One of the less palatable facts of life (apart from death, obviously) how, at times, to cope with the whole caboodle. I have found myself at points which didn’t bring me so much to breaking as having to take some deep breaths, thank my lucky stars that it’s too far and damp to walk to the next cliff, and then regroup. It pays to have shoulders. And brings to mind camels and backs, and straws that break the camel’s back, and taking water from the well till the vessel cracks, you name it there will be an image for it.
Which reminds me, apropos of nothing, and one Looney may have the patience to answer: What’s it with camels, wells and donkeys? And going through the eye of a needle? That camels feature large is, geographically speaking, not a surprise. Still. Wait till a Llama spits at you, not out of spite – just because that is what Llamas do, and you look at life, as only a five year old can, through a heightened lens.
That’s how animosity starts. One moment you are meandering through your own overgrown backyard, the next someone offers you to borrow their lawn mower. Obviously the latter never happens but as an idea it works.
So, what do you do? Accept that your neighbour lends you their lawn mower not because you don’t have one but because they don’t want to be seen living to someone who is perfectly happy to walk among daisies? Or do you mow that meadow of yours to keep the peace?
Let me know. Not that I do have any land, overgrown or mowed, at the moment.
This post is not pleasant. I am going to make an observation and don’t expect any of you to answer, if at all, truthfully.
Do you wish/have you ever wished anyone would just die? Not because you bear them ill will, just because you’d like to tick a box (make that a coffin), breathe a sigh of relief and be done with that person?
Can’t believe I am writing this but there it is.
There is a blogger. Let’s rephrase that. There is someone, somewhere, who blogs.
He has surpassed himself. It’s not even him being selfish. It’s him being thoughtless. Inconsiderate.
Yes, so come early December – and now he has got his “overcoat” out – he laments that December’s temperature, so far, is way above “cold”. One may say “warm”. He wants “cold”. God damnit, and if he wants cold he wants cold. Till March. May Bambi’s April showers piss on him.
Why do I even note this? Insert derisory snort. Because people like him with his beer and his whisky on tap don’t give a monkey’s thought to all those homeless, sleeping in doorways, ignored by passers-by, kicked by drunkards around midnight, who might, just might, be truly grateful that December isn’t as cold as Mr Blogger and his overcoat wish it to be. Those who can’t afford to heat the place if indeed they have a roof over their heads. Those who don’t eat because maybe it’s better to starve than to freeze. Those who don’t have a winter coat.
Plumbers are hard to come by on Christmas Eve. May Mr Blogger’s overcoat stand him in good stead. And be moth eaten next December.
For light relief I looked at a photo shoot of Trump’s “life in pictures”. If YOU are looking for comfort – don’t. In fact it’s pretty unsettling to see a young boy morph into the man we now know. Can’t help wondering what role his mother played in his upbringing. If any, and if she were still alive, she may care to retrace her steps and wonder where it all went wrong.
To top it all Trump is a Gemini. All the baddies populating my life (and I don’t even believe in astrology) were born, invariably, under that most duplicitous of star signs, namely the twin.
So, as the world is quaking in their boots with breath bated on the eve of the election (don’t I just hate the time divide) reason is (unasked for) pressed on me. Hillary, so I am told, is bad news. On hearing this and my eyes clouding over in disbelief (considering the alternative) I am quickly reassured that – should Trump win – he’d only be the TRUE administration’s puppet anyway. Allow me to remain sceptical. Either you are the president or you aren’t. And if he/she isn’t more than a puppet then I am really worried.
Hugs and hisses, you Americans do have a lot to answer for. Not that you appear to know the question. And for that I do not blame you.
On the whole I do find my dreams entertaining. My dreams are stories, often riddles, mostly pointers as to where I need to find my feet in waking life.
However, there is one type of what I call a “half” dream which I find disconcerting. This usually involves other people (mainly the Angel) and their wellbeing. And – please don’t laugh – the phone will ring (in my dream). The phone will ring so convincingly in my dream that I wake and reach for it. During that moment of reaching for it I wake and realize it was “just” a dream.
Bear with me. It’s not remotely amusing. It’s frightening. And I am not easily frightened, if at all.
Tonight, and I write this with my heart as heavy as only a heart can be heavy in the middle of the night, my father “phoned”. It is the call I dread. The call I will not know what to say to my father. He said my name, and then he fell silent. So we stayed silent – it’s not easy to say nothing when on the phone.
And then I woke, the phone wasn’t ringing – and I trust my mother is still alive.
In response to the question of someone contemplating motherhood one commentator left the following:
“Don’t bother, it’s a waste of time. All that effort and then one day they will just die anyway. Pointless.”
Seriously, not even Sartre can beat this for a laugh.
Take it from this mother: The joy outweighs the certainty.
I have so enchanted myself re-reading my last blog post and comments I’ve forgotten why I was recharging the comp and what I was going to spout about.
Yes, sleep. Elusive. Again. Never really liked sleep. You don’t know what’s going on when asleep. Nightmares. Dreams. Sometimes I wake myself talking out aloud. Which beats not waking up at all.
Virtually all people in my life, and that includes you – my dear readers and my mother – adore sleep. It’s a mystery to me unless you are under twenty five [years of age].
Having said that I do realize that sleep is important to keep you compos mentis. Yes, good old sanity. Had good reason to cry tonight. Then remembered the old saying “crying yourself to sleep”. Doesn’t work. Not for me.
Best sleeplessness and with a purpose was when the Angel was little. The first fifteen months of his life I never had more than 2.5 hours sleep at a stretch. Tiny stomachs need to be refilled at short intervals (Looney, newly made grandfather take note). No matter, during the day the Angel and I slept side by side when he slept. In tune as it were.
One of the truly worst sleepless nights ever? Don’t ask. And don’t laugh. Or do. It was the first night (he was fourteen months) when he slept right through. I was frantic. Kept checking every few seconds whether he was still alive. He was. Even in the morning. Waking to a mother basically dead but still on her feet. I have calmed down since then.