Brian’s cold is much better. But now he keeps making noise in throat like he is trying dredge up something from depths below. But nothing appears. This habit is irritating.
But worst of all has he passed on to me his cold, despite all precautions I am taking. Brian is recommending me to drink the Lemsip muck which I do, and to help its efficacy I follow by large shot of vodka.
When I have cold, always is it so much worse than cold of ordinary person, and do you know why this is? I will tell you. It is because I have the narrow sinuses. This is fact. When little girl, doctor visit school with nurse assistant and look down throat of every child, and also up nose. Some require no attention, but rest are split into ‘noses’ and ‘throats’, and later, throats have to go into hospital and have removed their tonsils. But noses are attended to on the spot by the insertion of cloth-covered wire up each nostril. Right up. So I think it is going into my brain and I shout out but nurse holds my arms so stopping me from striking this doctor. This is very unpleasant, and is how I know I have narrow sinuses.
I am feeling so shitty and this is reason why my writing to you had been delayed for this long time. But now have I risen up from sick bed to communicate with you.
I am definitely now thinking the marriage is not good idea. This I inform Brian of and he says that is all right, but he has idea. He will buy wedding ring (proper one made of gold, not some old piece of brass what would turn green my finger.) Then we just pretend we are married for when we go out to bus company functions and for neighbours who always are saying to Brian, have you pooped the question yet? (They are meaning has he asked me to marry because they think I am girlfriend). Also Brian is quite handsome a man – even though not very tall - and maybe they think such a waste if he does not betroth himself. But could also be some are suspecting Brian is gay and hoping he will come out of the cupboard.
Whatever.
Do you think this wedding ring is good idea? Of course Brian would not be attempting to defraud Inland Revenue people because to them he would not pretend marriage – only to bus company, and neighbours.
But even though proper wedding is now the dead duck, Brian say he will still clear out motorbike bits from spare room and equip it for himself as bedroom. Therefore will leave me able to redo main bedroom more suitable décor for boudoir of Swedish lady.
But all this is making me a bit suspect. Maybe even paranoical. Because I am wondering if Brian doing all of this so I will stay with him in flat, thinking I am safe because he is homosexual. I am beginning to wonder though if this really is so, because Brian has not brought home any boyfriends for such long a time and he is always asking me to go to cinema with him and to the restaurant, which is okay by me because he does not attempt to grope me in darkness of movie theatre. But maybe he is playing what you call ‘waiting game’, eh?
Now, you maybe thinking – how come is Anna having change of mind? Since when first moving into flat was disappointed Brian was not showing sexual interest in her body? This is true. But Anna has now become more discernable as to who she copulates with. On looking back on life so far she see how readily she has got it on with this man here and that man there, because always she is looking for love. Not just for the sex was all the relations she has indulged in, though you may not be believing this. No – always searching for LOVE was Anna. This has result of going up lots of blind alleyways (I don’t mean real alleyways – though this also is true – I am speaking with metaphor).
But despite the energy and diligence Anna has applied to this task, alas, no such love has Anna found. And so now she is keeping herself pure (well as pure as possible) until real love come along. Naturally she hopes this will be her Georgie. But he will have to get on his skates (as you British say) otherwise she may be overtaken by someone else.
Enough have I now written, and must retire back to bed. (Brian is having to cook by microwave all his meals. But most times he is bringing home the Chinese or the Indian, which we share.)
Write soon and I hope you are feeling better in spirits.
Oh, and yes I did have a watch and listen to those elderly gentlemen playing jazz. Very satisfactory. But I was wondering where they find all the puff to blow hard their instruments without falling down in dead faint. Still they do – and more power to their elbow-grease I say.
Your loving (and still available – just) Anna.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
When you and I were young
No words come tonight.
Confusion fills my head.
So I have been listening to Jazz.
Don't click here if you don't like old Jazz
Confusion fills my head.
So I have been listening to Jazz.
Don't click here if you don't like old Jazz
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Altruism: does it pay off?
*************************************************8
Confusion. That’s what I’m feeling this morning. A head full of confusion is what I’ve got. And a lot of it is due to getting up, then deciding it was too early, and going back to bed. A mistake. Like ordering that second bottle of wine.
I had two short nasty dreams. Same theme. I am ‘out of it’. An outsider. I struggle to find out what is going on. There is a college party but I don’t know where it is, or what time they meet. A friend gets impatient with me when I ask him for details. This ‘friend’ is a boyhood pal who was so shy and timid in real life. He is now a clergyman but in the dream he is a popular party-goer. When I press him, he says they are meeting 'at twelve' in the ‘George’ (a pub, but also a dream pun, which it would take too long to explain here.) What? I say, you mean midnight? Of course, he replies. He doesn’t ask me to go with him.
I decide I’m not going to go because ‘I always end up alone at these ‘do’s’.Why should I put myself through all that again?’
But the confusion is perhaps the worst part: How come he is so popular and ‘well-in’. He has only been at this college for a few months, while I have been here years. What am I doing wrong? What is it that I lack – that others have in such abundance?
I wake feeling depressed.
Once again, I find myself blaming the ‘only child’ thing. I think that when you are an only child you have nothing the measure yourself against, nothing to relate to. You don’t know where you ‘fit in’. You wonder what you are ‘for’, what your place is in the scheme of things. Consequently you grow up not knowing who you are – and that is the fount of your basic insecurity.
Of course, I am talking about myself. How can I presume to speak for everyone who has grown up as an ‘only child’. Nevertheless, I do believe that we share certain personality traits.
It’s well after noon, and I am still in my dressing down. Isn’t that decadent?
I shall finish this cup of coffee (I’ve already eaten the piece of chocolate) and then take a shower. Some mornings it is a real effort to have a shower, so I put it off for as long as I can; in this case by sitting here at the computer.
I have been given permission to go out this afternoon and see my friend, Jim (I’ve spoken to you before about him, Anna). He has been kicked out of his flat and is currently residing at the Salvation Army Hostel. Actually, I understand the facilities there are quite excellent. You have to pay, of course, but the rooms are clean and the food is good. I have made a mental note of this, in case I too am homeless at some future date.
How are Brian’s phlegm levels? I hope you are using that antiseptic hand gel stuff. I don’t want you catching his nasty germs; coming from Sweden you may be more vulnerable to English bugs.
Looking forward to seeing my (germ free) Anna
Love
George
Confusion. That’s what I’m feeling this morning. A head full of confusion is what I’ve got. And a lot of it is due to getting up, then deciding it was too early, and going back to bed. A mistake. Like ordering that second bottle of wine.
I had two short nasty dreams. Same theme. I am ‘out of it’. An outsider. I struggle to find out what is going on. There is a college party but I don’t know where it is, or what time they meet. A friend gets impatient with me when I ask him for details. This ‘friend’ is a boyhood pal who was so shy and timid in real life. He is now a clergyman but in the dream he is a popular party-goer. When I press him, he says they are meeting 'at twelve' in the ‘George’ (a pub, but also a dream pun, which it would take too long to explain here.) What? I say, you mean midnight? Of course, he replies. He doesn’t ask me to go with him.
I decide I’m not going to go because ‘I always end up alone at these ‘do’s’.Why should I put myself through all that again?’
But the confusion is perhaps the worst part: How come he is so popular and ‘well-in’. He has only been at this college for a few months, while I have been here years. What am I doing wrong? What is it that I lack – that others have in such abundance?
I wake feeling depressed.
Once again, I find myself blaming the ‘only child’ thing. I think that when you are an only child you have nothing the measure yourself against, nothing to relate to. You don’t know where you ‘fit in’. You wonder what you are ‘for’, what your place is in the scheme of things. Consequently you grow up not knowing who you are – and that is the fount of your basic insecurity.
Of course, I am talking about myself. How can I presume to speak for everyone who has grown up as an ‘only child’. Nevertheless, I do believe that we share certain personality traits.
It’s well after noon, and I am still in my dressing down. Isn’t that decadent?
I shall finish this cup of coffee (I’ve already eaten the piece of chocolate) and then take a shower. Some mornings it is a real effort to have a shower, so I put it off for as long as I can; in this case by sitting here at the computer.
I have been given permission to go out this afternoon and see my friend, Jim (I’ve spoken to you before about him, Anna). He has been kicked out of his flat and is currently residing at the Salvation Army Hostel. Actually, I understand the facilities there are quite excellent. You have to pay, of course, but the rooms are clean and the food is good. I have made a mental note of this, in case I too am homeless at some future date.
How are Brian’s phlegm levels? I hope you are using that antiseptic hand gel stuff. I don’t want you catching his nasty germs; coming from Sweden you may be more vulnerable to English bugs.
Looking forward to seeing my (germ free) Anna
Love
George
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Funny noises with the mouth
************************************************************
A thought occurred to me this morning:
Perhaps before we had language we had other ways of communicating. And then as language developed these older methods fell into disuse, and were eventually "forgotten".
Evolution depended on survival. Could it be possible that we developed "telepathy" – which may, at its most basic level, may have been just the communication of raw feelings: fear at the impending approach of some predator, transmitted as a danger signal to other members of the tribe; grief; sexual desire; love, even; the ability to make our presence felt to others. As we evolved so may our skills: the transmission of visual images (still and moving) and other non-language communication.
Now, in our highly sophisticated world of language, we have lost sight of, or "forgotten" these earlier skills – perhaps they have atrophied, like our tail when we finally came down from the trees, and we are just left with a vestigial “psychic coccyx”. (It would be interesting to mount a study to see if there is a correlation between the length of the coccyx in humans and their ‘psychic’ ability).
