Bitch on the Blog

September 22, 2017

Treasure

Filed under: Atmosphere,Environment,Human condition,Joy — bitchontheblog @ 21:42
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Unleashing my inner archiver (as opposed to archivist).

Taking an inventory is a close relative of making lists. My desire for order being the other side of my coin. Some years ago I lost a great deal (not least my dignity) since when I have become not obsessed by but fond of knowing what’s what where. Why doesn’t come into it. And it’s always the “how” that has potential to trip me up.

Do you have (physical) objects in your life that give you joy every time you happen to gaze upon them; every time you touch them? What would you hate to “lose”?

Whilst you think about it I’ll wipe a tear or two such an emotional subject it is to me.

U

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September 20, 2017

Restraining order

Thanks to  all of you who took the trouble contributing to my last post, not least Looney who I hope won’t cause himself lasting damage.

I am happy to report that my attempt at saying nothing when I have nothing nice to say is paying off. It’s grand. I feel like a violin which has lost its varnish. Soon I’ll be the vision I have always dreamed of, an elegiac Miss Havisham dressed in white and brittle lace, surrounded by hard icing on a cake never cut, cobwebs merrily reproducing, a general sense of decay and, naturally, the vital ingredient, namely silence. Which in my case is not golden. It drips with benign acid.

U

September 9, 2017

Subterfuge

One of the more painful lessons, to me, as life marches on: Learning to bite my tongue.

I don’t think I have ever been needlessly tactless (well, two occasions come to mind – I blush to this day at how thoughtless I was); however I am outspoken. No more. I shall bite my tongue till it’s bled dry. Let my wasteland be your desert.

The beauty of thought that in the privacy of your skull you may think what you like. No one knows. Brilliant. Except that, as the social beings we are, we’d like to give a thought a voice. Yes, sad day, when you start weighing expenditure of energy against gain. Just nod. And say, “Yes, yes, of course”. Yes, yes, yes, yes … Or stay silent. Do not cast a shadow of even the slightest doubt over someone’s assertion. People don’t like it. I could tell you why they don’t like it. However, do remember, see above, I am learning to bite my tongue.

Of course, and that is why my self imposed curse of biting my tongue will last no more than this post, it’s no way to live. The most basic law of physics dictates that that there needs to be friction (think thunder and lightning) for there to be a spark.

U

September 5, 2017

Let me bore you

“Listen to the whispers before they become shouts.” Excellent advice. Eternal optimist that I am I tend to wait till fate “shouts” at me – which will, naturally, take me by surprise. As I was [taken by surprise] in last night’s dream. It’s one of those that you’ll never forget because it seems poignant and has all the hallmarks of becoming one of those serial dreams which are most instructive.

Though, this minute, difficult to make head or tail of it despite the fact that it actually involved some strange birdlike blood thirsty creatures with both heads (well, mostly beaks) and tails. And bloody fast they were too. Most of the carnage took place in a bathroom, blood (mine) all over the place. The bind I was in that, desperately trying to fight off those suckers (screwing their heads into my flesh) and an impulse to flee, I had to decide whether to open the door to escape, thereby unleashing those little bastards onto everyone else in the vicinity (the bathroom was in a large department store, not dissimilar to Harrods) or stay put. To my shame I did open the door because I couldn’t stand it any longer. My ankles and lower legs in shreds already, my back and lower arms savaged several times.

As it turned out they were only after me, no one else got hurt. Well, that’s exclusivity for you. Or should that be “being targeted”. I didn’t feel flattered. I felt bewildered, not least because once unleashed into the open they largely lost interest in me too. Maybe, of course, that very last line holds the key (some key, part thereof) to what this dream was trying to tell me. If I take some of the dream interpretations you find online into account, then I better adjust my rear view mirror in case someone/something is sneaking up behind me. And don’t forget it all took place in a previously pristine bathroom … out of view of the public.

