Superfluous

I do battle with myself. Daily.

It’s entertaining. And awful.

What to say, why to say, how to say, when to say, where to say – it. The only thing certain is the WHO says it – that’s me.

What to say? That’s easy. I have plenty to say. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it needs to be said. How? Now we are running into serious difficulty. When? Not now. Where? Well …

So should I die of bowel cancer you only have yourselves to blame.

U

Boo to a goose, boo to a gander

What is it with bloggers telling other bloggers how to write their blog?

Just came across one telling his readers “to find direction”. Fuck off. If I want direction I read a map. I like getting lost. Opportunity lies in dense thicket, in the woods, in a desert. Not on the highway with dozens of sign posts. Though – come to think of it – even there lies adventure if you forgot to insert your contact lenses.

Why are people so prescriptive? What’s all this angst about? It’s a blog for heaven’s sake. Not your bloody PhD. Relax. Stop taking yourselves so seriously. The world won’t stop on its axis if you or any of us write a shite post, a boring post, this post.

U

Serial blogging

Years ago my brother sent us a computer game, and it was so wonderful I played it whenever I needed to diffuse (like mid afternoon): You had to be bloody damn fast to shoot a lot of chickens. They [the chickens] winging it across the screen, yet looking so friendly, inviting you to shoot them. So  I never felt any guilt at all the carnage. Neither did I have a dog to collect the bounty. There were a few windmills too. Obliterating them didn’t give you that many points. Not that that stopped me from aiming.

A much cherished computer game the Angel and I used to play together (can’t remember the title, and the Angel currently not present to jog my memory), the challenge was to cross a busy road without being squashed. Hedge hog fashion. In a more benign version, though under threat of drowning, you had to have presence of mind to jump from fast moving  log to fast moving log trying to cross a river. The other challenges have gone down the drain of memory lost.

That’s blogging for you.

U

White

Am intrigued when bloggers moan about having nothing to blog about. Nothing to blog about? You’ve got to be joking. I talk and could write till the cows come home. Way past milking.

Still, better to be a snowball than an avalanche.

U

Censorship

I don’t like people who show no grace in their communication with others, no willingness to enter any attempt at trying to reconcile differences. Those who will ignore an outstretched hand, erase someone’s comment instead of letting it stand, for all the world to see. Two commenters, unaware of their sins, so bad that they had to be shown the blogger’s door.

Nick, if you had any decency at all, any tact, any grace, you’d also delete your disparaging assessment aimed at Hippo aka Tom and myself. Wipe the slate clean as it were. Tidy that particular post’s comment box instead of leaving smears.

You deleted Tom’s apology when first you took us to task. Any attempt of mine to explain you keep deleting. Is it really ok to NOT give someone, the accused, a chance to “clear” their name?  Oh the irony, considering your post’s original subject. Think about it, Nick. But then you don’t do irony well, do you? It’s lost on you. Which in itself doesn’t matter whatsoever. What matters is how you deal with that which is beyond or below you.

I respect that you are of a sensitive disposition. So sensitive that you have no scruples whatsoever to malign Hippo’s and my name on your blog. Without – and I am repeating myself here – giving either of us a chance. Well, Nick, if that is what communicating means to you please do count me out. Since Tom addressed me and I replied to him and neither of us felt there was anything “snide” in our exchange why were you unable to just accept that and let it stand? Or were we stealing the limelight? Some bloggers don’t care, some rather do and some encourage diversity in their comment boxes.

I value the opinions of people who comment on my blog. Not in a million years would I ever delete anything other than what compromises a third party’s right to privacy. I am not a bloody prison warden, a control freak.  Spoiler alert: And yes, this is a bit mean and below the belt, aimed at you, Nick, and others: The little Hitlers so empowered by their territory, namely their “blog”, in need of their ego to be fed. Well, you fed it. Now let the dog off the leash, and delete YOUR own continued comments in relation  to that storm in an Irish teacup.

As you delete so I will publish. I see that you have wiped out Hippo aka Tom completely; not one smidgen of the man left. I suppose better than a fist fight. You may get hurt. The first two rather funny exchanges between Tom and me, the ones which led to your peculiar reaction, I do have no record of. The rest I do.

