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

 

Good

Once a month we have a Farmer’s Market here, right at my doorstep. Prices are eye watering if you don’t have money. If you do [have money] it seems perfectly priced considering the amount of love, time and effort that goes into a jar of honey, the making of a loaf of bread, catching fish, growing a big fat pot of basil, making a hand raised pie.

Yesterday, there was a new addition among the stalls. Meadow flowers. I took one look, fled back upstairs and cried. Just a little. Meadow flowers. Some of you may have noticed that occasionally I refer back to my being four/five years old. That’s how it was yesterday morning. The memory of the meadows of my happy earliest childhood.

Once I’d composed myself I went back to the stall and picked a few stems, as one does in a meadow.

Happiness lies in the tiniest, most modest of small things. And sometimes happiness brings many a tear in its wake. The window sill along my desk now being my meadow. Little heads nodding in the slight summer breeze coming from the sea.

Sea: When I phoned my mother yesterday afternoon she indulged in her love of water, oceans in particular. She does paint such a picture of water, swimming in it, the smell of water. That we didn’t drown in the process only due to fact that she now lives close to a river. Then, in return, I painted her a picture of my beloved meadows.  It was only afterwards, and it made me laugh, that I realized that she was born under a water sign, and my feet are firmly rooted on earth. Indulge me.

U

 

The long and short of it

One of the most outstanding examples of humble bragging ever, a reader in reply to a blogger who can’t resist a selfie whenever she’s been to the hairdresser:

“You look gorgeous. I did a double take when I saw your photo. We could be sisters.”

U

 

Growth

I knew there was a downside to being a man (apart from not being able to give birth). It came to me by no simpler means than stroking the edge of my chin.

There I was, lost in the labyrinth of thought, staring into the middle distance (it was dark), when I was jolted out of my reverie as how to make further inroads into the world of blogging without a virtual contract killer trying his luck on me. Stopped in my tracks. A coarse hair. On my soft chin. Nothing that a magnifying mirror, a steady hand and a tweezer didn’t rectify in a second. Give it another twenty years and I won’t be so sanguine. I’ll be fighting follicles and their excesses.

How do you guys live with stubble and rough and coarse? Mind you, the Angel recently remarked, in passing, that one of the pitfalls of the human mind that, if not vigilant, we can get used to anything. Till it doesn’t register any longer for what it is. Scary.

U

 

 

The Alternative Comment Box, 10 – Consideration and the Looney Bin

Before you read on, please do keep reminding yourselves that, in the psychiatric nurse’s view, I am mentally ill. You will therefore, from now on, trusting in John’s opinion, take everything I say not only carefully but with a pinch. Pinch of what? Scepticism? (For the less than educated: Doubt). Let no one accuse John of giving me the benefit of the doubt. Indeed any benefit. No, he chooses some unknown Kate (another blogger of no blog) never heard of before, deriding me not once but twice, over a loyal and appreciative reader of his, namely my insane self. Once more deleting my replies to Kate of no blog.

Let’s liken blogging to a party. There are non starters of a party. Like, say, at Nick’s place and his giggly being introvert but OH such “a good listener” (his assessment not mine). Want the unvarnished truth? The guy has nothing to say. Other than regurgitate shit he garners from the Life Style pages of certain papers. Recently he has even mentioned teenagers when I bet you my last lottery ticket (numbers as yet unchecked and, yes, I know it’s been days since the draw – the suspense keeping me alive) that he has never changed so much as a nappy in his whole life. Still, some people will talk shit about which they know nothing.

I meant to keep this short but John’s (the psychiatric nurse) verdict of my being mentally ill is rather inspiring. I rejoice in illusion that I am Jack Nicholson’s long lost soul mate having fallen out of the Cuckoo’s Nest and on my head. Oh the freedom of insanity. It’s lovely. Social strictures, manners, consideration for others and their feelings: No need, Sweethearts. You are free. FREE. FREE. FREE. Just as free as a psychiatric nurse pronouncing you mentally ill; free to say anything.

Free to say anything. I wish. Such a pity that the Angel has introduced me to the joys of meditation. The main joy – going totally against my bred in the bone grain – that you let things just pass through you. It’s grand. Being the sponge I am – always open to anything – I am now pressed for time, before both Ramana’s and the Angel’s teachings get hold of me  and take root. Pressed for time to do my final reckoning with the fockers in my life before Tabula Rasa has a chance to take over.  As I am a fast learner I am pressed for time indeed.

Where were we? Party. What do you associate with “party” (other than the political kind)? Colour, Vibrancy, Joy, Fun, Variety,  Mental Stimulation, Music, Interesting People, any people. Not so according to the rules of, say, John the Samaritan, miserable Joy, demented Sculptor and spineless Nick. No, what they want (in the comment boxes of their blogs) is sameness, bland as bland can be. Before you are so much as greeted, shown where to hang your coat and being given a drink you’ll have to hand in your colour, your vibrancy, your joy, your fun, any expectation of variety and mental stimulation. In return you will meet the not so very interesting people. Brown. Unfortunately (for them) I do find even the uninteresting brown interesting. And that is my downfall. Call me a cab, Sweethearts. See you at my place.

