Bitch on the Blog

December 9, 2017

Ambition

Filed under: Family,Future,History — bitchontheblog @ 21:46
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Here is one to set a carnivore among the pigeons. You may weep.

What were your parents’ and other relatives’ plans for you?

U

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June 18, 2017

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

 

March 24, 2017

Hop Scotch

What of the theory that certain character traits and talents do tend to skip a generation? Do you think it bollocks or can you cement the above with examples of your own life’s experience?

U

November 21, 2016

Royal Flush

Filed under: Despair,Exasperation,History — bitchontheblog @ 20:33
Tags:

Dearest sweetest Hearts, please absolve me from all evil as you will be absolved from your own misdemeanours. Not that it’s a bargain, neither am I mercenary.

Why? Why? Oh why, don’t ask Merkel, did this have to become public? The Orange one’s grandfather of German descent? I have never disowned anyone. But am perfectly unhappy to make an exception .

This really takes the Ginger (bread man).

For once not easily consoled, yours,

U

July 3, 2016

Valour and to debase

Picking a few of a plethora of notable quotes in the British press:

“The leave campaign is a revolution, and like all revolutions, it will eat its own.”

Maybe, though I think evoking the French Revolution’s big players is a little far fetched in the context of British politicians turning into Pinocchios, chameleons, piranhas, Judases, downright chancers and slime.  Leaving Jo Cox (England, shot 16 June 2016) aside, no one has yet been stabbed to death in the bath (reference Marat, Paris, July 1783).

“Democrats have no duty to endorse democracy’s every outcome.”

This one I love.  It’s an epiphany. Whoever wrote it I could kiss. Think about it: “Democrats have no duty to ENDORSE democracy’s EVERY outcome.”  Genius.

And then there is, the relatively harmless:

“People want to be lied to, Johnson. No, not Boris, 2016, who proved the point; the other one, Samuel, ca mid 17 hundreds, who made an observation.

I have a special relationship with lies/lying. I do concede that a white lie, in order to avert unnecessary harm and judiciously applied, does have its place in social relations. The blatant lie, the misleading, the blinding, the up and down the garden paths, the self serving, the coward’s way out? No. Not in my court. Which is not the same as saying that I don’t understand those who are trapped in a corner and make deals with the devil. It happens. And let no one cast the first or any stone.

Premeditated lying? There is no excuse for it. Even the most optimistic, “well meaning” and accomplished liar will have to accept that trust – once broken – is just that: Broken. Or in the words of Bertold Brecht, loosely translated: “The ends of a knot severed can be spliced together again but you won’t find me where you left me”. In other words: Rain doesn’t return whence it came from.

U

June 24, 2016

Shakespearean

You have to hand it to Britain: DIVIDED they stand.

This is personal, I make little claim on rhyme, reason or rationale. For that I am too upset. A snapshot in my time.

Having stocked up on an hour’s sleep before British voting closing at ten o’clock BST I turned on the TV (BBC1) at five minutes to ten.  Big Ben makes me quite emotional at the best of times. So when it chimed as voting booths closed I welled up a bit. Now? Now, my tears are rolling. Involuntarily. They just keep coming. They say there are five stages to grieving. Denial (in this case) was relatively short. Shock features majestically. Acceptance (the last stage)? I guess that will be a long time waiting.

After the future father of son proposed to me 26 March 1982 in Paris, I arrived in England 4 April 1982 for good. I have always been a foreigner – albeit a “well integrated” one. FOS saw to that. I couldn’t so much as open my mouth before he corrected any mistake my early shaky English made. And that includes apostrophes. Might sound harsh to some of you. It wasn’t. I am hugely grateful to him for his relentless pursuit of perfecting my English. Don’t laugh, and as an aside, it’s probably why I miss him most when – to this day – I have a question on where to insert a comma or what the plural of bonus is.