Sweethearts, thanks for listening. Tell me what you think or just tell me your own dreams even if, like Ramana, you can never remember them. Which, come to think of it, Ramana, most likely means that you are protecting yourself from what your subconscious is trying to tell you. It might make for a peaceful life but …

Jungian greetings,

U

August 28, 2017

Nuance

Sweethearts, dearest Sweethearts. I am in danger. Of losing the plot. Let’s rephrase that: I am in danger of writing a plot no one will be able to follow.

Never mind. It’ll keep for another nightmare.

In the meantime I wrote earlier today, in answer to and occasion of an article claiming that queuing (in England) isn’t what it used to be. Thank the Lord.

“I am not British though have lived most my adult life in England.

As a nation, you take queuing too far and thus engender true unpleasantness. One of many occasions sticking out when I wasn’t even sure whether I wanted to buy fish. To be inspired I peered over the shoulders of many a person in the queue at the fish counter only to be met with a sharp, and hostile, pointer towards “the end of the queue”. Come again? What’s with being so anxious to lose “your” place? All I was doing was looking, not endangering your place in the hierarchy. As if one would.

For all their reputation of being relaxed and polite – the English most certainly are not the former, and not always the latter.”

So far none of the other commentators has told me to go home. What Brexiteers miss is that England IS my home. Well, I suppose depends how you define home. Home for me could be a hovel, a castle, the gutter in any old place (Mars, Siberia, Outer Mongolia), any country. Doesn’t matter. Home is where I am. All I need is a roof, a candle and a matchstick. No, not to burn the place down. To see where I am and what I am doing.

Yes, queues, I am all for organized chaos. Take the motherland. Go to the butchers, preferably when everyone else is going (say eleven in the morning, Blutwurst and all), go to the bakers (say between half past seven and eight in the morning when everyone wants fresh rolls). No one “queues”. Everyone knows when it’s their turn. Fine difference, don’t you think?

U

August 27, 2017

Exotic

Ramana mentioned pineapple in his last post. I am fond of pineapple. I even have a pineapple corer. One of those concoctions you screw down the center of a whole and fresh pineapple  to come away, well, with the core. Come to think of it, so fond of fruit am I, I have a melon baller too. Employed about an hour ago. I am attached to both my serrated tomato knife and my curved grapefruit one. You may say, a knife for all occasions, not least the butcher’s one I managed to slice my finger tips off with. Don’t worry. It didn’t hurt. Yes, that sharp it was. I just bled like a pig. Unnoticed by me till my guests pointed out red running down my apron. Nothing that A&E can’t fix. In fact, in A&E, they prefer the stupidly unaware like me to the drunk unawares with broken jaws and stuff. During the early hours of Saturday and Sunday morning.

One of the questions Ramana’s questionnaire put which pain the worst you ever endured. I don’t know.  Teeth spring to mind. Last time, can’t remember now exactly when, maybe two years ago, an abscess emerged from nowhere. One moment I was fine, the next morning the Angel told me I looked like “American Dad”. If you don’t know what American Dad looks like please don’t google him. He looks like a big man with a big chin. Still, his wife loves him.

Unlike my mother – who I believe uses the excuse of headaches to get herself out of scrapes – I never ever suffer headaches. There were two – a bit like migraine – in my early twenties, diagnosed as tension headaches. If tension is like finding your skull in a vice grip then, yes, they were definitely tension headaches. Sweethearts, you haven’t lived nor given birth to your first child till you have had a tension headache. Back in the motherland a colleague of mine, wired to the tune of perfection, had migraines, on and off. She’d sit at her desk, blinds down, room darkened, tears involuntarily running down her face. whilst battling on. Our boss would send her home habitually which, as her sidekick, used to put me into rather a spot.

Other than that, and back to pineapple, my first “real” boyfriend used to make his friends his one and only masterpiece (he was a painter among the rest of all the painters in our circle; one made it big, yes LSF – longest standing friend). T’s masterpiece? Hawaii Toast. Ham and pineapple. It was divine. Thomas killed himself in his early twenties. Pineapple didn’t feature. His father was a psychologist. His mother a little absent minded.

