With some difficulty I have been trying to get my head round Ramana’s beloved and often mentioned “synchronicity”.
Well, Ramana, I kid you not, and let me know if this qualifies as synchronicity or is just a coincidence. As the statistician says “coincidences are inevitable and often less remarkable than they may appear intuitively” (Source Wiki).
Two for the price of one: I cannot believe it. You know how rarely I use “quotes”. Earlier today I came across a brilliant quote by John F Kennedy and it is so brilliant that I thought I wouldn’t deprive my vast readership. Whilst waiting for my blog to open I meander over to see what LeVinTel has to say on today’s subject and what do I find? His post centering entirely on JFK, peppered with liberal quotes. JFK and QUOTES? Get it? Am besides myself with wonderment. And of all people Con and I? Do great minds think alike of what? No, they don’t but that’s a different subject. I myself would call it a conicidence. You tell me. Pity that he himself is unlikely to read this and tell me what he thinks.
The morsel I wanted to throw you:
“All men can fly, but, sadly, only in one direction” JFK
The reason it amuses me so much: It roughly summons up why I am not getting anywhere since ususally torn in several directions.
Sweethearts, please don’t think I haven’t written heaps – for your benefit only – in the last few days. I always do. Then I don’t press “publish”. Who wants to waste watts (Con’s that is) on the undeserving? Better head straight to landfill.
I’ve misplaced my vibe. Feel like a shark after a spot of fasting. No trace of blood to send me in right direction.
Sweethearts, it breaks my heart as indeed I am sure it will yours: The letter ‘ecks’ on my laptop (you know the one that crosses the two legs it stands on as if in urgent need to relieve bladder) has given up its ghost. I only know this because I have been trying to answer the admirable Ashok on his own blog. For some reason the letter ecks features heavily in there – and no, Barath, I am not blowing Ashok kisses other than of the motherly/sisterly/undemanding kind (he could be my son – and I am NOT a cradle snatcher). Have momentarily run out of patience with trying to avoid ecks.
Snookered this minute and have to rethink vocabulary. Which, considering that I am pronounced brain dead, will come easy to me.
Wish I had Ramana’s offspring on hand. My own Angel travelling Europe (don’t mention it or I’ll cry) I don’t know what to do. All I know is that the other comps I do all my work on I do NOT wish to connect to the internet. So I am STUCK with no ecks on my lap. Cunning plan if you think about it. Soon the vowels will go. Interesting how those in the minority [vowels] can foil the majority, ie consonants; hinder a result. Maybe I should have become a politician after all. I’d have been so accomplished. At what I leave to your own imagination.
Yes, The Angel. Dear dog in heaven. Will be longest we’ve ever been separated (nearly four weeks). That in itself I’ll obviously have to get used to – AND I WILL (if it kills me): It’s his sense of direction that worries me. Geography has completely by-passed this young man. Should you ever travel to Timbuktu and come across a gorgeous tall slightly lost looking friendly (though not to be messed with) Angel with long blond hair and blue eyes please feed him, then parcel him up and send straight back home. I will pay postage by return. To put this in perspective: He only left about 30 hours ago! 30 hours ago? Who is counting? And I have already lost my Ecks. BRAVO, Ursula. Better go into a coma till ca 8 or 9 July.
Only consolation that I can now have my cucumber fest. Remember? Cucumber, the one and only thing I ever TRIED to make Apple of my Eye eat. Being son of his mother there was no result. Backfired so badly that more than fifteen years on he will always know when his mother, in son’s absentia from abode, has secretely indulged. You might think I were on drugs. Maybe I am. Personally, I blame Con. Paranoia now my middle name.
So Ramana and Barath, I am afraid no ecksess today. I had no idea how many times that blasted letter features in one’s average writing.
PS Ashok, should you read this: You are quite someone. Keep holding on to yourself – as any of us should. Ecks or not: Will wing something over to you in the neckst few days. Affectionately yours, Ursula (so glad I am not an “Alecksandra”; I’d be annihilated).
As befits a member of the Master Race I currently appear to mainly focus on the body (mine).
Am in urgent and dire need to find out why I can’t stop sneezing the last two days. Not sneezing as in “having a cold” or as in “allergy” (I don’t do allergies): Just sneezing. And when I sneeze I sneeze. Noise. Explosion. The relief is immense. It’s why I love sneezing. Instant gratification. You didn’t ask for it. But it’ s there. Which reminds me, and you may or may not, depending on temperament, confirm this: Is there anything more frustrating than feeling that tickle in your nose only to then evaporate without that which you anticipated? No. There isn’t.
Uh Uh Uhhhh……………. wait for it, Uh….TSHOOOOOOOH,
Forget the damaged case. It’s getting worse: Reflex.
I think of reflex as a life saving measure: You go to the doctor – he’ll whack you on your knee and what do you know: There is a reflex. Your knee does what a knee does; not asking for your permission. Just jutting out.
Reflex: Someone hits you, you hit back. Actually, I do NOT [hit back]. Too much self control. I detest violence. Last time I was hit, Feb 2009; slapped across the face – cheek glowingly hard – not just once, nay twice – I calmly told that person (female as it happens; let’s not give testosterone the only bad name): “NO ONE HITS ME.” I didn’t raise my voice, I didn’t lift a finger. She fled the scene in tears.
On a side note: You will learn about people in extreme situations. Everyone can be pleasant in the parlour room. See how you fare stranded on a desert island.
Reflex: You have eye surgery and the doctor asks you NOT to blink. Yes. Wish you’d never mentioned it. Ever heard of REFLEX? That which you canNOT control? Never mind. I will try and suppress the irrepressible. As I hope the surgeon’s hand is steadier than mine.
