Tribute to a blogger

As of 4 September content of the original post having been made irrelevant, indeed the original intent now seeming rather silly and misguided, I have taken liberty to take it down.

Abuse

I am at a loss whether to voice my total disenchantment with what some in my vicinity call (unbeknown to me till this afternoon) the cesspit of the internet.

Upset is mine. I am desolate. Not on my behalf. On behalf of a whole demographic. And on behalf of those who perpetrate shit which, in the end, will hurt them more than that demographic the shit is hurled at.

The crime scene being John’s blog. For someone to use John’s blog of all blogs (his being the most innocuous) beggars belief in the first place. Of course, I wouldn’t be me if I hadn’t taken the bait. On second thought I deleted my reply  to Anon (HA! Even I delete me); and, as I expected, John later deleted Anon’s deeply disturbing assertion. I also deleted my initial post “Amusement Alert” because, on reflection, there was nothing amusing about it at all.

Doesn’t make it go away in my mind. To think that there are people out there (think incel) full of hate, yet born of woman, is way out of my range of what I thought possible. I am not exactly crying but have been on the verge of tears for the last few hours – in complete, utter and crippling disbelief that there are people out there who not only think like that but have no compunction to say so out loud. Albeit, the coward’s mark, not under their name.

I wish I were five years old again and it’d all be over my head.

Distraught yours,

U

Let me bore you

“Listen to the whispers before they become shouts.” Excellent advice. Eternal optimist that I am I tend to wait till fate “shouts” at me – which will, naturally, take me by surprise. As I was [taken by surprise] in last night’s dream. It’s one of those that you’ll never forget because it seems poignant and has all the hallmarks of becoming one of those serial dreams which are most instructive.

Though, this minute, difficult to make head or tail of it despite the fact that it actually involved some strange birdlike blood thirsty creatures with both heads (well, mostly beaks) and tails. And bloody fast they were too. Most of the carnage took place in a bathroom, blood (mine) all over the place. The bind I was in that, desperately trying to fight off those suckers (screwing their heads into my flesh) and an impulse to flee, I had to decide whether to open the door to escape, thereby unleashing those little bastards onto everyone else in the vicinity (the bathroom was in a large department store, not dissimilar to Harrods) or stay put. To my shame I did open the door because I couldn’t stand it any longer. My ankles and lower legs in shreds already, my back and lower arms savaged several times.

As it turned out they were only after me, no one else got hurt. Well, that’s exclusivity for you. Or should that be “being targeted”. I didn’t feel flattered. I felt bewildered, not least because once unleashed into the open they largely lost interest in me too. Maybe, of course, that very last line holds the key (some key, part thereof) to what this dream was trying to tell me. If I take some of the dream interpretations you find online into account, then I better adjust my rear view mirror in case someone/something is sneaking up behind me. And don’t forget it all took place in a previously pristine bathroom … out of view of the public.

Sweethearts, thanks for listening. Tell me what you think or just tell me your own dreams even if, like Ramana, you can never remember them. Which, come to think of it, Ramana, most likely means that you are protecting yourself from what your subconscious is trying to tell you. It might make for a peaceful life but …

Jungian greetings,

U

Weather

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.

Disgusted yours,

U

The Lady of Shallot

How many years and onions does it take of cutting them (sliced, cubed) before you stop crying in the process?

U

Taking stock

I am not looking for sympathy. If you have any.

I have been accused of so many shortcomings (on line/internet) if I were a lesser person and not as “arrogant” as many a reader deem me to be I’d just lie down and die. Which, obviously, would be bad news for all those I owe money to. So I won’t.

Never mind. I don’t go with my beloved Nietzsche. His “what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger” is overrated. Just weep. Or, in absence of tears, laugh or shake your head. As I do.

The Angel who has zero interest in any internet altercation has been urging me for ages not to engage. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Mama?” he asks.  I don’t know. Mainly because I like engaging with other people and stand my ground.

