Mercenary

I need to vent a spleen. No doubt it’ll come back and hit me over the head. Yes, Karma.

What I have done in any previous life, indeed in this, to be constantly reminded by people of the concept of Karma I do not know. I must have been an absolute swine, still am, that not only do I not understand what Karma is, what it stands for, what purpose it can possibly serve – but that I am becoming more and more exasperated by how many people believe in it.

First things first: I am all for anything that gives people comfort (as long as no one is hurt). If you want to worship at some shrine and it makes you feel good that’s fine. I’d extend that courtesy to those who believe in the stars (astrology). Whatever stills your fever in the quest to grapple with  life and fate.

What’s not fine is that I (and maybe others) are made to feel that we are wholly responsible for whatever luck or ills befall us. It is so much nonsense, to my mind, that if banging my head against the wall would make it go away I’d happily live with the concussion.

There are some people in my life (all of them male since calm, reason and indifference all peculiarly – and attractive – male traits) who’d shrug their shoulder and say to me: Maybe you move in the wrong circles.

Maybe. That won’t make that blasted Karma go away. Remember: One of those friends of mine who hates the catholic church with a vengence – and is scathing of Americans – married a devout Catholic and American. You may laugh. As do I. Their relationship a constant source of amusement to me. Proving that the human soul is perverse. In Karma terms I shudder to think what his sins were back in the ice ages.

Like with most things which confound me I am torn between anger and laughing it off. The concept of Karma, on the whole, just annoys the hell out of me. In my layman’s terms it appears that we are supposed to believe that “what goes around comes around”. That idea is just so not true I could cry. Whenever I hear about Karma I feel like an animal rattling the cage, wanting to get out (that’s when it pays to be a Gorilla – their chance of breaking out slightly higher than mine).

I have known some wonderful people in my life. I have worked with some absolute bastards. If Karma is about justice then I think Karma needs to have its vision tested. Get some new prescription glasses. Or just go blind.

Someone will now repeat (see above) that Karma makes sense in that  it is not tethered to this, our current, life. I am supposed to believe that I am paying for the sins of a previous life, that I am reaping the seeds I sowed in yet another life. Maybe I misunderstand. Maybe there are certain thoughts that some hold dear I am just not cut out for. All I know: There is nothing ‘fair’ about life. Just because you give doesn’t mean you’ll be given, just because you don’t give doesn’t mean that you won’t be given.

What annoys me more than anything else about the concept of Karma, in my limited understanding: How can life be a trade off?

U

PS No lab rats were used or hurt in the above. May you too have it in your heart to forgive me. Remember: What goes around comes around! HA.

PPS I have deliberately not tagged this post with ‘Karma’. Who wants to drop dead tomorrow morning to be reincarnated as slime?

Beyond help

In the wake of Lorna’s procrastination inspiring me to put off the urgent, I am following my need to focus on the unimportant. Since I am hot on recycling and composting I shall make my last response to both Lorna and Renee into this post. It’s not so much second hand as dug over.

Lorna, Renee, if I had the patience I’d write the pamphlet of all pamphlets in my war against self help books. When did that wave of delusion start? Maybe late Seventies/early Eighties (I myself blame Americans – but then what else are Americans for than to blame them for the world’s ills). Both my fortune and misfortune lie in being curious (which does not extend to nuclear science or brain surgery). So, yes, why not explore the genre of self help books? If only to make us feel miserable.

You do know what’s wrong with self help books, don’t you? They promise to make you the wonderful person you thought you were before they draw to your attention that you are less than sufficient and in dire need of improvement. It’s a complete con. One of the best and most useless books I wasted money on was a DIY one: “How to do 100 things you don’t need a man for”. I only bought it because the cover reminded me of Doris Day. Doris Day being my ideal of womanhood. Nipped in waist. Flared skirt. 1950s. Happy. Cheerful. Kids’ teeth brushed. Cake in the oven. At the ready with a cocktail on the bacon hunter’s return. No bull. I mean it. Yes, so 100 hundred things you don’t need a man for. I didn’t know there were so many. But then who am I to argue with a self help book? Don’t get the wrong idea. I am sure if you want to hang a door without capable muscle that book does come in useful. Trouble is I had no intention, still don’t, to do any of those one hundred things. And how to unblock a toilet I was taught, by osmosis, when I was barely out of my nappies/diapers.

Then, and I bet my bottom Euro you know that title (which woman doesn’t) there was: “Feel the fear and do it anyway”. Trouble was I didn’t feel any fear (still don’t), neither did I want to do IT whatever ‘it’ was. To this day I have now idea what, was it Susan Jeffers, she was talking about.