I implicitly trust the judgment of all those who regularly comment on this blog. So, should any of you, my readers, take the time and an interest in that fruitless exchange, please do enlighten me, if and where I went wrong. I will take it to heart – AND, stand by to be amazed, Nick:  LEARN FROM IT. Rarely is there a need to chuck the baby out with the bathwater. Unless the water is on fire. As you know I don’t bullshit. Neither, and there may be a lesson in it for you, Nick, will any of my readers’ criticism of me and my conduct make any difference in how I much I appreciate them, any difference in my affection for them. None whatsoever. Quite the opposite. Give me a bit of honesty. Don’t shilly shally; say it how you see it: None of us are infallible. If friends can’t give us feedback who can? Forgive me for this “snide” remark (after all, mustn’t short change you by not matching your expectation of me): You may try and get that pea out from under your mattress. You will bruise less easily. Now, there, there, let’s kiss it all better.

When Tom apologized to you he corrected my choice of word ‘pathetic’ at your reaction, suggesting to me that “regrettable” might be more applicable. Initially I agreed with him. However, considering your conduct since, I quite happily stick with the original “pathetic”. Considering the Latin scholar you are shall we compare notes first? Let’s see: ‘pathetic’ adj. arousing pity. Origin; Greek pathetikos ‘sensitive’. What did I say, Nick? Sensitive. Try and thicken your cutis (Latin ‘skin’).

Hugs and kisses, here goes:

Nick, the gentleman he is, first:

Hippo and Ursula, I have deleted your latest comments. Yes, it’s my blog and I can do what I like with it. If  you want to have a snide private conversation, go and have it somewhere else.

Hippo Tom’s Reply:

Sorry Nick, I do not know who Ursula is but I did find her witty, rather than snide (I certainly took no offence and hope she didn’t either) but I did realise that your post was of a very serious nature which was why I suggested that Ursula and I should take it over to my blog.

Once again, my aplogies.

Ursula’s pound’s worth:

Good on you, Hippo, that you are so forgiving. I am not. I think it’s pathetic, Nick, that you took down two perfectly good, well intenioned, comments. No doubt, you’ll take this down too. Your loss.

Or maybe, you’ll think again, and do a U turn. Aren’t an awful lot of blogs currently carrying the banner “No censorship”? Well, you could have fooled me.

U

Nick in his tireless attempt to stamp out the undesirable:

I have deleted another three comments from Hippo and Ursula. None of them had anything to do with the subject of the post.

Other bona fide commenters are welcome as usual.

Ursula, now wishing she had more than one head to scratch:

Nick, I don’t understand.

You’ve always struck me as a reasonable guy. I therefore hope that you will allow me to put the record straight. If only to be fair to Tom aka Hippo and myself, and not tarnish Tom’s reputation. Let’s remember that he even apologized to you. Though what for he clearly was baffled about. As am I.

Let’s remind ourselves that Tom took the time to address my being “indignant” at being passed over with my very first, and valid, comment. I thought his reply to me funny, original. I took his, as perceived by me, friendly bait by replying in a similar, slightly mocking style.I knew I’d hit it off with this newcomer to your blog, and new to me. And he took it in the same spirit as he had delivered to me. Which is great. More the pity that you didn’t. For which I still don’t apologize but join Tom in his rather better choice of word than my own, namely that the outcome is “regrettable”. Indeed.

Some of the best solid blogging friendships are forged in comment boxes. And some of the best blogs I visit (I visit few) are those who, generously, allow a natural flow of conversation rather than just appreciative small talk.

One last point, Nick: Do you actually know what you are saying with your “Other bona fide commenters are welcome as usual”?

“Bona fide” means “genuine, real”, Latin “with good faith”. Are you implying that not only are we not welcome anymore but suggesting that we didn’t come to your blog genuine, real and in good faith? If so, it’s an insult. See how easy it is to offend, Nick? Oh, the irony of it.

U

PS Let’s just blame John Gray. He started it. With his, and what I thought a deliciously smart, comment.

Nick who hereby confirms what I have suspected for a while, best glossed over:

Ursula – Your insult to me (in yet another comment) I shall ignore – of course I know what bona fide means, I have an O Level in Latin. Your insult to John Gray I shan’t ignore. He started nothing, he simply made a slightly cryptic comment that you chose to interpret in a bizarre way he never intended.

At this point I wished I’d THREE heads to scratch:

Nick, please do give me a break.