Nevertheless, inn our technological age, when someone experiences a sudden inexplicable "knowing", we either dismiss it out of hand or we label it "supernatural’"Of course there is no such thing as "supernatural". If it exists, then it is natural.
I wonder, is it coincidence that people with the least developed language skills seem to be the ones most likely to experience this "psychic" phenomena? I am thinking of adults, but young children often have "imaginary" friends. (My daughter had one – his name was "Mancroft"). Of course this may just be imagination… on the other hand, it could be that young children have not yet been educated out of these other ways of seeing and experiencing.
Another (completely unrelated) thought:
Did Pope Julius II call Michelangelo "Mick"?
I like to think so:
You sent for me, Your Holiness?
Yes I did, Mick. Come in and shut the door. Take a pew.
Thanks, boss. That was a great sermon you preached last Sunday, boss – the camel and the eye of a needle stuff. That’s one in the eye (if you’ll pardon the pun) for the wankers (sorry, Bankers). Yes, Boccacio was right -
Never mind all that, Mick. It’s about this little job you’re doing for me.
What job would that be, boss
The painting of the Sistene chapel, of course.
Oh, yes, I’m really cracking on with that.
But that’s the point Mick, you’re not cracking on with it.
How do you mean?
Well, don’t you think you’re spending just a little too much time on the ceiling?
Pardon.
I cannot risk Mass in there with you on your back up on that scaffolding. It’s a Health and Safety issue; you do see that, don’t you?’ What if you fell and injured one of the congregation? We’re in a “compensation culture” now, you know, Mick. It’s more than my job’s worth.
I mean, admittedly it’s very nice – all those cherubs and stuff, although personally, I would have preferred something simpler - a plain eggshell blue, for example. But the thing is Mick… well, I’m not trying to tell you your job – but I was round there yesterday, and you haven’t even sanded down the doors yet!
What?
And then there’s the window-frames and the pews, and the stonework’s going to need a good going over with the wire brush.
Excuse me, Your Holiness - I just quoted for the ceiling.
Now, no excuses, Mick. Remember how you came knocking on my door, with all the spiel “ Just in the area – got a load of paint over from the last job – noticed your chapel could do with a touch up - cash in hand – no VAT.”
We're talking about the chapel, Mick – the whole caboodle.’
Nah! Sorry boss, not at that price.
Well, you don’t get paid until you finish it – the complete chapel.
Now hang on, Your Holiness – we had a contract. A verbal one, admittedly.
(Laughs) Well, you know what they say Mick – a verbal contract’s not worth the parchment it’s written on.
(Mumbles under his breath) Yeah, well you Popes aren’t exactly renowned for paying up anyway… I’ve been done before…
What was that?
I was just saying… I’ve been up there so long; I’m nearly done for. All I want is a fair price for the job.
I’m trying to run a church here, Mick. And what with the overspill from St Agnes’ after the arson, I need every bit of space I can get. I'm sorry, Mick, but it's the whole chapel - or no payment.
‘You drive a hard bargain, boss. Tell, you what: my brother’s just been laid off; the recession’s hit the road building real hard. He’s usually on the “black stuff”, but he can turn his hand to anything. How about if he helps me with the downstairs stuff? Another five florins, and we have the job completed Sunday week?
Done.
***************************************
I agree with you, Anna about the selling sex thing. I acknowledge that half an hour is not long to form a meaningful relationship; an hour would be better, although more expensive.
But that is not the point. What about all those ugly folk, who cannot attract a mate? The socially inept? The chronically shy? The psychologically damaged? How would they be able to satisfy their sexual urges if it were not for thes ladies? These "escorts", "call-girls", "prostitutes" - whatever label you wish to append - perform a service, fulfil a need.
In an ideal world (or so we have been brought up to believe) we should all "entitled" to a loving, meaningful relationship, with the trust, caring, companionship and intimacy that this implies.
It is another lie, of course. This is not ours "by right"; we may be lucky, and achieve it. Most people don't. Some, by accident of birth, uprbinging, life trauma, never even stand a chance.
I think Brian's cold may have come at the right time - for you, Anna, not for him. It has alerted you to the downside - the incredibly down side - of marriage. And believe me, phlegm would be the least of your worries.
Anyway, don't come to see me until Brian's cold is better. (If one person catches a cold in here it goes through the whole place.).
I am working on the fiscal problems I mentioned and hope for a good outcome; an outcome that will benefit both of us.
Looking forward to seeing you - post phlegm.
Love
George
A thought occurred to me this morning:
Perhaps before we had language we had other ways of communicating. And then as language developed these older methods fell into disuse, and were eventually "forgotten".
Evolution depended on survival. Could it be possible that we developed "telepathy" – which may, at its most basic level, may have been just the communication of raw feelings: fear at the impending approach of some predator, transmitted as a danger signal to other members of the tribe; grief; sexual desire; love, even; the ability to make our presence felt to others. As we evolved so may our skills: the transmission of visual images (still and moving) and other non-language communication.
Now, in our highly sophisticated world of language, we have lost sight of, or "forgotten" these earlier skills – perhaps they have atrophied, like our tail when we finally came down from the trees, and we are just left with a vestigial “psychic coccyx”. (It would be interesting to mount a study to see if there is a correlation between the length of the coccyx in humans and their ‘psychic’ ability).
Nevertheless, inn our technological age, when someone experiences a sudden inexplicable "knowing", we either dismiss it out of hand or we label it "supernatural’"Of course there is no such thing as "supernatural". If it exists, then it is natural.
I wonder, is it coincidence that people with the least developed language skills seem to be the ones most likely to experience this "psychic" phenomena? I am thinking of adults, but young children often have "imaginary" friends. (My daughter had one – his name was "Mancroft"). Of course this may just be imagination… on the other hand, it could be that young children have not yet been educated out of these other ways of seeing and experiencing.
Another (completely unrelated) thought:
Did Pope Julius II call Michelangelo "Mick"?
I like to think so:
You sent for me, Your Holiness?
Yes I did, Mick. Come in and shut the door. Take a pew.
Thanks, boss. That was a great sermon you preached last Sunday, boss – the camel and the eye of a needle stuff. That’s one in the eye (if you’ll pardon the pun) for the wankers (sorry, Bankers). Yes, Boccacio was right -
Never mind all that, Mick. It’s about this little job you’re doing for me.
What job would that be, boss
The painting of the Sistene chapel, of course.
Oh, yes, I’m really cracking on with that.
But that’s the point Mick, you’re not cracking on with it.
How do you mean?
Well, don’t you think you’re spending just a little too much time on the ceiling?
Pardon.
I cannot risk Mass in there with you on your back up on that scaffolding. It’s a Health and Safety issue; you do see that, don’t you?’ What if you fell and injured one of the congregation? We’re in a “compensation culture” now, you know, Mick. It’s more than my job’s worth.
I mean, admittedly it’s very nice – all those cherubs and stuff, although personally, I would have preferred something simpler - a plain eggshell blue, for example. But the thing is Mick… well, I’m not trying to tell you your job – but I was round there yesterday, and you haven’t even sanded down the doors yet!
What?
And then there’s the window-frames and the pews, and the stonework’s going to need a good going over with the wire brush.
Excuse me, Your Holiness - I just quoted for the ceiling.
Now, no excuses, Mick. Remember how you came knocking on my door, with all the spiel “ Just in the area – got a load of paint over from the last job – noticed your chapel could do with a touch up - cash in hand – no VAT.”
We're talking about the chapel, Mick – the whole caboodle.’
Nah! Sorry boss, not at that price.
Well, you don’t get paid until you finish it – the complete chapel.
Now hang on, Your Holiness – we had a contract. A verbal one, admittedly.
(Laughs) Well, you know what they say Mick – a verbal contract’s not worth the parchment it’s written on.
(Mumbles under his breath) Yeah, well you Popes aren’t exactly renowned for paying up anyway… I’ve been done before…
What was that?
I was just saying… I’ve been up there so long; I’m nearly done for. All I want is a fair price for the job.
I’m trying to run a church here, Mick. And what with the overspill from St Agnes’ after the arson, I need every bit of space I can get. I'm sorry, Mick, but it's the whole chapel - or no payment.
‘You drive a hard bargain, boss. Tell, you what: my brother’s just been laid off; the recession’s hit the road building real hard. He’s usually on the “black stuff”, but he can turn his hand to anything. How about if he helps me with the downstairs stuff? Another five florins, and we have the job completed Sunday week?
Done.
***************************************
I agree with you, Anna about the selling sex thing. I acknowledge that half an hour is not long to form a meaningful relationship; an hour would be better, although more expensive.
But that is not the point. What about all those ugly folk, who cannot attract a mate? The socially inept? The chronically shy? The psychologically damaged? How would they be able to satisfy their sexual urges if it were not for thes ladies? These "escorts", "call-girls", "prostitutes" - whatever label you wish to append - perform a service, fulfil a need.
In an ideal world (or so we have been brought up to believe) we should all "entitled" to a loving, meaningful relationship, with the trust, caring, companionship and intimacy that this implies.
It is another lie, of course. This is not ours "by right"; we may be lucky, and achieve it. Most people don't. Some, by accident of birth, uprbinging, life trauma, never even stand a chance.
I think Brian's cold may have come at the right time - for you, Anna, not for him. It has alerted you to the downside - the incredibly down side - of marriage. And believe me, phlegm would be the least of your worries.
Anyway, don't come to see me until Brian's cold is better. (If one person catches a cold in here it goes through the whole place.).
I am working on the fiscal problems I mentioned and hope for a good outcome; an outcome that will benefit both of us.
Looking forward to seeing you - post phlegm.
