Rules of Engagement

Yesterday I was talking to a heroin addict, who had been made into a methadone addict, courtesy of the medical profession. Well done, girls!!
He was not very keen to take more methadone as all his teeth had dropped out, but despite his low dose he topped up with extra purchases to keep his withdrawal symptoms at bay.

But at the time I saw him he was lucid, attentive and articulate. And it's always hard to resist spending a bit of time with people who are keen to listen.
He articulated a point I'd heard several times before by identifying the biggest distributor of drugs in my part of the country.
The name that came up once again was the female consultant for the local drug and alcohol programme, widely considered to be a soft touch for extra drugs, and always looking to increase the doses drug addicts
are prescribed.

This is a popular approach with supposedly therapeutic benefits, but can be articulated easily by people who prescribed before they talk to individuals. It is a level of disengagement dished out by linear thinking clinicians who rarely get to grips with what the patient's needs, wants and strengths are.

It's a failure of one of the first principles medicine. Which is this.
Listen to the patient. He's telling you what's wrong with him.

It's more than that of course he's even telling you what he needs.
Just listen.
Please... for a second put down your pen resting, itching and aching
over your prescription pad, and engage your ears and brain.
Listen.

And then he asked me a question.
He even prefixed it with the phrase. Can I ask you a question? (which is always slightly charming, if a little too deferential).
So I was kind of expecting a tricky one.
But it was the easiest question in the world.

"Do you believe in once a smack addict always a smack addict ?"

Surprisingly simple. Highly articulate. A simple straightforward question.
With that rarity of rarities...a simple straightforward answer.

"No, of course not". The words were out almost as a reflex.

How could anybody in medicine ever continue if they didn't believe in the incredible, (possibly best thought of infinite), potential of the human... well, the human being.

And yet...I can imagine the drugs workers saying or implying this to him.
Who hasn't heard of the same idea of the alcoholic.... once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.
It's not much to look forward to, is it?
It is spectacularly undignified and ignorant clinical approach, an excuse for not engaging with the next set of motivations, (after hopefully controlling the primary problem).

I can imagine the defence of an articulate professor unable to see my view as anything other than that of a clueless dreamer.
But frankly I prefer clueless dreamer (me?) to just clueless (them!).

And I know the patient and I shared a clue. Because I listened and I looked and I saw and I heard it. And I felt it make a difference. And then I checked it had, checked that I wasn't kidding myself.

That he'd engaged with drug services to such a degree and not even have a clear answer in his head (or been given the wrong answer by rote) to that simplest most primal, most important of all questions, is not a sad indictment of him.
It's a sad indictment of the rest of us.

And when I say I us.

I really mean you.

Joining the Dots.

How much effort do you go to to join the dots?

To catch up on lost threads and trains of conversation that occur to
you, parked ideas, forgotten dreams and ambitions, friendships and
relationships that stalled or decayed?

Do you bother to build bridges to the things that the ebb of time and
flow separated?

Maybe not and maybe you shouldn't.

Plenty of people feel as though they move on.

And of course they do in some ways.

And of course they don't in some ways.


I'm not talking about something as crass as closure. I'm not Freud.
And frankly I am not sure I fully believe or have any interest in the
concept.

I suspect many people seek closure on things that are already closed.
That's more like a disease process than what I think I'm talking
about.

I am just talking about linking things up, little fragments of life
scattered through time.

Like a join the dots book.

Like a mind map. God knows it's been a popular enough concept in
recent years, because this is how our brain actually works, ideas
linked in multi-colours from felt tip pens.


We do this all the time. The Internet allows us to track down any song
lyric. It ruins every radio competition for us unless we are listening
in the car. Any little funny fact can be nowadays be drawn, clarified
or refuted by QI or Wikipedia.

Pub quizzes lost their innocence years ago. There's bound to be
somebody clicking away on his mobile phone whether or not he makes the
effort to disguise his action with a visit to the lavatory. Apologies
for the gratuitous use of the word lavatory. But I'm just try to make
a point. (And while I'm at it…..lavatory, lavatory, lavatory. That's
closure for you).


How much should you try to complete your pictures? Well, you can
sometimes tie an invisible loop with a letter to the past, or the
present. There are even modern applications that will send an e-mail
to yourself or somebody else in the future. The alarm clock has
finally woken up. When we finally sleep there will be a digital legacy
that in some way represents us. This will be mine.

But when you sketch your way through life, it is sometimes nice to
take a moment to go back and fill in the colour.

I'm not talking about reminiscence.

Okay well maybe I am. But not in the 'let's all gather round the photo
album' kind of way. I am talking about the version that is a bit more…
a bit more.. a bit more…. well….. me.


How much effort should you go to?

I'll tell you.


Some.

Fall and Rise

It's a beautiful autumn day, you know one of those days.

