The Alternative Comment Box, 7 – Judgement Day

Delivered, just now, via email:

“I think you are mentally ill”.

In case you are wondering who the “you” is – it’s me.

Close up and personal.

U

The Alternative Comment Box, 6 – Priorities

As I named my last post Nick, I could have named this post JOHN. Not least because it is an open letter to John. But, as he is unable to get his priorities right, I named the post Priorities. So far so nothing.

Just as I thought the dust was settling despite spineless Nick’s intervention I left this comment on John’s blog. For readers to understand: John has had a bladder infection which I commented on, a comment which, jippee, was allowed to stand. He is now back among the living and I left him, subsequently under another of his posts, this little morsel of hope by way of ancedote:

“Such is your presence in blogland that I find it vaguely unsettling when there are longer than usual intervals as to updates of your daily travails. You doing a Hippo (three years) would be unthinkable, nay unbearable, to your loyal (make that addicted) readers.

My insight as follows of no useful interest to you; however, just like you, once upon a time I too knew, and was never further away than a sprint, all public loos in the vicinity. No, I didn’t have a bladder infection. I was pregnant (and deliriously happy because of it). During the first three months the as yet barely noticeable does press on your bladder; during the next three months bladder and baby find some accommodation so false sense of security will descend on you; then (and the Angel was growing big time) during the last trimester overpopulation, density and duress issues wrestling for limited space were battling it out. Not that you would ever guess looking at the Vanity Fair issue of Demi Moore on the cover (August 1991). We were gone as far as each other. Wonderful photo.

Good luck, John; wishing you speedy recovery and no repercussions.

U”

Heartfelt comment. Personal comment. Giving an insight into  dear moments of my life. Not to be pissed on one would have thought. Pissed on it will.

What do I find a few hours later? Let no one be the judge but the judges

John’s Blog

Ursula5:30 pm

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   John Gray8:47 pm

   I have just read your comments about nick. I am therefore deleting your posts here

    

   For which spineless Nick duly did say “Thank you”. The way you look out for each other so touching.

Dear John, what the hell does my comment to YOU have to do with Nick? Spineless Nick who, from nowhere, has conjured up all sorts of commentators (in your blog’s comment boxes) supporting his whining about me – oddly none of them having a traceable blog of their own.

You then leave me a comment under my post “Nick” : “Like I said Ursula I am worried about your obsession with being crossed , it’s unhelpful and inappropriate.”

No need to worry about ME. Worry about YOUR priorities, John.

Nick comes first. You push me over the cliff. Fine. I make my mistakes, you make your mistakes, Nick made a mistake, and let’s hope that other people are wiser than the three of us.

Spineless Nick and I have been in correspondence for years. Suddenly it occurs to him that I am a pain. And uses your blog to tell all and sundry about the fact that he is a piece of jelly I never gave up trying to nail to his cross. His sudden grief over me helped not just by you but by untraceable commentators. Wow. What a man. Or is he?

Talking of men. Please do pass on to Nick (he won’t like it – or maybe he’ll thank you again) that you, John, are far more MAN than his spineless graceless Nickness. At least you keep communication open (let’s forget your trigger happy deleting my comments as if I were a kid sent to the naughty step), addressing me directly.

I am not sure what your expression “crossed” means. Crossed as in double crossed? Sure. You say MY “obsession” is “unhelpful and inappropriate”. I’d say Rachel’s, the Sculptor’s, yours and Nick’s obsession with me is, I don’t know, … something? An obsession? “Unhelpful and inappropriate”? Why do the four of you need a punching bag? United you stand, eh? Heroes. Safety in numbers. As punching bags go you should have chosen more wisely. But, yes, to give you some satisfaction and not let your combined efforts go in vain, you did manage to make me a little tearful. Just once. A little. Not much. No water was wasted. Salt of the Earth.

You, John, You John, you of all people making yourself a mouthpiece for shitters who can’t wipe their own arses. What a pity and a waste of energy and good will.

Well, in the words of someone dear to me, the most gorgeous gay guy of all time, who once feared I was writing him a “Dear John” letter (I wasn’t) …

Ursula

Audible sigh

Is there anything worse (outside that which is far worse) than being afflicted by a sense of “disenchantment”? There isn’t. Disenchantment has potential (if you let it) to suck the oxygen out of your blood.

To understand why disenchantment is the pits for me, do look no further than Ramana’s last comment: “If I remember right, many moons ago, I called you an effervescent person during one of our very intense exchanges. I still think of you as one.” That’s me. Effervescent. It comes natural. Until I come across some fuckers whose mission in life to dampen ardour, to extinguish fire, to stamp out passion, to trample over rhyme, to spit on reason, to prove themselves the arseholes my father taught me, and my son implores me, to avoid.

Since when do I learn but the hard way? Thousands of years and their history  may have gone before my mother didn’t abort me yet here I am trusting in the good of the world. And quite justifiably so. To pull a figure out of my magic hat I’d say 91 % of people are good (defined by their own demographic). And then there are the bigots. The know it all. The ones pointing fingers. Go and chop some wood instead. You might lose a finger for the greater good.