U

August 25, 2017

The ducking stool

Main thing in life?

Be honest. At least to yourself. Bullshitters will spend many an unhappy moment scraping off shit they inadvertently managed to stand in. No, let’s rephrase that: Bullshitters will spend many an unhappy moment sniffing shit they deliberately threw at someone else. It’s why I never touch a boomerang. You’ll have it coming.

In the spirit of which I am in awe of one of my “categories” I slammed on WordPress ages ago, namely, “Pretentious Shit”. To my chagrin, not many of my posts warrant to be categorized as pretentious shit. Never fear. Where there is muck there is bull, and where I lack – others will fill me in.

Once upon a time, someone asked me a rather strange question. That she was American is immaterial not least because she was ill disposed towards me: “Who talks like you?” Excellent question. Who talks like me? I do. Even if deemed pompous, pretentious shit. At least it’s mine rather than regurgitated other people’s shit.

Yes, so, in quest for advice I earned myself a lecture yesterday. From the Angel. I wish someone had brought me up like I did the Angel. That guy is so switched on. The error of my ways in blogland obvious and glaring. Which, considering that I should have worn sunglasses before it was too late, is glaring indeed. I will not intone as to what he had to say about social media and other crimes to humanity in general, and my particular engagement with blogging.

Hugs, hisses and kisses,

U

 

 

August 23, 2017

Bail

Filed under: Atmosphere,dreams — bitchontheblog @ 20:09
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Apropos of nothing: What’s your nightmare scenario?

I have two: One which I relive a lot of nights in my dreams. Mainly that I always have to pack up (sometimes a whole house), never enough time to do so and even if I do manage to, just about, the car/train/whatever transport will be packed and I don’t have enough hands to handle it all. On a particularly good night’s sleep the platform’s number eludes me. Or my car’s axle breaks under the weight of the kitchen sink. The last scene I made up, the rest is true.

The second and worser than worse nightmare is being imprisoned. Considering how much I fear being locked up I fear for myself. Because, in my experience, that which we fear most will eventually look over our shoulder. Please do tell me otherwise whilst not neglecting to tell me (see above) your worst nightmare scenarios – or at least one of them.

U

 

August 14, 2017

Not so nice

Filed under: Human condition,Integrity — bitchontheblog @ 19:30
Tags: , ,

Holy what’s it. There is a threshold. Some people die before they have barely drawn their first breath, some people die – at, say, fifty.

And some people live. Forever.

My parents a point in case. My mother is eighty four, my father eighty. You’d think they’d have the good grace to abdicate. Well, my mother will, soon. My father? Not so much out of spite as determination he’ll probably live long enough to refuse attending any of his four children’s funerals because it’s just too much hassle.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. All I know is that I have had it with being held to ransom. Most of you, my readers older than me, most of you having buried or are about to bury your parents, please do throw me a morsel of comfort. What? Throw me a morsel of comfort? How selfish. What I meant to say: Please don’t do to your children what I most certainly hope to spare the Angel.

So much for cheer. I’ll crank it up with my next post.

Lost, lost, lost and ashamed,

U

August 13, 2017

Pressure cooker

I am torn. Not for the first time, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, I need to write a letter (an official one). I wish I had two options but I don’t. Option Number One to tell them exactly what I think and where to fuck off. No doubt it would add hilarity to their otherwise dull day yet land me in shit big time. My aim being to come out of a hairy situation smelling like roses.

The world is full of Hypo Crazy. Sometimes I wish I’d gone into being a stylist (ref. photography).

So, in order to NOT land me in shit big time, I have to duff my cap and toe the line.

You know what the worst of writing an official letter is? You can’t employ sarcasm. No, not because it’d be wasted on the officials in question. The opposite. They’ll see it exactly for what it is. Taking the mickey. Which, privately, they may enjoy, officially they have to condemn it to the sin bin with the power of making you pay.

Thanks for listening. Am now bracing myself for keeping it all under a lid whilst simmering.

U

 

 

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