Love
George
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Oh Georgie. How much I love you, but you do talk a load of bullshit, sometimes. (I learn word bullshit off Brian. I think it is a splendid sounding word. Like slut, and trashy.). But left brain, right brain - why is it you making such big deal over this? After all, you have right hand and left hand. And you may use different hand for different purposes. But you don't go on about it - do you?
I am telling you previously, you think too much.
And what is there wrong for paying for sex? Nothing is wrong I am telling you. Lady who is friend who used to work with me in video industry becomes escort person. She tell me that she say to client who is nervous and say he feels guilty - she say, Look, honey. You get hungry, right? You go to restaurant for big satisfying meal, right? Well, you don't feel guilty about such behaviour do you? Just because you pay for this satisfying meal? No, well sex is just appetite, like what is food. So you satisfy appetite, and say - My, I am feeling so much better after that - I will leave tip for this nice kind lady what has been serving me. (Mostly, she say clients do not leave tip because they have paid in advance and afterwards wish to exit from premises as quickly as possible by the back door route.) Never mind.
You would be surprised, say my friend, how repressed and with silly notions in head, men can be. One young gentleman say to her - I find this hard to do because I think sex should be a part of love - I mean it should only be done in loving relationship with someone. And how can I form loving relationship in half an hour? (which time is all he have paid for - he could have have full hour but is too mean, but my friend do not tell him this). My friend tell him - Look at it like you was learning to drive motor-car. You do not go first out and buy brand spanking new vehicle what you might easily crash. No, instead you go for lesson with professional instructor. And you do not say to instructor - I cannot have lesson with you in this car because it is not my car. I do not own it. I have not formed loving relationship with this vehicle. You use car for purpose. And everybody is happy.
Now this man, Mr Freud. Is he not man who say all girls want to have sex with father? And all boys want to have sex with mother? I do not know if I wanted to have with my father, because I never meet him. He buggers off when I am born. Much later do I have sex with mother's boy-friend, but this is not the same.
Anyway, I think people too fussy about who to have sex with. It is no big deal I think. Having sex, I mean. It is just another way of being friendly.
I am glad you do not kill Mr Spider. Of course, you chuck him outside and some bird might come and spear him with sharp beak, then eat him. Then cat come and eat bird. But his is just nature. This is way God designed world - so everything eat each other. That way keep population down.
And all these dreams what you keep having - why not do have erotic dream once in a while? Thinking of me? This would be more healthy than dreams you do have. All this failing exam stuff.
Brian has severe cold in head. He has much what you call catarrh (do I spell correct?) and also great quantities of the phlegm. (What a bloody silly word is this - why do you not spell like you say - which is flem?) Anyway I say to Brian - Kindly dispose of phlegm when you are alone. Because this is not a pleasant business at all. Also I say - Better go back sleeping on Japanese plank which you call futon, because I do not wish you to be blowing your germs up my nose in night. Brian understands and complies with my request.
I am beginning to reconsider again this marriage thing because a wife might be expected to involve self in all sort of unpleasant duties, regarding bodily functions and person hygene of husband. And though I am familiar with workings of Brian's body - and love him too (but not like I love you), I am not sure if this would fill me with joy. I like dressing up as nurse and wearing of rubber gloves, but this only is for play and in fun situations.
Sometimes life can be complicated. But best thing is to forget about it.
I cook pasta tonight. This is adventurous for me because I do not use microwave. Instead I boil pasta in pan for certain minutes. Then I open tin of tuna and deposit on pasta. Finally, I garnish with tomato sauce, from bottle. I am sure Brian will love this meal and it will help to make cold better.
Good news you are giving me about possible home. I still think marriage is preferred solution but am willing to consider other options.
Until next we meet
Your Anna
I am telling you previously, you think too much.
And what is there wrong for paying for sex? Nothing is wrong I am telling you. Lady who is friend who used to work with me in video industry becomes escort person. She tell me that she say to client who is nervous and say he feels guilty - she say, Look, honey. You get hungry, right? You go to restaurant for big satisfying meal, right? Well, you don't feel guilty about such behaviour do you? Just because you pay for this satisfying meal? No, well sex is just appetite, like what is food. So you satisfy appetite, and say - My, I am feeling so much better after that - I will leave tip for this nice kind lady what has been serving me. (Mostly, she say clients do not leave tip because they have paid in advance and afterwards wish to exit from premises as quickly as possible by the back door route.) Never mind.
You would be surprised, say my friend, how repressed and with silly notions in head, men can be. One young gentleman say to her - I find this hard to do because I think sex should be a part of love - I mean it should only be done in loving relationship with someone. And how can I form loving relationship in half an hour? (which time is all he have paid for - he could have have full hour but is too mean, but my friend do not tell him this). My friend tell him - Look at it like you was learning to drive motor-car. You do not go first out and buy brand spanking new vehicle what you might easily crash. No, instead you go for lesson with professional instructor. And you do not say to instructor - I cannot have lesson with you in this car because it is not my car. I do not own it. I have not formed loving relationship with this vehicle. You use car for purpose. And everybody is happy.
Now this man, Mr Freud. Is he not man who say all girls want to have sex with father? And all boys want to have sex with mother? I do not know if I wanted to have with my father, because I never meet him. He buggers off when I am born. Much later do I have sex with mother's boy-friend, but this is not the same.
Anyway, I think people too fussy about who to have sex with. It is no big deal I think. Having sex, I mean. It is just another way of being friendly.
I am glad you do not kill Mr Spider. Of course, you chuck him outside and some bird might come and spear him with sharp beak, then eat him. Then cat come and eat bird. But his is just nature. This is way God designed world - so everything eat each other. That way keep population down.
And all these dreams what you keep having - why not do have erotic dream once in a while? Thinking of me? This would be more healthy than dreams you do have. All this failing exam stuff.
Brian has severe cold in head. He has much what you call catarrh (do I spell correct?) and also great quantities of the phlegm. (What a bloody silly word is this - why do you not spell like you say - which is flem?) Anyway I say to Brian - Kindly dispose of phlegm when you are alone. Because this is not a pleasant business at all. Also I say - Better go back sleeping on Japanese plank which you call futon, because I do not wish you to be blowing your germs up my nose in night. Brian understands and complies with my request.
I am beginning to reconsider again this marriage thing because a wife might be expected to involve self in all sort of unpleasant duties, regarding bodily functions and person hygene of husband. And though I am familiar with workings of Brian's body - and love him too (but not like I love you), I am not sure if this would fill me with joy. I like dressing up as nurse and wearing of rubber gloves, but this only is for play and in fun situations.
Sometimes life can be complicated. But best thing is to forget about it.
I cook pasta tonight. This is adventurous for me because I do not use microwave. Instead I boil pasta in pan for certain minutes. Then I open tin of tuna and deposit on pasta. Finally, I garnish with tomato sauce, from bottle. I am sure Brian will love this meal and it will help to make cold better.
Good news you are giving me about possible home. I still think marriage is preferred solution but am willing to consider other options.
Until next we meet
Your Anna
Thursday, July 15, 2010
DORIS - AND A SPIDER
*****************************************************
I awake to hear Doris Day asking me to take her back to the Black Hills of Dakota.
Hang on Doris – I need a pee. And straightaway I am out of bed and into the bathroom. But there is a spider, frantically trying to climb out of the washbasin. Of course washbasins are not designed to facilitate the easy exit of spiders, so he keeps slipping down. But he doesn’t give up. In fact he redoubles his efforts when he hears my approach.
I don’t like killing anything, so I get a glass and a piece of paper and scoop him up. He doesn’t like it; he doesn’t realise it’s for his own good.
Then, I open a window and tip him outside – to freedom.
I have a pee then hasten back to the bedroom – but Doris has gone!
I’ve been having those dreams again, Anna: the “failure” dreams. They are becoming more frequent. It was exams again. The “teacher” was reading out the results to the assembled students. (I was an adult and it was like college or university). When she read out mine, a group of girls at the front gave out a sympathetic gasp. I was embarrassed. I had done badly in “English”: my best subject.
Later, I confessed to the “teacher” – ‘I just have not put the work in’. I felt so dejected, ashamed.
And then, there was Doris – with an invitation. And now she is gone.
I try to analyse these dreams. I know that my unconscious mind is telling me something: something I urgently need to attend to – or perhaps just accept, and face. But what?
My “failure” was years ago: grammar school. Since then (academically, at least), I have been successful. So what is it my unconscious mind is telling me? Perhaps the “academic” setting of the dreams is a metaphor – but a metaphor for what?
I wish Freud were here.
Or even you, Anna.
Where are you?
Calling A for Anna –
Come in A for Anna -
Are you receiving me?
OVER.
I awake to hear Doris Day asking me to take her back to the Black Hills of Dakota.
Hang on Doris – I need a pee. And straightaway I am out of bed and into the bathroom. But there is a spider, frantically trying to climb out of the washbasin. Of course washbasins are not designed to facilitate the easy exit of spiders, so he keeps slipping down. But he doesn’t give up. In fact he redoubles his efforts when he hears my approach.
I don’t like killing anything, so I get a glass and a piece of paper and scoop him up. He doesn’t like it; he doesn’t realise it’s for his own good.
Then, I open a window and tip him outside – to freedom.
I have a pee then hasten back to the bedroom – but Doris has gone!
I’ve been having those dreams again, Anna: the “failure” dreams. They are becoming more frequent. It was exams again. The “teacher” was reading out the results to the assembled students. (I was an adult and it was like college or university). When she read out mine, a group of girls at the front gave out a sympathetic gasp. I was embarrassed. I had done badly in “English”: my best subject.
Later, I confessed to the “teacher” – ‘I just have not put the work in’. I felt so dejected, ashamed.
