Off with the fairies

As some of you know I am taken with gays. Not lesbians. Lesbians will wink at me and then run. Which is good. Because it saves me from running in the opposite direction. Yes, guys (not gays) there is one of your fantasies crushed.

The first gay, known to me, was a hairdresser. That’s what’s expected of gays. They dress hair. And they do. My boyfriend (living abroad) was dead jealous of Peter, the gay, gorgeous as they come (tall, slender, blond with lined eyelashes). In return Peter hated my boyfriend – in a sort of militant way one doesn’t normally associate with gays. Yes, Peter and I were good. I went down with a fever, close to death’s door, Christmas Eve 1978. Peter took care of me. Unselfish. Kind.

When we went to nightclubs our combined beauty bounced off each other. He was not so gay as not to pass as my boyfriend which saved me a lot of hassle.

Our appartments were next to each other. We shared a wall. With our respective beds on either side of it. Which meant that, in the middle of the night, he’d send me little knocks on the wall, Morse code. A bit like texting nowadays. Only louder. And more reassuring. Though his cat was pretty neurotic: As Burmese with cabin fever are. His boyfriend a fully leather clad complete with motorbike policeman. Thus I was initiated into a world I knew nothing about, still don’t. Then I moved country. I dearly hope Peter didn’t fall prey to the Eighties’ disease. He was such a sweet gentle man, a good friend.

As to GG. Well, I have been there, done that, enjoyed it immensely whilst it lasted for a delicious three years, didn’t get the fucking T shirt – and now I am a damaged case.

John, with his pig, his chickens, his dogs, came along just in time, slowly restoring my faith in gay manhood

As I have confirmed, over at John’s, the Angel thinks my gaydar non existent. True. What’s it to me what you do in the privacy of your own sheets.  My longest standing friend, not known for mincing words, and in an attempt to cure me of GG, said the most foul he could come up with on homosexual men. As did my brother. Where did they learn all this stuff? Think toilets and Hampstead Heath and you’ll get the idea. Well, I love my brother and that macho of machoest friend of mine, so – in an act of self defence and as not to whip their friendships out of shape – I no longer mention GG. Not even to the Angel.

One of the funniest comments ever, on the subject of homosexuality, was when, last year, the Angel came home and, relating the happenings of the previous evening, remarked that one of the host’s friends was SO gay “even the girls found it a  bit much”. Is that brilliant? Or is that brilliant? Let me know.

U

Olympics

Do any of you ever think about how you came about?

Your mother born with all the eggs ready, or unwilling, to be fertilized. Your father’s sperm renewed – and at such extravagance – all the time. If there is one WONDER in our life it’s how we – the I – actually made it. That one sperm hitting an egg in waiting. Making YOU. Reflect on it. If your parents hadn’t been in the mood, if that sperm hadn’t made it to the finishing line you wouldn’t be here. Would you?

U

Solitude

Whilst, on the whole, I do not need anyone to validate me and/or my thoughts even I will admit to succumbing to the odd slap on the back, as just received: “Research suggests that brainstorming does NOT work. Groups of individuals come up with more feasible ideas when they work ALONE on a  problem and THEN pool their solutions”. HA. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

AND, sweethearts: Relax. Creative breakthroughs “appear to come from the right side of the brain, the one more active when we cease to focus, are half asleep, daydreaming or drunk“. If that doesn’t give us carte blanche I don’t know what will.

U

What’s bred in the bone

In her comment to my last post Lorna perceptively interprets what I said as:  ”If your comment adds nothing to the silence, keep it to yourself.” A Buddhist saying. I think it most poetic.

Unfortunately, whilst I DO know WHEN to shut up I find it virtually impossible to do so. During my recent quest to get rid of stuff now irrelevant to my life I came across some old school reports. Oh did I laugh. It’s uncanny. What’s bred in the bone does not only come out, it’ll stay there for decades. As young as age seven the summoning up: “Ursula has to learn not to talk so much during lesson time.” Another: “Ursula needs to tame her lust for words.” Isn’t that sweet? Few things amuse me more than myself.

What a comfort to learn that a leopard doesn’t change its spots. And some people are chameleons – always blending into their background, no doubt with good reason.

U

Quoting myself

Sometimes you need to know when best not to do anything, or at least not that which you’d like to do most.

U

Out of circulation

Leaving the convenience of contraception aside, I live in the wrong time of this and the last century. Or maybe I should become a Muslim or wherever they are still allowed to wear Burkas. Which rules out France.  Burkas are god’s gift to women. Only yesterday I came across a woman wearing one  and all that showed were her eyes. Beauty if ever there was one. Mesmerising. And I am not even a man. Not that one needs to be a man to appreciate beauty.

Whilst still blinding with my dazzling smile my forehead is covered in three blotches from hell. They say beauty is only skin deep. Complete nonsense. Beauty goes deep. Before it gets ugly.

Had I lived, say, 150 years ago, I could still brave the public my head held high. As it is I am HOUSE bloody bound. Bring back veils. I love veils. I love mystery. I even wear gloves (in summer). Which no doubt accounts for the fact that my hands are unblemished.

Give it a thought: Outside Bulgaria, a funeral, your wedding or Venice  when and where can one wear a proper veil in this day and age? You know, the lacy kind. Black. Obviously.

Balzac, Maupassant, here I come.

U

Testosterone

I am enarmoured by men. Totally.  I am in awe of men. Totally. Would I like to be one? I am happy to be a woman.

