Bitch on the Blog

August 13, 2018

Limitations of google

Filed under: Accuracy,Human condition,Questions — bitchontheblog @ 18:13
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Let me put a tiny grief of mine at your doorstep.

Every so often I go somewhere, say a shop where the music is so awful you flee the place; alternatively, as happened earlier, there is one [song] which you’d completely forgotten about. You like it. You  have no idea what it’s called. No idea about the band’s name. But you catch just enough of the lyrics to kid yourself you may be able to google and track it down.

Unfortunately, back home I now have the tune in my head, forgotten about the lyrics. Strange, don’t you think – maybe the last bastion – you can’t google the memory of a song just by its tune. Luckily I am easy going; otherwise I’d be really pissed off this minute (with myself). Which reminds me: One of my friends, a painter who actually lives off his art, also a stickler for detail, once reminded us (we were only in our late teens) of how many brain cells we lose every day. Compounded by any vices. My inner, as yet to be unleashed, accountant didn’t think much of it at the time. Live off your capital. Now I am not so sure. I try and ignore that occasionally my memory will take time over retrieving something so idiotic my only excuse is that it’s so idiotic it’s not worth retrieving. Yeah, well, it’s not easy to deceive myself.

Any holes in your tissue?

U

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November 9, 2017

By Association

Apparently there are many ways of keeping less desirable thoughts and memories at arm’s length. What are they?

Memories triggered by the mention of a date or a place? If you know of how to keep those at bay please do let me know.

Today is the 9th of November 2017. Which, in an earlier missive, I put as 9/11. Nine Eleven. For Europeans, and I don’t know which other countries,  9/11 means 9th November, November being the eleventh month of the year. I am painfully aware that this is not so for Americans. Nine Eleven has taken on such a life of its own that even as a European when I hear Nine Eleven I do NOT think of today’s date. Oh, no. I think of the eleventh of September. The American way.

Places: Dallas, Texas, to me means one thing only (leaving J R Ewing, oil and barons aside). Yes, 22 November 1963. The only time I’d seen adults walking around with grave faces like that, not their usual cheerful selves, was not long before (cue Cuba Crisis). On a personal note, and I have mentioned it before: November, the month, does have a lot to answer for. At least in my life.

How does your brain work?

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

October 5, 2017

Purr

I need a reference point for reasons – in the context of this post – not important. Let’s just say that I need to put my mind to rest. Not least because my mother makes me wince every so often when she “remembers” things in my life she wasn’t even present at better than I do. Now? Now I don’t say anything any longer to correct her. Not since, about ten days ago, I sat next to a lovely lady two years my mother’s senior who was switched on, inquisitive, funny, lively – except every fifteen minutes or so she’d ask me whether I had any children. Having covered the subject of the Angel’s existence several times during our two hour wait my penny suddenly dropped. OH MY GOD. So this is how decline (ever so barely noticeable) manifests itself. No wonder my mother recently apologized to me for upsetting me profoundly. Unfortunately, what she apologized for wasn’t what I had taken offence at. WHAT the …? I left it. Thanked her for her apology. I don’t think she is interested in detail any longer. Main thing is that everything is hunky dory. “All I want is to be good with you”, she says. I do have to rejig my mind set when talking with her in future.

The reference point I need is for a period of utter chaos in my life (ca. eight/nine years or so ago). A few details a little hazy. A couple of days ago I realized that I remembered something that is, chronologically, not possible. So, anyway, and do laugh, I phoned the veterinary practice and asked whether they keep records from many years ago. Yes, they do. Great. Can you please tell me the date when my cat Bouncer (reference point) was put down?

Bloody blasted hell (and only my refined upbringing stops me from using all the swearwords I can muster to express my utter disgust at what the world of information has come to). They can’t give me the date of my OWN cat’s death over the phone because of data protection. Short of my date of birth which they didn’t request I gave the receptionist all the data she needed to conclude that I am not a Russian agent spying on myself. No doing. On top of which she kept calling me “My Lovely”. What’s wrong with the British? Emotionally stunted they proceed to call complete strangers “Love” and “Deary”.

I am now in the recovering position. Next stop on my journey through life? Extracting my own teeth.

U

July 18, 2016

Snapshot in time, Take Two

I love photographs, those of my life, the Angel’s and those of others’ lives. To me a photo is pure magic – a snapshot in time.

I pour over them, and each tells a story. I believe the oldest I have is of my maternal great grandparents, taken in 1895. My beloved grandmother was born a year later. Judging by his moustache my great grandfather could have been Nietzsche’s  younger brother. To look at the image of two people you have never met, long dead, yet without whom I wouldn’t be here. They had five children – four daughters, one son. Though why they bothered to have a boy is anyone’s guess. In the end he was just young fresh meat cannon fodder. As indeed was my grandparents’ eldest son, Karlheinz, AFTER the end of the second world war. Prisoner of war. Russia. Couldn’t stand it any longer. Tried to flee the camp to go home. Shot in the back. He was younger than the Angel is now. The Angel being 24.

Mustn’t get carried away with nostalgia – though I do. If I were allowed to save one thing after all living beings were removed from the house on fire I’d take my treasure trove of photos.

I have done it again. Long intro. What I meant to convey, and please do let me know your own examples: A snapshot in time without holding your camera to it. Yet engraved in your memory forever.

Last time it happened to me was about a week or so ago. Caught up in my usual far away dreamy world, crossing the road on foot and on autopilot, a car passing stopped. The sun was shining. The driver leaned out of his open side window – a young man in his mid twenties, long blond hair, and his trademark big smile: Mama, he beamed.

And that, having been taken by surprise, frame was a snapshot in time. A perfect moment in time. That moment’s “frame” has etched itself onto my visual memory in an almost shocking clarity. It’s there. Like a photograph (not taken).

U

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