Filling the void

Nothing … it’s enough to make my heart bleed. Next I shall ponder nihilism and whether to kill myself might not be easier on all of us.

Whoever brought up the subject of “Nothing” might like to join me in to be abandoned suicide mission. See it through – that’s one of my mottos. See it through – life that is. Some people climb unsurmountable mountains, jump out of planes. I don’t. For me LIFE is thrill enough without putting myself at arbitrary danger.

As Watson to your Miss Marple will tell you: I am in an absolutely brilliant mood with a big M. If pulling the duvet over my head and lying VERY still weren’t so boring I’d consider it. Don’t you just hate that phrase, usually dished out at a funeral to the very person who really could do WITHOUT platitudes that very minute: “Life must go on.” Yes, dear. It sure must. Mainly for the living.

Where was I? Vexed. Have many things on my mind between Magpie’s plea for fairer voting, trying to follow in BHB’s footsteps of keeping house ship shape (most befitting since I live so close to the docks) and waiting for Barath to show up at my doorstep asking why I led his brother Ramana astray.

You know something? A woman needs some peace. No, not a piece of duvet to pull over her head. Or a piece of cake. Or fighting with Ramana’s loyal female readership over a PIECE of him (I will take him whole and be sparing at sharing).

On and off people (mainly English, Danish and Swedish) do wonder why there is murder in the heart of those tucked away in dead ends (like Kopenhagen or a village in Devonshire). I could tell you why. But I won’t. I only stretch as far as Cluedo – Professor White in the shed with a pencil sharpener. Try and tell that your average Watson.

Myself useless at watching anything that involves more violence than shower in that moon lit hotel crazy. Son, brother, father, anyone of a male bend (even the gays) will ask me: “Urse, WHY are we watching this [film]? You are not looking.”  Exactly. Why would I? My mission in life to close my eyes. Little worse than one own’s imagination. Don’t need it all spelt out. One of the reasons I don’t watch news on TV: Do I really need to see others’ heartache, tears at their lives torn apart? Only to then switch off – literally? Cosy and comfy in feathered nest? Dont’ think so. Voyeurism at its worst.

So that was that. Once more apropos of nothing.

U

Apropos of nothing

What a day! It’s not over yet. So there is hope in my waste land.

Made promises so far not kept as I write. Mainly to myself. Don’t know where my concept of time has gone in recent months. Vanished. That’s what. One moment it’s four in the morning; the next it’s (like now) 7 in the evening. I did bake a cake though, watched the WEDDING, scratched my head, and read all there is to know about philosophy behind cremation – and, of course, the CONsortium’s offerings.

I will take my hat off to Con this week: He kept it short to confuse his readership with as little as our tiny brains can cope with. Ramana – considering the subject being  ’nothing’ – surprisingly expansive. Magpie as ever elusive. But then, in all honesty, the man could do with a bit more feedback from his CONsortium chums.  gaelikaa as usual her open and refreshing self stating that since she can NOT  talk about “Nothing” she will talk about something. For that alone I like her, if I didn’t like her anyway. GM’s sweet nothings I’ve forgotten this minute. Which is not a snide remark. It happens to be true. If you must know – every Friday I follow this order: GM – pitstop No 1. She sort of eases me into the subject, let’s me know what it is – and from then on I fear the WORST. Ramana (who I have decided to reduce to RAM not least because gaelikaa’s birthday – if memory serves me right is either Aries or Taurus, ie just gone or just about now, and a Ram either way). Where was I? Ram, No 2. Today he has left me vexed but at least it’ll rest my vocal cords. Next in the line up is NO  3 - awaited with trepidation – LeVinTel. Today he kept it short. Will have to revisit in a minute to remember what he said. Number four gaelikaa whose punctuality – come hell, husband, MIL, children, thousands of words in the making -  can always be relied upon. And the woman writes from the heart. Magpie, and I am not intimating that I leave best to last, elusive as befits birds: One moment they twitter, the next they will defile your windscreen and fly off.

U

PS Talking about birds: Every so often I grieve over loss of our cats. Like today. Miss them. Particularly the one who was the “dog”.

What?

