Life - The Great Roller Coaster

It's an interesting thing, Life. Let's face it, being the little wriggler that succeeds in reaching the egg is statistically rarer than winning the Lottery yet how many of us really appreciate that fact? Ask any number of people how happy they are with their life and you can bet your last creme egg that the percentage is going to be pretty low.

Perhaps it's a natural process? If we were all meant to be happy then there would be no incentive to better our own life (and, exponentially) others. Perhaps it's a ramification of so-called 'progress'? In other words, ask people 100 years ago and would the percentages be that different? Did people accept the cards that were dealt them far more in those days? If so, then is that because they were happier or because they didn't have the expectations of the 21st century?

Today has been not so much a down day, but a thoughtful day. It seems that so many people I know and care about have far worse problems that I do and it's almost as if I use those as an excuse to become low and introverted myself; sort of emotional abuse by proxy.

I've never really worked out if, when I get like this. it's because I have a compulsion to feel sorry for myself or it's a means of self-flagellation? I guess they're the same thing really. Why do I want to punish myself in this way?

I was tempted to take the blog site down today after deciding that it was for my own ego rather than as an entertainment for others. In the end I didn't after deciding it was rather like one of the big rides at a theme park. You want to do it but you're crapping yourself at the reaction. Will it be a thrill or a disappointment. Worst of all, will it just be a non-event? I think I'd rather be castigated than be classed as a non-event.

Anyway, back to this happiness thing. In one of my more philosophical moments, I came up with the theory that, in order to test something to the limit, you have to break it. If it don't break then how can one know just how much more strength there is?

I guess I was at that point a few years ago and there's no doubt that the experience made me stronger. Reading some of the words I wrote then, I wish I'd had the benefit of foresight but I suppose that's all part of the process. One thing I know will never happen now is that I will give up on Life. It's there for the taking and, despite setbacks, is there to be lived. Hard to do at times but nothing worthwhile is ever easy. I'm reading a history of Attila the Hun at the moment and there's a quote from Virgil, namely Vivite! ait Mors. Venio! - Live! says Death. I am coming. It made me think.

I never know whether to publish these poems I write, for the reasons outlined above. I appreciate them so what the hell! Who was it who said "Publish and be damned"? Another selection from the mind of yours truly.

The first one is not based on anybody in particular. It just came to me one sunny afternoon, sitting in a garden and surrounded by Nature's beauty and several troubled souls:

Just a Dream

From known and unknown torment

Her mind cries for relief,

The inner beauty fighting for her soul.

She needs new life and love to feel her heart beat,

New promises of hope to make her whole.

Her silken skin bears witness to the countless agonies -

Each scar a cry for help, a scream of pain.

But they’ll never scar the goodness

And the power that lies within

Which makes her want to live and grow again.

Her arms reach out towards me

Seeking comfort, help and love,

Her body gaining strength from each caress.

Not just taking but returning, fingers cool against my skin,

Soft hair shining as her head lays on my chest.

Within the dark lies hope and understanding,

She teaches me acceptance, brings me peace.

Our lives have crossed, our hearts and minds have altered -

A destiny that time can never cease.

The next one I remember clearly. I was lying on my bed as I saw the seagull and thought of freedom:

Through My Window

Wheeling and curling, the gulls fly across the leaden sky,

Shafts of sunlight picking out their freedom.

The vista from my room, bisected by the window bars

Draws my eye into eternity.

What lies beyond the clouds? Blue skies? The sun?

Transitory illusion. A presage of the blackness beyond.

Infinity of time and space,

Unknown.

Our only true knowledge is the lack of understanding.

The only truth is knowledge,

But truth is just a lie.

A window to frustration shuttered and bolted.

Defenestration and castration

Pretension, apprehension,

Comprehension? No, just tension.

Walls of words, hiding embryonic apathy

And foetal guilt.

I really don't remember writing this last one. Perhaps it was to my Mother?

