Insanity in individuals is somewhat rare. But in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule.

https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/american-psychosis-trumpism-and-the-nightmare-of-history

 

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This image is from the Los Angeles Review of Books

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Insanity in individuals is somewhat rare. But in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule.

— Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

The old cherry tree

They have cut down the  old cherry tree
Where my cat used to climb and watch me.
Little black lady cat
On my old bike she sat.
Then knocked on the door for her tea.

I used to post letters near here
The cat would pretend to no fear.
But when I turned to go home
Faster than  sound she came
So  from the old porch she would leer.

All that is left it this stump
And the bike is well fit for the dump
The pillar box red is there
But my own use is rare.
I see  a small celandine clump

Everywhere I look seems different now

 

I walk through streets where once I walked with you
Everywhere I look  seems different now
I wring my hands and wonder what to do

I hate these feelings which are both old and new
I know that I should let them be somehow
I walk through streets where once I walked with you

Former losses  entered and they grew.
I must grieve but will not this allow
I wring my hands and wonder what to do

Melancholic states within my soul  now   brew
And hamper me from wielding my old plough
I shiver  in the  streets I walked with you

I must digest my losses  for their clue.
And act upon it  when the time is new.
I wring my hands and wonder what to do

When I grieve ,I  must find out  for who.
As long ago  they mended me with glue
I wander streets where once I walked with you
I wring my hands and wait to get my clue.

I wait in starless darkness for the dawn

As if my  heart has roots   which have been torn
I need protection for my tender skin
I wait in  starless darkness for the dawn

My eyes are heavy and I am forlorn
I’m wounded  yet I’m willing to begin
Repair my  heart  whose roots  have been  so torn

My energy and purpose have both gone.
My skin  does not protrct;it is too thin
I wait in  starless darkness for the dawn

The world seems different now my love has gone
I have no loving  arms to lie within
Nor repair my  heart  whose roots  have been  so torn

It’s I who am  now different ,of love shorn.
A harlot who gives love to anyone
I wait in  starless darkness for the dawn

My eyes gape  like black holes bereft of sun
Shoot me,God, with your own devil’s gun
For my  heart has roots   which have been torn
I wait in  starless darkness  as holes yawn

Stan decides to do some baking.

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The larder was empty
the cupboard was bare
he looked inside the cake tin
but  nothing was there there
Stan had flour,eggs and sugar and of course milk and butter.Emile was under the table waiting for something to drip out of the bowl!He loved baking days.
Stan had bought a load of blackberries in the market so he was thinkin of blackberry tarts,blackberry crumble..
He picked up the bag which seemed very heavy.Putting his hand in …..he pulled out a Blackberry!
He went to the market
to buy me some fruit
and now he’s got Blackberries
he’s going to shoot!
Annie his next door neighbour was coming to the back door.
”What’s up ,Petal?”
“Oh,dear.I seem to have made a category error.”Stan answered philosophically.
”Well what category would you put me into?” she asked petulantly.
“Why are you so egocentric ?Not everything is about you!”He said fluently.
“Well if I’m narcissistic it’s because my infant grandiosity was ruptured too suddenly and I was not held and contained in a suitable manner.”
“You’ve been reading that Wilfred Bion again.” Stan said admiringly.
”No,not just him.It’s some American chap as well .Would you like to read it?”
“No,thanks,I’m finding Julia Segal is more than enough for me.I find Bion is a bit too mystical.I don’t think I can approach you without memory or desire.To be honest,without memory or desire I wouldn’t want to approach you.”
“Wow ” she said stupidly,her large green eyes staring avidly upon him inviting him to fall into their salty sea like depths.
“Shall I ring 999?I can’t think of anything to say.I’m lost for words.”
“Perhaps you have reached that mystical spot beneath language mostly only known to babies,the mad, or meditators?”
“Well,I do feel a bit of madness today.”
“Is that why you have purple and orange eyehadow on clashing with your alarazin crimson lipstick and your light beige, but not too light, foundation by Lancome of Brixton and Blackheath,Paris,Rome,and London?”
“I suppose so.” she replied indifferently.I feel as if I’m behind a glass wall.”
“Oh,don’t worry.That’s the new window!” Stan explained courteously.
”You really are behind a glass wall.You’ve been reading  about schizoid processes again on Yahoo,”
“Yes,” she admitted her face blushing violently.”It’s those new people who’ve moved in across the road.They are both psychoanalysts so I wanted to feel up to their level of knowledge.”
“I didn’t know they were psychoanalysts.How did you find out?”
“Well,first of all,there were two large sofas, and then hundreds of knitting needles and a lorry-ful of wool.And I thought,”Hello,hello,It must be one of Anna Freud‘s followers.”
“So have you met them?” he asked laconically?
“Yes”,she confessed animatedly .I went over and said,
“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
“And what did he say?”
“Are you all mad round here?”
“So I thought,”You’re not getting hold of me that easily.””
“So I said “I’m sorry to disappoint you but I’m  an admirer of Melanie Klein,”
“Oh,how did they react to that?”Stan quizzzed her jovially.
“He was so rude.He said,
”Are you telling me you’re a lesbian as well as a lunatic?”
“Oh,dear.No wonder your make up is all running off your face and disappearing down your cleavage.Why don’t you pop upstairs and have a bath?”
“Well it’s either that or ringing 999.My self is totally divided.”
“Into equal parts?”
“I can’t say” she murmured.
”Oh,well” said Stan “you sit there with Emile and I shall make a Victoria sponge and a lemon drizzle cake without the lemon…I’ve only got bananas and they don’t drizzle.
“Why not adapt to reality and make a banana loaf?”
“Is that wise?” Stan enquired.
”Wise or not,it seems to make sense.” she whispered coyly.
”Get a move on or Mary will be back on her Raleigh shopper bicycle and there’ll be no cake for tea.
”Thank you,honey.”Stan replied.
“I am filled with memory and desire.””And quite right too,”mioawed Emile from his basket.”I’m like that every night!””And so are all of us,”Annie twittered on one of Stan’s blackberries.