What insult to you, to John Gray? My PS was meant funny, trying to defuse whatever tension has crept into our exchange

There was little bizarre in my interpretation of John Gray’s comment. And even if: One of my two offerings was spot on, confirmed by him. The other was a sincere heartfelt of what I would have done in that woman’s situation. There is suffering that is tempting to cut short. What use is it to her to being vindicated after 25 years of heartache of having not just lost one son but the rest of friends and family too? As an aside: Some family.

I suppose it’s best if we just leave it. You do not appear to be willing to see my side, you will not even afford me the courtesy to let your other readers see my response. You will not concede anything. I have said it twice before and I say it again: I thought John Gray’s comment extremely astute. It was original, which no doubt led to some of you being confused by it.

If you find my comment bizarre then there is clearly a wavelength on which we can’t communicate. Neither did I find any of what Tom said to me to be a snide remark. And vice versa.

At risk of you finding fault with me once more: What’s your having attained an O’level in Latin got to do with understanding an expression? If this is about “mine is bigger than yours” I am sorry to say that I studied Latin to a higher grade and with distinction. I even studied Classic Greek. I communicate in a tongue which is not my mother’s.  So what? Doesn’t make me superior to anyone, neither does it mean that, unlike you, I will not admit to misinterpreting or using expressions sometimes rather too loosely. What I find so astonishing that I indicate, indeed ask you, what the meaning of your bona fide comment was. You do not enlighten. You just ignore that which doesn’t suit. But then you are the blog’s “owner”.

U

PS Just caught up with your last comment. You say you are “distressed”. There is no reason. Blogs are not one-way-streets. They are about communication. And sometimes communication will go wrong. Misunderstandings, misinterpretation. It’s life, Nick, not the end of the world. So let’s pick up pieces.

U

Guess what, dear Readers, yup, you got it in one.

The original post: http://nickhereandnow.blogspot.com/2012/01/under-cloud.html , undone at the seams by its master, hence many a hole. Last comment check: 1611 GMT.

U

PS Those of you who read this may ask: What’s the purpose of this exercise, Ursula? Other than wasting my, your, our time? Trust me: There is method. Let’s call Nick’s a case study, an example of some of that I think questionable in the world of blogging.

Let’s call it a strike against censorship, against unfairness. Let’s call it many things. And this minute I call: Roger Over and Out.

Red carpet in shreds

If last Monday’s post went with a bang yesterday’s  Monday morning has me whimper.

No sooner had I slagged off those prizes bloggers award each other – in my reply to a comment the drop dead gorgeous Charles had left me – along comes writingfeemail.wordpress.com aka Little Miss Mischief aka La Tease and drops one hell of a clanger: I find myself the unhappy recipient of “The Versatile Blogger Award”. I wish I could hide like my two year old self behind my mother in the folds of her full skirt, pout and say “I don’t want it” (insert teary note). “Darling, don’t be silly. You like spinach so you’ll always be able to stomach the unpalatable. Say thank you.” Finger in mouth, eyes full of suspicion:  ”Don’t want to.”

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Which doesn’t make any economical sense. Unless you immediately take a gift horse to the slaughter house and reform it into salami you will need to feed, water and exercise it. In modern lingo this translates into: “There is no such thing as a free lunch.” Am now in existentialist crisis: Do I go down in history as a blogging scrouge who doesn’t have it in her heart to play by the rules (of others); or do I  humour the blogging community like a circus clown on his way out? Do I stick to principles or do I shrug my shoulders and say “Whatever.” ? Maybe I could rent some space in the broom cupboard one blogger has so lovingly created for her many awards.

Insert sigh.  I am in trouble. Confession time: First of all, I read few, and I mean few, blogs on a regular basis. Since I am terrific friendship material I tend to keep it small, and loyal. Not that I don’t throw parties, and please do gate crash. I will find the odd pearl in the crowd, even among those who do use my, as yet unread, Times as toilet paper.  It is quite awful: I feel another attack of scathing coming on. I’ll keep it for a day when I run out of bile. Also, and this is no excuse, amongst my most cherished blogging chums there are those already flooded with awards, and now do – as only the saturated will – refuse them. Or maybe they have run out of things to tell you about themselves. Which the more observant among you will notice I have already done up there, if somewhat in disguise.

