Futile

A couple of days I promised a fellow blogger to take her and her vanity apart.

Alas, I won’t indulge her. Anyway, I am not a blog murderer and gentle souls need to be indulged lest they bruise.

Her indignation (she is easily offended) was sparked by my hinting that her blog takes some considerable effort to (physically)  read. In fact I might have called this post STYLE OVER SUBSTANCE. 

Here is what I wrote and if you, any of my other readers (and I mean it), find that my criticism was over the top, could have been worded differently please do let me know. Blogging is NOT a one way street and all of us (well, those capable to do so) can learn from each other.

The subject matter was “WHY”. No doubt what Lin wrote was very interesting, however … if “style” takes over from “content” then please do not shoot this messenger.

“I wonder WHY you write in that (to me) so terribly irritating style of wide spacing. It literally does my head in. Since you appear to have an interest in music may I say that your layout reminds me of Stockhausen. And that’s not a compliment. Paragraphs are there for a reason – not poetic licence.

Secondly, and it speaks volumes about you, WHY are your readers’ comments virtually undecipherable against the black, orange and yellow background in the box? Yet, your answers are clear- black on white.

On both counts, Lin, and this is not an attack just an observation, you are inconsiderate to those who take the time.

U”

Some people go the way of least resistance. Hence the lady in question has not only deleted my comment (so unsure she is of herself she moderates before your comment sees the shadow of her comment box); she has now barred me to comment on her blog. I rarely laugh AT people but this was the perfect occasion. Laughing is good for you. So, Lin, thanks for that. However, your behaving like a toddler who (understandably) doesn’t yet have a grasp on the world around him is not becoming in a person of advanced years.

Since we are at it: Some time ago you took me to task (again on Ramana’s blog) as to my mentioning “the artistic temperament”. I promised you a reply. A promise I didn’t keep since, on reflection, it is a subject as tedious to write about as the artistic temperament itself. Still, better late than never. And before you start crying let me hand you a tissue. I am surrounded by people who create. I, personally, only cook. Someone has to. To keep all those artistes in fine fettle. Yes, the artistes in my life. Family, friends (I have no foes). There are those [artistes] who are robust and their own hardest critic. Which is going over the top the other end. Not to say counterproductive. And then there are those (the majority) where you quickly learn how to walk on eggshells. Dear, dear, dear, dear. Thy halo shall not be overcast by the slightest shadow of doubt over the merit of what you “create”. It’s hard work being round artists. It really is. And that’s before there is a pram in the hallway.

Where were we? “Consideration”. If I do have one pet hate it’s people being inconsiderate. In the little small ways of life. So, and please, Lin, take this as it’s meant – kindly, benignly – if you double/triple space your blog prose so I feel like running a hurdle race you are not doing yourself any favours. Sure, there will be those who fawn to you. Take it from me: Forms (like manners) are there to be observed to make life easy. How conceited can one (you) be to think that what you write is so interesting that a reader will be seasick on the journey. Remember, we are NOT talking content, we are talking STYLE. Let’s put it into another context: If you wear a terrific dress so terrific that no one takes any notice of YOU, the person, wearing it wouldn’t it be better to wear a bin liner?

Anyway, Lin, you have enriched my life in ways you don’t have the guts to appreciate. Which reminds me: Unless I am mistaken you do live in Germany, don’t you? How do you survive in an environment so outspoken only surpassed by Scandinavia?

U

 

Tabula Rasa

Sweethearts, I have done the maths. 2 plus 2 makes a little under five. No more.

Done the spring cleaning (back in April). Now it’s late May. Time to attend to detail.

U

 

 

Not necessarily

On the whole generalizations stink. However, yesterday I made a my earth shattering discovery. Stand by to be astounded: Generalizations  (a bit like cliches) do serve a purpose. Don’t raise an eyebrow. They do they do they do [serve a purpose]. Namely that they simplify things.

Why this hadn’t occurred to me earlier I don’t know. I suppose some of the best is left to last.

Yes, sigh, so there I was watching an astonishing family drama unfolding. On screen. I have always known about family dynamics but this was a bit like rinsing my contact lenses/glasses to see more clearly. I haven’t got the faintest idea what the hell is going on.

There are six characters. A mother and a father, and four siblings – three brothers, one sister. Which, I suppose, is worse (for the boys) than being one brother (like my own) among three sisters. The bit that kept and keeps confusing me is that I continually mistake the second son for the eldest. Why? Because – remember we are talking about generalizing/stereotypes – in this epic the eldest is the bad boy, the black sheep. Whilst number two is the good guy, the responsible one, you get the drift. It’s the wrong way round. Naturally, the youngest is a total emotional pain in the proverbial – but that’s what you expect of the youngest. No surprises there.

So, yes, my world is now slightly topsy turvy, having to pinch myself to remind myself who is who in the sequence of siblings. I don’t know what your assorted experiences are, either within your family of origin or the family you have created yourself. Please do let me know if you can stomach it.

