Fucked up

I wish that I could shut up

Should be in a lock up

Decay of mind and spirit

Not quite with it

 

I am the portal to insanity

For my mind is my only true reality

But my heart is almost free

 

So lay your head on my chest

And listen to the beat,

Beat, beat me

Into a pulp rhapsody

Of thoughts

Which broadcast from me

Like white noise from a turned off TV

 

Open your pocket

And place my heart within it

Like a time bomb of a watch

I shall tick against the skull of your belly

Until you tell me

That I have saved you

From sanity’s padded cell of luxury

And the concept of materiality

Awakening Time


Awakening Time

By

Louise M. Hart

 

In exchange for my mortality

I was sentenced to purgatory

Shunning the luxury of life

I escaped the descent of death

Yielding no being no body

No voice or breath

 

Today I stand on insentient land

For I would rather be insentient

Than subject to death on demand

 

O’ children of life I banefully cried

Deserted earth

And parted the sky

And whilst the goddess above

Beckoned my love

The demons below

Seduced my soul

 

Torment chose their eyes

Hers winked

Like the stars

Above which she knitted

A complicit pattern of survival

 

Awaiting the world’s arms

Lay a shadow of dreams

Supporting humanity’s potential

For spiritual need

A need forever on the periphery

Like an infinite why

Conceived from the loins of a materialistic lie

And nurtured in the garden of truth

 

The awakening time is here

This life is queer

My awakening

Time

 

 

 

A poet reborn or…just pretending?


I do not purport to be a great poet, or even a good one. I aim to capture the unpredictable ebb and flow of thought as it intersects with text on my laptop screen. For writing not only reflects the consciousness of the writer, but her soul. Thus, when someone reads my poetry, they access part of me that is forbidden to the eye.

In my new poetry collection, I have stripped myself bare. Like discarded garments, my outer layers reveal the surface of my intent. Beneath, I am as vulnerable as a child. I shiver in the presence of pedagogues, those who truly understand the poetic form and fear that my amateurism will be exposed.

After 20 years of writing poetry, I am still a virgin; not penetrated by the sharp pen of scholastic formalism,
I am merely myself.

Truth is pretence.

A Life Reborn by Louise M. Hart is available from amazon, barnes and noble and most respected retailers.

For updates, please follow me on twitter. @shunterthompson

The truth of an image


There is a scene in the film, Stardust Memories, in which Woody Allen sits alone in a train carriage, populated by people whose faces reveal angst and despair. He looks through a window and sees into the carriage of another train, positioned parallel. In the other carriage, the passengers party, their faces alive with joy and pleasure.
For me, this scene is a perfect visual metaphor of the life experience. Its meaning transcends the image of Allen as the outsider, looking at life from the inside out; it embraces the duality of the human experience. Joy and despair are presented as polar opposites, the associated behaviour codes are mere coping strategies for reacting to the madness that is existence.
Allen’s existential angst reflects a universal truth; life is a glorified coping mechanism. When we watch the scene, we realise that we are not alone.

Defining Luna’s Way


Today, I posted the second part of a series I am writing for artifice comics. My mission is to create the world’s first bipolar superhero. To those affected by this dangerous and often, destructive mental health issue, the correlation of mental illness with superpowers may seem, at best, to lack credibilty. I, however, believe that bipolar disorder can encompass positive aspects.
There has been much discussion about the link between mental health issues and creativity. Employing the old chicken and egg analogy, one could ask which of these factors precedes the other. Whilst most people affected by mental health conditions are no more creative than the rest of the population, creative expression, undoubtedly helps heal and identify sources of distress. I, myself, employ writing as a means of self-expression and am frequently surprised by the nature and content of my writing and what it reveals about myself. Thus, for those feeling lost, but, still able to write, I say let it out in words.
To return to my superhero, she is female and gifted with perceptual abilities, which transcend even words. Omniscience is a power we would all, secretly, like to possess, but how would we apply it to our lives? The possibilities are endless and thus, are the tales I intend to tell. Goodness versus bad, happiness and the sad. If you are interested in reading my tales, part two of Luna’s Way, Our Friend Electro (convulsive treatment) can be read at, artificecomics.com/short-story-lu…or could follow me on twitter @shunterthompson or @artificecomics
I hope that Luna’s Way will be as much fun to read, as it has been to write. All fun, however, has a serious side. Tell every one to read it and watch the world become a better, bipolar place.