Thought of the day (one of them), the irresistable one, kicking and screeming – because of its [the thought's] sheer vanity – to get out into public: BLAST. Gone. Hold on. Let me do my usual trick when I leave room to fetch something from another: Like what? Go back to where you had the initial thought. Take your time. It will come back to you. Unfortunately. Now write note to yourself. Take it with you before leaving room on renewed mission. Don’t tell anyone. Particularly not Con. He is unforgiving and will cart you off to the next MR FIX IT drive-through.

Followed my own advice, just now. Got it back: Yes, so hot tip of the day: Do NOT despair with yourself. Take yourself in your stride. Even if you are Con. You’ll be stuck with your YOU till your dying day. Do not kid yourself, and whatever you do do NOT read self help books. The only people helping themselves are their authors. To your money.  Be happy. Be YOU. What a gift. Even if you mess up big time.

I myself drowning in paper once more. People telling me to stop indulging myself can go and stuff it, instead filling the landfill of their own lives. I LOVE drowning in paper. Paper, the printed, comforts me only marginally less than my son returning in one piece from one of his outings. I knew motherhood would do my head in – nineteen years after giving birth (not before). Neither can I let on about my worries - to him, or anyone else. So, you out there in the aether count yourselves lucky to be taken into my confidence. Don’t abuse it [confidence that is].

Hugs, kisses, and a waste paper basket on application (don’t worry about the postage – I will carry load),

U

Dr King Con – Psychiatry and Neurology Department

Let’s start the day how I mean to go on: Oh, Jean, I can’t begin to tell you how much Con has just managed to make me laugh. He is SO predictable it makes me snort (not with derision but delight at his usual folly).

This is with reference to Con’s comment on Ramana’s girl in the park and her attachment to her mirror. He says, in one of his usual fine summing-ups of anything that doesn’t quite fit his picture of the world “Pathological and sad”. Con, let me address you direct since I find it tasteless to sneak around behind people’s backs and foulmouth them: What is it with you and ‘pathologizing’ everything? Are you sure you are an expert on things “sanity”? Particularly since quite a few of your CONsortium’s members freely admitted between last Friday and now that they consider themselves anything between “crazy and insane”, possibly even ‘mad’ (Have forgotten now). Con – as you know – I am confident, even when not quite sure how best to deal with dung beetles,  but I would never have your audacity to label people as you keep doing. Where do you actually take that impertinence from? Even someone trained and experienced in matters of the soul will – professional ethics – go a little more easy than you when slapping on a diagnosis.

Now, Con, there is no need for your blood pressure to rise at reading the above. A little friendly pointer more a cooling compress to a feverish forehead. NONE of us, not even you, Con, is above putting their foot into it, making an arse of themselves. If there is one difference between you and me, Con, and I pride myself on it, that I will freely admit that I get things wrong, that I don’t always manage to get my message across.  That, as much as I hope to please, I also upset. You DON’T. You appear, please note I said “appear” so there is some room for error on my part, to have certainties I think – actually, let me think for a moment – border on the, I know, pathological. Good stuff, isn’t it, when the oversized boot is on the wrong foot?

Kiss, kiss,

U

Blooming stats

I am in agony. Whilst Saturday night’s world (my windows open) is partying away down the street spending the Gross Product of some god forsaken country in one night I have come to terrible conclusion: I do NOT spend enough attention to detail – other than when in editor mode when I will take everyone apart, even those who do not deserve it (say, gaelikaa).

Detail. Devil in. Awful. Just learnt that I am a boomer. Baby. Have no idea where that generation starts or ends (see above neglect of detail. Also too lazy to google). Most of you will be past it (other than gaelikaa who is probably trailing the tail end of being a baby boomer). The bad news is that, statistically, baby boomers only amount to bearing 1.2 children. A shocker if ever there was one. Author being American I can only assume he is talking home turf. Though in fairness to him a couple of decades ago Germany had the LOWEST birth rate in the WORLD, closely followed by Italy. If you make sense of the latter please do seek an audience with the Pope.

Do your own families’ statistics. If you need help I’ve got calculator at the ready. I do not know how to break this to my siblings. Since they are currently not on talking terms with me I won’t have to: My parents have four children who between them made them grandparents 11 times over. Eldest (that’s me) providing quality over quantity (Dearest nephews and nieces: Only joking): The ONE and only. Sister who from the age of twelve always wanted big family, neither did her imaginary birth control work – she justifies every single one of her children (even the ones conceived despite the pill, spiral inserted, anorexia, you name it – proof of mind over matter): FIVE.

