Bitch on the Blog

March 24, 2018

Alternative Comment Box, Finals … – Going Gently

Sorry about pauses in proceedings.

Sometimes I wish there were three of me. Don’t groan. It could be worse. Four of me. Hundreds, Thousands …

The only reason I wish I were more than one of me that I could delegate to my others. Delegate to my others to tidy all those loose ends I leave in my trail whilst trying to tend to the main business of my life.

This morning’s washing (black) coming out of the machine covered in tiny shreds of white tissue. I nearly lost the will to live. Then I remembered my mission in blog land; namely to support rhyme and reason, eradicate unfairness and instill justice. Not just on my behalf. I can live with shit – even John’s who can barely contain his.

Before I stop mentioning John by name (after all, he just stands for others with similar limitations), I won’t deny him the public glory of having excelled himself. To my dismay I  had, initially, not picked up a true morsel he served me up on a platter. You may remember my post “Inadequate” in which I ask about the morals of a man who applies double standards.

Casting my inner eye over most people in my life, not least some of my readers/commentators, I imagined their answers if I had laid such a serious question at their respective door steps. And what eloquent and reasoned replies I would have received. What does One John come up with? It was so thin, I nearly missed how thick it is: “No comments as per usual….go figure”.

You ask someone about their moral bankruptcy and all they are able to come back up with is “No comments as per usual….go figure”?

Yes, John, go figure.  Unlike you I don’t hone a herd of sycophants who comment even if they haven’t got anything to say; even if there is nothing to add.

Unlike you, and some of your circle, I do not make layman’s pronouncements (in absence of anything mildly original to say) on others’ mind, soul or inner workings. Without wishing to stretch the limitations of your brain power to bursting point:

What does that feeble “counter attack” (if you can call a lame response that) of yours say about you? That you are feeble?

Ok. Let’s, for sake of argument, say that you are feeble. In which case, dearest John, you will be so happy to hear that I only blame myself that I didn’t follow a hunch many moons ago that I was whiling time away in the wrong part of Wales. To no one’s benefit.

Read the last paragraph again (yes, I know, you claim you don’t read my posts any longer; pull the other one, John. You’d have to be super human not to; not least because you don’t rest in yourself but are totally dependent on anyone’s and your readers endorsement of you). I said “I only blame myself”. You see, John, that is self awareness. That is admitting that we have limitations. Mine being that I don’t recognize that gold nuggets are not to be found in a sand pit. I am tempted to go as far as apologizing that I mistook you for someone you are not.  You never claimed you are something you are not – so it sure ain’t your fault that I find you morally bankrupt.

To you it’s all black and white. Which, considering your surname is Gray, is almost tragic.

U

 

 

 

 

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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

February 12, 2018

Range

Filed under: Culture — bitchontheblog @ 07:00
Tags: , , , , ,

One of many, and fascinating me, protestations by others goes like this:

“But, but, but,  I have never … (heard/seen/don’t know anyone who …)”. And that’s the end of it. Because they don’t know something, haven’t seen, heard or eaten it or indeed, and weighing in heavily, don’t know anyone who does and has, it can’t be possible. It doesn’t exist.

That attitude is endearing. In a child.

U

April 9, 2017

Not Trump – MY father

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 16:07
Tags: , , , ,

This is pretty raw stuff since it only happened a few minutes ago.

Most of you, obviously, will have/had parents.  My father drives me to despair. I am trying, hard. The expenditure of energy when talking to him (on the phone) bears no relation to how terrible I feel afterwards. For ages.

The man doesn’t let me finish one thought, not even one sentence. If I make it to a comma I count myself lucky. Talking over me. Shouting down the line. Am I deaf? It’s awful.  

Bloody hell. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the sun is shining, I tried to phone my mother (she was out) served with my father answering the phone. Now I am sitting here, not exactly five years old any longer, crying. And yes, I did put the phone down on him, eventually. There are limits. And mine stretch far,

Leaving aside that he has always been overbearing, are we now entering that land of the lost old? The land where they are so obtuse they don’t know what they are doing? For heavens sake, I am the one of his children who loyally holds out. The one who is always at the end of the telephone line.  I can’t do this any more.

Anyway, any of you, please let me know what you think.

The odd thing is, my mother being four years older than my father (he will be eighty later this year) is who she always was (albeit physically wilting as roses do) – but fully compos mentis. My father? I hate to think of him like that but I think he becoming more of what he always was. And maybe – unlike his wife, my mother – not with it that much any longer. Or maybe, likely, he is just frustrated how his life has panned out.

I don’t know.

Pretty distraught,

U

February 27, 2017

Tabula rasa

To blow the lid off yesterday’s vessel I will give you something to think about, to reflect on. A laughing matter it ain’t. In fact, I am in shock. Not that I should be since I have experienced same in a different guise before.

There I was, reading a comment. Unfortunately – and please do follow the story line – I didn’t take in the name of the commentator. By the tone of the voice, its sheer being obtuse, I “knew” who it was. Cue hackles rising. I worded my answer accordingly, erring on the acerbic side. Being my lucky day, before I pressed “publish” my gaze happened upon the name of the actual sender.

And what do you know? And this is the punchline and the whole point of this post – and it is shameful. Once I realized who it really was from my whole mindset changed. Suddenly, the very same text took on a completely different nuance. Seen though a filter of benevolence and affection I do have towards this particular commentator. How mad (subjective) is that? Needless to say that I deleted and re-wrote my answer.

If that doesn’t wake you to the vagaries  of human exchanges nothing will. I literally cannot believe it. When I say “it” I mean, I can’t believe that I fell into the very trap I so despair of with others.

U

July 18, 2013

Toes

Filed under: Pretentious Shit — bitchontheblog @ 13:43
Tags: , ,

To circumvent copyright laws I tend to quote only one, the one and only: Yes, yours truly.

This is what I said, somewhere, in 2008:

“What are blogs for if not to bounce around in the confined and padded space of one’s idiocy?”

U

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