If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times: Men are vulnerable. Very. Man touches my heart as few women will. Woman may be weaker physically but inside a rod of steel runs through her.

Sartre said of woman “Ca pleure comme ca pisse”. True. When a man sheds tears the world, my world, stands still. Breaks my heart.

I rarely watch films. Just now “The Departed”. My god. Says the mother of an Angel.

And no, none of the guys cried. They just died.

U

Going to the dogs

Trying to log on, as usual my mind doing its own thing completely ignoring what its purpose is and guess what: For a moment I couldn’t remember what my blog is called. Is it really that forgettable? Please do not answer the question since I never fish for compliments neither am I in any state to hear the truth. In fact, you’d do me a favour if you said: Yes, it is [forgettable].

Before I forget, since you may ask what my mind’s purpose is: It’s to follow the leader. I am the leader. Which is presumably why my mind pulls into the other direction to get me back on the path and sniff another tree.

Today’s interlude: Dreams (of the nightly variety). May you all lead a double life as I do. My days and nights seemingly interchangeable. My dreams being so vivid and REAL  I will wake not knowing, for a few seconds, who, where, what, how and when. I have deliberately not included  ”why”.

Last night I was trying to stuff some loose and unruly white material and ribbons  into large square solid cardboard boxes.  Say 1.50 x 1.50 m. No sooner did I try to put the lid on the box  some of the material started floating out. And again and again. Nightmare. Since I never give up I must have been at it all night.

So come and have breakfast with me and tell me all about your nightly adventures.  Remember: Dreams are the digestive tract of our lives;  pointers, signposts to where lemmings will not go.

If you really must give thanks have some of my hugs and kisses,

U

Per pedes

My feet hurt. Not my soles. On top. Odd.

I like feet.

Do you know how many bones there are in a foot? No. Didn’t think you’d appreciate what a piece of art is that which carries you through life. Such a pity that people give so little thought to that which keeps them going,  grounded, connected to planet earth by law of gravity.

In a moment of absentmindedness I spent time learning reflexology. Forget the term and its new age connotations. What reflexology is amounts to advanced foot massage. That’s all. Bliss. The feel good factor. In between lessons, back at the ranch, I used to practice on the Angel. Now he is a size, I don’t know, probably 11, 13  or some such (English that is); at the time his feet were tiny.  So much easier to work a foot not yet adultered by having walked many of life’s miles.

Where was I? My feet aching on top. Strange sensation. And yes, during the training, when we practiced on each other my fellow students would gush (in gratitude – because there is nothing worse than gnarly toes and tough soles) how beautiful, tender, supple and pliable my feet were. They still are. Funny old world. Flying in the face of everything, considering that no heel has ever been too high for me, that I never take the easy way out and will walk everywhere.

So, when, tonight, you take off you socks, tights, stockings  or any other foot gear look at your feet. Wriggle your toes and think of me. That’s

U

Unsettled

My readership being English and/or American this little problem of mine will mean nothing to you: After all, the whole world does speak English, doesn’t it?

The English are so polite it’s annoying. No, it’s not annoying. It’s tantamount to an insult. Because my brain fires on more than one language I will (somtimes) jabber away in a lingo not received. It’s all the same to me though English making up 99 point 9 percent of my day. A German or a French, particularly an Italian, will tell you to get your act together. Not the English. Only when their eyes glaze over and their smile stiffens do I realise I am talking NOT the local tongue. Have now decided to be paranoid – and will, from the outset, ask anyone whether I speak that which they can understand. I switch so easily from one language to another it sometimes escapes me which one I am speaking this very minute. Mental – as the Angel would say.

Even worse: My mother most definitely does not speak English. Yet, in my dreams (at night, when asleep) I have perfect English conversations with the woman I am so grateful to that she did not abort me. Not that I would know the difference {if I hadn’t been born).

Strange, don’t you think: Conceived per chance;  from then your life hangs in the balance.

If I come across as more unhinged than normal it’s because I am. They are redoing our street. Fancy paving stones, Pedestrian zone and all that. And, by law of nature, before it gets better it gets worse. Which in my case amounts to the earth moving or rather the floor under my chair being decidedly shakey. It’s been days now them taking up existing tarmac. Can’t imagine what it’s like to be one of those “drill up the tarmac” guys. Mind numbing. Am considering to tell my landlord that I will deduct at least one pound Sterling from the rent for inconvenience.  Still, he is Italian. And contrary to perceived prejudice Italians will love their Mamas but don’t mess with them. When it comes to money think The Godfather and that cut off head of a horse underneath your duvet.

Yes, so brilliant combo. The floor underneath my feet is shaking, the noise is deafening. I don’t like noise. If I want noise I play Beethoven or Motorhead. Top volume. Still, it is rather interesting to be at the mercy of outside influences you can do nothing about. Fab (that’s short for my landlord’s first name) has no sympathy: He thinks I should be out at work between 9 and five instead of letting my world be rocked by the council’s improvements. I can’t tell him that I mostly work from the privacy of my home. He won’t like it. Meanwhile I keep looking at her Majesty’s poster (in red) KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.

Apropos of nothing or how did one of you say so classically the other day: Non Sequitur (is there a sweeter sound?). The Queen and her son. I have to say if I were Charles I’d be heartbroken and if I were his mother, the Queen, I’d be ashamed of myself. Why oh why oh why can she not let go of the crown and hand it to her son? The guy is over sixty and still hasn’t fulfilled his destiny – the one he was born to. It’s shameful.

And if that floor of mine rumbles one more time I shall take myself off to the next bench in the park.

U