Brother (David Beckham lookalike) and my dear sweet impish sister-in-law exercising some self control: TWO. Youngest sister, against all expectations: FOUR. She is supposed to be impractical, yet keeps massive household, husband, house, horse and her dayjob (teacher) under control. Hats off to her.

So that makes: No not eleven it’s 12. Unless I’ve lost count. Football team or something. For years I’ve always been under impression that we had a baker’s dozen (13) between us. That means that 12 divided by four (count me out, I don’t want to know) my parents’ children – on average – contributed 3 point zero kids per shot  to the world’s population. Will raise this at next family meeting.

U

Half mast

Sweetheart Con and Darling GM must so regret to ever having incited me to start my own blog. Am deeply indepted to them.  The odd spot of self loathing (a foreign notion to either of them) has never done anyone any harm. I self loathe: Throw me one of GM’s tasteless Thursday morsels (say yesterday’s) and then have Con (the guy is so predictable) delete yet another of my comments – yesterday’s in response to a rather witty Red Top: And I will self loathe . Mainly that I ever stepped onto precious bogs. LOOK at me. Under your magnifying glass: I am a BLOWN out of all proportion vision of my former cute self.

Full marks to Ramana who has proven over time and I have come to think of  as sweet and a real gentleman, courteous to the last; he says: “I suspect that he [that's you, Con] has chosen this to reaffirm that the LBC is not an insane attempt at setting the blogsphere afire.” And Ramana is right: The LBC isn’t – insane, or setting much on fire. But definitely in my sphere.

So, Friday it is. I am sorry, Con: I am really not taking the piss here but you are so opaque. This week on sanity. But then you have already had me certified in the court of King Con (why didn’t you ponder on the lame AND the blind?). So, it was with trepidation that I approached – with tongs, oven gloves, in my padded cell - your take on sanity. As so often I have not got faintest idea what you are talking about. Which doesn’t matter.  Like you I believe that as long as we ourselves know what we are talking about the rest of mankind can stuff it. After all, it’s only communication, isn’t it? One of these days you may wish to suggest the subject of “Pomposity”. It will challenge some of your fellow LBClers to come up with the goods but I am sure your one eyed King Con will conquer the shore of your lame readers by rendering them in your accomplished and dense haze of the nebulous.

U

In the dark

Re my last post:

As Ramana recently observed there are few takers on the subject of death. Considering that apart from taxes death being a dead cert it’s a sorry reflection on mankind’s ability to live in denial of the unavoidable. Reminds me of my siblings and other kids when playing hide and seek with them: It’s fascinating. A young child will, say, pull a blanket over its face. With its legs for all the seeking world to see. However, and this a big however, because the child now can’t see, is in the dark,  they think themselves invisible. If that notion does not touch your heart to tears nothing will. It’s one of the reasons I hate playing hide and seek. Such misguided sweet innocence.

So let’s leave death to where it belongs and return to the rest of us.

U

Home sweet home

Have just come back in. Little is more heavenly to me than being on my home turf. I love home. It’s not tied to geography. I’d be happy on the moon (I think); home being where stamp of my identity is.

Which is why I do not look forward to my burial. Only comfort being that I won’t know about it. I am not claustrophic (ie I will enter a lift and hope for the best) but I do not like confined spaces. My son will NOT enter confined spaces and has preferred stairs from when he was tiny. I only once forced him into a lift and I still hate myself for it (about 16 years on); never shall I forget the look on his face and the quivering lip. What sort of parent am I? Before I could reverse decision the doors had closed and we were on the way up. After that we always climbed stairs instead. Yes, so there you are – in your coffin. Brilliant. That’s ok. Fresh air. Then they put the lid on. Not so ok. In fact, awful. Compound this: Your coffin lowered into a pretty narrow passage. If you were still alive you could just about live with that. But, since you are not [alive], your loving mourners will drop handfuls of earth on lid of your coffin. Which not only adds to feeling suffocated but makes a ghastly noise till the first ten or fifteen mourners have passed. Lets gloss over the part when all your dearest depart to water your sunken head with whiskey and the grave diggers fill the rest of your hole.