Where was I? Yes, a foreigner. Now? Now I am a true foreigner. An alien. For those of you musically inclined listen to Sting’s “An Englishman in New York”. A legal alien. The melody alone conveys all there is to know. And before any of you point this out to me: Yes, I am perfectly aware that here, in this post and in my heart, there is a soupcon of self pity. Not least because someone recommended to me (in a national newspaper), and as I don’t hold a British passport, to return to “whence you come from”. Sweet. Thirty four yours on.

Never mind. I will regain composure.

The result of this vote has opened a massive a can of worms too cramped to not spill. Whilst – to some extent – I do feel sorry for Cameron having to resign in such an undignified way, what he needs to ask himself why the hell he did authorize this referendum. So terribly terribly shortsighted.

Yes, I promised you a snapshot. And that why I’ll stop now. Otherwise this post will become an oversized oil painting. No, make that a bewildered Jackson Pollock. Not that I deaden any pain with whiskey.

U

March 5, 2016

Napoleon

Filed under: Amusement,History,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 19:49

Sweethearts, you think I am low on the ground? I AM FLATTENED. Finito.  Basta. Ende. You name it as long as there an end to it. A hedgehog crossing a busy road has nothing on me.

Let’s apply a bit of American speak: I am “challenged”. Which I’d normally welcome but not with my comp crashing every seven minutes. It’s difficult to think when rushed.

The Angel put his friendly face round the door the other day, looked at me, shook his Viking head, complete with long locks,  and said “Mama. The Keyboard Warrior”. The Keyboard Warrior. I should be so lucky. Win a battle, try and invade Russia (in winter). You may lose the war. At the moment there is a truce. Kissinger notwithstanding. Never mind Hillary’s emails being made available for public consumption. I can’t send any. As to playing cards: Trump ain’t ace.

Never mind fracking. Let the best woman win. And it’s only March. Ides of.

Upshot being that the only reason I don’t wish I were still five because then the Angel wouldn’t exist. Logistically, biologically impossible. So I am what I am. And what I am is both totally happy and totally disenchanted.  If anyone had forecast this x years ago I’d told them to go away and revisit me in x years. Well. You can beat the hell out of an optimist (physically) but you can’t darken my sun.

Other than that: Everything is fine.

Hugs and kisses,

U

 

 

May 30, 2014

Archives

Filed under: History — bitchontheblog @ 20:01
Tags: , , ,

Sweethearts, cry with me.

Just found some old school reports in quest to bring order to chaos.

Whilst ‘behaviour’ was consistently marked as “Very Good”, ‘participation during lesson time’ as “interested, but too quiet”. You wouldn’t believe it, would you? I know when to hold horses and unleash dogs.

My low point no doubt the year which shall remain unnumbered when I scored so low in English and Physics even I find it hard to believe: “Her efforts in English are barely noticeable”. Fahrenheit plummeting. The same year the sky was my limit in Latin. For my sins I have spent most my adult life in England, not in ancient Rome.

U

May 8, 2014

Voice

Filed under: History — bitchontheblog @ 02:16

I am in wonderment of how humans do connect, don’t connect.

I don’t detest anyone – not really. But there is one person, and I remember the first time I heard his voice after having set foot into Britain. My god. As you know I do go by gut instinct. That voice (and I haven’t heard it for ages) echoes in my ears. I cannot claim to understand the ins and outs of his politics. For that I am too far removed. Yet I do smell a rat when I hear one.

It’s odd. And I can’t say I like myself for it but do have strong urge to punch the guy in the face.

SHUT UP.

I leave it to you (not that it is that interesting) to work out who,  currently in the news and under scrutiny, has brought out the less desirable in me.

U

July 9, 2013

Down your nose

Filed under: History — bitchontheblog @ 02:14
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To pacify all those obsessed with copyright: I have no idea where I lifted it from. Read it earlier today (somewhere) and it glued itself into my mind:

Context: An Eye for an Eye.

“The original quotation was not for revenge but for the poor and powerless to have the same justice as the rich and powerful. It was never intended for retribution, just equality.”

Do savour those two lines. Dreamy.

U

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