Sweethearts, all of you, thank you so much for your answers to my question. Not least because I didn’t expect any [answers].
First prize in category of actually understanding it goes to John and Russell Crowe. United in some piss up.
First prize in category of intellectual and philosophical substance goes to Ramana. Freedom. Yes, Ramana. Freedom. And not having to ask for it. Dreamy.
The rest of you may go home with a consolation prize, lick your wounds and come back for more later.
Why? Because you answered, varyingly, with ‘true friendship’ (yes, Old Foss, the holy grail, one of the biggest gifts to bestow and be bestowed with by good fortune), ‘love and affection’ (Nick, Magpie). Whilst your answers touching there is a tiny flaw considering my original question: Who we feel love and affection for (and vice versa) is out of our hands. No one can ask for an emotion.
Unless you are a dog. Dogs are good that way. The dog is not yours. You don’t even like it. Yet they have a way of looking at you (asking for it) you give in. Ok, then. I’ll stroke you (hope you haven’t got any fleas – for some reason dog and cat fleas like me, an affection not reciprocated), I’ll give you a bone. Anything else? Right. Excellent. Let’s go for a walk. Anything for a bit of peace and quiet. Just don’t lick me out of sheer gratitude. Or I’ll set the cat on you.
If I told you which thought brought on yesterday’s question you’d pity me (I’d rather you didn’t) or bury me under an avalanche of … Which is very sweet of all of you. But please don’t trouble yourselves.
Hugs and hisses,
Too personal a question so I don’t expect any of you to answer it: What would you like and appreciate to be given without asking for it?
At beginning of class our teachers would not only tick boxes but expand – in writing, on the margin – who had remained silent when their name was called.
One of my favourites: “Ursula shines. Despite her absence.”
There have been many reasons, offered to me on a platter both personal and political, when and why I should have left England years ago.
I was ready before. I am ready now. Have never acted on it. Doubt I will.
Today’s news that there are voices which ask water canons to be legalized in Britain to keep masses at bay.
Reason: ‘Austerity’ makes people ‘revolt’. Really? Who’d have thought it.
If I were a man with enough testosterone in me I’d trash something. That angry I am this minute.
Some time soon, don’t cry, I shall put down my pencil and knit. There is purpose to knitting. You might end up with a scarf. Socks at a push. Or even a VERY long and VERY thin tie as I did for my father when I was little and still thought that parents were gods. The tie was yellow. Bright. To his credit he left the house with it. No wonder it took me decades to get slightly, only slightly, disillusioned with the world. The things I made for my mother you don’t want to know about. Particularly those I never finished. Goethe said that there is never more hope than at the beginning. And he was right. As he is. Someone else, and he is even righter, that to finish something is hard. And it is. You start something (say knitting), you drop a stitch (unnoticed by you till thirty rows later). Then you have a choice. Depending on temperament and character: Unravel or forget about it.
To this day I am undecided.
Sometimes I find myself (a few hours later) writing crap. As I did in a comment to Friko saying something along the lines that “I AM dead critical. Yet not a perfectionist any longer because life is too short to be a perfectionist”. I CAN NOT believe it. I may be an utter failure and older than five. But I am still a perfectionist. Wait till you have eaten my almond cake. Which is divine. Even by my standards.
I don’t ‘analyze’ people. I go by instinct. And my instinct doesn’t let me down. So I won’t anal-yze David Bailey, the photographer. He has just confirmed all I have ever known about him. Which I’d rather not elaborate on considering …
“I always liked girls who look like boys”. Yes. Savour that. If I were Marianne Faithful or, say, his wife, I’d go Italian. I’d go so Italian I’d call on the brigade of my sons. Most sons are attached to their mother and there’d be carnage. Particularly if your mother had the curves of Sophia Loren, Lollobrigida et al. And even if your mother was BB in her teens you’d take issue with such a shit statement. If you are in the closet come out of it. Don’t use women (who look like boys) to jerk off into. Get yourself a boy. The real thing.
As you may remember, and please don’t, I read a lot. One of my daily bread’s health hazards.
You think YOU are addicted? Whatever your poison: Try print. I am in despair and determined. It’s got to stop.
One could say hurtful truths directed at people who write. But I won’t. Not as long as I read. The crux falls and limps away with a bruise: It’s like dog shit. Supersized. 2000 words on one blog entry alone. How interesting do you think your life is other than to you and your mother?
Before anyone goes mad at me: Remember it’s Sunday afternoon and Sunday afternoon does bring out the worst in me. My father is still alive but I already remember him and his advice fondly: Cut, cut, cut and cut again.
There is so much as ‘too little’.
A few days ago someone mistook me for an Italian. It happens. I do tend to speak with my hands. Try that on the telephone.
If there is one thing the blogging world has taught me is how to shut my mouth and sit on my hands. You can’t fucking say anything. Which frustrates me no end. But it’s ok. We all have to learn something and I have learnt that the blogging world has taught me to shut up and sit on my hands.