No Echo

This minute I am upset. What better shoulder to throw myself on than that of the collective blogging community?

Before you read on please do remember: I have the patience of a saint. I do bear with call center  staff, making allowances for the shit jobs they do, realizing that they are only mouthpieces of company policies.

But there are limits. And my limit was (nearly) exhausted.

Call center staff have their scripts. I appreciate that. Neither are they nor I robots. How many times do you actually have to plead with them to not read you the same shite again and again. Reminding them of what we covered yesterday and today, and then some. Suggesting a way forward. No, no. Not at all. Let’s go back over the past. I nearly lost it. Which is not my style. In the end I asked to end the conversation as it was going nowhere, resume same conversation later today when I’ll have regained my composure and, maybe, they will have taken time to think (outside their box).

There is something so dehumanizing, impersonal, about the world we now live in it has power to condense me into despair.

U

Opposites and their attractions

What do you do if you want to go wean yourself off something – can be anything, not just hard core addiction? Say, for instance, and I know why my father pops into my mind this minute, you were addicted to being obsessively tidy – would you be able to leave alone for a week, not to say a WEAK, and see where it leads? Would you? Or would you just procrastinate?

I am a going-cold-turkey type of person: Just do it. And a procrastinator.

Cold Turkey and Procrastinator: The combo from hell. My Procrastinator (Motto: Tomorrow) being top dog, Cold Turkey (Motto: NOW, and determined) being strung along for the ride. Myself? I am in the fascinating grip of conflicting interests wrestling it out.

Around New Year 2017/18 I decided, for mostly rational and many valid ones too, to give blogging a miss. And what a fine mess my Procrastinator made of it, Cold Turkey (amply supported by the Angel who thinks blogging a waste of time) being on the loosing wicket. A fly caught in a sticky spider’s web has nothing on me.

So, what do you do when you feel you need to break a habit that brings you nothing but joy?

U

 

Wittgenstein’s Poker

Pope said “a little learning is a dangerous thing”. Depends how you define dangerous. I am more interested where little learning leaves the learner and their audience.

Yes, I know I currently do my blog’s name honour by succumbing to anything that lends itself to bitch about. There is a blogger who, some months ago, signed up for a dilettante’s course in philosophy. Better late than never. Definition of dilettante: “A person who dabbles in a subject for enjoyment but without serious study”.  That’s great. Not that she enjoys her course.

Dabble for enjoyment? I once grew horseradish for enjoyment. Little did I know that some years later some pompous old fart (one of his “friends” words not mine) would come along and take offence (to the point of, yes, deleting my comment), that I bloody recognized the flowers horseradish produces when POF (pompous old fart) had predicted that he’d be 99 % certain that NO one would guess his “guess the flower” competition. I didn’t even guess. I KNEW. It was bad enough that his 99 % certainty was shattered; far worse that it was me, of all people, who did so. Anyway, POF edited all comments so that it appears that I am a cheat who pipped one of his worshippers to the post. I have little hope of them getting over it.

Yes, back to the subject. Dilettantes. As it happens the person I pipped to the post also happens to be the one who took up said philosophy class. In my late teens and early twenties, indeed to this day, I have seen people sweat, weep and generally die in increments trying to get to grips with Wittgenstein. Not this little beauty of a dilettante. She read Wittgenstein’s biography in two days or so flat and now is an authority on Wittgenstein’s take on the world. Not that that makes her dangerous (see above). It just makes her look somewhat … What? You decide …

It gave me great joy that one of her blogging “friends” (the Sculptor if you must know) picked her up on her hyperbole. Say what you like about the Sculptor but when he is in fine form he is in fine form. He was in such fine form that our Wittgenstein expert didn’t actually pick up on his subtly ridiculing her.

Today, her blog entry is on Bertrand Russell. I have no info as to how long it took her to read HIS autobiography (let’s say a week, max, Speedy Gonzales she is) but rest assured she now knows all there is to know about Bertrand Russell. Not least how often he was married. That’s it: If you want to know about someone’s mindset delve into their love life.

On a point of housekeeping: For every post I publish I have written at least twenty – too risque to see the day of light. This can’t go on. I need to find a new patch with a more benign blog name to divert my attention from the vacuous. I don’t know: White Noise?

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

 

 

Martyr to the Cause

Kant’s Categorical Imperative. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t grand. There is nothing remotely difficult about it just because a philosopher put words to a concept.

In fact one may accuse Kant (his name is pronounced – English readers – Cunt not Can’t) of plagiarism. The Bible said as much as his Categorical Imperative spelling it out in so many words: Don’t do onto others as you don’t want to be done by.

My inkling that Kant was inspired by the Bible’s scriptures an idea that I’d love to run past my father. Alas, him, the great advocate of the Categorical Imperative, hasn’t spoken to me since 1 August last year (his birthday). It’s not that he doesn’t want to speak to me. It’s just that unless I call him he can’t (Kant) be arsed to pick up the phone himself. A virgin on her wedding night has nothing on my father. Anyway, as I have no interest in playing his game I am now in the unenviable position of not benefiting from his various morsels of insights into an original mind. What use is his original mind if it closes down lines of communication?

U

The Alternative Comment Box, 2

Before I proceed to address the incomparable Rachel once more, note to myself: Why am I spending time  on someone who is so full of the disposable? Never mind, we all make our own amusement.

Sunday, 25 Feb 2018 – 0505 hrs GMT – not sent, to spare her deleting me.