The worst reflex – making you gag – is the hiccup. I have a hiccup this minute (otherwise I wouldn’t be writing about it). Hiccup is a cute name for that which one would rather not have hit the wave length of anyone in earshot. Not even my own. There is one brilliant cure for hiccups: You take a deep breath. You hold it [your breath that is - that's why it pays to have practice as a diver]. You live in hope. You come up for air. Hick. Repeat. Hick. Repeat. Thus having proven to yourself that the law of “Third time lucky” occasionally has some merit. That patience will pay.
Hicked and upped yours,
Dearest sweetest Hearts, do me a favour and don’t tell my mother: It appears Con was right after all. I am not with it.
Even Magpie, my loyal and shining knight in armour, ever ready to defend my honour, has forsaken me. Am now in no MAN’s land though Ramana might still consider my proposition providing I bring a cow or whatever Indians treasure. Don’t worry, Ramana: I’ll fatten the cow and I will look after you. Do your tunics need to be ironed? I like ironing – it’s a metaphor for the futility of one’s efforts and life in general; an illusion of the wrinkle that never was.
My recent discovery and publication of being cross dominant has once more confirmed to me that one canNOT be too cautious as to how much you reveal about yourself. First there is a snowflake, then there is a ball, then there is an avalanche – now I find myself pronounced brain damaged. Not least confirmed by Google. Don’t google – just live with yourself as best you can.
Leaving, this minute, aside what I amount to (a self pitying heap of what was once a promising mole hill) I myself wonder whether I’ll soon be embracing a horse in Turin: My dreams about the Consortium. Correction: My dreams about my blog and writing comments on the Consortium’s. I do so nearly every night – in my sleep. Remembering my mouthings wordperfect on waking: Am I mad or am I mad? Whilst, in recent weeks, I haven’t woken myself screeming aloud when dreaming about the CONsortium I will come back from Morpheus’ arms in a cold sweat – only made colder by the relief when realising that indeed it was ONLY a dream. See what you’ve done to me? I am a glowing shadow of my former self. Doesn’t matter: Just don’t tell my mother.
Cortisol levels rising, yours,
I rarely visit my blog’s “dashboard”. Statistics bore me. What’s it to me whether 5 or 50 people have visited my blog yesterday? Nothing, that’s what. However, with that attitude of mine you will miss the odd pearl. And I have just come across one. It’s quite brilliant and it’s only 0545 GMT. One way to start the day. Under “TOP SEARCHES” on my blog: “Ursula pissing”.
Insert pause. Or rather: Go for a pee. Whilst marvelling at the world and its bog.
Let’s forget for a moment that even the Queen needs to visit the “throne”. Instead stick with one of my favourite Sartre quotes. Don’t tell him because I am sure he made many other profound observations. May he turn in his grave. This is what I remember Simone de Beauvoir’s love interest for; his definition of woman: “Ca pleure comme ca pisse.” Quite right too. If need arises I will cry, and my bladder takes care of the rest. Oh the relief! Bliss, bliss and bliss. Hand me the tissue.
I don’t like people being dismissive. But then what do you expect from a man who pronounces that “Hell is other people”.
Sweethearts, the BAD news: You live and learn. There are no good news.
As of yesterday I know that I am cross-dominant. Right handed with a dominant LEFT eye. Which won’t make it easy to shoot Con should the need arise. Let’s hope he is BIG enough a man to make a suitable target. I’d hate to miss; shooting myself in the foot instead.
Am in despair.
If blogging has ONE saving grace – other than reaffirming every so often that there are idiots other than yourself on the planet – it’s that a blog does NOT expect to be fed like a baby or milked like a herd of cows – on demand/on time. Or else.
Nature is good that way: It focusses on the important. I do not focus. Which has been painfully confirmed to me this morning. I need vision. I need CLEAR vision. I need to blend OUT that which is unimportant. Good luck to me. Don’t ask. I am obliterating.
My father and my son, apart from Jean – and I rely on her discretion so don’t try and extract from her that which is for her eyes only-, the only ones partial to one of my current plights, and whilst sympathetic, asked me, independently, to “keep it in perspective”. HA. The irony of it.
U – out of sight, round the corner from the Titanic’s Shipping Office, Southampton, Seagulls singing (seagulls do NOT sing – whatever Neil Diamond made of it 30 or so ago). Seagulls are mainly big. Their inland shrieks (or lack of) a far better indicator of what weather to descend on Ocean Village than the BBC’s weather forecast will ever be.
Am at a loss this minute. Conrad has given me permission to tease him. Unfortunately he forgot to throw me an angle.
So gone deep sea diving instead, finishing yesterday’s papers. Why not go back to Daphne’s time, the scandal that rocked the Consortium to its fundamentals and start another one: Sean Connery kissed a man. Don’t shoot the messenger.
My dear dear Daphne, this will kick another bucket at doorstep of the puritan pit across our neighbours’ ocean. Make it extra large [the bucket]. Full to the brim.
I can barely contain myself with laughter. According to my source (The Sunday Times) as of this minute I now know that which few do: Sean Connery kissed a man. In 1960. In a film called ‘Colombe’. Lost. Till now. This is so brilliant I don’t know what to do with myself. Sean Connery – the very epitome of manhood: How many men do YOU know who can smile like he does whilst raising just the ONE eyebrow at Miss Moneypenny? Before my swooning makes me faint I will keep the record STRAIGHT: It was not a GAY kiss. Just a full on smacker to find out what made his BROTHER (yes, really, the swine) such an irresistable lover to Connery’s character’s wife. Shakespearean, no less. Maybe Wagner. Blood, daggers, sweat, tears. Curtains.
PS And remember, or rather ask yourselves: Why do some of the most macho cultures (Italy, Spain, Greece, Russia) think nothing of embracing and kissing their fellow MAN? Not withstanding that they might shoot or knive each other the next minute.