myself.

When I’m not suffering from depression I simply don’t recognise these perceptions of me as a ‘picture of me’ as I am. I see people from time to time who kind of do ‘look like’ those ‘portraits’ – usually they are homeless and unhappy people, or very ill and food deprived people, or very ill and overfed people – either way, severely neglected people – toward whom my feelings of compassion and pity are raised but about whom, also, feelings of some fear and discomfort are raised.

What I do notice, however, is that as I spiral downwards into these long and annihalating depressions I begin to assume the characteristics of the associations I perceive myself to ‘have’ – I become dirtier, more unkempt, untidier, more disorganised, less focussed, less able to concentrate, less able to remember or mentally process even the simplest thought or utterance. It gets to the stage, usually, where I can hardly string a sentence together of the most functional kind, before the spiral finally stabilises at that paralysed low for a few weeks, or months, before finally beginning to spiral upwards to ‘normality’ again.

Maybe, the associations I hold with my internal depressions are bound up with neglect and dirt and ugliness to such a degree that unconsciously I create myself as the very embodiment of them. Perhaps that is the case with others less luckily held by friends and family and one highly skilful psychotherapist.

I begin to wonder if my need is to separate my experience of these ‘qualities’ from persons. Especially from the person of me. If I cease to see myself or anyone else as ‘possessing’ ‘dirt and neglect’ perhaps I will cease to fear or be disgusted AND also cease to pity and have compassion for signs of it. Either reaction is a manner of embracing it and, as it happens, I don’t enjoy dirt and neglect so I really don’t want to carry on embracing it in any way.

I may choose to allow it to some degree – I DO choose to allow it in two rooms of my house, my front and back garden and in the loft of my house at the moment, for example. Although, as it happens, during the past year (in fact – three or four months) moves have been afoot to alter even this degree of neglect.

Nevertheless – as a home maker and maintainer I do leave a lot to be desired and, I must confess, as a woman in our culture I am more than averagely self-neglecting: I forget to file my nails; I can seldom remember where my moisturiser is, let alone wear it; I frequently leave my home and jump into the car before brushing my hair or applying make-up and not infrequently have to use my fingers as a brush and a slap to the cheeks as make-up. Were I more attentive to the decorative requirements of humanity I would no doubt apply more of my time to these immensely important matters. But I always wash and I always brush my teeth and I never leave home without clothes on – so I kind of meet my own lowish standards of ‘clean and cared for’. Ditto in relation to maintaining my home. It may be a standard that Ikea fanatics would simply die on seeing as distinct to die to see, but it’s a standard that I merely live to rise above.

And – if anyone has read this far – why thank you, for you have accompanied me, post-haste, along my journey of self-therapy ‘from chronic and severe depression to nirvana [concept not band]’: May you live a long, joyful and prosperous life.. and so may I. 😉

Now for the precipitating ghost promised at the beginning:-

July 1st 2012.

Dilemma

The project for Renata Aazman weighs upon me. I can’t have the draft I sent her published because her criticisms were spot on and I don’t want to publish so ungracefully and one sidedly. I don’t want to be in battle. I need to lay down arms. I need to move on. Yet I need to be an author in this (her) anthology – I need to be in a place where that is appropriate, not in a place I will later regret.

Anyhow, that’s not why I came back to this page. I returned with an amused recognition about my creative blocks. May God forgive me for them – and that’s not blasphemy that’s genuine prayer. Nonetheless, the prayer takes a light hearted turn.

Draft:

Diagnosis Hopelessness

I’m so powerless it exhausts me.
The grass grows despite me,
Taller every day,
Waving at my cares, carelessly
As if to force me to see
It’s free.

The honeysuckle on the lilac tree
Is strangling its delicate flowers;
The tree will soon be dead,
So strong is that persistent honeysuckle;
So weak the perishing lilac tree.

