Bitch on the Blog

February 22, 2018

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

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January 29, 2018

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

 

December 20, 2017

Non sequitur

Filed under: Accuracy,Exasperation,Fortune,Happiness,Human condition,Intermittent despair — bitchontheblog @ 21:24
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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

December 17, 2017

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

November 26, 2017

In search of answers

Filed under: Communication,Formalities,Human condition,Integrity,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 20:37
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I was just about to throw myself onto my blog’s page when I realized something. Not for the first time.

Is a blog the devil’s temptation to be mistaken (by the blogger) as a confessional? Readers and commentators being the blogger’s agony aunts and uncles?

Other than that, everything is fine.

U

November 5, 2017

Reparations to my last post

There is a saying in the motherland: “Lass die Finger davon”. Good advice. Roughly translated as “Don’t touch it” – underlined, usually, and for theatrical effect, by being hissed.

Anyway, the good news is that I can play Snap with four year olds, even three year olds. After that it gets tricky. As my last post shows.

To keep you on your toes, and please do keep your own selections coming, here are three more. Not because I want to but because I feel need to redeem myself.

One – My mother, sleep walking, climbed out of a window, ready to jump, when eight months pregnant with me.

Two – A mouse kept me locked out of the bathroom.

Three – I have never knowingly killed anyone.

Spot the lie. And keep your own riddles coming.

And yes, ref my last post and exchange with Mike, my father did send me a telegram, just as I was packing to decamp and fly to the motherland in time for the church wedding, him declaring the whole affair off. The whole affair went ahead, no thanks to him. I didn’t hold it against him – the wedding photos are witness to that. As they are witness that he didn’t feel an ounce of shame or remorse. He has never once apologized, acknowledged the huge impact what he did had on my subsequent marriage. FOS (father of son), unfortunately, not as easy going as my father.  And spare a thought for my mother. She is easily flooded by tears. That she didn’t drown on occasion of that “cancellation” is a miracle. So, as I said to Mike, the Angel thought two of yesterday’s guesses the truth, and thought the lie that turned out one of the truths. Never mind. At least I won’t need to throw myself on a pyre when FOS snuffs it.

Yes, pregnant pause, strange when you think back over your life … so far away yet so real – the blessing, a curse possibly for some, of an almost photographic and audio memory.

U

September 30, 2017

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

September 22, 2017

Treasure

Filed under: Atmosphere,Environment,Human condition,Joy — bitchontheblog @ 21:42
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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

August 28, 2017

Nuance

Sweethearts, dearest Sweethearts. I am in danger. Of losing the plot. Let’s rephrase that: I am in danger of writing a plot no one will be able to follow.

Never mind. It’ll keep for another nightmare.

In the meantime I wrote earlier today, in answer to and occasion of an article claiming that queuing (in England) isn’t what it used to be. Thank the Lord.

“I am not British though have lived most my adult life in England.

As a nation, you take queuing too far and thus engender true unpleasantness. One of many occasions sticking out when I wasn’t even sure whether I wanted to buy fish. To be inspired I peered over the shoulders of many a person in the queue at the fish counter only to be met with a sharp, and hostile, pointer towards “the end of the queue”. Come again? What’s with being so anxious to lose “your” place? All I was doing was looking, not endangering your place in the hierarchy. As if one would.

For all their reputation of being relaxed and polite – the English most certainly are not the former, and not always the latter.”

So far none of the other commentators has told me to go home. What Brexiteers miss is that England IS my home. Well, I suppose depends how you define home. Home for me could be a hovel, a castle, the gutter in any old place (Mars, Siberia, Outer Mongolia), any country. Doesn’t matter. Home is where I am. All I need is a roof, a candle and a matchstick. No, not to burn the place down. To see where I am and what I am doing.

Yes, queues, I am all for organized chaos. Take the motherland. Go to the butchers, preferably when everyone else is going (say eleven in the morning, Blutwurst and all), go to the bakers (say between half past seven and eight in the morning when everyone wants fresh rolls). No one “queues”. Everyone knows when it’s their turn. Fine difference, don’t you think?

U

August 14, 2017

Not so nice

Filed under: Human condition,Integrity — bitchontheblog @ 19:30
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Holy what’s it. There is a threshold. Some people die before they have barely drawn their first breath, some people die – at, say, fifty.

And some people live. Forever.

My parents a point in case. My mother is eighty four, my father eighty. You’d think they’d have the good grace to abdicate. Well, my mother will, soon. My father? Not so much out of spite as determination he’ll probably live long enough to refuse attending any of his four children’s funerals because it’s just too much hassle.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. All I know is that I have had it with being held to ransom. Most of you, my readers older than me, most of you having buried or are about to bury your parents, please do throw me a morsel of comfort. What? Throw me a morsel of comfort? How selfish. What I meant to say: Please don’t do to your children what I most certainly hope to spare the Angel.

So much for cheer. I’ll crank it up with my next post.

Lost, lost, lost and ashamed,

U

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