Tag Archives: writing

Rant Arrears

Disclaimer/Warning:

This is a RANT (meaning, I was angry when I began writing this, and I may say things which aren’t always 100% reflective of my more ‘professional’ character so to speak, and I must add now that I have no harmful intentions, by writing about matters which I feel need to be said, at least once. To someone, somewhere.

 

The above now being clarified, I will share with you what I wrote in September of 2017, earlier this year, in a very frustrated, hopeless and questioning time in my life.

Shall I begin…?

Never work for the NHS. It is a National Health NIGHTMARE, I am telling you now! It is so sad to have to say it, but never in my life, could I have even imagined how let down, broken, and fucked around I could possibly be. I knew it was bad, because many of my friends happen to be nurses. It really is the management, the lack of funding, direction, consistency and/or communication, which really fucks the whole thing right up.

Since I started working there, my life has fallen apart. I wish I could say otherwise, I truly do, but I can’t keep silent about this beast within the hive of that machine anymore. To stay silent, makes me want to rot to my core, and I’m pretty sure that mentally I have already done that. The Cancer patients we treated, they are already suffering the physical pain of rotting at the core, for themselves. It’s shit, and I hate that it is shit, but I cannot deny what I have seen.

Raped by a Staff Nurse. For F#%*’s Sake. Everyone is all so happy to be very hush hush and ‘I’m not allowed to comment on that’, about what ended up happening, and you know what? That isn’t alright, it really isn’t. I know you all want to save your own careers, and no one dares say a single thing out of line now, because look at the god damn example they have made out of me!

I genuinely accept, that this ‘may come across as a feeling’, and that ‘it really isn’t anything personal, it’s just the policy we have to follow’– I am telling you now, fuck, that shit. I ‘blew the whistle’ on your ward manager’s bad practice, the bullying, the belittling, the absolute SAND CASTLE.

That’s literally is all that is there- a perfect metaphor for the dead; a castle’s worth of absolute sand! A Hallam Shire, Actual Shire, of sand. Dusty and dead, with ground bones to be fed.

 

 

 

 


26/11/2017

Sunday night update to the above ‘rant’, having now had a little bit more time to reflect, sleep, and try rebuilding life (admittedly, not straight forward)

I hate being offline, and apparently unable to save this writing, and/or even publish it on my blog, to get it off my chest and talk about! I cannot connect to the internet in this temporary flat, even via trying to set myself up via mobile ‘personal hotspots’, just to try and enable this bloody laptop to connect to the network provider. Argh! It is heavily frustrating to say the least.

Who knows if anyone will ever bother to read this, anyway, or be interested in it, for that matter? For all I know, I could just be sat here, typing away (angrily) to myself, with no one who has the time, energy, concentration (perhaps?), or spare time, quite frankly, to find a moment to slow down other thoughts, and ‘listen’ to mine, through what I write.

I guess my point is, that I don’t know for sure if anyone ever will read this, or find anything I have to say or think, or do, dance, sing, pray or whatever, even remotely interesting…

Yet, even if no-body ever does take anything meaningful from words I feel like I need to share, then at least in my own mind, I can rest slightly assured that the words were said in some way, and not just lost.

Flickered onto some horizon, ‘fragile thoughts’, which can of course be forgotten, or unspoken, unheard, pushed away and silenced. I find the idea of this ‘muffling out’ of human intellect, experience, intelligence and travelling through life together, quite excruciating, if I’m honest.

 

The countless thoughts, ideas, spirited and genius discoveries which could have, and maybe one day still do have the potential to ‘save the World’, or at least to protect life, and sustain it, to grow as a species which works WITH nature, rather than against it, and recognises the fact that yes, HELLO- humans are indeed intelligent, so why not start putting our heads together in a way which helps to FIX some of the problems and obstacles we face today in our interconnected, diverse, but essentially so very organic, lives, rather than constantly working against one another?

I am so very sick and tired of social isolation, and the feeling (unless it’s just me?) that nobody has anything they want to just say to each other anymore.

Like, the person sitting next to you on a bus, for example. Or walking down the street. Living in the flat below or above you in the tower block, or living beside you in your house or bungalow, shed, ship, tent or sleeping bag, castle or cave. The point I am making is that yes, we all like to nest in habitats as humans, and set up a little shelter, to call ‘our own’. It makes sense to do this for our very survival against the elements of nature, as we battle and continue to champion through the seasons as ‘victors’, due to the fact we are ‘the living’ and not the so called ‘dead’.

Fine, I totally understand that we like to protect what we as individuals, feel like we ‘own’, if that makes any sense whatsoever.


Dear World,

I want to write, and I want to write to you all, and speak to you all, hear all of your voices, and listen to what you have to say.