And then, there was Doris – with an invitation. And now she is gone.
I try to analyse these dreams. I know that my unconscious mind is telling me something: something I urgently need to attend to – or perhaps just accept, and face. But what?
My “failure” was years ago: grammar school. Since then (academically, at least), I have been successful. So what is it my unconscious mind is telling me? Perhaps the “academic” setting of the dreams is a metaphor – but a metaphor for what?
I wish Freud were here.
Or even you, Anna.
Where are you?
Calling A for Anna –
Come in A for Anna -
Are you receiving me?
OVER.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Things are never quite what they seem. And even if they were, how would we know?
*************************************************
I overhead part of a conversation last night, between Clive and Eric. There is a path just below my window which, the evening being quite hot, I had opened wide. Clive and Eric, taking a late evening stroll, had paused for a cigarette.
Eric was apparently telling Clive of the time he visited a massage parlour. He had just split up from his wife and was feeling lonely. He told Clive how he had been so nervous – this being his first time – but the girl had put him at ease, and the whole experience turned out so much better than he could ever have hoped.
‘Well, I would never pay for sex’, said Clive.
There was a pause, and then I heard Eric reply, ‘Oh, we all pay for sex. Sometimes with our dignity… sometimes with our freedom… sometimes with our heart. Often with all three.’
I suddenly felt I was eavesdropping on some really personal stuff, and I was about to close the window, when they moved on, leaving that fragment of conversation hanging in the air, along with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. (It’s funny, but although I do not indulge myself, I often find the smell of cigarette smoke quite pleasant, seductive, even.)
I retired to bed in a thoughtful mood.
I sometimes see my mind as a washing machine, with all sorts of bits and pieces sloshing around inside. And me, sitting with my eyes glued to the glass window, the porthole of my consciousness, watching different items swirl into view. While some pieces never make an appearance, other items appear twice, or even more. It’s all a bit random. As my mother used to say, “Random is, as random does.” Well, she might have – I can’t remember.
Anyway, all I am saying is that I may possibly repeat myself, If I do, just think of it as the same bit of clothing coming around again.
I was thinking – when are you doing anything else? I hear you ask, Anna.
Well anyway, it occurred to me that the prevailing view – the official, the accepted view of the world, of reality and how things are, is predominantly a left-brain view: the view of the scientist. Now I am not knocking science – I have the utmost respect for the scientific method as a tool for finding out about things. But I sometimes wonder whether there might possibly be another reality apart from this mathematical, logical, rationality… or whether reality can ultimately be reduced to ones and zeroes. OR, perhaps these two realities are just different aspects of one reality. And that maybe we are not giving enough weight to the right brain reality. This is a clumsy way of putting it but it’s the best I can do whilst drunk. No, I am not drunk, Anna. That was just an excuse.
I don’t like that dark green cabbage either. No wonder you didn’t eat it. I always think it looks like it is suffering from deep-vein thrombosis, and I shudder at the thought of my stomach (and then my bowel) having to deal with it. But I do like that other sort of cabbage – is it called “Spring Cabbage”? – the one that is light and delicate, and very tasty.
I think you are right in expecting Brian to move his motorbike out of the back bedroom. But I think you are even more right in thinking carefully about whether you really want to get into this marriage thing. By the way, I don’t think Purple Cow actually meant that marriage caused her to develop a rash. What she said was that she was allergic – and that, I think, was a sort of metaphor. Your rash (which I do remember you telling us all about) was something quite different – and responded well to the antibiotics, as I recall.
And, Anna, please do not write me off as suitable partner material. Note that I say “partner”. What need have we for this marriage thing? There are other ways around your little problem of illegal sojourn in our country. After all, you have been here for… how long is it now? And no one has bothered you, come looking for you, have they? And another thing: do not be so sure that I cannot offer you a home. I have decided that I am going to sue my (ex) wife for possession of the holiday cottage we owned. The one by the sea… on Wosser Point. You remember – you and I spent a weekend there. I know it was a long time ago but surely you cannot have forgotten that weekend!
When Georgina and me divorced, I felt so guilty that I did not bother to fight her over the cottage. (Georgina eventually got all the money from the sale of Wynorin – our marital home.) My solicitor told me I was a fool – but you know me… soft hearted. Well, I have changed: no more “Mister Nice Guy”.
Anyway I have a meeting with my solicitor tomorrow. (That was the news I had for you, which got overshadowed by the mushroom cloud of your marriage bombshell.) I shall take my ex wife to court for what is rightfully mine.
I am off to bed now because I want to be fully alert for tomorrow’s meeting.
Set your sights a little higher than Purley, my love.
Goodnight
George
I overhead part of a conversation last night, between Clive and Eric. There is a path just below my window which, the evening being quite hot, I had opened wide. Clive and Eric, taking a late evening stroll, had paused for a cigarette.
Eric was apparently telling Clive of the time he visited a massage parlour. He had just split up from his wife and was feeling lonely. He told Clive how he had been so nervous – this being his first time – but the girl had put him at ease, and the whole experience turned out so much better than he could ever have hoped.
‘Well, I would never pay for sex’, said Clive.
There was a pause, and then I heard Eric reply, ‘Oh, we all pay for sex. Sometimes with our dignity… sometimes with our freedom… sometimes with our heart. Often with all three.’
I suddenly felt I was eavesdropping on some really personal stuff, and I was about to close the window, when they moved on, leaving that fragment of conversation hanging in the air, along with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. (It’s funny, but although I do not indulge myself, I often find the smell of cigarette smoke quite pleasant, seductive, even.)
I retired to bed in a thoughtful mood.
I sometimes see my mind as a washing machine, with all sorts of bits and pieces sloshing around inside. And me, sitting with my eyes glued to the glass window, the porthole of my consciousness, watching different items swirl into view. While some pieces never make an appearance, other items appear twice, or even more. It’s all a bit random. As my mother used to say, “Random is, as random does.” Well, she might have – I can’t remember.
Anyway, all I am saying is that I may possibly repeat myself, If I do, just think of it as the same bit of clothing coming around again.
I was thinking – when are you doing anything else? I hear you ask, Anna.
Well anyway, it occurred to me that the prevailing view – the official, the accepted view of the world, of reality and how things are, is predominantly a left-brain view: the view of the scientist. Now I am not knocking science – I have the utmost respect for the scientific method as a tool for finding out about things. But I sometimes wonder whether there might possibly be another reality apart from this mathematical, logical, rationality… or whether reality can ultimately be reduced to ones and zeroes. OR, perhaps these two realities are just different aspects of one reality. And that maybe we are not giving enough weight to the right brain reality. This is a clumsy way of putting it but it’s the best I can do whilst drunk. No, I am not drunk, Anna. That was just an excuse.
I don’t like that dark green cabbage either. No wonder you didn’t eat it. I always think it looks like it is suffering from deep-vein thrombosis, and I shudder at the thought of my stomach (and then my bowel) having to deal with it. But I do like that other sort of cabbage – is it called “Spring Cabbage”? – the one that is light and delicate, and very tasty.
I think you are right in expecting Brian to move his motorbike out of the back bedroom. But I think you are even more right in thinking carefully about whether you really want to get into this marriage thing. By the way, I don’t think Purple Cow actually meant that marriage caused her to develop a rash. What she said was that she was allergic – and that, I think, was a sort of metaphor. Your rash (which I do remember you telling us all about) was something quite different – and responded well to the antibiotics, as I recall.
And, Anna, please do not write me off as suitable partner material. Note that I say “partner”. What need have we for this marriage thing? There are other ways around your little problem of illegal sojourn in our country. After all, you have been here for… how long is it now? And no one has bothered you, come looking for you, have they? And another thing: do not be so sure that I cannot offer you a home. I have decided that I am going to sue my (ex) wife for possession of the holiday cottage we owned. The one by the sea… on Wosser Point. You remember – you and I spent a weekend there. I know it was a long time ago but surely you cannot have forgotten that weekend!
When Georgina and me divorced, I felt so guilty that I did not bother to fight her over the cottage. (Georgina eventually got all the money from the sale of Wynorin – our marital home.) My solicitor told me I was a fool – but you know me… soft hearted. Well, I have changed: no more “Mister Nice Guy”.
Anyway I have a meeting with my solicitor tomorrow. (That was the news I had for you, which got overshadowed by the mushroom cloud of your marriage bombshell.) I shall take my ex wife to court for what is rightfully mine.
I am off to bed now because I want to be fully alert for tomorrow’s meeting.
Set your sights a little higher than Purley, my love.
Goodnight
George
Saturday, July 10, 2010
I do not wake up in a house because I wake up in flat. This is council flat what has two bedrooms, but second bedroom does not have bed. Instead it have all the bits of Brian's motor-bicycle, on floor. This because no garage is there to this flat. And although flat on ground floor Brian is unable to get motorbike in in one piece so he dismantle it. This is not satisfactory. Not only for Brian, because if he want to ride machine he must take outside and re mantle before he can use, but also if marriage is happening.
I tell Brian, if we marry I want room to myself, personally. No problem, says Brian, I will remove bike - all bits of it - and also clean oil off linoleum.
But I also remind Brian that my mind is not yet made up on this important venture. No problem, says Brian. Take the time you need. (I find irritating how he have habit to say - no problem, all the time.) But never mind. I have known in past several gentleman with much worse habits)
Anyways, what I am telling you, Georgie, is that nothing has been settled - nuptually speaking. (I do note what Purple Cow is saying, about marriage bringing her out in rash. I myself have sufferred from these problems - as I have told you previously in this blog.)