I am warming to the theme. No greater arsehole will you meet than the one who advocates chopping someone’s hand off for stealing a pot of fois gras (not because of the stealing, but because it’s the last jar that he himself had set his eyes on) .

Mustn’t lose my thread. Disenchantment. Yes, it’s mine. In the blogging world. Never mind. May the self righteous gorge on their blandness, their blinkers, their shutting down shutters before closing time. Tragedy being that despite their excesses they are unlikely to be sick.

I am not talking about my blog and its readers. My readers’ comments, intelligent, challenging, willing, open, thoughtful, witty, wistful, make my blog disenchantment free. If you can be judged by the company you keep I’d say I am most fortunate.

Venturing out in the big wide world of some bloggers so closed off they don’t know when they lock horns with their own horizon? I do so, joyfully, at both my peril and enjoyment. On my head disenchantment be.

U

Retort

I received an email (from a long time blogging acquaintance) telling me how judgmental I am. If that’s how I come across that’s something for me to reflect on. Not least reflect on whether it is a bad thing to “judge” considering that our survival instinct guides us on how to “judge” a situation, a person, and then figure out how we can outwit the hungry tiger staring us in the face. She further devalues her comment by proceeding to not only “shake her head” at one of my previous (private, but played out on my blog) follies. Don’t let a thief tell me not to thieve.

The term “judgmental” is an overused one. It is, usually, a lazy way of expressing displeasure at me daring to dangle a question mark. It’s an even lazier way of not addressing an issue. To illustrate: I say something which you find overcritical. Whether it is or isn’t is immaterial – as long as you find it so, it is. So far so not particularly fair. Whatever. But please do not turn around and point a finger at me whilst doing what you just told me not to do.

There is a marvellous saying (one of many) in the motherland, loosely translated: Touch your own nose  before pointing out the kink in someone else’s.

U

 

Sacrifice

First you wait for a rose to blossom, the next moment three skunks turn up.

Yes, so stink is where it’s at. I’d live another life if mine didn’t throw up a conundrum when I am already working on another. Just now, the most pressing, that “something” (I can’t be more specific) needs to be aired in the public’s interest. Forget interest. … should be brought to wider attention. HA. My intention may be good, even honourable. Enter the dreaded “but”. If I did air it’d hurt many – particularly one. Now one may be a skunk but even skunks have feelings to be considered. So whilst all worthy, even amusing, is it permissible to air how clever you are at the expense of a skunk or three?

Please say no.

U

Location, location, location

Unlike most of you and other squeamish, sanitized and contemporaries, there will be no fire for me. Brimstone more like it.

Yes, I shall be buried. Come maggot and worm. OH MY GOD. I can see it now. Particularly my eye sockets. Never mind. Whilst aesthetically not pleasing I shall stick with earth to earth. Ashes go with the wind. Earth is solid.

In one of the more wonderous moments of my life, a few days ago I found the cemetery cum graveyard I would like to be buried in. If push comes to shove I’ll move into its vicinity to ensure a place. It’s pure magic. Absolute magic. Acres and acres, largely not yet populated. Proper graves. Can’t wait.

Urns (and their ashes), by comparison, measly. Measly. Meagre. Mean. Cheek by jowl. Reminds me of some two years ago when the Angel and I visited Minstead’s graveyard where Arthur Canon Doyle (think Sherlock Holmes) and his wife are buried. The Angel remarked that it’s so much nicer to be able to visit a grave (and, naturally, to the Angel’s horror, I managed to stand on it) rather than being restricted to, well, a measly, teensy, weensy spot with an urn of which there are quite a few on Minstead’s cemetery too,  even if blessed with a “view” over rolling country side.

I am not particularly tall though some people think me so. There is something to be said to be buried stretched to your full length rather than reduced to your volume in ashes. I am sure that’s what Archimedes thought when displacing water, resulting in his joyous “Eureka”.

U

Through your nose

And now to another even less tangible matter.

I believe most of my readers, possibly all, to be more worldly wise than my innocent self. So please do answer me a question which has been pressing, on and off, for a while: How come you are made to pay for services you don’t use?

Let that question sink in before its magnitude hits your wallet.

For example, simple yet baffling: My broadband service and land line provider charges me for NOT using its TV services. The only reason I am still with them that they allow me, for a minimal fee, to phone round the world for “nothing”. As the blower is rarely further away than my reach, and friends and family largely abroad, it’s probably saved me thousands over the years. Still doesn’t answer why I have to pay for not watching TV. Before the curtain twitcher in my life tells you which company I am talking about: It’s … , as in “heaven”.

Then there is energy. My first brush with energy was low blood sugar. Not mine. Adults’. They’d pop a giant sugary something. Better than smelling salts for revival of spirit and enterprise. You bought it in an apothecary. Iris will fill you in. Let me save her the trouble: Traubenzucker.

