Evocative

My mother and I, over the span of the life she and I have shared, sometimes talk about the “senses”. Which one either of us wouldn’t mind to lose as much an other. Try it. You’ll soon come unstuck.

Today, smell came to mind. Yes, smell. I bought a melon. My intention was a WATER melon since it’s the coolest thing when it’s hot but their weight made me buy a small Galia instead. What distinguishes a watermelon from a Galia?  A whole, as yet not cut open, watermelon smells of nothing. A Galia? Oh my god. Nectar of the gods.

Smell is evocative. Be it a perfume, be it an aftershave, be it a flower, be it musty. One whiff – in passing, on the high street, at a party – and what do you know: Bingo. Transported to another time, another place.

What are your smell(y) memories? Do they make you smile, weepy, long for, or full of disgust?

U

 

Authenticity

Every so often I do remember my blog’s name and that I have to honour it. And do a bit of bitching.

Yes, so there is someone in blogland (no blog of her own) who regularly and frequently leaves comments on blogs which we both frequent.

However, and I am annoyed with myself, she is beginning to get on my nerves big time. To understand – the few blogs I do follow I always read all comments,  in detail.

Why is she beginning to get on my nerves?

I tell you why: It’s one thing to be human – foibles, tempers (good and all), being misguided, argumentative, under the weather either temporarily or permanently, whatever. It’s another to be saccharine to the point of dripping. That woman is incredible. If I were her I’d encourage myself to become a professional condolence letter writer. She is so CONSISTENTLY “sweet” it borders on insincere. I don’t like insincere.

I have “known” her for, say, a couple of years now and started imagining her life. I can’t give away her locality – let’s just say I can see her wafting through the wines, no, not daisy waving; an illusion of herself. I can see her being the saint of her, possibly and most likely vocal if faintly bored, family. What I mostly see is her weaving her sugar net of constant and indiscriminate approval of others (and thereby, by implication, approval of her in return). Everything any blogger does or says she approves of, not only lavishing praise but piling it on. It’s almost fraudulent.

Sweetheart, life doesn’t work like that. If you want people to take you seriously then the odd questioning or not agreeing with a blogging friend would add greatly to your credibility. The odd jarring note.  A bit of critical distance. Not everything someone does or says is laudable. If any of my friends (blog or other) and family would be as approving of everything I do, say or cook as you appear to be of others I’d run screaming to the hills. I’d think they were taking the piss.

Still, in your defense – and it really really really wasn’t “nice” what you said there a day or so ago – who’d have thought it you had it in you; in a sort of underhand way you left a comment, somewhere, which makes you the bigot I thought you were all along. Yes, yes, sweet …… and what do you know … condemning a whole demographic group. Can’t say I enjoyed your (gentle – naturally)  malicious thought. Prefer your saccharine. As cloying as it is.

And before any of my readers do an “Iris” (what’s happened to the oracle?)  and tell me who I am referring to: Don’t. Because if you identify her she is guilty as charged.

U

794 words

The last few days haven’t been good. I shouldn’t admit to it since those who are less than well disposed towards me will make good use of it.

Still, shame is mine, so admitting to having made a mega mistake serves me right.

The Angel thinks blogging isn’t good for me, isn’t my medium. He was pretty pissed off seeing me under the weather because of some blogging fockers making me into something I am not. What the Angel doesn’t understand is that I don’t mind the fockers. Let them gorge themselves on my innards. What’s it to me? I can go without. The prospect of forty days in the desert amounting to bliss. Make it eighty.

No, what pisses me off big time and put me out of sorts the last few days that people in blogland can make up any old story about you. Well, I suppose even that is digestible. What upset me the most how one Rachel turned on me, again, just as I thought she and I had turned a corner. It was good while it lasted.

Over the years I got to know her, via her blog and comments she left on others, I often thought her vaguely unhinged; so are many people. Doesn’t make them lepers to be avoided. But to actually, on the strength of one post of mine nothing to do with her (now deleted), to get her claws out again, her throwing my offer of friendship aside,  is unsettling. And yes, upsetting. I replied something to the effect that she isn’t the center of my universe and that that post was actually addressing someone else. Didn’t wash. It’s incredible that someone thinks all revolves around them. I suppose a psychologist would have field day. Which reminds me … oh dear, now I am laughing. Why I am laughing is for that circle to never find out (I am sworn to silence) and for me … well, laugh, I suppose. Yes, Circle Sweethearts, you don’t know the half of it. In the meantime stick to Chloe.

Yes, Chloe. She is an interesting character. I am not saying that because John and Rachel have decreed that I am Chloe.