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

 

Appreciation

Question: If most people were blind where would that leave the visual artist and the spaces they exhibit in?

U

More dog

Our perception is shaped by the experiences we have had. It’s why I view the Spitz (the smaller the worse) with deep suspicion. I am convinced Spitz are vicious – by temperament. I wasn’t even jogging. I was riding my bike when this Spitz took a shine to both my left foot and the pedal, yapping away. They certainly expend an awful lot of energy to little effect. A bit like … no, I won’t say it.

The larger the dog the better. Though will draw a line. Anything bigger than a German Shepherd is too big. Mind you, one of the most magnificent dogs (mega) I ever had the privilege to meet was that of LSF’s family. An Hungarian Shepherd (a Kuvasz?). White. Curly fur. The size of a calf. He loved me in a way most unwelcome. What is becoming in a puppy is a bit daunting in an adult. I’d come through the door and – by way of greeting – he (the dog, not my friend) would put his front paws on my shoulders, his head towering over me (at least he didn’t lick my face). Though strong I was only a slip of a girl and, my back being pinned to the back of the door, I’d slowly slide down it under the dog’s weight. Still, sooner or later someone would pass by and save me. Yes, that dog was one hell of a beauty. And a wonderful spirit.

Come to think of it, Spitz aren’t the worst. Collies are. Collies, Lassie not withstanding, are most definitely prone to neurotic behaviour. Mental. Mind you, some say the same of Dobermans. I once read a book written from the point of view of a Doberman. I was about twelve. Heartbreaking. I cried. Let no one say anything about Dobermans. Intelligent dogs. I believe most dogs to be a reflection of their owner and Dobermans appear to be particularly sensitive. So if you come across a disturbed Doberman beware of the owner.

Then there are the aesthetically dubious ones – like naked dogs. Say, those racing dogs – greyhounds. Though, in their long legged way, they are rather elegant – a bit like Coco Chanel in her little black dress, tooth hound black and white box jacket and a string of pearls.

Some dogs I’d rather not comment on. Otherwise I’ll have John and Winnie on my case.

Oh yes, not to forget the Dackel. A small sausage dog. Very sweet. Enormously trusting. Beautiful auburn colour. My youngest sister pestered my father for one till he cracked. Tini (pronounce teenee) was a hoot. One of the most endearing memories I have when my brother (even as a teenager he was man enough not to mind being seen with a very small dog) took Tini for walks. The tall slim young man with sky high legs in skinny jeans with a sausage on the leash. Sweet. It really was. I like it when people are not self conscious.

There was a moment in my life when I came close to becoming a dog owner in my own right. Not that I particularly wanted to be. But I will  take gladly what life throws at me (as long as it’s not shit). Father-of-son and I met up with his parents in some Yorkshire pub. Or maybe it was in the Lake District. Anyway, there they were, in front of a blazing fire – a pile of black long haired toddler stage Labradors tumbling round and over their mother. FOS was the closest I’d ever seen him to yield in the face of such joie de vivre and beauty. Even on the way back down South he talked about them non stop, me fully expecting him to turn the car round any moment now, zoom back and make the breeder an offer. Still, his particular brand of reason prevailed. Pity. A dog would have suited him.

Please do inundate me with your own dog stories. They need to be told.

U

Miaou

I have taken to wearing scarves. No, not Grace Kelly style. Isadora Duncan more like it. Long and floating. You’ll never know when next occasion arises you may wish to hang yourself whilst out and about. Better prepared than wanting, I say.

Why do people look in the mirror the moment before they set foot out of the house? I did earlier, and what I saw resembled an Afghan. The dog. My over the shoulder long hair accentuated by a scarf round my neck (similar colour to my hair) made me look not so much hangdog as, well, an Afghan. What dog do you resemble on a bad hair day? Not, of course, that I am not able to answer the question on your behalf. But then people do see themselves differently to how they are perceived by others. Ask Iris.

U

 

Vision

The other day I was forced to have my passport photo taken. I am most certainly not eye candy to the lens – as we all know some people photograph better than others, yet the question springing to mind: Why does EVERYone look like a criminal on a passport photo?

Don’t deny it. Don’t flatter yourself when lovingly gazing at your very own passport photo: You do look like a criminal. Maybe a petty thief rather than a fully blown bank robber – but still worthy of locking up for five minutes. Even the Angel does. And he photographs well. My sister does too – you could put her into a black bin liner and she’d still photograph well. A bit like David Bowie.

Completely lost my thread. That comes from writing long intros before getting to the point. I’ll get back to you once I am up to speed again.

And before I forget even more: You know WHY I look complete shite on a passport photo? Because NOW you are NOT supposed to smile any longer. My smile is my most important USP. I dare say my smile will let me off murder – even if it were in a court with the jury entirely female. I wish all future border control agents good luck. If you showed me my passport photo I’d only be able to (barely) identify myself by my eyes. The rest may go into the shredder.

U