Truth is though, I suppose I am … something. Not sure what. I think “arrogant”, often thrown at me in absence of the critic’s more imaginary vocabulary, is not the right word. But I AM sure of myself. That’s for sure. And I like it. Just like I like people who are sure of themselves too.

U

 

Overlap

Sweethearts, with the many many many subjects I feel like raising I chose this one for today’s breadcrumbs.

Are your feelings for someone influenced by the friends they keep? I know that last sentence is mildly convoluted but sometimes a knot is a knot.

Once upon a time (in my teens) I was part of three circles of friends. Yes, three. They couldn’t have been more different. None of them [circles that is] overlapping. And – by instinct – I kept it that way. The members of all three circles would have detested each other in equal measure. I am good that way – segregate as not to give cause for warfare (make that, in their cases, unreasonably sniping, sneering and abundance of unjustifiable arrogance). And yet, you know what – and it puts perspective on how we relate to each other – I was at home in every one of those circles.

Remember the initial question: Are your feelings for someone influenced by the friends they keep?

Ursula

 

 

Zen

Dearest Sweetest Hearts, and arseholes who too read my pourings and too lazy to say what you have to say, let’s assume that I have lived three thirds of my alloted time (loose roof tiles and car accidents notwithstanding): I am on the home stretch. Which is NOT sad. What is sad, and I can’t forgive myself, that I can’t leave passion, fire in my innards behind. I wish I were … I don’t know … indifferent. That’s it. Indifferent. Fuck most things, little touches me. Bliss. I am indifferent. Fat chance. The grail. I so wish, I so wish … what does it take to become a true Stoic, someone I define as not to be touched by anything (at least on the surface)? It ain’t going to happen.

In fact it’s so bad I am running a parallel blog. Not physically. In my mind. That blog is so full of venom, useful venom, truths you can only dream of. Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the what’s it of them all? Close contest. Most people are tender little plants. To name but two, the biblical Rachel and the Samaritan John of fanny flannel fame (which I find vaguely offensive since he is gay). That I haven’t ripped them apart in their blogs’ constant snivelling is a miracle only attributable to my upbringing, natural tact and that I don’t want them to set Sicilian bulldogs onto me. As long as amusement is mine, and it is, I shall keep that lid on my steam.

Thank you to all of you who gave thought to my last post’s lament. That I am still under the weather after last Sunday’s storm is an understatement. I lost a week in a haze of trying to reconcile reality with my concept (and expectation) of the world. I sometimes wish, indeed pray, I were different (entirely selfish because “different” in this context only means my less hurt/bleeding. Peace).

Slight reprimand to Jean whose riposte to Looney I found a little waspish: Looney is a learned man, Jean. I wouldn’t mind playing squash with him because I’d know from the outset I’d be in the corner by the end of it. Yes, Looney, in the wake of Epictetus you reminded me of an anecdote (same school – Zenos and Chrysippus) and since Jean is fond of dogs maybe appealing, and reconciling, to her too, and chiming in with your, Loony, mentioning the fates:

“The Stoics had an image with which to evoke our condition as creatures, at times able to affect change, yet always subject to external necessities: We are like dogs who have been tied to an unpredictable cart. Our leash is long enough to give us a degree of leeway, yet not long enough to let us wander wherever we please.”

U

 

 

 

 

Tall tails

I come from a long line of honest fishermen.

I do not wish to single out one animal in particular yet bulls (by virtue of their size) do produce a lot of shit. As do horses. And bloggers.

Rule number one: Try to be consistent. Otherwise you will be found out as the lying bastard you are.

Rule number two: Don’t embellish. That catfish you caught was full of grit and half your size.

Rule number three: Don’t balloon. You may burst. No one likes other people’s shit on their face.

Rule number four: Do not outwit yourself. You’ll never catch up.

Rule number five: Hold on to your skeleton. It might come useful one day. If only to put flesh on it.

Rule number six: Always start at the end. That way you know you’ll finish.

Rule number seven: If you need to bore bore deep.

Hugs and kisses,

U