I am not an ism!


Hitherto rejecting the central tenet of postmodernism which professes the demise of metanarratives, my former selves embraced the grandest of narratives. Over the years I have identified as many kinds of “ists” and supported numerous “isms.” Driven by the search for meaning, I regularly argued with eloquence and conviction that it was preferable to follow a belief system than walk the path of nihilistic individualism. I am, now, beginning to rethink my position.
My huge, death defying social conscience has always influenced and, I hope, will continue to influence my attitudes and beliefs about the social whole. However, I have begun to question my sub-conscious motivation for clinging to certain prescribed ideas and ideologies. Subjectivity is lonely when one does not fit-in. Was I imprisoned in a crowd by myself, yielding like-minded others to enter? Was I committed to social change, or merely at an earlier stage of a mission to change within? Maybe I am a bourgeois individualist with thin skin. Whatever the truth and which ever side of me wins, I reject all labels; I am no longer an “ist,” I am LOUISE! Read my words and hear me breath.

I Am…Louise


Inspiration has left me, I am a shell of my former nut. Lost for topics I would like to discuss, I have decided to write about the only subject in which I profess to be an expert, myself!
Born in 1968, a year in which chaos threatened to enter the love shack of 1960’s ideology, I was always a problem; a problem to my Mother who, has always loved me with the ferocity of a lioness, a problem to the world, which seeks to compartmentalise even those, like me, who resist and defy labelling but mostly, a problem to myself. I survived my acute shyness and intangible fear of life and grew-up to be a student of philosophy, English and mental flight. My world of fear was replaced by a voice which rang out loud and clear. However, after two years of studying for a degree, my voice broke.
I spent the next twenty years of my life as a patient, a user of services, a label without a name. I was mad and secretly blamed myself for my inability to survive life and retreat into psychosis. During this time, my consultant psychiatrist whom, I was subsequently to perceive as my sworn enemy and the embodiment of evil(!), made a statement which has always remained in my memory. He said, “You will always be Louise.” To many, this statement might seem trite but anyone who has been unfortunate enough to be affected by mental health issues and the savage fists of the mental health system, will understand its meaningful intent.
Silenced and sentenced to the periphery of life, I have, finally, found my voice. It speaks in the truths that I write. I wrote my first novel, not only as therapy but because I had always wanted to be a published writer, I wrote to affirm my identity and re-claim my life. I know that The General Paralysis of Sanity will make me neither rich nor famous but it has begun a process, writing is now my life. I am…Louise and welcome you all to join me in my discoveries.

A Dual Self


Having been raised in the Christian church, I am burdened by the weight of a conscience, guilt trickling through my veins like blood. Thus, I have lived my life in pursuit of goodness and unachievable absolutes which contradict the fleshy and impure thoughts of my furtive psyche. This sense of duality has defined my adult life and persists in my vacillating moral and political principles. I think I know, then I change my mind.
As a student I found the perfect outlet for my belief in Marxism; I joined student political societies. However, although I was hungry for social change, I never felt fully connected to my comrades and lacked their single-minded drive. For over twenty years, I have remained haunted by a casual remark made by someone, whom I still respect; she said that I was “too subjective.” At the time, I was mildly offended, perceiving myself as weak. In time, however, I realised that I could not be an automaton, dedicating my life to the pursuit of the greater good. I was an individual and if I wanted to improve the world I had to be kinder to myself. Political activism preceded my breakdown of self. Henceforth, I have struggled to re-build my identity. I am, perhaps, more fragile, these days, but I am, also, more knowing.