Chloe is a character in her own right. She is a thorn in some sides. To the tune that some call her a troll. As we all know any self respecting blogger does have to have a troll. A bit like the Sculptor who – beast that he is – grabbed me, in despair and absence of anyone else, to be able to claim that he has a stalker. Stalkers (ask Nick – he reads all the right papers and magazines) are the latest fashion accessory. If you can’t claim you are being stalked you amount to nothing, nada, zilch. In absence of a real life stalker just make one up, a bit like what sculptors do. Making it up. With their chisel.

Back to Chloe. Whilst often I don’t get her point (say, when she mentions that Rachel, Cro and John are old – what’s that got to do with the price of cheese?), she also delivers some absolute pearls. Laugh out loud pearls. And she appears to be well read, intelligent. Yesterday, she recommended Rosa von Praunheim to John. John who doesn’t know whether he or his bulldog Winnie has farted, can’t differentiate one bit of snot from another, immediately dismissed her suggestion to google RvP. That’s what he does. Dismiss. Think again, John. Rosa (not his real name, his assumed name) did make films. Acclaimed films. Maybe that is what brought him to Chloe’s mind considering that your blog is called “Disasterfilm”. Or maybe the fact that Rosa is gay.  Which influenced material matter of his films. What the hell am I doing? Next I know Chloe will berate me for second guessing her intentions. Never mind. I am getting it from all sides. One more won’t matter.

Lost my thread there. Yes, Rachel. I am upset that dinghy overturned. Wonder what would have happened, as has many times in my life on account of my father’s career us moving every five minutes, if I had come up to her, on my first break in my new school, never shy being forward: “Would you like to be my friend?” She’d probably spat at me.  Her being full of fear, suspicion. Always seeing the bad instead of giving the good a chance. Fast forward a few decades and something that never happened to me has happened to me. Rejected outright. Maybe Chloe will have me.

I’ll shed one more tear on behalf of Rachel gone wrong and then put her – between John and Nick – into my hall of shame. The key is under the mat.

Hugs, hisses and general disenchantment,

U

Poison

Being Easter my thoughts turned to eggs. Not so much scrambled as chocolate.

I particularly like the tiny ones which I leave on every surface all over the house. Wrapped in green, gold, blue, pink foil. Atmospheric among vases of daffodils, and, obviously, keeping people in chocolate without being faced with a full on one, the size of an ostrich egg.

Yes, so with eggs on my mind just now I went for a stroll round the park when one of my lesser brain children was still born.

Trouble is, as soon as you set foot out of the house, misery will meet you. I make it my mission to wring a smile out of anyone coming into my vision, coming my direction. On the whole I am pretty successful. Despite my being the arsehole that I am depicted as in certain quarters in blogland, I am one of those amazing people whose beaming smile, a smile from the heart because I really really really like people, makes others, strangers, smile back. Children, adults, young men, old men, young women, old women. Dogs. It’s a gift. Let’s hope I’ll never suffer a stroke leaving my face immobile. Life won’t be the same again. In fact it’ll be shite.

Yes, eggs. So there I was looking everyone I came across this afternoon wide and into the eye, as I do, when I had this, at first glance, marvellous idea: How about if I gave every single person crossing my path today one of those tiny foil wrapped chocolate eggs? Obviously they’d take it. But, and this is the big BUT, would they eat it? More to the point: If a stranger gave me one would I eat it?

And thus an awful thought was born. Namely that the world we live in has made us suspicious of the kindness of strangers; suspicious in a way unrecognizable from the time when I was a child, a young adult. If I, of all people, forever trusting the good in mankind, can fathom a thought like that then the sad truth is that the world is effed.

Want one?

U

Deadpan

How is this for light relief:

Here at the South Coast of England the weather is generally mild. However, when it’s windy not only do you get the chill factor gripping you between your shoulder blades but find yourself caught in the occasional wind tunnel. You know the type that has potential to pull an imaginary rug from underneath your pins landing you horizontal, catching you unawares. Umbrellas do not need to apply.

Yes, so just now, out on an errant, I ran into an acquaintance of mine working in a less than ideal spot. “Gosh, you must be freezing”, I said to her. “No”, she said, “I am too tired”.

Sometimes you find brilliance where you least expect it.

U

The Alternative Comment Box – Interval 2

On good news, this afternoon I was briefly reminded of the joys of my childhood’s snow: We haven’t had this much in one day, here at the South Coast of England, in years. It’s lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely. What is, obviously, not so lovely that the English tend to go into siege mentality, a type of hysteria. Cubic meters of the white stuff other countries conquer easily make some English go into melt(!)down.