Energy. The British are marvellous that way: You’ll get a good “deal” if you are a dual fuel (that’s gas and electricity) customer. If per chance. like my good self, you are condemned to use electricity only –  because that’s how your abode is wired – you may whistle. And pay top whack. No deals to be had. The good news being, as of this morning, that the increase will only be 12.5 % (for dual energy customers). Of course, and it is the type of false psychology/economy I tend to employ at all times, you may shrug off what amounts to “only” a few pounds. However, and anyone who goes shopping knows this: Just because each item you purchase is chicken feed in pennies doesn’t mean you won’t be presented (to use John speak) with a steaming pile of …. at the till.

Why are we made to pay more for NOT using something?

Thanking you in advance for an education,

U

 

 

 

 

 

Limitations

I may have mentioned this before. If so please attribute it to occupying my brain in an increasingly unnerving manner.

It’s vexing. Any advice gladly received. What do you do when people get older? Do you actually argue a point, set them straight as to the facts or just leave be? Obviously the latter the easy option. But also … I don’t know … condescending? Yet, what’s the point to put a point when someone (by virtue of age) is more or less on the way out? What purpose does concrete information serve? I think the answer is: None. Yet when does the point in someone’s life come when it appears kinder to just nod?

I don’t like to use Americanisms yet a useful one here: I feel “conflicted”. If ever there was a shorthand for being between a rock and a hard place it’s downright “conflicted”.

To reiterate: Is it worth it to point out errors or, less challenging, just put a different point of view when that person can’t make future use of being informed as their time is almost upon them?

I don’t know. It’s painful.

U

Shades of white

I am no good at drawing. Which is rather surprising since I come from a long line of people who actually made their living painting.

My father who inherited that most remarkable talent – though never made anything of it because he was more interested in pursuing other interests, once helped me out. I was about twelve. Our art homework was to do a portrait of a pirate (water colours no less – the smudge’s devil of all inventions). We had a few days. The worse and the more dreaded the task the more it’ll spoil not only your life in the interim but you’ll put it off to the last minute (deadline by another name). (Un)fortunately my father passed my desk (Sunday afternoon) as I was putting the finishing touches to a half hearted attempt at conveying both the cliche and the menace of a pirate (Johnny Depp my creation wasn’t – it was before his time). So, in a moment of charitable (or was it) intent, my father chucked my effort into the nearest waste paper basket and conjured up the most magnificent pirate ever. Took him zero time – not that he meant to ram home that I most certainly had betrayed the creative family line (on both sides). Not at all. He was far more interested in taking all my essays and other writings apart – even if they rated A* by assorted teachers. You want to know what my father called my teachers? Don’t. Repeating it would be flying in the face of my genteel upbringing and the manners my mother instilled in me.

So Monday was grand. My art teacher’s face lit up. He studied my father’s effort in detail. He was chuffed. He smiled. At me. After an artfully executed theatrical pause  he said: “Do tell your father that, on account of fraud, I’ll only give him a two” (a one being top mark). After that I can’t remember anything. Other than that I was always tops in the theory of art and art history. Brush to canvas? Forget it. Why would I? Know thy limitations.

Not to sell myself short and as befits my temperament, I did and do passable caricatures (of people). That’s about it.

As Karma has a way of biting you unawares,  most nearest and dearest to me, friends and assorted family, are masters of their chosen art. Occasionally forced to remind them, ever so tactfully, we can’t all be artistes. Some of us have to be the appreciative audience. The ones who do the clapping, the stroking of ego, the catchers of tears, the slayers of tantrums, the ones who write the critiques, facilitate you, marketeer your stuff.  And, BUY IT.

Whatever you do, please do not talk to me about gallerists. It was Basel/Switzerland, ca. 1997, when I fell off my chair on learning that a gallerist (the marketeer and provider of large swathes of wall and the monied) will take a  cool 66 % off your sales for services rendered.

Titanium white greetings,

U

 

Spoilt for choice

There is a regular program on Radio Four (BBC, Sunday morning) called Desert Island Disks. Someone of relative public interest is invited to talk about their life and, intermittently, ten pieces of music of their choice are played.  They’ll then be asked to choose one of them to take with them – don’t say the BBC isn’t generous – before being shipped away and with little hope to return. You are given the Bible. You may choose one other book and one (in numbers 1) luxury item. No, not me. I am not a luxury item. I am cheap.

It’s amazing what people will choose as their luxury item. For heaven’s sake – who needs silk sheets in the middle of nowhere? Take a Swiss Army Pen Knife instead. What would I take? I don’t know. It’s not likely to be allowed within in the parameters of the programme but most likely a never ending supply of my favourite fruit/vegetable. Which is … What? Trying to come to a decision will take some time – a most welcome interval to delay the evil departure.

So, what about you? What’s your luxury item, food or otherwise, to take to the desert island? Please don’t say a harpoon. Life doesn’t work like that.

Tom Hanks greetings, and don’t forget to squirrel away some matches and don’t let them get wet during your voyage,

U