Now I know that this will cut no ice with the Americans amongst you, or Ramana, since you will all go up the chimney. I personally think burning is a cop out. Earth and dust, maggots and all the gore - being more my thing. I am also big on recycling. Can’t bear thinking about it. Why am I even writing about this? One of the reasons that death, dying and undertaking, rituals connected with demise are a big subject of my studies. Don’t ask. Also my parents not being particularly squeemish about their own demise we do discuss the day after the life before. Frankly. My own son has not yet acquired taste for these matters. But, of course, he’ll have to deal with mine some day.

I shall be so rubbish at dying. I hope no one will witness the mess I’ll make of it.

U

Barricades

David, here is one for you and all mothers of more than one child.

I am very much a ONE child ONLY mother. For reasons not important this minute. However, just now I thought what a pity I didn’t procreate at the rate of rabbits to raise and turn out children with tuned minds, in their turn then infiltrating society with the obvious, with compassion, questioning every status quo. I would not wish any child of mine to meet a riot police’s shield, handcuffs, have his/her head smashed in becase of some “cause”  but we need CRITICAL mass.

Unless I had to defend another’s life I’d never raise a fist or a weapon. That’s easy. What’s difficult and how does the clever saying go: The word is the sword. That maybe so. Then count all the BLUNT swords. They hurt on impact but by their very bluntness will never make a neat precise incision.

U

PS Don’t worry: I haven’t lost the plot. Getting older clears vision. Barricades are not for the young with their so touchingly rose tinted hopeful views of the world; climbing barricades is for those who have lived most of the years of their lives and see it how it really IS.

Making friends

I don’t know how I do it but do it I do. Went to ‘community’ meeting last night. If you want self righteous bigotry in the neighbourhood please move close to where I live now.

I couldn’t believe some of the sanctimonious shit I heard – pointing their fat fingers at the underdog once more.

As I seem to be – maybe quite misguidedly – drawn to fight for those disadvantaged I have now made “friends”. Oh dear. They can shove it where it hurts. So glad I didn’t relive that meeting (“not in my backyard” – naturally) in last night’s dreams. Anyway. Brilliant. Will have to wear dark glasses from now on when stepping outside – or maybe I should consider gender swap. Except I don’t want to.

I was wedged between Porky on my right and Pie on my left. Porky showed some signs of belonging to civilization. Pie was an obnoxious bastard who – whilst talking to me – somehow managed to avoid looking at me. I shall seek out Pie – he walks his dog in the park. Or maybe not. As they say in the L’Oreal advert: He is not worth it. Who am I anyway to think I can convert people to reason, rhyme and compassion?

Still, if there is one thing I achieved last night, that Porky, Pie and consorts publicly agreed that they don’t want to flush out the unwanted (David, for your reference, we are talking about shelter the Salvation Army gives here in Oxford Street. Funny, isn’t it: Listed building. That’s the facade. Behind – and I know this because I went to their open day in August – it’s very modern, extremely well run.) Yet, the pied porks of this world – who told me they’d lived here much longer than my measly, yet so happy in the neighbourhood, six or seven months – will blame everything that’s wrong in the street on those the Salvation Army tries to help. I had to keep a lid on it. Porkies and Pies and their wives do not understand that sometimes a life will go haywire. Down the plughole. Doesn’t make another human dirt. Those people in need of help, not disdain, appear to be the modern equivalent of olden days vilified gypsies and how those where looked down upon.  I’d just love to see what Porky and Pie would make of fingers being pointed at them.

To understand: I live in what’s the upmarket “restaurant half mile” of Southampton. Friday/Saturday nights will bring in huge crowds. A few of them so pissed by midnight/two in the morning they lose their marbles. Police and Ambulances making appearances. Yet P&Ps put all the blame for upheaval at the doorstep (literally) of those who seek shelter in a building designated to Salvation Army. It stinks. Big time.

Must stop. Am so annoyed and disappointed.

Doesn’t matter. I despair with the world. Always have. Which doesn’t stop me holding out a hand. And that’s all there is to it. All I can say, is that I am glad I am not married to, or sister/daughter/whatever of one of those self satisfied maggots who take no pity whatsoever over those society has washed up on the shores of gutter in front of their expensive homes.

U