In terms of how far psychology can throw its stone and cast its shadow I am BOTH, hallelujah, an only (because I am quite a bit older than my siblings) AND an eldest (with all that entails – remember, the subject is generalization/stereotypes) so I have, literally, had the best of both worlds. I don’t say this lightly not least because it reflects on me if after my own experience of family and observing those of others there are only two things to be: The one and only, or the eldest. I am so grateful I dare hardly to whisper it.

Slaughter me. Little more damage can be done than the havoc my siblings have (in recent years) created. I am the eldest – my mother’s words to that effect ring in my ear and to this day she expects me to be the peace maker – and, by nature, I am [the peace maker], but you can only make as much peace as the other players allow. My youngest sister, again playing to stereotype, recently confided in me that she always felt she was looked upon as totally incompetent. Really? Well, I never. Can’t believe it. We used to call her the “Professor” when she was barely big enough to sit on a swing. She had that deep thoughtful look. Not, of course, that a frown makes for intelligence.

My other sister? The long awaited and so eagerly greeted by me first sibling? She fits the stereotype of the second child so perfectly it’s painful. It took decades for her to reveal how much she resents me. Mind you, that’s nothing compared to the fact that she (earth mother) left her family, a husband who loves her and a bewildered herd of children (she wanted) in their teens a couple of years ago. But (I suppose) that’s what seconds do. Self destruct. So, yes, back to my watching of aforementioned TV drama, I am confused. That set of siblings does not play by the “natural” order of things.

In case you are wondering about my brother (number three). He keeps well out of everything. To the extent that he appears (note APPEARS) – but isn’t – totally aloof to conflict. His wife of over twenty years, one of the many women who adore him, asked me the other day about my take on her husband’s inner workings. Well, what can I say? Obviously by the time he hit his teenage years I’d already left home so I wasn’t privy to all that happened. All I know that he is one of those affable people who avoid conflict at all cost and, in my opinion  grow an inner crust. Let’s just hope he won’t implode.

So, my dear readers, having laid a significant part of my life open please do let me know where you are in the order of siblings or if, like my brother, you’d rather not be too close up and personal tell me what you think about my theory on generalizations. Namely that they simplify.

U

 

Ephemeral

By temperament and nature I tend to comfort people and animals. What people and animals? All of them. Earlier I spoke to … don’t ask.

This post has potential to NOT be comforting. Particularly as some of my readership is slightly/vastly older than me. “Vastly” is, obviously, relative – but there you go. I am twenty five to your 76. My breaking point – and by design I took it in my stride – when I realized that I will have fewer years ahead than those lived. This may sound obvious. It’s still a bit of a shock. Once upon a time the future stretched out ahead of you like, I don’t know, the Sahara/The Grand Canyon/or whatever else is vast, the next you are in a damp cellar. Never mind. I’ve lost my thread. Give me a moment.

Got it back [my initial thought]. I do appreciate that some of you I am in holy and sometimes unsettling communion with do have physical problems. Not necessarily anything alarming or dramatic. Just niggling. Curbing your appetite. Don’t ask me to join [the club]. I absolutely refuse to succumb. Drag me back to the cave on my hair – I WILL NOT SUCCUMB.

And here is my point – and I have high hope of all of you to throw your creaks into the Canyon: To this day I take my body for granted. If I were a car – in terms of years – I might find myself in a ditch (break pads worn). I would ACCEPT it. As I am not a car of considerable mileage I am ASTOUNDED when bits of my machinery make themselves known. One of my wrists clicks at a certain angle of movement (result of multiple breakage) every so often, though rarely, and what do you know: Suddenly I am AWARE of my body. When I really want to frighten myself I wake in the early hours and wonder what on earth is going on INSIDE. You know, all the bits you can’t see, laying dormant making as little noise as a mouse (ie none). Not a twinge. That’s subterfuge. When I want to scare myself even further I imagine rotting away inside without noticing it till it’s too late. You may ask “too late for what?”. My sentiment entirely.

I am no hypochondriac yet will confess to TWO things: I am in total awe of what the human body can withstand, what’s the second? There are too many seconds to choose from.

Hugs, kisses, hisses, wishing us all well,

U

 

Cost benefit analysis

In response to the question of someone contemplating motherhood one commentator left the following:

“Don’t bother, it’s a waste of time. All that effort and then one day they will just die anyway. Pointless.”

Seriously, not even Sartre can beat this for a laugh.

Take it from this mother: The joy outweighs the certainty.

U

Jack in the Box

Forget “beginnings” in my last aborted post. Ends is where it’s at. It speaks volumes for my mind’s capacity that I can’t remember what I wrote. I therefore take great comfort from my mother’s words “If you can’t remember, it wasn’t important.” No doubt she was/is right – however, whilst I don’t take myself THAT seriously, I do hate to deprive mankind of all those pearls of mine – some of which are lost on swine.

As of this morning all is well, all is good. Unless technology throws another spanner into my workings trying to shut me up and down I’ll be throwing myself onto the page with customary abandon. If that sounds like a promise – it is.

U