“Dearest Rachel, following your recent and most admirable call to “compromise” on the political stage, my reply to which you, naturally (what a predictable creature you are), deleted, I note with interest that you are now calling for hanging.

In my mind’s eye I have no difficulty to imagine you right there, in the front line of the lynch mob. Think old, think film, think black and white, think law and own hands. How romantic. Trees come to mind. And you, being a farmer’s daughter, will have some rope (to take the cows up to the alm) always at the ready. That’s the props in place.

No one on a mission is without their supporters. Which you have found, so ably and so articulate, in the Anonymous Deb,xx. Your exchange so exhilarating, so intellectually stimulating – and I quote in Italics to put some mileage between you and me:

“Anonyomous 24 February 2018 at 20:29

Oh I so agree with you Rachel and I also think that bringing back hanging would cure alot of it instead of them spending chushy time in jail.There is no cure for these evil bastards so just get rid and dispose of them.The streets would be alot safer then for all of us,Debi,xx

Rachel 24 February 2018 at 21:12
It would do this country a favour if we hanged Levi Bellfield and Ian Huntley that’s for sure. What good are they to anybody. Murderers, liars, scum of the earth.

Anonymous24 February 2018 at 22:12
I could add a load more to that list as well Rachel!,Why keep them in prison…Just get rid..Oh,do we have to worry about their human rights??.As far as Im concerned,they dont have any.Debi,xx”

I particularly like those kisses. Signs of affection.

Yes, Debi,xx, ” … bringing back hanging would cure a lot of it instead of them spending chushy time in jail”. Your innocence is touching. It would “cure”? “A lot”? We are not talking ham. “Chushy time in jail”? I think you mean “cushy”. Sure, very cushy. Particularly child molesters/murderers. They have one hell of a “cushy” number among their inmates. Honour among thieves and all that. If they are young, pert in bottom, they might have an even cushier time by being given a taster straight up the arse.

Anyway, Rachel, let me not disturb your and the adorable Debixx’s reveries. Don’t count on winning Clint Eastwood’s favour. I can see the look of disgust and utter disdain for you two harpies in his, oh so squinting in the sun, blue eyes now.

U”

Stunted

On the whole I don’t believe it despite all evidence to the contrary. Namely that people need an “incentive”. By which I don’t just mean salesmen given a carrot so they wield their stick and charms making people buy.

I just do what needs to be done. Or (see my last post) wrestle with good intentions. And wait for both Ramana and the Angel (age before beauty) to weigh in and remind me of Karma.

Never mind. Karma is in the future. I am in the now. As one of the few people who amuses me no end is myself I am most amused. I am so happy I could kiss you. Why – apart from, maybe, you being kissable and my being happy? Bear with me.

The last few days’ fallout on various blogs have more than one benefit. Not only will I employ the last morsels of time left to me on this mortal coil in ways more conducive to everyone’s, not least my own, happiness by ditching certain bloggers. I won’t have to endure any longer, and it’s only just come to me, one commentator’s (she doesn’t blog any longer herself though is vocal in comment boxes) endless “LOL”s. To her life is just one (desperate) long loud laugh in absence of being more specific and articulate. If that isn’t an incentive for me to stop latching onto certain blogs and their comment boxes I don’t know what is. May she roll in the aisles.

LOL – Lots of love,

U

Non sequitur

Just came across a quote on someone’s blog. “Good things will come to good people”. That is such utter tosh, belied by all evidence, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I wish people would think before they regurgitate that which sounds good at first sound, and is rubbish on reflection.

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

Purr

I need a reference point for reasons – in the context of this post – not important. Let’s just say that I need to put my mind to rest. Not least because my mother makes me wince every so often when she “remembers” things in my life she wasn’t even present at better than I do. Now? Now I don’t say anything any longer to correct her. Not since, about ten days ago, I sat next to a lovely lady two years my mother’s senior who was switched on, inquisitive, funny, lively – except every fifteen minutes or so she’d ask me whether I had any children. Having covered the subject of the Angel’s existence several times during our two hour wait my penny suddenly dropped. OH MY GOD. So this is how decline (ever so barely noticeable) manifests itself. No wonder my mother recently apologized to me for upsetting me profoundly. Unfortunately, what she apologized for wasn’t what I had taken offence at. WHAT the …? I left it. Thanked her for her apology. I don’t think she is interested in detail any longer. Main thing is that everything is hunky dory. “All I want is to be good with you”, she says. I do have to rejig my mind set when talking with her in future.

The reference point I need is for a period of utter chaos in my life (ca. eight/nine years or so ago). A few details a little hazy. A couple of days ago I realized that I remembered something that is, chronologically, not possible. So, anyway, and do laugh, I phoned the veterinary practice and asked whether they keep records from many years ago. Yes, they do. Great. Can you please tell me the date when my cat Bouncer (reference point) was put down?

Bloody blasted hell (and only my refined upbringing stops me from using all the swearwords I can muster to express my utter disgust at what the world of information has come to). They can’t give me the date of my OWN cat’s death over the phone because of data protection. Short of my date of birth which they didn’t request I gave the receptionist all the data she needed to conclude that I am not a Russian agent spying on myself. No doing. On top of which she kept calling me “My Lovely”. What’s wrong with the British? Emotionally stunted they proceed to call complete strangers “Love” and “Deary”.

I am now in the recovering position. Next stop on my journey through life? Extracting my own teeth.

U