A Mid Life Crisis?

As forty hits, the ego calls: the inspired wallet buys bigger balls: the eight grand full sus mountain bike; the fishing rod that nails all pike;the clubbing mum with inch-long nails, the sporty dad with hero’s tales.

As the big birthday nears I heave my beleaguered form onto the bandwagon and start my quest for THE life I was MEANT to be living Apparently I can BE THE REAL ME OF ME IN THE NOW. I am the STORYTELLER of my own destiny.

I cling onto that glimmer of hope that I haven’t sold out and I am not just wasting my life shopping at Tesco’s and looking for great deals on Amazon; that this was THE LIFE that I had somehow been promised I would live before I came down from the big blazing bubble of stardust glory in the sky.

I decide to change: to grab the proverbial bull by the horns. I AM GOING TO MAKE MY LIFE REALLY EXCITING AND OUT THERE.

I meditate. Every day. Hoping that the Divine will send that big ball of cosmic ear wax my way. I wait and wait and wait for a big spectacular sh*t-hitting-the-fan moment but nothing comes. I leave the checkout screen and let my life unfold. Allow, they say. Allow. Allow. Real life will come my way if I just flow……

Abundance.

I am skeptical. But I wait……..

The gods don’t fill up my shopping cart.

I’m on the phone. The potential for drama crackles in the suspense of the argument with my lover. But nothing worthy of a plaudit: just prickly sarcasm and some poe-faced profanities. I sob a bit and drink wine round my friend’s but then I move on.

The crisis might crystallise, I think, when I announce I am leaving my work.

‘I’m going to launch another career’ I declare to my boss who doesn’t look up from his desk.

I go on LinkedIn and get another job. I have a bit more cash. I move on.

I dream up an idea of writing an earth-shattering, critic-silencing script that will be in theatres for years to come; changing the world and shedding light on the reason for why the human race is so f**ked up. I write the play. It is appreciated by some: the some being two of my closest friends. I move on.

I go on Tinder. I meet someone. Ding dong and God damnit!  We meet in the new gastro pub which serves Cornish cockles and fresh ling in tarragon sauce presented in a locally sculpted skillet. We talk about how sh*t Love Island is, what exercise we do and how to fill in the cracks on a plastered wall without spending too much money on filler

Later we fumble around whilst gasping for breath…….

we are having an anaerobic reaction to the sights of the saggy old cloth cat bagpuss bodies which shatter the illusions of the siren sex kittens that we still faithfully cling on to. It all seems a bit exhausting these days I think and I’m bored so I move on.

I’ve tried Tinder, playwriting, tantric pilates and new-age kipper surfing in an attempt to rekindle that erstwhile life spark: to awaken the REAL ME and live THE life That I was meant to be living in the NOW. Nothing has worked.

I am now expecting some motherf**ing collosal meteoric act of nihilism to happen here in Victoria Park. This might be the excitement I need: the shift which changes me and sets me on a different course. I can then really say it’s written in the stars and that my exciting middle-age destiny was heaven sent………

The closest we get to anything geo-transformational is that this is the hottest summer since 1976. I haven’t watered the garden I think and I need to. I move on.

I return to my shopping cart. My prayers have been answered and it is filled this time: with a portable steam window cleaner. This mildly excites me: not much but just a little. I admit it to myself. This might be one small step towards the NEW ME OF ME.

Truth be told, I am the same old doing the same old: a new version of me in earnest equanimity, enjoying her moments with some new found humility,  appreciating that what will be will actually be and that life does not owe me a souped-up ME.

The unveiling of the big life mystery was that what I already seem and see is the answer to all I need to be……

…….and that I now need to pee very frequently.

Copyright Fizzy Wisdom 2018 

The Pleasure Dome

dieter-de-vroomen-452887-unsplash

The hamster wheel it spins around

To transmographic dolby sound

The lights go out in castle home

The Prison of the Pleasuredome

 

Too many on a fallen trip

That ends in nothing but a slip

Into a plush velour-lined cave

With loop-piled footsteps to the grave

 

The box set series shows narrate

The day from which you ruminate

More phantom losses, pains and fears

(Your kids plugged in to ward off tears)

 

You feast on plastic e-delight

To whet a scripted appetite:

The sonic pings and muted pops

Cook mass-created lab-made slops

 

No respite from the talent shows

Your ignorance of your light grows

All languished-out in Stepford bliss

In life-resisting uselessness

 

Not synced with physicality

Your consumer lobotomy

Dictates the path which sets you free –

The shopping mall on Sunday’s spree

 

How many tiny hands have toiled –

Whose raw potential have you spoiled?

Your retail therapeutic gain

Belies an object born of pain

 

So scared of who you might well be

You forge a false identity

You never look inside to find

Who lurks within the gated mind…..

 

The mind who tells you what to buy

Who to impress, whose goods to try;

That fine consumer panoply

Has made you rush for therapy

 

So what are you at Nature’s end?

A packaged carnal overspend?

A homage to a life less pain:

The kernel of a programmed brain.

Copyright Fizzy Wisdom 2018 

Pass the Parcel

ben-white-199953-unsplash

Looking out from the clifftop into the big blue yonder

Me a small fleck

In a world that gives no feck

Still in innocence and wonder

 

I am gifted with choice and discernment

A present which I leave unwrapped

For to open it would be to accept the dance with grace

That unsafe music that I don’t want to face

 

Perfection shines its halfbeam of halo’ed light

Obscuring the shadows of the night with its sodium glare

Leaving Resistance the winner in a game of risk

That has not even started

 

Time slides moments my way

Dealing chips with the artful promise of a blackjack dealer

My possession and strategy is but the daydream of acquisition

So they fall from my grasp

Like grains of sand

 

I roll the dice and play

Ridden of existential confusion

Alongside matchstick men and women

Brittle and wooden

Hungry for the spark that sets them alight

 

Back in the game

The stakes are high

But it is time

And I’m too old to play

Pass the parcel

Copyright Fizzy Wisdom 2018