You’d think that I could overcome
that little piece of grass, but its an army
advancing and looming
like the honeysuckle on the tree,
And thus I have no possible chance
Of saving the beleaguered lilac tree.

Fear not, however. I have prowess
In relation to the sunshine
Who smiles at all who venture out
And touches all their hearts:
I stay in resolutely:
It has no power over me;

I am fear and shadow,
How can the sun reach me?

Back at last! Thanks so much for your patience :-)

English: What kind of poem did Hafez make? (Photo credit: Wikipedia) – or ‘HOW TO DESTROY AN AESTHETIC EXPERIENCE’

Hi there guys! Thanks so much for sticking around and I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to check in on this site and to update it at all over the last few weeks.

A lot has been happening at an internal and even at an external-skin level. I want to share stuff about mental health recovery with you from a first person experience perspective; I also, however, want to share other stuff with you that I’m excited about.

Today I’m excited about a find I’ve made : a guy called Eli Siegal, born 1902, died 1978, ‘founded the philosophy of Aesthetic Realism‘ and wrote a mind blowingly brilliant poem (in my eyes/mind) called ‘Hot Afternoons Have Been in Montana‘ around 1924, for which he won a prestigious award in 1925. I won’t bore you with details, you can find them on Wikipedia if you are interested. I’m not bored by the details because as I began to read my heart leapt – and this is why:

The article about Siegal, his life and his theory of Aesthetic Realism somewhat reminded  me of my claims in previous years, first that my two daughters were  my ‘best poems‘ (in process) and second that

‘I used to paint portraits of people with chalks and paints on paper and canvas. Then I got bored of it and found it uncreative. I decided to paint it directly onto the subjects with glances and words and
gestures. It costs me because I can’t charge, but I win because of the pleasure
I get from the practice of projecting loveliness and having loveliness
radiating back to me’.

I’m fibbing a little because whatever it was that I wrote a few years ago re the portrait business had the merit of brevity, sacrifice of explication – hey ho, the meaning hasn’t altered. Siegal’s Aesthetic Realism clearly had close connections with my nameless shift of identity as an artist in my own life:

In 1938, Siegel began teaching poetry classes with the view that “what makes a good poem is like what can make a good life.” In 1941, students in these classes asked him to give individual lessons in which they might learn about their own lives. These were the first Aesthetic Realism lessons.^[12]

I urge you to read ‘Hot Afternoons Have Been in Montana’ – it’s not ‘Poetry’ in the stifled, cloistered, stuffy air of an overheated library corner, it’s the poetry of life sweeping cobwebs from the mind and opening the windows of the imagination.

A semi random quote from the midst of this long poem to give you a flavour:

“That bird over this green, under that sun, God, how sweet and
graceful
it is!
Could we ever do that? Machines that fly are clumsy and ugly;
Birds go into the air so softly, so fairly; see its curves; Earth!
In
Montana, men eat and have bodies paining them
Because they eat.

Kansas, with Montana, in America, has, too, men pained by
their
eating;
So has England, with Westminster Abbey, where poets lie,

dead now;
O, what their poetry can do; what poetry can do.
There is
the brain of man, a soft, puzzling, weak affair;”

Tumbling together urbanity with the prairies whilst inviting us all to consider applying aesthetics to more aspects of our lives…if not all aspects…

What a difference it will make when we do…

Watch this space because – no, don’t watch it, please, keep me to my promises, I’m clearing a space for a project, it’s a book length piece of writing project; it’s not the ‘autobiography’ type project I have wacked on about in the past. It’s got an ‘academic’ kind of subject matter from the outset but by the time I’ve worked it, trust me the academy will be weaved in so well it will be indiscernible (unless you think that more than two syllables is academic). No title yet, weaving first.

So if I don’t ‘follow through’ – prod me would  you – I have the concentration of an ant some of the time – adhd perhaps (additional heady distractions)

Over and Out Dear Friends, ’til the ‘morrow,

(or as PGW would say – ‘toodlepip’),

Janie x