Some headline tells me that we need to address the lack of female composers.
Be still my beating heart. Why don’t I just lie down and die instead? Has the world gone completely bonkers? Why do we NEED to ADDRESS the LACK of FEMALE composers?
Sweethearts, there is a reason [why women – on the whole – don’t compose]. Mainly – try not to reinvent the wheel – that men and women are different. We have to get to my life time to be told that we can, should and are all able to do the same? Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrleeeeeeeeeese!
So glad I don’t have a daughter. What would I tell her? “Address the lack of female composers, girl.” Here is a Bechstein for you. Try not to sleep with your piano teacher. And, whilst you are at it, I have also installed a glass ceiling on top so you can prepare for a time when you’ll be pushed to push through it. Try and time it so you don’t give birth at the same time and on the board room table. Men might faint. And then who will make you push? To the right beat. Who? That’s right. Your female comrade losers. The ones who can’t distinguish between a hearth and a mine.
I am sick of it. Sick of it all. Even sicker of women who tell me, WOMAN, how to live my life. If I wanted to be a man I’d go to Canada and fell trees. In the meantime can you please leave me and my inner as yet not unleashed brain surgeon in peace. Please.
What prescriptive times we live in.
Napoleon remarked (why did he make that common mistake of trying to invade Russia – in winter) that a general is NOTHING without “fortune” (French pronunciation) on his side. True. And Lady Luck is fickle. In fact if Lady Luck were so unlucky as to be my daughter I’d tell her a few home truths. The way she grants favours, or not, isn’t the way to go about it.
First of all: She has no sense of justice. None. In fact, if she was that child faced with a marshmallow she’d be out of the door before she could chew it.
I dislike many sayings. Not least the one and only: “Du bist der Schmied Deines eigenen Gluecks”. Loosely translated: Everone is master of their own luck. Bah to that. I do take responsibility for myself (and others) but don’t give me a horse’s hoof. That way you’ll limp on the home stretch.
Anyway, IT’S ALL RELATIVE. “It’s all relative” is my mantra. You can apply it to anything in life. That way (relative) happiness lies. Naturally the likes of Looney and his mind will point out to me that in order for something to be relative you need something to measure it against. True.
I measure ‘it’ against, say, fairy tales. Particularly on a Sunday afternoon. Or a particular Maupassant novella, the title I won’t name lest it’ll break your heart on reading. Yes, fairy tales, as opposed to Maupassant: You briefly, emphasis briefly, spend many an hour cleaning the castle’s hearths under the malevolent eye of your step mother. One hundred years later you either go to a ball and leave your dainty shoe behind and/or are being kissed by a prince. No wonder I only eat apples vetted by me and in the privacy of my own company. And go barefoot.
I won’t tell you which one is my favourite fairy tale. It’ll give too much away about me – even to the obtuse among you. Instead let’s settle on another one. A grim one as the Grimm Brothers go: “Von einem der auszog das Fuerchten zu lernen.” One who went out to learn fear. Not a difficult task you might say. Take it from me. It is [difficult]. Particularly if you are not afraid of the dark. Anyway he did find something he was afraid of. Lucky him. And no, it wasn’t that which we all fear, it was – nemesis of my own life: A COLD FISH.
The Angel and I can’t agree whether my dislike of the people of a (small) country amounts to rascism. He says it does, I say it doesn’t. I don’t like them, true – mainly because their faces are inscrutinable and when they smile I think it fake. But I don’t look down on them or wish them eradicated. So, I hope, that means I am not a racist. Just full of shit with regards to ………. people. Pleading mitigating circumstances: I myself don’t like my dislike. If I could un-dislike I would in a jiffy – and with relief.
One of my worst case scenarios I conjure up in idle moments when no other catastrophe to befall me comes to mind that the Angel will fall in love with a member of said country. I can see it now. I know I will be a good loving sweet mother-in-law to any of my son’s choices but please please please do spare me to test my mettle in the face of a strong and generalized dislike. Having said that: As far as I am concerned the Angel could marry an ugly snarly monster from an as yet unknown planet with charms not obvious to me and I’d trust his judgment. I just hope that his children will – both facially and temperamentally – be their father’s likeness.
And this was meant to be a most pleasant post about cats. Yes, that easily one thought of mine dislocates another.
Have not so much discovered as confirmed worst suspicion: There is a crap point in one’s life. Namely when you know – and you may deny it till you turn purple – the future is out of reach. Remember that time when it all stretched out ahead of you – everything was possible? You were invincible? Had all the time in the world to follow those butterflies of dreams down the meadow? And then, one day you not so much wake up as shake your head at your folly. I cannot believe it. The only reason I didn’t say ‘I can’t fucking believe it’ because I know some of my readers are of a delicate disposition. And who wants to piss off those who stand by you?
I should have seen it coming. But I never do. Why didn’t I become a fire fighter? That sort of last minute damage limitation seemingly fitting my temperament.
Those of you older to know better please try and tell me something useful, not the well worn. I fight my way through an avalanche of worn cliches every day. And am sick of them. Sick, sick, sick. Those of you younger than me – by a small margin – do not be disheartened. Life is great. And then it’s nearly over. Not that it matters. If there is one comfort about being dead it’s that nothing matters any longer. Trust me. Thrive all you like. It doesn’t matter – in the long run. Mind you if, as I did yesterday, do in your back by doing the most idiotic, the one so stupid I have no sympathy for the likes of me, it makes you evaluate all that’s gone before.
I am in an odd situation. And a little frightened.
Someone close to me has taken to whoring. For the wrong reasons. No shit.