Thing is my sweet, I am worried about being departed back to Sweden where I am being pursued by authorities on little matter of tax discrepancies. Of course, if you were to be in postion to offer the institution of marriage to myself then no problem would there be. (see how I get into Brian's 'no problem' habit. I must get out of same habit.).
But do not distress yourself, my lover, things have a way of working themselves out, if we give them a lttle time.
Brian cook dinner last night - for the treat, so he tells me. Not much of treat. He did that cabbage which is very dark colour of green and has great thick veins which are reminding me of the duck's web foot. I cannot eat this muck. The lamb chop was okay, and he bought bottle of wine, so dinner tasted better as we progress.
I will close now as sun shines on Purley and I will take short walk to laundromat.
Aching for you, as ever,
Your Anna
I tell Brian, if we marry I want room to myself, personally. No problem, says Brian, I will remove bike - all bits of it - and also clean oil off linoleum.
But I also remind Brian that my mind is not yet made up on this important venture. No problem, says Brian. Take the time you need. (I find irritating how he have habit to say - no problem, all the time.) But never mind. I have known in past several gentleman with much worse habits)
Anyways, what I am telling you, Georgie, is that nothing has been settled - nuptually speaking. (I do note what Purple Cow is saying, about marriage bringing her out in rash. I myself have sufferred from these problems - as I have told you previously in this blog.)
Thing is my sweet, I am worried about being departed back to Sweden where I am being pursued by authorities on little matter of tax discrepancies. Of course, if you were to be in postion to offer the institution of marriage to myself then no problem would there be. (see how I get into Brian's 'no problem' habit. I must get out of same habit.).
But do not distress yourself, my lover, things have a way of working themselves out, if we give them a lttle time.
Brian cook dinner last night - for the treat, so he tells me. Not much of treat. He did that cabbage which is very dark colour of green and has great thick veins which are reminding me of the duck's web foot. I cannot eat this muck. The lamb chop was okay, and he bought bottle of wine, so dinner tasted better as we progress.
I will close now as sun shines on Purley and I will take short walk to laundromat.
Aching for you, as ever,
Your Anna
Thursday, July 08, 2010
You can get there from here – in fact 'here' is the only place you can get there from.
***********************************************************
I am talking to myself, really, Anna. I woke up this morning and looked around my room, and I thought: Well, this is where I am. And to go anywhere, here is where I must start from.
And then I remembered Spike Milligan’s words: Everybody’s got to be somewhere. And I thought of Purple Cow, waking up in Athens, and R.J. Adams, waking up in Decatur, and Liz and Liya Lolita, and Propoquerian and all the other bloggers, waking up wherever they wake up. And last – but by no means least – I thought of you, my Anna, waking up in a house in Purley.
But not only do we all wake up in our own physical space, we also wake in our own mental space: where we are in our own heads. And no one can know that place – only ourselves. And that is also where we have to start from. (I know, Anna, that, as a student of English, you will be aware that I keep ending a sentence with a preposition - but see below*)
There is much I would like to say, about you and Brian, and your intending nuptials. But you, too, have to start from where you are – physically and mentally – and only you know that. So I will shut up (which is not like me, as you know!)
But I really cannot leave it at that. So I will, instead, draw your attention to Purple Cow’s comment!
Your ever-loving, non-advising but extremely marriage-shy
George
*Winston Churchill once had a draft speech returned to him by one of his aides, respectfully pointing out that the Prime Minister had ended a sentence with a preposition. Within the hour the speech was back on the civil servant’s desk with a note from Winston: This is the kind of bureaucratic interference up with which I will not put.
I also like this 'bedtime story'
Little girl: Mummy, I want to be read to.
Mummy: Which book do you want to be read to from?
Little girl: Alice in Wonderland.
Mummy: Oh. What did you chose that book to be read to from for?
I am talking to myself, really, Anna. I woke up this morning and looked around my room, and I thought: Well, this is where I am. And to go anywhere, here is where I must start from.
And then I remembered Spike Milligan’s words: Everybody’s got to be somewhere. And I thought of Purple Cow, waking up in Athens, and R.J. Adams, waking up in Decatur, and Liz and Liya Lolita, and Propoquerian and all the other bloggers, waking up wherever they wake up. And last – but by no means least – I thought of you, my Anna, waking up in a house in Purley.
But not only do we all wake up in our own physical space, we also wake in our own mental space: where we are in our own heads. And no one can know that place – only ourselves. And that is also where we have to start from. (I know, Anna, that, as a student of English, you will be aware that I keep ending a sentence with a preposition - but see below*)
There is much I would like to say, about you and Brian, and your intending nuptials. But you, too, have to start from where you are – physically and mentally – and only you know that. So I will shut up (which is not like me, as you know!)
But I really cannot leave it at that. So I will, instead, draw your attention to Purple Cow’s comment!
Your ever-loving, non-advising but extremely marriage-shy
George
*Winston Churchill once had a draft speech returned to him by one of his aides, respectfully pointing out that the Prime Minister had ended a sentence with a preposition. Within the hour the speech was back on the civil servant’s desk with a note from Winston: This is the kind of bureaucratic interference up with which I will not put.
I also like this 'bedtime story'
Little girl: Mummy, I want to be read to.
Mummy: Which book do you want to be read to from?
Little girl: Alice in Wonderland.
Mummy: Oh. What did you chose that book to be read to from for?
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Oh, Georgie. I laugh so much my knickers fall down! (They don’t really – this is expression we Swedish girls have when something of great hilarity happens.) What I laugh at is your story of the button-up flies – even though I think you are telling most of this from the imagination. And of which father do you speak? Your biological father or the husband of your mother?
Never mind – it is of no consequence.
You are such a worrier, Georgie – about state of world and people in it. Why not do you take what best bits you can, and enjoy. Like for example if you are hungry and you have apple, just because this fruit is a bit knocked, and brown in parts you would not throw away - but instead spit out the bad bits and eat the rest.
Also I do not know why you should wish to watch this Jeremy person who helps people wash in public their dirty linen. Why not do you watch instead jolly programme, which will make you laugh (but not cause knickers to fall down! – little Swedish joke). Myself I do not watch much the television, even though Brian has giant screen – nearly as big as wall - preferring as I do Radio 4 of the BBC, which is entertaining and educating at one and the same time, and helps enormously my English language speaking.
Now to what we are discussing at the last visit of myself and Brian (only Brian stay outside in car due to sensitive nature of topic). Brian has been promoted to Inspector of buses. This does not mean he inspects mechanical workings of the buses – no, he sees that there is driver for each bus and drivers do job properly and buses run on time, and also deals with complaints of miserable passengers. This is very responsible job, for which Brian get paid much more money.
Well, Brian have idea that this is good time we should get married (Brian and Anna). This would only be marriage of connivance, as you say. It would not involve rearing of ugly head of sex, because as you know Brian is of the persuasion that favours male company –he is gay. But he says to me that since I already do housework and buying of food for cooking in the microwave and such things, why should not I have status of proper wife. Then the buggers from Immigration dept would not be coming looking for me to bung me on next boat to Sweden.
I say to him – and what is in it for you baby. And he say – well, we could go together to official functions of bus company - now I am inspector - as respectable couple, and also benefits would be in income tax allowances and various other ways. So how about it? Says Brian.
Do not you think this would be a good idea, Georgie? It would not affect our relationship, which is as lover and soul-mate, and romantic with much sex. While Brian would be free to pursue men (I think he has given up on Winston who is likely to be detained for the pleasure of her majesty for some time to come in the future).
Anyways, I do not yet decide to accept this generous offer of Brian. But what am I to do? I would much better liking to be living with you, my Georgie, but you still are in loony bin and have not house which to offer home to a girl. So this is problem.
I hope I have spelt out well the main things of which we talked, and would like very much to hear a similarly well spelt out reply – instead of all that ‘bugger me’ and ‘never heard anything like it’ and ‘don’t tell me’ and ‘where is the cheeky bugger?’ And then you having to be restrained by loony bin attendants for your own safety – and that of Brian.
So please be writing soon, my lover (well optimistically I hope for this)
Your Anna
Never mind – it is of no consequence.
You are such a worrier, Georgie – about state of world and people in it. Why not do you take what best bits you can, and enjoy. Like for example if you are hungry and you have apple, just because this fruit is a bit knocked, and brown in parts you would not throw away - but instead spit out the bad bits and eat the rest.
Also I do not know why you should wish to watch this Jeremy person who helps people wash in public their dirty linen. Why not do you watch instead jolly programme, which will make you laugh (but not cause knickers to fall down! – little Swedish joke). Myself I do not watch much the television, even though Brian has giant screen – nearly as big as wall - preferring as I do Radio 4 of the BBC, which is entertaining and educating at one and the same time, and helps enormously my English language speaking.
Now to what we are discussing at the last visit of myself and Brian (only Brian stay outside in car due to sensitive nature of topic). Brian has been promoted to Inspector of buses. This does not mean he inspects mechanical workings of the buses – no, he sees that there is driver for each bus and drivers do job properly and buses run on time, and also deals with complaints of miserable passengers. This is very responsible job, for which Brian get paid much more money.
Well, Brian have idea that this is good time we should get married (Brian and Anna). This would only be marriage of connivance, as you say. It would not involve rearing of ugly head of sex, because as you know Brian is of the persuasion that favours male company –he is gay. But he says to me that since I already do housework and buying of food for cooking in the microwave and such things, why should not I have status of proper wife. Then the buggers from Immigration dept would not be coming looking for me to bung me on next boat to Sweden.
I say to him – and what is in it for you baby. And he say – well, we could go together to official functions of bus company - now I am inspector - as respectable couple, and also benefits would be in income tax allowances and various other ways. So how about it? Says Brian.
