You know that moment when.......

by John Galuschka

How taxing on the brain is this? Have you ever been tasked with producing a piece of creative writing for a compilation of family members’ musings? Actually, thinking about it now, I know that at least my first readers probably have. It’s a pig isn’t it? If. like me, you come from a vaguely mainstream Protestant-by-proxy background, you too are probably wringing your hands and doubting that you have anything interesting to say.

I have done many interesting things –, honestly! - but do I want you to read about it? Probably not. Although not quite a black sheep, I’ve always imagined myself as being “too cool for school”, a bit of a square peg if you like.

I suppose that it is the lot of the square peg to at least try to fit into the round hole. Some square pegs will always try to fit in, whittling away at the shape of their personality, betraying the essential nature of what made them a different shape in the first place. Other more interesting square pegs try to change the shape of their hole, struggling constantly. Raging at the injustice of a system, these square pegs have started on a journey. Most churn on, chipping at their confines; some, not many, maybe the dangerous ones, just don’t care about fitting in. They explore and recognise their difference and enjoy it.

Standing back and seeing the “matrix” of repeating patterns ultimately feels like a still moment of clarity.

The turn of the second millennium was a turning point of attitudes for many people: it was like a million internalised little film directors in our heads demanding a better script. It felt like a time of hope and change. For me, I questioned my surroundings and saw how past generations didn’t affect them. All I saw was noble, proud and honourable working class people marking out grooves in the pavements and roads, on a journey to houses they couldnt afford and jobs they didn’t enjoy, for fulfilment they couldn’t understand or hope to achieve.

The anger of youth matured in unexpected ways. Having failed to be a musician, I could at least turn my hand to making words rhyme – you could hardly call it poetry. I wrote it in hope in 2001, and it proved prophetic.

Reading between the lines, you may intuit that the decision that shocked all my friends - leaving a small, rural, not-very-interesting market town where I knew everybody – took me to people and places where Iife looked quite different.

Agenda, May 2001

Black is not a colour it’s a shade that stains my soul,

The darkest grimmest misfit in the prison of this hole.

Depth is not an attitude, it’s a measure of your life,

The sum of your experience, the result of fire and ice.

Those of us who speak the least are those who know the most

Because depth is wordless wisdom, as silent as a ghost.

Darkness is not a lifestyle choice, it’s a joyless state of mind

but even I have come to learn it can’t rain all the time.

So here then is something that really makes me larf -

The shallow children of the night who think they’re deep and dark.

The ones who herd like sheep to fall into the scene;

The ones who think they’re pretty, the vain that strut and preen;

The ones who need to be told what to watch, to read, to hear,

As though individuality was something that they fear;

The blind that lead the blind to sacrifice their flesh,

Falling at the altar to worship emptiness.

Open up your mind, and don’t be scared of change.

Who cares what others think, take a risk be brave, be strange.

Trust in all your feelings, for they can never lie.

Emotions have to be expressed or peace of mind will die.

Belief in fate and destiny imply you have no say.

Only you should shape our life, so shape it your own way.

I push myself to speak of this, but love is truly deep.

Deny this to your hearts my friends and the pain will never sleep.

So revel in the sparkle that glistens in your eyes

Know that it’s where real depth lives, where true emotion lies.

So kneel before the physical, call forth the inner beast.

Dance now like a devil and upon the pink you’ll feast.

So celebrate the red, my Friends, that courses through your veins.

Cast off the veil of misery that holds your joy in chains.

I am the one who walks alone, I’ve known no other way.

It’s not the way I planned it but THIS DOG WILL HAVE HIS DAY.