Leaving France’s fashion and mind police aside for a moment, has any of you ever had dealings with home grown and/or police on foreign ground?
Don’t be shy about it. If you have robbed a bank or dug up your grandmother’s grave to pawn her wedding ring, obviously that’s private. And doesn’t count. Desperate times warrant not so savoury measures.
I mean the common garden gnome variety run in with the law. And are you jumpy as soon as the blue lights flash and the siren howls?
I am incensed – for many reasons – about France’s burkini ban.
So we, in the sacred “WEST”, so concerned about women’s “rights”, come out and tell a woman what (not) to wear in public? Are people actually ticking alright? Four guys (police – law inforcers) standing around a woman on some beach making her take off clothes? In public? If this isn’t outrageous I don’t know what is.
It is violation. It’s indecent. It’s invasion of privacy.
Anyway, let me lighten up and reverse this. In the name of beauty, aesthetics and general psycho hygiene I’d like men AND women – particularly of the less than life enhancing bulk – to cover up. Don’t insult my senses. See how ridiculous this is? You can make up shit on any compost heap. Don’t let it stink out the place.
One more thought and then I’ll shut up on the subject of religion that’s occupied my thoughts the last few days:
One may ponder – and I have done so – why even those of us who wouldn’t describe themselves as religious do get married in church and, later on, have their children christened. And we, the collective we, do so, merrily, in our droves. Does that make us hypocrites? I don’t know.
Being of a practical bend I see those ceremonies as that what binds a family, a community, together, officially, through celebration. In the case of a christening – the welcoming of a child and introduction into wider family, “god” parents vowing in public to look after a child in parental absentia should the worst come to the worst.
What an exhausting subject religion proves to be – again and again and then some more …
This post is inspired by Cheerful Monk. Earlier today she reminded us that our long held believes/preconceptions need to be given a dusting and spring clean every so often. Be assessed as to their validity.
All day I let her thought ferment, mixed in with Magpie’s recent input, and what do you know? There I am ironing (I love ironing – you smooth out life’s creases, your mind free to wander), when the following popped into my mind. And I don’t like it.
A day or so ago I asserted that I was touched by those who pray for us. Magpie put his own stamp on it, then in the wake of Jean’s observation I suddenly thought: “OH MY GOD, why do I assume, why do any of us assume, that just because someone prays for us they do have our best interests at heart?”.
Don’t iron. That’s the sort of mind blowing stuff your idle brain will come up with whilst your hands are kept busy.
The older I get the more difficult I find it to voice my voice.
I know this flies in the face of wisdom, namely that the older you get the freer you feel to voice your voice.
I believe that when you are young you can get away with saying anything that springs into your mind and pops out of your mouth. Later? Later you reflect on what you have said. And even later you (try to) think before you speak. If this keeps going the pace it currently is you, Sweethearts my dear readers, will be so (un)happy to know that where once there was a merrily spouting well this mountain spring is drying up.
“Caution” is the word that comes to my mind more and more often. Translated into real Ursula speak “Forget it, leave it, it’s not worth it, say all you like won’t change a thing, save your breath, don’t waste time”. Disappointing. I know. Who’d have thought it? Me of all people. Shutting up shop.
It’s been long in the making. Now it has dawned on me.
Parents of more than one child please do take note: Just because one or two of your children give you grief, demand your constant attention, doesn’t mean that the rest of your brood is immune to life’s vicissitudes.
On the whole I do find my dreams entertaining. My dreams are stories, often riddles, mostly pointers as to where I need to find my feet in waking life.
However, there is one type of what I call a “half” dream which I find disconcerting. This usually involves other people (mainly the Angel) and their wellbeing. And – please don’t laugh – the phone will ring (in my dream). The phone will ring so convincingly in my dream that I wake and reach for it. During that moment of reaching for it I wake and realize it was “just” a dream.
Bear with me. It’s not remotely amusing. It’s frightening. And I am not easily frightened, if at all.
Tonight, and I write this with my heart as heavy as only a heart can be heavy in the middle of the night, my father “phoned”. It is the call I dread. The call I will not know what to say to my father. He said my name, and then he fell silent. So we stayed silent – it’s not easy to say nothing when on the phone.
And then I woke, the phone wasn’t ringing – and I trust my mother is still alive.
People will say: I’ll pray for you. And that is very kind if – usually – just a throw away remark.
However, twice in my life was I touched by the sincerity of their promise. The first time was some years ago when I turned up at my solicitor. I was in dire need of solid advice. The moment he told me “I’ll pray for you” and he did, there and then and in front of me, I knew my chips were down. Not that he charged me for his time.
The second [assurance I’d be prayed for] was only a few days ago. Given with the sincerity a child offers (children don’t bullshit). And you know what? I was happy. I, the person who doesn’t “believe” was actually happy that someone thought me worthy enough to include me in their prayers.
Apart from the pleasure that communicating with others give me, my blogs and those of others have been and are an education.
An education not least how and when to keep my lips zipped, my keyboard locked and generally being “nice” [make the latter not say anything at all – which is the hardest].
I could (and, in due course, no doubt will) mention many an example where and when bloggers (including myself) could do with a lesson.
A lesson. Just now I happened onto a post (I think posted 12 August) of a blogger who is a harpy. And I mean a harpy. Her harpy always but always complains. Not least about her commentators. Mainly because they are American. In her eyes Americans have nothing to say. Other than “nice”. Which is fine. We all have a bone to bury and then dig up. In her case it’s Americans who are hooked on her. Gratitude? Don’t make me laugh. Disdain is her default mode. Does she lap up the adulation? Of course she does. Even if she spits on it. So far so fine. Whatever sinks your boat.
What I don’t like – and maybe she’d like to think about it – that she allows comments yet never answers any of them. That’s not communication. That’s not discourse. Most certainly it’s not discussion. It’s “Come to my court”, and be dismissed.
As not to be misunderstood, I quite like her. Yet, truth be told, she is hard work as I have rarely encountered.
So, what got my wrath just now, reading her last post? She is a saint. A saint. Let’s leave it there before she recognizes herself as the saint she is.