Do not you think this would be a good idea, Georgie? It would not affect our relationship, which is as lover and soul-mate, and romantic with much sex. While Brian would be free to pursue men (I think he has given up on Winston who is likely to be detained for the pleasure of her majesty for some time to come in the future).
Anyways, I do not yet decide to accept this generous offer of Brian. But what am I to do? I would much better liking to be living with you, my Georgie, but you still are in loony bin and have not house which to offer home to a girl. So this is problem.
I hope I have spelt out well the main things of which we talked, and would like very much to hear a similarly well spelt out reply – instead of all that ‘bugger me’ and ‘never heard anything like it’ and ‘don’t tell me’ and ‘where is the cheeky bugger?’ And then you having to be restrained by loony bin attendants for your own safety – and that of Brian.
So please be writing soon, my lover (well optimistically I hope for this)
Your Anna
Saturday, July 03, 2010
Emotions are feelings, after you have thought about them.
******************************************************
AND I CERTAINLY HAVE BEEN DOING SOME THINKING, after you exploded that bombshell on the front porch of my mind.
How many more shocks can my bruised and battered psyche take? That’s what I would like to know. I just don’t understand this world any more – I really don’t. What happened to all the innocence of my childhood? Fishing for tiddlers in Mulvey’s Pit. Flying model aeroplanes on the back field. Hanging around the street lamp on misty November evenings. Playing ‘fuck’ in Alfie’s mum’s bedroom.
Where has it all gone? Swallowed up in the great maw of yesterday.
Alfie is long dead. But he makes frequent appearances in my dreams. I don’t know what happened to Maisie – she never turns up in my nocturnal wanderings.
When I look at the photograph of that happy carefree boy, rowing on the river Dee, I think: was it all written in his brain - what was going to happen – like some script, waiting to be acted out? And if he had known then, could he have re-written the script?
Society is coming apart at the seams. What happened? When did it all start to go wrong?
I blame television. When we got our first set – black and white, of course – I knew it was the opening of the floodgates. As I sat there in my buggy, watching those flickering images, I remember thinking to myself: This is not right: little people in boxes, jumping around, pulling faces. Of course, at that time I lacked the language skills, not only to understand what these fiendish puppets were saying but, more importantly, to apprise my parents of my grave misgivings about the effects of this devilish box of tricks on a young mind.
And I was right. I always was a forward thinker, but even I could not have foreseen the depths to which this new medium would take us. And then, of course, we have television’s bastard offspring: the home computer. All right – it allows us to communicate with people the other side of the world; it means you and I are able to talk to each other when we cannot meet face to face. But we are responsible people – well I am. When I hear on The Jeremy Kyle Show how people abuse one another on Facebook, washing their dirty linen in public, I think: When I was a lad you didn’t even wash your dirty linen in private – not that that was a good thing, because it wasn’t. But I have discussed this in a previous paper – or maybe it’s a paper I have yet to write.
I also blame the invention of the zip fastener. Once upon a time, trousers had button flies. Okay, it could be a bit of a nuisance on cold winter days, when your fingers were frozen and you were dying for a pee – but we managed. That was the pioneering spirit of those days. Then came the zip fly.
Now, the potential hazard of a hastily zipped fly is well documented and, in any case, that is not my point. Quite the opposite, in fact. The real danger lies in the unzipping rather than the zipping. Statistics show that the birth rate in Britain increased dramatically with the introduction of the zip fly. Consider. If you find yourself in the position where sex is about to rear its ugly head (perhaps not the most appropriate metaphor), one swift zip and everything is to hand.
Whereas with the button fly… Well, having to wrestle with each separate button took time – not to mention the initial decision: whether to start with the top or the bottom button (there are plusses and minuses for each method). And in that time you might pause to reconsider the whole business. Indeed, I have known trousers whose buttons were so recalcitrant that the wearer would give up and say – Sod it. Let’s go and have a coffee. And I remember my father telling me that he once owned a pair of trousers (I cannot mention the brand name) that were said to have done more for contraception than the Durex factory.
I have been re-running our conversation most of the night, and I really cannot believe I heard you properly. (we did keep getting interrupted by Clive and Eric). So, before I say something I might regret, will you please spell it out in writing, so that I can be sure that I have understood you correctly.
Urgently awaiting your reply,
An anxious George.
AND I CERTAINLY HAVE BEEN DOING SOME THINKING, after you exploded that bombshell on the front porch of my mind.
How many more shocks can my bruised and battered psyche take? That’s what I would like to know. I just don’t understand this world any more – I really don’t. What happened to all the innocence of my childhood? Fishing for tiddlers in Mulvey’s Pit. Flying model aeroplanes on the back field. Hanging around the street lamp on misty November evenings. Playing ‘fuck’ in Alfie’s mum’s bedroom.
Where has it all gone? Swallowed up in the great maw of yesterday.
Alfie is long dead. But he makes frequent appearances in my dreams. I don’t know what happened to Maisie – she never turns up in my nocturnal wanderings.
When I look at the photograph of that happy carefree boy, rowing on the river Dee, I think: was it all written in his brain - what was going to happen – like some script, waiting to be acted out? And if he had known then, could he have re-written the script?
Society is coming apart at the seams. What happened? When did it all start to go wrong?
I blame television. When we got our first set – black and white, of course – I knew it was the opening of the floodgates. As I sat there in my buggy, watching those flickering images, I remember thinking to myself: This is not right: little people in boxes, jumping around, pulling faces. Of course, at that time I lacked the language skills, not only to understand what these fiendish puppets were saying but, more importantly, to apprise my parents of my grave misgivings about the effects of this devilish box of tricks on a young mind.
And I was right. I always was a forward thinker, but even I could not have foreseen the depths to which this new medium would take us. And then, of course, we have television’s bastard offspring: the home computer. All right – it allows us to communicate with people the other side of the world; it means you and I are able to talk to each other when we cannot meet face to face. But we are responsible people – well I am. When I hear on The Jeremy Kyle Show how people abuse one another on Facebook, washing their dirty linen in public, I think: When I was a lad you didn’t even wash your dirty linen in private – not that that was a good thing, because it wasn’t. But I have discussed this in a previous paper – or maybe it’s a paper I have yet to write.
I also blame the invention of the zip fastener. Once upon a time, trousers had button flies. Okay, it could be a bit of a nuisance on cold winter days, when your fingers were frozen and you were dying for a pee – but we managed. That was the pioneering spirit of those days. Then came the zip fly.
Now, the potential hazard of a hastily zipped fly is well documented and, in any case, that is not my point. Quite the opposite, in fact. The real danger lies in the unzipping rather than the zipping. Statistics show that the birth rate in Britain increased dramatically with the introduction of the zip fly. Consider. If you find yourself in the position where sex is about to rear its ugly head (perhaps not the most appropriate metaphor), one swift zip and everything is to hand.
Whereas with the button fly… Well, having to wrestle with each separate button took time – not to mention the initial decision: whether to start with the top or the bottom button (there are plusses and minuses for each method). And in that time you might pause to reconsider the whole business. Indeed, I have known trousers whose buttons were so recalcitrant that the wearer would give up and say – Sod it. Let’s go and have a coffee. And I remember my father telling me that he once owned a pair of trousers (I cannot mention the brand name) that were said to have done more for contraception than the Durex factory.
I have been re-running our conversation most of the night, and I really cannot believe I heard you properly. (we did keep getting interrupted by Clive and Eric). So, before I say something I might regret, will you please spell it out in writing, so that I can be sure that I have understood you correctly.
Urgently awaiting your reply,
An anxious George.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Hang on in
*******************************************************************8
I found this fern on one of my perambulations around the grounds. Many people walk past this spot, but I imagine few notice it. I did.
Not for this fern, the forest bower, sun-dappled, fragrant with the scent of woodland flowers, soothed by the music of babbling brook and gentle buzz of insect. This fern is growing out of the dirt lodged between a drainpipe and the sooty bricks of this old Gothic pile
But it is clinging on, and trying to grow towards the sunlight. It is striving to be the best fern it can be in the circumstances, the environment in which it finds itself.
And I thought - Isn't that what we are all doing: clinging on, to our own little patch of dirt. Doing the best we can to grow toward the light. Striving to be the best human-being we can, given our own particular environment. And of course, I don’t just meant physical environment: I mean the genetic; the parenting; the life-experiences environment - unique to each one of us.
Someone said, “To understand all is to forgive all.” I’d go along with that. It is so difficult sometimes - but let's practice by forgiving ourselves.
Well, Anna, I'm staking everything on one final throw of the dice in the Last Chance saloon. I have been therapised enough. I have been medicated up to the gunwales. Now it is 'shit or bust' time. (please excuse the vulgarism but I can't think of any other way of putting it.)
I found this fern on one of my perambulations around the grounds. Many people walk past this spot, but I imagine few notice it. I did.
Not for this fern, the forest bower, sun-dappled, fragrant with the scent of woodland flowers, soothed by the music of babbling brook and gentle buzz of insect. This fern is growing out of the dirt lodged between a drainpipe and the sooty bricks of this old Gothic pile
But it is clinging on, and trying to grow towards the sunlight. It is striving to be the best fern it can be in the circumstances, the environment in which it finds itself.
And I thought - Isn't that what we are all doing: clinging on, to our own little patch of dirt. Doing the best we can to grow toward the light. Striving to be the best human-being we can, given our own particular environment. And of course, I don’t just meant physical environment: I mean the genetic; the parenting; the life-experiences environment - unique to each one of us.
Someone said, “To understand all is to forgive all.” I’d go along with that. It is so difficult sometimes - but let's practice by forgiving ourselves.