And, I am such a mean cow I don’t want to share my friends with all and sundry. Look what happened to Charles. No sooner was he freshly pressed he (being diligent) was reduced to answering (intelligently) hundreds of comments. I don’t like being a crumb among many on the baking sheet of someone’s life so I retreated to the kitchen and baked some of his Italian biscuits instead. And no, I didn’t weep into the pastry. Sometimes you have to let those you care for off on a long leash. Or take the leash off altogether.

Where were we: Free lunch, trade off:  Naturally, to link like crazy to other blogs is not only a cheap marketing exercise, it is also a  way of spying on who I read outside my immediate circle. The last sentence sounds more complicated than it is. All my life, literally from when I was tiny, I have had three very different circles of friends on the boil. Their backgrounds not only not overlapping, but none of them knowing of each other. Yes, I know it’s ludicrous but makes for a slightly less complicated life to keep those in the higher echelons of elevated snobiety of intellect and creativity from sneering at the easy pleasers and the streetwalkers.

Some of my friends (and family) are such snobs that if they knew that I entertain a blog, how vulgar, they’d cut me off there and then. Don’t think I have just handed you the perfect tool to blackmail me. I haven’t.

What else is totally useless information about me:

A few years ago, in the early days of our courtship, a dear sweet man, so full of disdain for the world (what do you expect from someone who adores Huysman?) yet so vulnerable, him of Irish/Trinidadian extraction, a Canadian with perfect diction, sent me a “Mother’s Day” card. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  He is gay. That way we are both safe.

When I was three I swallowed (by accident) a flat round button. It was white. That’s when I learnt two things: Not everything is digestible. And what will go in will come out. And oh did it not glow so in the dark.

So yes, since most of my blogging creme de la creme knows each other anyone else just snoop around in the comment boxes, and link. One of my believes: What you need will find you. And I have found true treasure in the last few months.

U

Monday

Dearest sweetest Hearts, let’s hope it’ll all come out in the wash.

Reading blogs is bringing out the worst in me. The critic. The swine that will not be silenced. Do you have any idea how hard I work at not pressing send after having composed that which will tear into a blogger’s heart and soul, more importantly his copy? Come to think of it: Those I do tear into should count themselves lucky. Clearly a sign that I think them made of sturdy stuff; deserving. Anyone can sniffle.

Still, whatever I say, however I justify it, my being so critical is a deplorable trait. Correction: It’s great. Because it gives me so much pleasure to pick everything apart at its seams. What is at odds – a spot of self revelation here – that I am a truly “nice” (pass me the sick bag) person, kind, compassionate, considerate, generous, selfless to a fault – yes, really, Sweethearts, and take it from me: There is nothing wrong with blowing your own trumpet. Mind you, to keep this in perspective, I have been told, many a time, that it’s virtually impossible to pay me a compliment since I just brush it aside. You pay me a compliment? The only person who can validate me is myself. Thank you very much.

It’s why I hate people fishing. Oh god. The coquettish on the internet. They will put themselves down. What am I supposed to do – should I be so inclined as to comment? Build them up? Well, stay down there if you must. I am not your analyst or your mother. It’s one of the reasons  I cannot understand (yes, I know, Magpie, you are one of them) why anyone will choose a theme for their blog stating “Just another blog”. Come again? If it’s “just” another blog why bother? Bring yourself to market.

Since I am at it, may I also say that there is a way of self deprecating which is foul. Was interrupted here. Have now forgotten what’s foul. But that’s Denmark for you. Then there are those who preen in desperate attempt to be validated. It’s ok, guys and guyesses. Relax. You are fine. Less is more. More or less. Just like real life what an education the blogging world is: I am clearly attracted to those who know their self worth, know where they stand. No nonsense for them.

And lastly a word of advice to those of you who desperately, almost to point of death, keep pointing out your “copyright”: Either share yourself or keep hugging your babies to your chest. Don’t take yourself so seriously. Don’t lay down the law every single time you publish. Do you really think the world is out there to steal whatever you have created?

There are blogs I could and will name which have grace, share themselves freely and generously: Whether it’s their art work, their copy, their feelings, their imagination. I am not given to gushing however would like to say to some of you: Thanks for enriching my life. Wish I could cook for all of you. Will paint my own picture of said party (in words) another time. Pass me a Bloody Mary now. No, make that a Martini, two olives. One shaken, one stirred.

U

Back to black

Before I try and climb Looney’s rope I will declare my hand:

I loathe blogs.