To Womankind

Enfold me in your tenderness

Hold me to you so that I may absorb your strength.

Let me feel your softness

So that I may begin to live.

My tears splash onto your velvet skin

Where they burst like ripe pods of seed,

Creating new life.

Casting off the skin of a thousand years

Revealing hope beneath.

Envelop me in your warmth,

Take me to your breast.

So that I may be a child at last,

And so become the man

Copyright: BertieBassett Enterprises Inc. 2008 This article cannot be reproduced in full or part without written permission of the author

STEPHEN FRY - A Giant Amongst Men

They're having a Stephen Fry evening on BBC 4 tonight. Ok, not everybody's cup of tea perhaps, but to me he is the epitome of everything I envy in a man.

Let me say, before I go any further, I refer merely to personality, charisma, knowledge and intellect and am divorcing myself entirely from his sexual orientation, although I'm sure that this has had some positive influence on the incredibly sensitive, erudite person which, to me, he is. I suppose it was the series QI that really led me to the esteem in which I now hold him. I'd read a few of his books, completely missed the Fry & Laurie series, admired him in Blackadder and seen his documentary on depression and that was enough to persuade me to watch the first QI broadcast. Since then, because of the innumerable repeats on Sky, I think I can almost quote the episodes verbatim. Certainly, I can answer every question now and can bore for England should any of the myriad subjects crop up in conversation.

His frank admissions regarding his bi-polar depressive episodes struck chords within me and, although my own depressions are not as deep as his (usually anyway), I have a deep admiration for the way he was brave enough to talk about, and be filmed during, such periods. Why is it that so many great comics are depressives? I was thinking about that last night and it's a bit like Bertie and me. I can feel really quite insular and isolated but suddenly I switch into Bertie mode and change my whole persona. It's a fine coping mechanism although I wonder just how many people actually know the real me? In fact, thinking about it, which of us is the real me? It's not as if I dream of lime-green Speedos and saving the world; Christ, it's bad enough sorting out my life at times, let alone everybody else's.

Anyway, I digress. Mr Fry was the subject tonight and Mr Fry will now once more occupy my thoughts. He has this wonderful knack of disseminating facts without sounding pompous about it and, as a person who thrives on knowledge, I rate that ability highly. Somebody was foolish enough to mention Alexander the Great down the pub yesterday and I just naturally nattered on about Bucephalus, the Gordian Knot and his incursions into Persia and India. I realised that Stephen and I were worlds apart when there was a loud thump as the subject of my dissertation's head hit the table and he emitted a gentle snore. Now, had I have been El Fry, there would have been an admiring audience gathered, hanging on to every word and chuckling gently at the subtly humorous anecdotes.

It's the breadth of his knowledge that amazes me also. One moment he talks of Shostakovitch and the next, the sexual habits of Tadjikistani camel boys (I, of course, know naff all about Shostakovitch). Even his voice has a mellifluous quality that enhances his every word and, quite frankly, I am undecided as to whether to hate the jammy bastard or offer to have his babies (metaphorically speaking).

As I write, he is making the point that it was some considerable time before he realised that he suffered from depression as, to him, the feelings of lowness, loneliness and hopelessness were quite normal and ergo, experienced by everybody. Yet, not 30 minutes ago, HRH Prince Charles was extolling the virtues of his wit. Nature has this strange way of balancing attributes and deficits. He also spoke of suicide and death, not in a dramatic way but trying to explain that, whilst in that pit of despond, death is not a release but all one deserves.

Anyway, I am in danger of drifting into a world of self-examination rather than finishing this homage to an extraordinary writer, broadcaster, director and actor. I will just say thank you to Stephen Fry for helping me understand parts of my life, for entertaining me, for educating me and, most importantly, for innumerable facts of absolutely no consequence which have enriched my life.

Now, who wants a conversation about koala's fingerprints? If you ever read this, Stephen, you know just what I mean!