Well, Anna, I'm staking everything on one final throw of the dice in the Last Chance saloon. I have been therapised enough. I have been medicated up to the gunwales. Now it is 'shit or bust' time. (please excuse the vulgarism but I can't think of any other way of putting it.)
What I am talking about is a paradigm shift.
I will tell you about it when I see you on Friday
Monday, June 28, 2010
Put your trousers back on, and we'll say no more about it.
****************************************************8
Anna, as you well know, it is not in my nature to be pedantic, but the great philosopher is Immanuel not Emmanuel Kant.
Having said that, I do take your point - and I wish I could get out of the habit of forever questioning - looking for meaning. But I came across this passage in a book, which goes to show I am not alone.
"The happy man does not look back. He doesn't look ahead. He lives in the present. But there's the rub. The present can never deliver one thing: meaning. The ways of happiness and meaning are not the same. To find happiness, a man need only live in the moment; he need only live for the moment But if he wants meaning - the meaning of his dreams, his secrets, his life - a man must reinhabit his past, however dark, and live for the future, however uncertain. Thus nature dangles happiness and meaning before us all, insisting only that we choose between them.
For myself, I have always chosen meaning."
I am not certain that I have actually chosen meaning - for me it is a sort of compulsion. But can I choose happiness instead?
I am so glad you remember our times on the boat - and I would love to see the photographs. I have an album myself - a sort of log - with photographs and writings of my time (and our time) on the boat 'OSCAR'. So I look forward to a trip down memory lane - or memory canal.
I am all agog to know what it is that you want to discuss with me. And Friday will be fine for your visit.
Until Friday then, my sweet.
PS. The book is called "The Interpretation of Murder" by Jed Rubenfeld.
Anna, as you well know, it is not in my nature to be pedantic, but the great philosopher is Immanuel not Emmanuel Kant.
Having said that, I do take your point - and I wish I could get out of the habit of forever questioning - looking for meaning. But I came across this passage in a book, which goes to show I am not alone.
"The happy man does not look back. He doesn't look ahead. He lives in the present. But there's the rub. The present can never deliver one thing: meaning. The ways of happiness and meaning are not the same. To find happiness, a man need only live in the moment; he need only live for the moment But if he wants meaning - the meaning of his dreams, his secrets, his life - a man must reinhabit his past, however dark, and live for the future, however uncertain. Thus nature dangles happiness and meaning before us all, insisting only that we choose between them.
For myself, I have always chosen meaning."
I am not certain that I have actually chosen meaning - for me it is a sort of compulsion. But can I choose happiness instead?
I am so glad you remember our times on the boat - and I would love to see the photographs. I have an album myself - a sort of log - with photographs and writings of my time (and our time) on the boat 'OSCAR'. So I look forward to a trip down memory lane - or memory canal.
I am all agog to know what it is that you want to discuss with me. And Friday will be fine for your visit.
Until Friday then, my sweet.
PS. The book is called "The Interpretation of Murder" by Jed Rubenfeld.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
I am not shallow – you impertinent English person. (I find word ‘impertinent’ in Thesaurus of Roger which also contain many other words to describe you, but I will use just this one).
It is so very annoying for a person who is learning your stupid language to be told a word which has been invented by someone who is a bit sick in the head. All the trouble I go to looking up in dictionary (several different dictionary) for the word SCRUTE.
Brian has a laugh but I am not laughing.
Anyway, what is all of this about glimpse things from corner of your eye? How possibly can you see things this way? I am joking because I know you mean how you (my Georgie) always have to examine closely all questions and sometimes make up questions so you will have something to answer. Have not I told you before that this is bad thing for you? This is all right for Mr Wittgenstein and Mr Hume and Mr Hegel and the others because this is their job. This is what they get paid for doing because they are philosophers. Like if someone say to Kant, for example, what do we mean by ‘knowledge’? Old Emmanuel, he says – let’s see the colour of your money, matey, before I start my philosophising.
And another thing. What for is all the funny writing with words all over page instead of in neat lines such as I am now typing? Is this what they are calling post-modernism? Or is perhaps because you are not taking your medication?
But I am sorry you have to sell your boat, which I remember from when you take me upon it. I also remember name, which is ‘OSCAR’. This I know to be a fine boat – very cosy on the winter evening when we have stove burning merrily. Also on the summer day too, when we cruise gently along, getting faint whiff of canal like you tell Mr Adams. This a very pleasant whiff (which canal people know) which always will be in my memory.
And we sleep on boat. Very close up together and with me having to bend knees because of short wideness of boat (this is why it is called narrowboat – it has to be to get in lock – see how much I remember?)
I remember also how you always make me run ahead when approaching such locks with the funny bent key thing and turn the handle to let out (or in) the water, while you drive the boat. I do not mind this because I meet some very interesting people this way – often being invited to see their boat. I always tell them I will bring you along. Sometimes this disappoint them and they make excuse of having suddenly remembered they have to be somewhere else by the fall of night. But others are very welcoming.
I enjoy so much being on the boat and think perhaps there may come a time when you buy another boat? I have album of photographs which I take on our boat trips and I will bring to show you when next I visit -which I would like to be the coming Friday of this week. Because Brian has day off from bus driving and will bring me.
I hope there will be no problem with this date because I have some important thing which I wish to talk about with you. This is not place on blog to discuss such a thing.
Reading back once again through the funny writing post I can see that you are not happy – and wish I could do something for you about it. I sometimes think that perhaps the sickness in the head causes your unhappiness, but then I think maybe the unhappiness has caused the sickness in the head.
Whatever. Do not you think that you have been therapised enough? Medicated enough? All these things you have so much of and still not well.
Anyway – I forgive you for being impertinent English person. You know I cannot angry be with you for so long, loving you so much as I do.
Until we meet on Friday
Your ex shipmate
Anna
Oh and PS. The lady Purple Cow seem to concern herself about you, and I think you should listen to what she says.
It is so very annoying for a person who is learning your stupid language to be told a word which has been invented by someone who is a bit sick in the head. All the trouble I go to looking up in dictionary (several different dictionary) for the word SCRUTE.
Brian has a laugh but I am not laughing.
Anyway, what is all of this about glimpse things from corner of your eye? How possibly can you see things this way? I am joking because I know you mean how you (my Georgie) always have to examine closely all questions and sometimes make up questions so you will have something to answer. Have not I told you before that this is bad thing for you? This is all right for Mr Wittgenstein and Mr Hume and Mr Hegel and the others because this is their job. This is what they get paid for doing because they are philosophers. Like if someone say to Kant, for example, what do we mean by ‘knowledge’? Old Emmanuel, he says – let’s see the colour of your money, matey, before I start my philosophising.
And another thing. What for is all the funny writing with words all over page instead of in neat lines such as I am now typing? Is this what they are calling post-modernism? Or is perhaps because you are not taking your medication?
But I am sorry you have to sell your boat, which I remember from when you take me upon it. I also remember name, which is ‘OSCAR’. This I know to be a fine boat – very cosy on the winter evening when we have stove burning merrily. Also on the summer day too, when we cruise gently along, getting faint whiff of canal like you tell Mr Adams. This a very pleasant whiff (which canal people know) which always will be in my memory.
And we sleep on boat. Very close up together and with me having to bend knees because of short wideness of boat (this is why it is called narrowboat – it has to be to get in lock – see how much I remember?)
I remember also how you always make me run ahead when approaching such locks with the funny bent key thing and turn the handle to let out (or in) the water, while you drive the boat. I do not mind this because I meet some very interesting people this way – often being invited to see their boat. I always tell them I will bring you along. Sometimes this disappoint them and they make excuse of having suddenly remembered they have to be somewhere else by the fall of night. But others are very welcoming.
I enjoy so much being on the boat and think perhaps there may come a time when you buy another boat? I have album of photographs which I take on our boat trips and I will bring to show you when next I visit -which I would like to be the coming Friday of this week. Because Brian has day off from bus driving and will bring me.
I hope there will be no problem with this date because I have some important thing which I wish to talk about with you. This is not place on blog to discuss such a thing.
Reading back once again through the funny writing post I can see that you are not happy – and wish I could do something for you about it. I sometimes think that perhaps the sickness in the head causes your unhappiness, but then I think maybe the unhappiness has caused the sickness in the head.
Whatever. Do not you think that you have been therapised enough? Medicated enough? All these things you have so much of and still not well.
Anyway – I forgive you for being impertinent English person. You know I cannot angry be with you for so long, loving you so much as I do.
Until we meet on Friday
Your ex shipmate
Anna
Oh and PS. The lady Purple Cow seem to concern herself about you, and I think you should listen to what she says.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
'There is a happy land/Far, far away'
************************************************
A grey area
Beyond despair.... Apathy
Where it just isn't worth the effort of getting depressed
Suicide? What's the point?
As Peggy Lee sang, "I'm just not ready for that final disappointment"
At least when you are depressed, there is hope... you don't want to be like this
you realise something is wrong
But what if you moved beyond... so you just didn't care that there was something wrong?
And you just said - So what?
I once had a boat. It was a canal boat - this boat that I had.
At one spot along the canal an abandoned, semi derelict boat was moored
It appeared to have once been occupied by 'hippies'. When you looked through the windows you could see a tangle of bedding, beer cans, a couple of dirty plates and other domestic debris
The name of this boat was "So What"
Then one day when I passed the spot the boat was gone - the men from British Waterways had towed it away. I felt sad
I never saw the boat again. But forever after I called that spot on the canal "So What"
Is the ultimate "Letting go", the letting go of your despair?