However, I will admit to enjoying lifestyle books of the kind that tell you how to get rid of rubbish, and organise your sock drawer. And books on cleaning. I don’t know how long ago – let’s say a long time ago – I bought, no not Martha Stewart, the other American, Cheryl Mendelson “Home Comforts – The Art and Science of Keeping House”. It’s a hardback, 884 pages long – that includes the index, and tells you all about, say, wool fibres that you do NOT need to know in order to live a happy, clean, sober, self sufficient and content life. It’s a collector’s edition (I probably bought it on ebay) and I’d dearly love to sell it. Trouble is I lack the will to spend any effort on it. Now there is a title: “Lack the will and don’t do it”.

Maybe the three of us should pool our remaining inertia and help the world to become a better cobweb.

Hugs, kisses and Doris Day,

U

Smalls

Let’s turn to that in life which we appreciate only by their absence:

Toilet paper to name but one. And the flush.

I don’t classify myself as anal yet am fascinated by how people survived the olden days, and at their considerable inconvenience.  Even Charles Dickens didn’t venture where horse manure mingled with chamber pots emptied through first floor windows. I don’t think they did second floors in those days. More is the pity. Because matter might have dispersed on the way down.

If ever there was the perfect age for the mini skirt they missed it. Instead of which ladies’ coy hems would sweep up – on leaving and returning from market – that which superfluous to our bodies. Unlike upper class Indians (and Madonna) all of whom I believe to be carried door to door, by minions, then, and Madonna now, without ever setting foot into that which unites us all: Shit.

U

PC – polite company

Always run with one who is just that little faster than you are. They will pull you along. Making you excel yourself. At grammar school, 100 meter short distance, we ran in pairs. A very fast runner myself (to this day, meep, meep) I always tried to be teamed up with Susanne (her of the extra long legs). She was as fast as the wind, ambitious too, a quality I am sadly lacking. I quickly recognized that her speed, always just that tiny bit ahead of me, pulled me along and, whilst she always won, resulting in ever fewer seconds for me to reach the finishing line. Loved it.

Yes, so Totsy (see my http://bitchontheblog.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/feeds-and-facts/ currently pulling me along and covering a subject, so dear to my despairing linguistic heart, of PC, political correctness. If I weren’t such a talker, I’d shut up – in public. Use of language has become a mind field. Please NOTE: I did not say minE field, I said minD field. The former leaving you limbless, the latter mutilated.

My father, sometime back in the Sixties, brought me a toy, plastic, much loved, black, called “Gollywog”? Dare I mention this – now – in polite company? Will I be tarred and feathered (ending up looking like Gollywog, only feathered)?

The Angel, always good for an anecdote, age four, Heathrow Airport departure lounge, points at another passenger and, audible to all, with wonderment in his voice: “Mama, that Lady is black”. Yes, indeed. She is. Undisputably so. I whisper to him (not sure of my facts): “That’s not the thing to say.” “But, Mama, she IS black.” Yes, yes, yes, and yes. What am I trying to teach my child here? To pull wool over dreadlocks? Blacklisted myself that moment.

A neighbour of ours has a baby. It’s adorable. As chocolate babies are. The Angel is appalled. My formidable mentor is “chocolate” too. OK, son, let’s make this conversation a return match (16 years on). Me:  ”I am sorry, Angel, it is chocolate. Just as his mother is white. Undisputably so.” The Angel let it pass. He is not conformist either, just worries about his mother being lynched when not chaperoned.

With another wink to one of Totsy’s remarks: Yesterday I give the Angel some lunch to take into work – in a plastic box. He shows some reluctance accepting this token of motherly love and care: “Oh, Mama, that’s so GAY”. Since I am generally short fused I raise my voice: “For … ‘s sake, what’s gay about a lunch box?” He observed that he is so glad that no one can overhear some of our inane conversations. I wouldn’t bank on it. Walls are thin. Paranoia is rife. And 1984 was written well before Big Brother arrived.

Go and read Totsy http://writinginflow.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-sirmadam-political-correctness-ive.html#idc-container

U

Niceties

A question which has long been burning a hole into the fabric of my life:

If you saw a stranger walking around with his fly open, her tights/stockings laddered, were talking to someone with a bit of spinach between their front teeth: Would you point this out to them?