And a little walk in the local churchyard the leaves falling from the trees, sun peering between the branches. Warm in the face, but appreciating the sweater in the wind.

Rustling leaves, falling sycamores. You know the stuff. The stuff of children's poems from an illustrated book.

But here's the thing.

I didn't know what the leaves were.

I didn't know what the trees were.

I didn't know the name of the plants around the church.

And I didn't know anything to call the fly that landed on me anything other than "fly".

It's not very good is it?

We learn to rub stencils of leaves in our school exercise books.

But somehow, some of us get to the stage or the age where we don't know our oak from our maple.

It's pretty poor.

Psychologists harp on about mindfulness quite a bit nowadays.

Well how about being mindful of an environment?

Once you become a little aware of it, why not then become a little inquisitive and then perhaps a little informed?

Just one interesting fact about the tree you looking at should do it. It's history, journey, geography, biology, anything...

It's like flossing. It's a nuisance but all you have to do is floss one tooth. Floss one, and you're away.

Start.

Improvised theatre speaks a lot to environment.

Once you're aware of it, you can engage with it.

So become aware.

Wonder.

And find a way to engage.

This is your world, just as much as the one you've been living in.

But this isn't a general lesson, this is a lesson for me. I know plenty of people are brilliant at knowing plants, people who know can tell their larch from their ash, their beech from their maple.

It's me that is behind the pace.

So I'm finding ways to pick their brains. In fact I started last night. I happened across a twitterer who identified plants.

I tweeted him a leaf from the churchyard. And he gave me back its name and a bit of history within a few seconds.

Finally...social media is good for something other than selling.

Press Play

We need to play. The artists have it right. They let ideas dance around their heads, they give space and flow and air to their thoughts. They give them love, opportunity and consideration. They give their ideas oxygen. And they approach their brushes to their canvas with eyes that transmit as much as they see.

Play is the way that children learn.

Adults need to copy their homework.

But so many feel they are not allowed to learn way.

That's the problem with our teachers. That's my objection to them. Of all the things they didn't try to do, in the vast majority of cases, they never taught us how to learn.

But children is what we are, deep down. That's when our circuitry was done. When we were being hardwired as children, we were not being hardwired into adults, not really. We were being hardwired into being successful children. Of course. It's obvious.

The fact that some others may have "dressed up" their (inner)child up later to make them appear adult is just that… dressing.

The fact is that they may have exploited their inevitable, poorly-won adulthood as an excuse to grow needless quirks or idiosyncrasies or unpleasantries. Or coated it in humourlessness disguised as sincerity and seniority. Or covered their child in pinstripe suits, too much tweed or solar keratoses.


Why can't I collect stamps,tell a policeman he wears a silly hat, trample in the leaves, climb a tree or push someone in the pond?

And more to the point, why can't they?

Press play.

I say.

Masks

I've been looking into a few things, dabbling in a few areas. And I've been thinking a bit about treasure hunts, thinking about Masquerade and thinking about geo-caching recently. It just sounds like fun, doesn't it?

And I was looking today on the way that people hide these little notes and trinkets for tracking down by others using satellite technology. A brilliant little fun activity highly accessible to most people at no cost beyond that of the smart phone they will need.

Seems perfect, doesn't it?

Getting people out in the countryside with a clear aim, to track down a little "X" that marks the spot and the treasure hidden there. I was looking at youtube at some of the sneaky little places where the hiding takes place. They were spoilers if you like but something to get me understanding the game a bit more. And a lot of fun to watch.

The chap filming the video also set his own little hunts and treasure hunts, showing us all the sneaky spots, and little tricks he used at the culmination of the treasure hunt.

Fascinating fun stuff with upto half a million views on you Tube.

It gave me a real glimpse into an incredible, simple world of innocent adventure.

Everybody's happy!

I've never  "geo-cached" as yet but you can imagine your heart beat faster as you find your treasure.

The idea of  the treasure being worthless and therefore hopefully un-nickable...well, even better.

The provider of this content was called Sven. He'd videoed a few other practical jokes and japes too and would response to the many comments on his videos in YouTube.

At least he would respond... up until about a year and a half ago.

Then things went a bit quiet. Seemed a bit odd.

A look further down the comments identifies Sven as a chap called Steve Love born March 1981 who we are told became a successful businessman and had two kids he adored. 

He took his own life after his divorce proceedings got too much for him in February 2012.

He seemingly could have a laugh at everything - best medicine, right? But not enough in itself it seems.

I confess I wondered if this was one of his practical jokes.

But it's not.

It's  true. It's sad. It's inexplicable.

It's life creeping in. And life oozing out.

I suppose it's a reminder. 

But of what I am not quite sure.

Yardsticks? ...Fiddlesticks!

Do you know what you're looking for in life?