Anyway, minimalists and all those of you lumbered with people difficult to give presents to because they have everything money can buy and afflicted by that certain ennui that comes with saturation, here is your perfect dinner party gift for the host with most except nothing:

Just before arrival at and on said host’s doorstep, you gather as much snow as possible, preferably the kind that sticks together to allow you to sculpt it into, say, a snowball. Make it round. Perfectly round. Hand it to your host/ess who, naturally, will shrink away from it but reconsider in a second since it’s impolite to refuse a gift. Fast forward to dessert, nay, after dinner coffee: Your present will have melted. Gently. Leaving little trace other than a tiny puddle of water. Genius or what?

U

 

Dashed hope

The notion doesn’t just belong to Christmas. Though I did come across the subject in the context of it. Presents. Or should that read “expectations”?

What would you have liked to be given at any time, at any occasion, at any stage of your life – but didn’t? Worse, what were you given though you didn’t want it? Whilst you mull over both those questions so will I.

U

Que?

Don’t say my dreams aren’t amusing if draining.

Last night I fought two battles. The second vaguely baffling. As I was passing some restaurant on my way home I was offered a job to serve food at table. To start this instant. Typical. Ask me a favour, I’ll comply. Not that I was dressed for the job. My first customer’s order wasn’t for a meal, but some sort of whiskey on ice. It took me half an hour to fulfill the order, not least because it took me ages to open the bottle and then I had to find the ice. Meanwhile the clock, in my vision, was ticking. Then, somewhat belatedly, the actual bartender came to little rescue and it got worse from there. This is why I prefer daytime and wakening hours to slumber. Dreaming is stressful and you have no control over what the hell is going on.

My first [dream] however, did set me thinking. You know the third eye? Well, I had one. Right bang in the middle of, and between, my two “normal” eyes, slightly elevated on my foreheard. So far so good. However, I had to fight forces (in the dark) who told me all sorts of nonsense why I needed to give up my third eye, and what terrible things would befall me if I didn’t. I willed myself to wake up.

U

No sound

Sweethearts, an hour or so ago it was half past four British Summer Time (here in Britain) and I witnessed the most amazing piece of human interaction. By body language only. Think silent movie without subtitles.

As some of you may remember my study (where my desks are) provides a room with a view. A view of a most interesting street (interesting if you are into people watching).

Yes, so three geezers in front of a pub well known (not least to tourists). When I say geezers, I mean three white guys in their, say, late forties, early fifties – pint in hand (which I only mention since four thirty is ok when you are at a wedding or a funeral yet a little early on a Wednesday, unless, of course, you need some Dutch courage). At this point difficult to gauge whether they are just a bit excitable, on edge or twitchy by nature . Down the street comes a young black guy. You know what I like about black people? Even the ones born here, the ones who have never set foot into their country of origin, have that most amazing grace when moving. They don’t even need to dance, walking will suffice to support my view. Even better that this black youngster (say, mid twenties) wore all those colours (not least yellow, red and white) that so offset contrast to their skin. Joyful comes to mind. So, yes, he was extremely well turned out – as opposed to the three white “geezers”. Anyway, all started amicably enough, if a little tense. Enter body language. I have no idea what it was about. After an initial hello it took all but two minutes to go pear shaped. Gestures were made. Fingers were pointed. Arms were folded. Slight leaning forward. The geezers that is. Black and colourful guy unmoved. Whatever ground he needed to stand he stood it. Then he walked off and away. So far so fine. Enter act two. Now the the geezers start at each other. Two clearly telling main geezer that he got it oh so wrong. Main geezer takes refuge inside pub followed by geezer two who appears to be torn as to whose side best to take to cover his own back. Geezer three remaining outside taking drags on his cigarettes as if it were his mother’s last drop of breast milk. The End. Except the sequel won’t be ending well at all.

As an aside, it’s amazing what you can observe, a couple of floors above street level, without any of the players and passers-by knowing they are being observed. No one ever looks up. Which reminds me, the other day three cars parked in front of one of the restaurants. In a no parking zone. Never mind. Rules are there to not be observed by those who can afford a hefty fine on top of their dinner. Reliably informed by the Angel that the three cars were some of the most expensive in this world (make escapes me this minute). One of their number plates read “Loser”. Loser, I ask you. There are two interpretations to this. Though only one holds water. Namely, that that guy (not least when driving down a German Autobahn with no speed restrictions) would come so close to your tail on the overtaking lane you wouldn’t be able to overlook his assessment of you. Never mind. I do not come for nothing from the country where they have means to rattle.

U

Treasure

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