A big part of who I am is someone who finds the fun; who spots the beauty and who genuinely wants to share a good laugh; to see you smile.

A good part of me is someone who loves, who cares, who tries to be kind —

And a big enough part of me must know how to be kind.

—

I don’t think I’ve ever been in this headspace before: where I’m so keenly aware of an after and a before. An after the good goodbye, a before the good goodbye, and a during all these weeks, all this time.

—

I just want you to be able to catch your breath.

And I am a helpful, considerate, and immensely grateful client.

We’re going to break the cycle. I’m going to be all right.

[Author’s Note]
It’s 9.45am, August 29, 2024. It’ll happen soon enough and my heart races whilst my hands are close to a tremble; I am frightened — by loss, by goodbyes. But I am not being abandoned. And that makes all the difference to my life.

// I’ll close off Pendulations with this as well. Not that that was going anywhere else. Not everything has to be built back up: we can lay it down now, the past.

Making Art was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

—

Defined by Merriam-Webster as: a pendular movement : OSCILLATION

I wonder why I had chosen, then, this name for a publication. Still, it’s a restarting of an old resting place.

—

From before, it seemed a place to ramble and to ruminate; for what would come after before, well, seems safe to say that I’ll wont it to be more a mindful space to explore thoughts pondered upon and to move forward from.

With topics ranging from mental health to poetry wrung from emotional knots, to maybe even the occasional stream of consciousness to loosen some bolts and thoughts.

Let’s get writing and exploring again. Let’s be brave enough to experiment once more within this space of breathing in and out, of swinging back and forth; to eventually be moving on.

—

We can’t seem to go back and write as we once did in a voice that we once had. So, why should we not — focus on the tone and style we have now and will too, one day be gone.

Nothing lasts for forever; this moment is good enough to be yours.

Edit/Author’s Note:
All right, this was a little bit of a crappy update but I think I was — I am — just rather eager to get back into writing consistently on a more public platform and so, I jumped the gun a little with a very sparse “article” but the plan is to, perhaps, use this space to further research into certain therapeutic skills I’ve learnt and or am learning and to figure out my way into crafting my being into becoming someone with both the emotional resilience and range to be there for myself and others. // Towards a comfortable pay check and an even bigger heart. That’s the goal; that’s the pendulating thought.

Pendulations was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

—

Back to the drawing board with me_

Quality Over was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

—

do this, do that, edit subtly;

hit publish, hit submit;

bringing a notebook and a pen into the shower with me.

—

do that, do this, you’re not digging deep.

—

it’s only been a week.

old habits — some I really not want to keep.

—

too much, too many, too plenty typing and spacebar hitting.

time to return to sanctuary_

it was fun today to just be playing.

Quantity was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

..

be firm
be confident

be grateful and delicate too.

— -

crack.
a swift strike -
against a bowl
or a pan if you’d like.

shell in half,
york’s revealed
and the whites follow suit

—

scrambled,
fried,

sunny-side-up

or as an omelette if you’d like.

..

do you know that egg scene from the Runaway Bride?

it had struck a chord when I first the movie watched,
but I’ve never quite been good at,
retaining lightbulb moments for self-growth_

until,

there are poached eggs too.

(and I suppose,
half or hard boiled but,
the shell’s intact till cooked so,
read this how you want,

eat your eggs how you’d like.)

what’s it matter -

I’m walking on egg shells,

or having a good time on a high wall watching the Sun set and rise.

—

I use butter and not oil.

The Trick To: was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

—

don’t ever use the word ‘pretend’ with me,
you angrily spoke.

and I conceded,
with words of mine not spoke.

…

if all I ever am with you,
was real;

and all you saw was a sign or symptom of a mentally ill,

what else have I got to onto hold.

—

I want nothing more to do with you.

(and yet I double back, always, in a scramble almost_
just because you’re you)

…

but it’s not the same is it: to return,

…

..

.

to have never left.

now, that’s real, with no pretense. (or guilt)

the pretense of it all was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

an agent of change:
from wet to dry;

once dry now wet.

—

just fabric;

simple, cloth.

—

interwoven threads wiping dry,

the fabric of time keeping wet one’s eyes.

…

it reminds me of
kitchen duty
from a time before,

and:

how you from your chin had toothpaste wiped.

fabric, cloth;

time, torn;

together, worn

—

an agent of change:

from less, to more, and more to less;

over and over and over

surface to cloth_

too wet to dry, too dry to wet —

wait.

that latter’s strange.

—

maybe it’s not all cyclical in the end.

we wept,

for change:

to come around again

Tea towels was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

That icy chill, that blast of shuddering
and the comfort always that
mommy’s room is open and that
mommy’s always there for a snuggle that comforts.

That first bite of unfamiliar oatmeal,
drenched in yoghurt not previously a staple.

A reminder of the magic muesli breakfast — 
another healthy jolt to a system
too used to perhaps junk as the first meal.

Being rejected, handling a funeral,
having a friendship patched over — 
similar, familiar, yet different.

Things change and people become strangers.

Until,

Parenthood —

a hearty endeavour;
your secret yearning and terror.

At loss. At failure. At deaths and departure.

—

The oatmeal covered in yoghurt — 
mushy munching mulch to masticate?

Such a struggle, picking an M word
to elongate along a sentence;

a little of a wrangle,
wondering what went wrong with wonder.

— —

That feeling as if a life’s been lived
and here’s the third try for a,
fresh start over;

Trying New Things: was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Have a taste of this pie please,
it’s made of peanut butter and cherry.

I hadn’t done a dumpster dive,
an assurance to the public.

I’m just cautious of wastage and spillage,
pillage and pilgrimage.

You wave a sign invisible as if it’ll add value to your sanity plea.

You look to the sky. Distracted.

Now a mixture of blue and pink — 
as if a cacophony of contrasts,
decided to mix.

Have some greens please! With an orange.

They’re known to be brilliant -
tasty, sour at times, yet mostly sweet.

Hold my hand,
you tell your friend, an armitage.

“I can’t. You don’t exist outside of anybody.”

I nod.
A leftover artist. A forgotten dream.

Made of paints squeezed and left to the winds.

The palette gunk — waiting to be cleaned.

—

The Leftover Artist, was originally published in pendulations on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.