Two jars of pebbles on the shore

Be careful with your vote, they said, ‘look out for us’ they mutter,
We’ll lose all of our fiscal clout, vote in, the politicians stutter,
What’s this financial benefit, ask the millions, empty hands,
Cry all you want, swear and weep, the country’s set on shifting sands.

A campaign spoke to those ignored,
The ‘feckless’ benefitting fraud,
We’ll get them out, we’ll save your land,
bring it back to something grand.

The London bubble floats around,
each voice an echo, makes no sound,
The rich, the educated classes,
Happily, they raise their glasses…

We’ll all be in, they’ll all be out, the wealthy immigrants all cry,
The country’s ours, this old, green land, cut apart like bits of pie,
We’ll take your houses, take your jobs, and leave you none the wiser,
Gone are your country mansions, castles, the cartoonish English miser.

What bitter lies, but now too late, the sands of time have slipped away,
How many would, if they’d the chance, go back and turn the other way?
The pebbles in the voting jar cannot be moved by air or water,
Led along, the poorest voices, carried all of them to slaughter.

‘What’s this European Union’, ask a thousand searching queries,
We should have told you, Laboured birds, on their way off home to eyries,
The blue blood hydra lost its head, two more will fight each other now,
Shouldn’t we protect the country? We need to move together: how?

Was there no plan, was this the play, was this madness all Unknown?
Purely then, a power game, a chessboard waiting to be thrown?
I’ve got no water, I’ll spit blood, I’ll bite my lip with hate, betrayed,
At what cost, and for what reason, was St George’s Dragon slayed?

This lizard’s not the only wyrm, a putrid bullfrog pulls the strings,
A ‘patriotic’ English cape thinly veils what’s within.
Just below its skin it seems the mythic beast is made of straw,
Our once old friends and allies stop, turn from this ‘patriotic’ maw.


Look, depression! (Don’t worry, there are some jokes)

Having had a bit of practice, I find it so much easier than I did to write about mental health, to let people know it’s been a large part of my life, and to draw attention to something a lot of people would rather keep quiet.

There’s an important semantic distinction to be made between depression as a condition and the use of the word ‘depressed’ to describe a state of mind. A lot of people will say they feel depressed when they mean sad or melancholy. It’s a bit like a sore leg and a broken leg. A broken leg (depression in this instance) is certainly sore (i.e. makes you feel sad), but most leg pain isn’t a break.

You don’t often get people who’ve had bruised legs talking about how people with broken legs should toughen up and walk on their fractured limbs though. Of course, it’s nowhere near this simple, but I still think it’s a good example of how frustrating it can be when people tell you to ‘man up’ or ‘get a grip’. “My leg’s ******* broken!’ I always feel like shouting. Without knowlede of this helpful metaphor though, it’s both senseless and likely to provoke some very odd reactions.

As sadness and our descriptions of it are subjective, you can’t definitively say whether you’ve been depressed or not. The classification scale isn’t a categorical measurement, but a soft form of assessment that will probably vary a lot depending on when it’s done and who’s doing it. When measuring height, for example, unless you’re standing on your toes just a little bit, or asking a generous friend to measure you, you’ll get the same figure.

After coming through a bad period earlier in the year (depression and anxiety), I’ve talked to a lot of friends about depression in particular, and it has certainly helped. I sort of thought that once I started fighting it out in the open, it would play fair. Perhaps it might decide to knock before walking through the house with muddy feet and no regard for attentive pleas to be careful not to knock the parsley off the windowsil.

The floor is relatively clean, and the parsley that amazingly survived through the winter and ten days without water is still perplexingly alive. Sadly, in the metaphorical world of thought and imagination, floor and parsley have merged into one sad pile, and socks, instead of simply being thrown around, have been nefariously concealed in assorted alcoves.

It’s difficult to conjour my usual humour in this situation, so even zingers like the hidden socks evoke not so much a burst of laughter as the vaguest of neural impulses. It’s still a good deal better than nothing, and certainly a massive step up from the empty silences… as distinct from the wholesome sort of silence you have meditating or watching mute footage of a tree falling in the woods. To be fair that one did actually make me laugh, as I didn’t think I had a philosophical double entendre in the tank at this time of the morning.

Last time I was feeling a bit down, but not like this, I did a bit of writing, and it seemed to help a lot. Much of the time, things I normally rely on when I’m a bit glum can’t be depended on when ‘properly’ depressed.

Food tends not to help a great deal, unless I use it to make ice cream sculptures, which normally requires a lot more concentration and artistic vision than I’m normally disposed of even at the best of times. Running is often very helpful, but that’s such a normal part of my routine anyway I can’t add any more in, and the low energy normally associated with depression means I almost inevitably do less.

Reading and writing are things I also normally struggle with when depressed, and the words never seem to flow quite as easily from mind to page or screen. To be fair, this can be a good thing, as most of the time that flow is rather too rapid and often regulated as effectively as offshore finance under the current government.

The last two months have been fantastic writing wise, as I’ve probably produced about fifteen thousand words in various capacities, if not closer to twenty. When I’m feeling really good though, there are so many ideas bouncing around that I inevitably leave something just finished enough to come back to and pick up the original thread and flow, knowing where I want to go with it. Feeling like this, I know that if I put the proverbial pen down, it’s not going anywhere for a while.

This isn’t to say that I’m advocating a depressed state of mind as conducive to writing productively, or recommending it at all, that’s just an aspect of it for me. I find it can shift my focus away from bleak introspection just long enough to open up a chance to feel better in hours rather than days, and that makes a huge difference.

I’m not sure how helpful or relatable this is for everyone, but please do put a blank slate down (paper, digital, leaf, stone) and try writing something next time you’re a bit off 100%. I suspect drawing or painting might also work really well, but because I can only make horrible scrawls that would reduce even the most benign and amiable primary school teacher to a hopeless wreck I’ll still to the squiggly word stuff.

Thanks for reading, hope something here you liked, or at least felt was vaguely worth casting an eye over.