NO,  not yours. Mine. Such a ridiculous half way house between a PUBLIC confessionary and a diary. Always with the breaks on: You can’t spill ALL the beans, can you. Unless certifiable. So you spill some beans and ask yourself what the hell is the point. Other than getting some feedback from BHB, Magpie and Looney.  Those three are worth keeping this blog alive, if it kills me.

That I hate comment boxes on other people’s blogs even more than my own blog goes without saying.

Anyway, this minute’s gripe, and needs  to be vented before I think better: You know what I don’t like about life? What unsettles me more than any surprise or misery that can every befall me?

Yes, you got it in one: I’d be so much happier if I knew the hour/the day/the year. It’s  not funny. It’s not control freak. It’s wanting some peace of mind. Let’s say I knew I’d drop within the next 59 minutes (blod clot or some other sudden inconvenience) I’d tackle the remainder of my life differently than if,  say, being given one month to tidy my affairs. Or twenty years to meander around dreamily (whilst tidying my affairs). I don’t like uncertainty. And yes, I know it’s what has given us philosophy in its endless quest of finding out what life and its loyal friend, death, are about

All I want is an expiry date.

Is that so much to ask for? Go to your supermarket. Everything (even cans which last forever) are given a sell and a use by date. It’s only the human being left in the dark. With regards to the sensitivities of those who believe in God and an afterlife, I shall not be too harsh but seriously: Along with your birth certificate couldn’t you be given a pointer?

Back to black,

Ursula

Mildly

There comes a time in life when one is not so much a sponge, absorbing. Instead reflecting and consolidating.

My time has come.

I write an answer to BHB. On my own blog. Only to find myself spammed by Akismet the blocker on wordpress. Unlike my loo I cannot unblock myself on this bog. Doesn’t matter. If there is one good thing – amongst many others – to be said about advancing years that eventually you don’t give a shit any longer. Whatever you do, please do not agree with me. Otherwise this blog will cease and I will turn my attention to other matters. Like keeping my communication private. And address mainly those who currently wonder why I keep pissing in the wind (that’s blogs for you) instead of staying on an even keel.

U

Laughing gas

Being the ray of sunshine I am I keep irritation to myself as best I can. And if I feel I won’t be able to control it I will warn (to be fair) anyone in the vicinity that clouds are on the horizon and don’t say later I didn’t warn you.

I don’t compartmentalize my life; it’s all one big goulash but I do keep irritation separate and in quarantine.

Irritation is that mosquito in your life; buzzing around in the dark; no sooner do you turn on the light to end a life it will all go quiet. I play this game with myself forever. It’s a private displeasure – few who know about it. The Angel finds that if my irritability is kept just at the right simmer my running comment is hilarious. If I let it boil over it’s hideous. Well, what are doors for if not to close them.

Yes, blogs. A source of irritation to me if ever there was one. Obviously there is Ramana’s most valuable lament yesterday which I will expamd on at some point because similar thoughts have exercised my mind. But till I have tamed them [thoughts] I cannot commit them to paper. Take  heart Ramana: Frustration comes with the territory. Anyway, let’s leave that for a more mellow of my time.

What has got my goat AGAIN? I don’t frequent many blogs. It’s a type of self preservation, a defence mechanism against the imbecility of my fellow human beings, not least my own that I rarely bother visiting the great unwashed. Two recent example (and no, I won’t give you the links) so dire, so awful, so everything I could have pummelled the sofa cushion if I’d had the energy. My big fat beef, and it’s just been barbecued once more, are bloggers’ “comment policies”. Let’s just forget for a moment that I hate the law being laid down full stop; far worse for me to discover again and again what little Hitlers, Stalins and Mussolinis are out there telling their readers what not to say, what to say. Whatever happened to “Speaker’s Corner, Hyde Park, London, The Box”? The worst bloggers those who will assure you that, naturally, they will vet your comment before they let it go through, EDIT it, that religion and/or John Lennon or teddybears are NOT ALLOWED to feature in any of your utterings should you wish to see the light of their comment boxes. It’s a turn off for me if ever there was one. You might as well wear socks before entering.

Admittedly, a few of those control freaks are interesting enough to keep my attention despite my disgust at their dictatorship but on the whole people like that are not for me. Yes, people’s tender feelings, sensitivities. There, there. Well, if you are so delicate: Don’t put yourself into the open arena.

Feeling better now? So am I.

U