On the whole I admire whores. Why? Because you must be in one desperate hell of a hell to let someone you have no connection with, no desire for, to touch you. That’s where it pays to be a man: You can avail yourself of any artifice and orifice of an unknown – and it will NOT impact on the love for the “real” woman in your life, the mother of your children. It’s one of the Creator’s big jokes. One most women (on the whole) don’t understand but should make every effort to do so.
Where was I: Admiring whores. I don’t admire the one mentioned in my first line. As I don’t admire arch manipulators. People who lie all over the place – lying not for others’ benefit but for their own ends. In fact I despise her. Not for the whoring. But for the trail of misery and slime she leaves in the wake of her never satisfied vanity, her constant need to be validated as the best. Give it another few months/a year and she’ll crash land badly. The test of her real mettle will be whether she’ll accept any parachute offered to her.
Sometimes even I find myself caught in the firing line of contradictory advice:
“Stop digging. The hole won’t get any smaller.”
To be on the safe side I do keep digging until my worst fear – the hole getting bigger – is confirmed.
Holes are conundrums. On one hand, by virtue of being a hole, there is nothing. Just a hole. Which is fine as long as you are not in it. If you want to be swallowed go to Dartmoor. Or somewhere where squelching mud will suck you down. And all you did was set a foot wrong. But at least you won’t leave a hole.
I like gardening. You dig a hole – on purpose. You plant a plant. Fill hole around plant with soil till hole is full – et voila. Come spring all you have to fight are squirrels, deer, cute bunnies, your cat, a neighbour’s dog (the swine), naturally, snails and slugs – and you wonder why you ever thought gardening and its more serious cousin, farming, were a calling rather than a curse.
You know what a vocation is? When you can’t help yourself. Vocation, a calling, is usually associated with those of a true or imagined artistic bend and those who live in a monastery, defuse landmines and or do other foolish things to keep the status quo going. I tell you, and I mean it: Scrub a floor instead. At least you can eat off it and no one – not least yourself – expects you to win a noble prize.
Not having found my true destiny yet (other than facilitating the life of the most wonderful person in the world by dint of giving birth to him) I am toying with making a stab at crime writing. Not because I want to be published or carry murder in my heart. Far from it. But because I need to exercise my little grey cells before they turn purple. Anyway, some of the best crime writers are of advancing years. I am not surprised. Once life has had you through the wringer you know when best not to turn the knife.
My first case being that of “The Lost Kiwi”. A week before Christmas I bought a kiwi. I made it the crowning glory of my fruit bowl glowing with oranges, lemons and apples. When the time came that I fancied that Kiwi for breakfast it had disappeared. I try not to waste too much thought on anyone/anything doing a disappearing act. There, usually, is a good reason for continued absence and/or silence. One which escapes me but let’s give people (and things) the benefit of the doubt. After all, it might be all your fault for having mis/displaced them.
Before sending you on a goose chase with a story so wildly improbable (think Agatha Christie) I’ll give you the end. In quest to tidy both my life and the flat for a pristine new year an hour ago I first borrowed two pound Sterling short of my five. Then I set to work. And what do you know: I found The Kiwi. Underneath the dining room table. It must have rolled off. Ten days ago. Why? I don’t know. It’s difficult to question a Kiwi. Speculation is all. It might have been an accident (that’s my guess since I am of charitable disposition), it might have wished to escape its destiny ending up in my stomach – though why anyone/anything wouldn’t wish to meet their destiny in my stomach is beyond me). So who knows what happened. I myself blame gravity. Ask Newton.
The jury is still out as to whether this Kiwi is still edible. It feels soft to the touch. Maybe a touch too soft. I shall butcher it tomorrow when my stomach is empty and my senses not yet fully discerning.
Sweethearts, I am not saying I am one but this minute I most certainly do feel like an IDIOT.
Any ideas? Please spare me the glib. I need serious input. Unless it’s too late. In which case slime will do.
I like doing things for people. Not because I am selfless. Not at all. Like Mother Theresa I am totally selfish because I like doing things for people. So there.
For sensible reasons I find myself a recovering perfectionist. Not being perfect is hard when you are perfect and/or have aspirations. To help me along a hopeless path, once or twice a year, the Angel will ask me to wrap a present for him to give to, say, a work colleague. Mind: “Don’t make it perfect, Mama. It’s got to look as if I could have, conceivably, done it myself.” And thus I keep learning that it’s far harder to bodge a job than to get it right. This minute I am proud of myself. No one but no one would guess that I’ve wrapped those glasses.
Nice to be needed, don’t you think?
Yesterday’s outburst makes me deeply ashamed of myself. Please don’t think the worse of me. Or do.
I have taken down the text of “Frazzled”. Those of you who commented I will answer. As the Angel pointed out my being ‘frazzled’ more to do with my current lack of vision (in the literal sense), the result being an easily ignited irritability. Even the bloody Basil (which only served as a symbol) let its leaves hang overnight.
Anyway, my dear dear mother called me this afternoon, troubled since she can’t stand anything coming between us. Neither can I. In many ways, as old as I am myself, it’s comforting that she picked up the phone first. Reminds you of olden times: Being cared for. Run to mother. She’ll blow it better. So, once more all is good, all is well. All I now need is my clarity back. Equilibrium will follow.
As an aside to all of those of you affected by physical/mental ailment, discomfort and misery (yours or that of those close to you): One thing I have learnt that you can’t compare one person’s pain to another – in the MOMENT. In the moment we are utterly self absorbed. The moment I stub my toe and it hurts I don’t feel better because I am not dying of brain cancer. I know it sounds awful. But it’s the truth. Only when that toe stops throbbing do we get life (not least that of others) back into perspective.
On which happy note: Do not drop an ice pick (on your toe).