U

Note to self

I’ve got to watch it. It’s one thing to pride myself on never, yes really – never, using a spell checker. Why would I? Either I know how to spell or I don’t. And I can live with my mistakes and typos even if they are embarrassing at times. Am still traumatized from the time when the x on my keyboard gave out.  Currently the ‘i’ sticks. Maybe my subconscious telling me to be more ego something. Will come back to eggs in a minute.

So in an idle moment tonight I pondered on what using more than one language – on a daily basis – does to your mind. What is a catalysator to some is, naturally, a catalyst to another (English that is). Have you ever noticed that when addressing the very person you’d preferably not make a fool of yourself in front of is precisely the person you will? It’s a sideshoot of Sod’s law. Can also be observed when you quickly nip out to get, say, a pint of milk at seven in the morning only to bump into someone you’d hoped would never see you in curlers (and before any of you run away and unsubscribe because you do not wish to be associated with someone in curlers stop the hysteria now: I don’t use curlers, mainly because my hair is curly by nature.) Yes, so there I was congratulating Charles on his daughter’s imagination and, needless to say, giving away my lack of education by using the word “catalysator” instead of “catalyst”. Why this occurs to me ca 24 hrs after writing my comment I do not know. But then my brain seems to have a mind of its own.

Where were we? Eggs. I rarely quote other people. Being full of myself I am content to spout my own nonsense rather than quoting George Bernard Shaw or, worse, Oscar Wilde. However, believing in exceptions to rules and also easily amused I came across this, in The Little Book of Wrong Shui:

Eggsistentialism

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Use an egg box like everyone else and stop being such a poser.

Sartre eat your heart out.

U

Drawing a line

One of the blogs I frequent (sorry, can’t link since momentarily forgotten which one it was) recently mentioned crystal balls and the future.

Don’t. Go there. I did more than twenty years ago. I was waiting, at some boat show cum fairground, for Fiona, a colleague. She phoned and told me to see a woman in a tent to while away the time till her arrival. Why did I listen to her? Five pounds later (1989 prices, UK) my life changed. Not that I realised it at the time. Everything went well. Time passed pleasantly, till my fortune teller set eyes on a particular line in my right hand. That was it: She dropped my hand, looked at me aghast, wished me a happy life and asked me to leave NOW. Since people often look at me either aghast or bemused I didn’t give it much thought. Till years later: When one of my many assignments’ briefs was to look into palmistry. I do not know who to curse more: The editor who assigned me. The palm reader. Or myself.

I, naturally, bloody studied the subject from the wrist up. By way of comforting you now: Don’t believe everything you find on the map: By rights I should have had as many children as I had (in truth) miscarriages. Which suits me fine – since both I and my son are “only” children by nature. Which makes us both more compassionate to other humans than a lot of those who had to fight not only for daily survival in the midst of siblings, but their fair share of affection from their parents.

Yes, so that was brilliant and has confirmed my view that, in order to ensure your anxiety has something to feed on, you may as well go and see a palmist. Tarrot readers (and, yes, you guessed it, Fiona sent me to one of those as well) are harmless by comparison. Though how the old woman knew that the most beloved woman of my life (my maternal grandmother) had died when I was eight beats me. How is that possible? And no, I did not give out any clues. And no Fiona didn’t brief the clairvoyant beforehand because she knew nothing about me other than that I like Sauvignon Blanc, a grape which will go with everything, even Thai or Chinese.

U

Throw me rope

Since I am not afraid to come across as an idiot (we all have to start somewhere and idiots do have their place in society) here is a question which has been burning a hole into my inquiring mind for some time. Yes, the barnacle (http://www.looneyfundamentalist.blogspot.com). I would love to contribute something mildly intelligent or at least interesting on Looney’s blog but I CAN’T. Rarely am I lost for words; never mind him swimming with crocodiles or people drifting into his church half an hour late, I am at sea.

Maybe the good man himself will throw some Plato at me to help me through my difficulty. Which I wouldn’t put past him since his comments on other people’s blogs tend to cut through the crap. This is truly head scratching time. Has been for months.

I just can’t rev up the speed to break through the sound barrier required to fly into his comment box. Which, of course, he might be very happy about.

U

Dead as a Dodo

Dearest sweetest Pies, there are times my heart goes out to the Consortium; not least today, the subject being: ANCHESTORY. Great. Yes, we all have one. THE END.

Since so far none of you have admitted to descending straight from the Borgias, direct line Lucrezia herself, may I congratulate all of you. May you yourself – one day – perch proudly and eminently on one of the branches of your family tree.

In the meantime – do feather your nests with sweet down.

Hugs and kisses,

U

Make my day

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.

U

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.