I just do not even know where to go to find out how I can best utilize this apparent ‘skill’ of mine. You try going to the so called ‘Job Centre’, and I’m telling you now, it is an absolute HOAX! There are no ‘jobs’ in the ‘centre’, of this City of Sheffield, so it seems sadly, to me.

You have to own, and I mean, actually have in your hand, a telephone, to phone someone in a call centre to try and bargain for an appointment to get some kind of ‘job seekers allowance’ money, towards helping you finance the cost of finding your own job in the first place!

How ridiculous a system is this!? I beg of the younger generations, and people, all people who live together, on whichever continent we happen to inhabit together, please can we just take a step back, have a ‘breather’ or a ‘fag break’, whatever it is we need to do, to just wake the fuck up and recognise, that we are here, and we exist, great.

We also share a planet with many other diverse and beautiful creatures and organisms, so have we all taken one moment to pause and reflect on that amazing, magnificent little fact, too?

 

Have you looked yet? Can you picture the Butterfly wings which I am imagining in my mind, or the lush green, softly waving stems which branch off from so many of our Trees and plants? The sky too, by the way, in case we have all forgotten, is rather impressive, and massive.

There’s my attempt at giving something an understatement for you- the Universe, is, by definition, absolutely frigging HUGE, COLOSSAL, GINORMOUS and quite frankly, but very much to the delight of our own hungry brains, it is incomprehensible. Unfathomable even.

Why have humans written so many stories, plays, books, religious scripts, and articles, do you imagine? It is because we were all so originally ‘flabbergasted’ (if that’s the right word to use here) by the very spectacle of life itself, and the bewildering wonder of the sky and all its stars, that we had to talk to each other to communicate, to experiment and observe, to learn and to come to understand, in the very first place, how we had even come to have found ourselves here, alive, breathing, dependent upon this body, and all the Earth’s resources needed to feed it so that it can function, to eat, reproduce, stay alive, and then ask yet more questions!
Of course, I have to add, we must also dance and sing, and drink fermented fruits of the trees and shrubs surrounding us (wine and beer, as I have come to understand it?), because we are so curious and interactive, in the first place. We have senses, actual senses like taste, touch, smell, sight, and hearing (Hearing is probably my own personal favourite here, I might add) with which to put to good use, and in any case, at least brew good tea, beer or wine, together.

moving on statement


Polite note:

I feel a bit better now I have got some of those things ‘off of my chest’. Writing, and reflecting in doing so, can be so helpful for one’s own mental health, and sense of self, direction, purpose, etc. Just thought this might be worth adding 😉

Spinning in Spiral

spinningspirals

Spinning in Spiral…

I creep into a tangle

Mildly plucked,

I’ve spun forsooth, a silvered web

Draped in need,

Dressed in lust, and endeavour

Sparkling eyes.

 

Look how she tries, endlessly tries

Let’s douse oneself,

Submerge ourselves

In dancing, we’re disguised from

Expectation’s hollow cries

 

I once hopped here, swirled in spiral

Trickled like a breeze

Upon an Autumn leaf

Where I joined in a dance

Red, yellow, Amber

Swivelling in splendour

Where here we lived within the spirit

Spurred on by the moment

A gust of sweet wind

Broke the grip of our comforts,

To free us, as we danced our way

Into the ground. Slumberbound.

 

We’ll still rise once again,

Like geometric, spiral soup

Nature sets our rhythm, and conducts our pulse

Nothing lasts forever,

Yet somehow the new sing, still

In a musical order, carried on

By the past and the older, time spent

Still timeless.


Written by Ellie Neves

image


 

Momentary meltdowns

So I ended up getting ‘sent on sick’ leave at work, due to a climaxing of several momentary meltdowns, into a longer, more insidious one. One which took me to the edge of the cliff, and had me dangling off there with just my bare hands to muzzle deep into the chalky periphery, and claw into the Earth for dear life.

All metaphorically speaking. It’s a way of conveying speech which I think is one of the only ways you can explain, and illustrate, mental health, and how it happens. It is just so much easier to paint a picture via metaphor, when trying to find the shapes which define your mental world, and narrate it’s story.

Trying to be fair to the recipient of your story, which includes yourself and those you voice it to, or those you don’t, it enables some kind of structure for understanding.

It is hard to talk about mental health.

The judgement which you (human), cast down on your own thoughts and feelings, suffers from it’s own distortions. How can you ‘diagnose yourself’ if you don’t know all your own mental parts, which of them you like, and those you don’t (and why?).

This is incredibly difficult to do objectively, when the ingredients of the ‘self’ come so many different sources. It comes not only from our historic, biological DNA and organs; that physical and’see-able’, quantifiable, human blueprint. And it comes from what our senses made of the environment, from birth to now (and counting).