Knots: The Poetry of R. D. Laing


In the pre-psychotic realm of my youth, I discovered the works of Scottish (anti) psychiatrist R. D. Laing. His seminal offering, The Divided Self (1960), became for a time, my Bible, offering me reassurance that my deeply held fear of madness was proof of my sanity. A few years later, I remember, during my chaotic career as an undergraduate, sitting at a table of my university refectory, smoking and drinking an innumerable coffee. Poised on a wave of my own sense of urgency, I knew not whether to retreat from or entreat with words the grizzled middle-aged, presence who reclined in the seat opposite me. Soon, my dilemma was resolved; the presence spoke. Complete with perfectly crumbled Scottish vowels and the scrag-end of a roll-up, he introduced himself and told me that he lectured in psychology. Immediately interested, I began to converse and confessed to him my fascination with all things Laingian. To my great delight, he claimed that he had worked with Laing and eyes twinkling, rasped, “The trouble with Ronny was…like many of us, he couldn’t resist a pretty girl.” I never spoke to the man again, confining him to the annals of lecherous old devilment. However, whenever I ruminate about my first and only hero of psychiatry, I smile at the memory of meeting someone who had known him, smug in the knowledge that we all are only one handshake away from greatness.
Whilst, R. D. Laing’s (1927-1989) most widely read writings are books detailing psychological analyses of psychosis. He, also, intruded upon the sacred soil of poetry. His 1970 volume, Knots, operates most successfully as an encoding of his ideas in the loosely defined form of poetry. The text is divided into five sections which can be read as individual dialogues or mini play-lets. Ultimately, a deconstruction of relationships, the “knots” of the title connote impasses; the conflicting passage of the Western interpersonal being. For in our relationships with others, subjectivity is both defined and denied.
Stylistically dense to the point of being terse, on first reading Knots may appear irritatingly abrupt and lacking in the artifice of rhythmic mellifluousness and beauteous language. However, the circuitous dialogue merely reinforces Laing’s notion that relationships are constricted by the production of thoughts, which lead to neurotic beliefs, which, eventually become interpreted in our behaviour and ensuing relationships. Although, the book is not entirely successful as a work of poetry, it offers many insights into the psychology of relationships. As someone who has been profoundly affected by Laing’s theories about the, “family nexus,” whereby family life was deemed accountable for the presence and sustenance of psychosis,
I particularly enjoyed the first part of the book. For, here, his views about the injunctions of the family are most fully transcribed.

Please Experience, “Death in Venice” (and taste me!)


The modern literary trend is to produce gargantuan, door stops of novels. However, I do not believe that big is always best. Writing a novella is possibly even more challenging; the form requiring literary brevity which is often at odds with encapsulating heterogeneity of vision. One of the finest examples of a novella, whose vision reaches far beyond the density of its text is Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice.
Written in 1912, Death in Venice depicts a middle-aged man’s gradual descent into madness and unreason. Aschenbach journeys to Venice in an attempt to relieve his writer’s block. During his stay he observes a beautiful young boy with whom he gradually becomes obsessed. Whilst many readers have questioned the nature of Aschenbach’s obsession, for me, it is largely symbolic. The boy (Tadzio) exists as a emblem of the unattainable, he is everything that Aschenbach is not; young impossibly handsome and unrestrained in his grasp of life and relationships. In contrast, Aschenbach represents the intellect and the constraints of reason.
The relationship between the two characters alludes to the opposition of the Apollonian and Dionysian principles, first proposed by Nietzche in The Birth of Tragedy. When forces collide, devastation ensues. In this instance, tragedy surfaces in Aschenbach’s decline. Initially, the decline is spiritual; his mind is disturbed by feelings, which one imagines, to be alien to this most ascetic of characters. Ultimately, however, his decline becomes physically transcribed. Mann describes how Aschenbach surrenders to cholera, which he courts, almost as though it were the youth, himself. Aschenbach’s desire for Tadzio alludes to the Platonic ideal of love, that of an older man for a boy, whose exploitation of purity demands penetrating despoilment. An image which continues to resonate in homoerotic literature and ideas.
Thomas Mann critiques modern bourgeois life. For in Aschenbach, he creates a character who represents the artist as someone who is detached from the life process, a chronicler of aestheticism, rather than a participant, which he emphasises in connecting artistic detachment with the eventual stagnation of the imagination. Thus, it is only Aschenbach’s preoccupation with something which is concrete and therefore, “real” in its (his) relationship to the social whole, which rids him of his writer’s block. “Solitude gives birth to the original in us, beauty unfamiliar and perilous-to poetry,” Writes Mann and subsequently reveals that solitude can, also, lead to death; a Death in Venice which, in contradiction to the book’s title, offers more insights into life, every time one read it.