I'm not sure I do. But then I don't pretend that I do.

And I don't pretend I know what you want either.

But if you bump into me, I'll try my best to work with you on it. Who knows I might help you find it? (I'm quite good you know).

It seems to me a lot of people who get what they think they are looking for… well...screw up.

Then what?

What do they shoot for then? To correct an error or just to repeat a mistake. Plenty do just that. Or do they dare to have the originality to ask themselves the question again...

Do I know what I'm looking for in life?

If you do know, I won't doubt you (out loud),so go for it, get on with it, get it done. Then calm down and shut up. Job done.

If you really believe it's that simple, frankly, it might not just be the task that is simple.

But if you have a clear immovable life aim that works for you, go right ahead. You have my blessing.

I'm not sure I know what I'm looking for.

But I know I like the ability to keep looking.

I'm pretty sure I'm not looking for something as ephemeral and ill-defined as "happiness". It speaks to me of too many smiley faces, too many tablets with doves on, Glastonbury, and lists of cliched hobbies on a too tired CV that still has to mention walking and reading.

If you're searching for happiness, so impure a concept, you might as well be searching for Eden. Or god. Or an honest lawyer. But let's assume just assume for the sake of argument, you find "it", what you do then?

Do you settle? (Because that is the word that comes up repeatedly)

Surrender the mission of your lifetime - and do what…exactly?

What happens when the game of your life is over? What happens when it's game over?

Life is supposed to be a series of challenges, isn't it? Where is your settling going to get you then?

I'll tell you. Out of your depth.

You like the idea? Of course! It's warm and fireplace-cosy. But do you really, really want to settle? Do you? Just settle?

OK, how much do you want it?

Because settling is settling. It is closing down that drive the brought you to where you are.

For me, it is too close to stopping.

And I have no intention of doing that anytime soon.

So don't measure me by your yardsticks.

And I promise to continue not to measure you by mine.

Getting Your Rocks Down

Life is about transitions and genuine skill at doing life is the speed and ease at which these transitions can be accomplished.

Maybe you've had a bad day. What are you going to do? Maybe you'll have a bath or read a book or watch TV.

Maybe you will go for a run or play on your phone.

What if you had a really bad day? Will the things you used to relax you work instantly?

Will those bad feelings pass in a few minutes or a few hours. Will you need to sleep on it?

If you do will everything be better? Or will resolution take a week or three. 

Or years.

If it takes years, maybe you be medicalised. Maybe you have to see some ex-polytechnic student who thinks they are a non-medical generic counsellor, and the answer to all your problems. Maybe you'll even be disillusioned enough to think it was necessary. Or wonderful. Or just happy for the company. Which is what it is of course.

Things come at you in life.  They must do,  or where have you been hiding? If they don't, we must go out and find them. Poke your nose out, sniff the morning air. Yes they disturb our world like a dirty stick drawing circles in the sand. 

But the deepest scores can clear with a single stroke of the tide, a single wave.

But.

Sometimes the sand and cement is full of glass, clay or rocky aggregate. 

Even then if your waves are powerful enough, there will be settlement. 

One sweep clean. 

One clean sweep. 

Or maybe the rocks will settle in the wrong position. Like a scar that develops where tissue should simply have joined together.

You might think they will need patting down. Or that you need someone else to pat them down for you. Maybe you do.

Or you just need to set your sail to the winds.

You can hang your washing out in the rain and it will dry eventually.

You need to know what sort of hurry you are in.

Attracting artificial interventions that are over-medicalised to pack down your rocks, to pat down your sand, is not something to be taken lightly.

Read a book.

Learn a skill.

Light a fire.

Pick a lock.

Pick your nose.

Just do whatever it takes to relax.

But make sure it's the thing that relaxes you. 

It's no business of anybody else.

Love Heart - Part 2

About a year ago I wrote a poem called Love Hearts.

It was a simple idea, apropos of nothing, written at a time when I was on a packet a day.

So simple an idea that I wondered if it had been done before. But I'd no reason to believe it had.

The idea was to turn the popular Swizzels Matlow sweetie into a poem.

I knocked it out in a few minutes. It was never designed to be a masterpiece, just a throwaway.

But this month I thought I'd try an experiment in putting it to music.

So with the power of the Internet I hired an excellent US singer who put a little tune to it.

What started out as cheeky little pairs of couplets, turned into a simple melancholic, you might say bittersweet, performance.

I am going to remind you of the lyrics, in case you have forgotten them (!).

Like You
I'm Shy
My Girl
Don't Cry

Trust Me
Be Mine
True Love
Good Time

My Girl
Your Boy
In Love
Your Toy

Find Me
You Dope
New Love
My Hope

Aim High
Catch Me
Lucky Lips
You'll See

Now you can play the song....