There can be no such thing as a self which can replicated, because the variables, which shape it are too rich in their diversity, and all the odds are against the idea of there ever existing another self, which is identical in it’s on-going crafting, of your own.

So, returning to applying judgement- It’s fair to say that all of us can only use the tools for understanding which we have. Which is the condition against which we struggle, trying find the words to talk about mental health. We find that the words we have to work with, to describe and to think in the language of, are too ambiguous, too contested and too ‘sticky’ to talk with easily, about mental health.

When it comes to how people, including myself, can express and communicate matters of the mind, it’s almost like we’d need a whole new language to do so in a way which does it justice.

I myself can most certainly not be arsed, to embark upon threading some new complications and intricases, into our already infamously complex English Language.

So thank the weird minds of us all, for metaphors.

Inhuman

trip shadow 2 123rf design

What is Human, I begin to ask…

If to be human is to feel loved, then I feel non-human,

If to be human is to procreate, then I feel inhuman.

Even if the human is the gardener, in the kindest, clearest, blue-ish world,

Then I feel inhuman.

If to be human is to loathe, then I feel most certainly incapable of humanity, which is slightly strange and sad. If it is to exist within a group, and submit to a social stacking order, I even then feel not a human, but a near observer. Of a hive that is not quite my own, but is still the most accessible to my body-bound mind.


Birds in flight from paint


Attention diverts to the outside of a mind… 


There is something wrong about the house. I shan’t even call it ‘my house’, as it feels completely not my own. Nor even Rowett’s, or the real landlord’s- perhaps more like the old man’s, who lives next door, and has done for many, many years.

Even then though, I feel he would take ownership of this house from a distance, as if knowing it’s rightful owner needed their claim to the stain of the bricks to be respected and left alone.

It breathes dust, ash, dirt and smog. All contents turn soon to a kind of trash, and clamber over one another in order to reach the little light.
I want to leave this house. It is uncomfortably temporary, and uncomfortably permanent.


 

Stories from anyone’s mind

The cold was stifling my ability to think, to wake, or to dream. I lay there, wrapped in a cocoon of duvets and blankets- I had all the necessary luxuries in life that one could need for comfort and survival. One of the lucky ones, out of the world, as a whole.

But still, I lay there, shimmering in my own unblanchable flesh, feeling chilled through to the bone. Cold was something i’d gotten used to then, a constant state in which I had to endure or forget. Functioning like a ghost, you crack on.

I remember a point: walking back from one place in town to another, with an old friend. We were talking, I think the conversation was trivial and non too demanding, but interesting. Enough for me to mentally curse the hands of mine, which had gone beyond numb, to physically exhausting in their ice. They were distracting me from the conversation, which was a low moment for me, because it was the first undeniable evidence, that at functioning, I was failing. Failing to even hold a conversation, trapped by the price i’d had to pay for commanding and distorting my own body.

I’d become too emotionally attached to the artwork I was trying to create. The point at which the artist becomes the victim of their own insatiable will to manipulate imagery and colour, in order to spill out of themselves, a never ending flow of constant change, and perceives it as ‘progress’. There comes a point, at which every painter has to make the decision that the final piece is indeed final, and it is time to soak the bristles. Hang up the apron, stand back and let the landscape be.

I was stuck in the mud of my own addiction to crafting. I’d actually stopped painting, drawing, singing and making, in the external sense. All of it came to a halt, when I embarked upon the new project of internal consequence; depriving and diluting my body, in an effort to sculpt it into a new shape, a shape of shocking contour, freakish distortion, and many many edges. There could never be too many edges. I got lost in my own little ‘treasure hunt’, to find more jutting edges, new lumps, new angles and their contrasts to bone.

It was, upon reflection, an abstract mission, kindled by surrealist yearnings, which necessitated the adoption of a kind of minimalism, in order to find solace through expressionism.

At least, that’s one way of looking at it. man-ray-brassai-and-gelatin-silver

 

First Glass Bauble

 

 

A glass bauble hangs first,

Itself, upon bristles flat, fat and green.

In relief, windows shatter the surface

of the dome.

The canvas is cracked,

into several shards

Illuminating on
the curve, where the shine

Peaks.

 

Green bristles, flat though they are

Exist in as a life in the current of living,

A Christmas tree extrapolated,

From it’s homeland, and shipped right in

Through European borders; past migrants,

Lapping up the water, a tree’s lifeblood

Keeps it living, in motion.

 

The evergreen fingers, thread

Hung suspended, black mirrors.

Tree looks at it’s self- a picture of health

Whilst the light trapping sheen,

Coat of decorative, glassed bauble

 

Reflects an illusion of shattering,

The twiggy, naked sleepers,

Beyond doors- Willow’s Weepers.