Is this what they call teamwork, liaison, dare I say.....community?

Stripper In The House

What do you do when you want to get rid of something?

Well, I had a wallpaper stripper and a heat gun using up space, but I don't own any wallpaper any more and I hate to throw good things away.

So on it went to freecycle.org late last night.

By morning I had 19 replies and had to choose on which of them to bestow my favours.

A dizzying position of power that I am simply not used to.

This being a three-pipe problem I sunk into my easiest chair while the concubine dropped peeled grapes into my barely cooperating gob. Periodically, I made noises of apparent musing, as I agreed and disagreed with my current view on which individual to make my inhumanly generous gift.

In reality, I zipped through the "applications"and wanted to choose one who seemed relatively available to get the business completed quickly.

But what I finding myself wanting to know was to do with identity, a name of somebody you was probably about to come to my house, but the name frequently did not appear to be part of people's e-mail address. (Which is fair enough it isn't part of my shopping e-mail address either).

And it really helped to see a picture. This gave me the opportunity to exclude anybody who couldn't be bothered to smile on their chosen picture. It's nice to know in advance there are keen to advertise themselves as miserable so-and-sos but it's a wet Thursday morning I don't want to do therapy on anybody just yet .

It's not that I think you meet many maniacs on freecycle. In fact I strongly suspect we are the very pinnacle of humanity in thought, word and deed.

But my humanity drew me (as the selection process had been forced upon me) to somebody who wrote a short e-mail implying the items would be useful. I think I smelt a rat on some of them but that's part of the game, I think. Not everybody can be redecorating grandma's house this weekend!

So I went for someone who could be bothered to write a sentence, someone who would allow their name to appear somewhere in their application, and, courtesy of Google Plus, someone who's picture I could see who was smiling. And this is who I went for.

It's simple things isn't it.

Simple things give people confidence.

A word. A smile. A politeness.

Not. Rocket. Surgery.

Day of the Discards

This is my pop-up book.

Skylab: America's first space station.

I'll be honest with you. I've had it a while.
But now I have it in my hand.

By rights, it belongs in the recycling bin.

It may have images that are locked in my mind forever. But they can't really be particularly meaningful to me can they? After all I've never been to space. 

(Or I have been to space but I've never been to me.. I'm not sure... I can never remember which way round that is)

But it is decision time.

Time to throw.

A few years ago I wouldn't have even had the satisfaction of putting in the recycling bin. Unfortunately, more recently than a few years ago I realised the contents of the recycling bin went to landfill. It is a little council joke they play.

It's probably not in good enough condition for the second-hand market.

You can still pick one of these up on the Internet for a few dollars.... although it gets you thinking doesn't it, perhaps somebody could use it?

No, it should be thrown away.

That's what common sense tells us.

So, riddle me this...

Why am I sitting here repairing the damaged spine with PVA glue and cotton buds (otherwise known as piggy sticks) when I really should be getting on with something else?

The good thing about "thrown away" is that it doesn't need to be done all at once.
Skylab may or may not make the cut this time, but its day is coming.

A simple repair and an Oxfam drop off maybe turn out to be a saviour and its destiny.

Spot the Dog

I talked to a guy today who was in distress. He'd been accused of a serious charge and had been arrested.

He was pretty fed up about it and had been unsuccessful at a recent, and pretty substantial, attempt to end his life, reliably informing me that it was trickier than I would imagine.

I was pleased that every cell of our bodies recoil in protective reflex (if not anaesthetised) at this most un-Biblical action.

When chatting to him, his face really lit up when he talked about his dogs.

The unconditional love, the need for him and his attention. The playfulness. The reason for a good long walk. The whole "man's best friend" shebang.

We passed a few pleasantries on cats as well, mentioning their undoubted evil, filth, disloyalty and devil-may-care attitude, while also recognising that they have their place. Generally, that was squatting over next door's plant pots.

But every time he returned to the dogs, his face lit up, with genuine affection, genuine interest. The stuff of life. It was a genuine passion for his three, it has to be said , quite miniature dogs  (Chihuahua, Yorkshire terrier , you know the sort). He appreciated their clear needs and feedback.

He understood their their expectation of routine. He was fully aware that should that routine be transgressed, certain behavioural manifestations of disapproval would be the result, but the playful way they jumped around when happy and exercised and the mutual affection, they shared covered all the gaps. It hit the spot. (Not Spot.. spot)

Every time he returned to the dog, his face lit up again. With a big smile.

Not the smile you would expect from somebody picked up on a historical offence, highly distressed with the situation, and recently discharged from hospital after partially skewering an internal organ.

But nevertheless there it was, in the most unexpected of areas. A genuine smile.

It got me to thinking.

These dogs.

They may be much more than man's best friend.

They could be the ultimate saviour of the human condition.