But the thought that nothing matters is scary
But wait
If nothing matters then everything matters
how you tie your shoelaces
peel an orange
sweep the floor
blow your nose
Perhaps if you can be afraid - but still let go
you will not fall off the edge of the earth
into insanity
you may find another land
another you
Anyway, you can't put the skin back on a banana
A grey area
Beyond despair.... Apathy
Where it just isn't worth the effort of getting depressed
Suicide? What's the point?
As Peggy Lee sang, "I'm just not ready for that final disappointment"
At least when you are depressed, there is hope... you don't want to be like this
you realise something is wrong
But what if you moved beyond... so you just didn't care that there was something wrong?
And you just said - So what?
I once had a boat. It was a canal boat - this boat that I had.
At one spot along the canal an abandoned, semi derelict boat was moored
It appeared to have once been occupied by 'hippies'. When you looked through the windows you could see a tangle of bedding, beer cans, a couple of dirty plates and other domestic debris
The name of this boat was "So What"
Then one day when I passed the spot the boat was gone - the men from British Waterways had towed it away. I felt sad
I never saw the boat again. But forever after I called that spot on the canal "So What"
Is the ultimate "Letting go", the letting go of your despair?
But the thought that nothing matters is scary
But wait
If nothing matters then everything matters
how you tie your shoelaces
peel an orange
sweep the floor
blow your nose
Perhaps if you can be afraid - but still let go
you will not fall off the edge of the earth
into insanity
you may find another land
another you
Anyway, you can't put the skin back on a banana
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
"...the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune"
******************************************
I don't know why I bother. I really don't. Here am I, pouring my heart out, and all I get is you telling me there is no such word as "scrute". How can someone so tall be so shallow?
I am not surprised you can't find the word "scrute" - I invented it! But it will be in the dictionary one day - just you see!
Honestly, how much more can a chap take! Blow upon blow falls upon this (slightly greying) head of mine.
The latest being: I telephoned the dental surgery to make an appointment for a check up, only to find that my lovely lady dentist has left the practice! Quelle Horreur ! I used to look forward to my regular visits. I could have let her do anything to me with her drill, probes and pincers. No more will I gaze up, from my prone position, into those liquid brown eyes above the mask; so tender, so caring. And when she has finished, and I thank her, to hear her say, in that breathy voice "My pleasure". Who will be pleasuring her now? I wonder.
I know what I shall do: I'll ask the receptionist can she tell me where Sarah Jane has gone. I shouldn't think it would be classified information. And then - if it's not too far - I shall follow. My gums ache for her.
I've read your list. A bit of fantasy there, I'm thinking. (#10 for example! I've never known you to ride a bicycle.)
Anyway, when are you coming to see me? I have to warn you that I may not be here. Things are getting on top of me (no jokes please) and I may do a runner. The Arabs have a saying: To run away is the bravest thing. And I think they are right.
Yours in limbo
George
I don't know why I bother. I really don't. Here am I, pouring my heart out, and all I get is you telling me there is no such word as "scrute". How can someone so tall be so shallow?
I am not surprised you can't find the word "scrute" - I invented it! But it will be in the dictionary one day - just you see!
Honestly, how much more can a chap take! Blow upon blow falls upon this (slightly greying) head of mine.
The latest being: I telephoned the dental surgery to make an appointment for a check up, only to find that my lovely lady dentist has left the practice! Quelle Horreur ! I used to look forward to my regular visits. I could have let her do anything to me with her drill, probes and pincers. No more will I gaze up, from my prone position, into those liquid brown eyes above the mask; so tender, so caring. And when she has finished, and I thank her, to hear her say, in that breathy voice "My pleasure". Who will be pleasuring her now? I wonder.
I know what I shall do: I'll ask the receptionist can she tell me where Sarah Jane has gone. I shouldn't think it would be classified information. And then - if it's not too far - I shall follow. My gums ache for her.
I've read your list. A bit of fantasy there, I'm thinking. (#10 for example! I've never known you to ride a bicycle.)
Anyway, when are you coming to see me? I have to warn you that I may not be here. Things are getting on top of me (no jokes please) and I may do a runner. The Arabs have a saying: To run away is the bravest thing. And I think they are right.
Yours in limbo
George
Monday, June 21, 2010
These are ten things about myself. (Anna)
1. When I am 16 years age I win Longest Legs (female) contest in town of Visby. This what set me off on road to showbiz career.
2. I do not smoke - except occasionally for recreational purposes.
3. I like red shoes with very tall heels (these make legs look even longer).
4. I have one brother. He is name Sven. I do not know of present whereabouts except in Sweden someplace.
5. I did work in branch of showbiz called Pornography. Here I am very successful in tasteful, well lighted video stories. No kink type stuff like the BDSM and such. But good wholesome sex between consenting adult people, such as would not offend a person's grandmama - providing she have open mind. Sadly, I have to leave this creative world for personal reasons.
6. I work as au pair for Mr George Turner at his house called Wynorin. During such time I also act as (unpaid) sex therapist to son Sydney to work on the boy's issues of sexuality identity. In this I am successful.
7. I love cheese. Also chocolate ( but not American muck.). I also as well like champagne, which make me giddy. This can be very satisfactory.
8. I am bi-lingual. Also bi-sexual. Both these skills have I found to be great advantage in my life.
9. I love the dancing. Especially type like Tango and other such sexual dances. Being of the long legs I extol in the performance. Also I am responsible for arousal, not only in partner, but in audience also.
10. My favourite authors are - Proust, Sartre, Wittgenstein, Hegel and Nietzsche. And I like to ride a bicycle.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh, and Georgie - there is no such word as SCRUTE because I try to look up in dictionary and is not there.
1. When I am 16 years age I win Longest Legs (female) contest in town of Visby. This what set me off on road to showbiz career.
2. I do not smoke - except occasionally for recreational purposes.
3. I like red shoes with very tall heels (these make legs look even longer).
4. I have one brother. He is name Sven. I do not know of present whereabouts except in Sweden someplace.
5. I did work in branch of showbiz called Pornography. Here I am very successful in tasteful, well lighted video stories. No kink type stuff like the BDSM and such. But good wholesome sex between consenting adult people, such as would not offend a person's grandmama - providing she have open mind. Sadly, I have to leave this creative world for personal reasons.
6. I work as au pair for Mr George Turner at his house called Wynorin. During such time I also act as (unpaid) sex therapist to son Sydney to work on the boy's issues of sexuality identity. In this I am successful.
7. I love cheese. Also chocolate ( but not American muck.). I also as well like champagne, which make me giddy. This can be very satisfactory.
8. I am bi-lingual. Also bi-sexual. Both these skills have I found to be great advantage in my life.
9. I love the dancing. Especially type like Tango and other such sexual dances. Being of the long legs I extol in the performance. Also I am responsible for arousal, not only in partner, but in audience also.
10. My favourite authors are - Proust, Sartre, Wittgenstein, Hegel and Nietzsche. And I like to ride a bicycle.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Oh, and Georgie - there is no such word as SCRUTE because I try to look up in dictionary and is not there.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
GLIMPSES
****************************************
Life is perhaps better glimpsed out the corner of your eye, rather than subjected to intense scrutiny.
So why do I always want to have a damn good scrute at everything? Tell me that Anna?
Life is perhaps better glimpsed out the corner of your eye, rather than subjected to intense scrutiny.
So why do I always want to have a damn good scrute at everything? Tell me that Anna?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Why does everybody call me Big-head?
************************************************
I was reading a book this morning, Anna - I haven’t read for a while because I can’t concentrate - and I thought to myself, every time I read a book my head expands a bit. You wouldn’t notice it; it’s too small even to measure. But it does – it expands. Well, to be more accurate, more scientific, it is my brain that expands, but in expanding it pushes my skull that little bit further forward. This is, of course, the reason why a human has a bigger forehead than his simian cousin. (Have you ever, when visiting the zoo, seen a monkey sitting down quietly, reading a book? No, neither have I – they’re either scratching themselves or showing you their bottom.)
Now, my reason for mentioning this important relationship between learning and cranium size is do with evolution. Or, rather, to suggest a possible leap forward in our evolutionary process. Suppose we humans could evolve is such a way that puberty (for male and female) occurred much later in life. Let’s say, around 30 years old – or even older. Just think how many more books we could have read; how much further our brains expanded and, crucially, how this expansion could be passed on genetically. Instead of evolution being such a slow process, it would suddenly be accelerated. Instead of it being in tiny incremental steps over millions of years, evolution would become exponential.
Of course, this would involve our heads becoming bigger and bigger but we would soon get used to this. Our vastly increased knowledge (not just scientific but philosophical, psychological, sociological and humanistic.) would help us to quickly come to terms with the radical change in our appearance.
Obviously some people read more than others and now they would be recognisable by their (considerably) larger heads. For the first time in the history of the species, intellectuality would be manifested in physical appearance. It follows, that the big-heads would be attracted to each other now on a physical as well as intellectual basis. They would, therefore, tend to partner with their own kind and the resultant offspring would be advanced exponentially (of their parents), not only intellectually, but in head size.
You might ask me: But how would the physical body keep up with all this? How would it develop so as to become strong enough to support a gigantic head?
My reply to you would be: Do you want me to do everything for you? I’ve given you the main idea – the blueprint. Don’t be so bloody lazy. Work it out for yourselves!
I haven’t taken my medication for ten days. They think I’m taking it but when they’re not looking I drop it down my pyjama top. (I’ve got to wear these damn things in here but, as you know, Anna, I wear nothing in bed. I cannot bear being restricted by clothing of any kind.)
Anyway, when they have gone I put the pills in the tin I used to keep my resin in. I’ve got quite a collection now - for a ‘rainy day’. Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink!
I have had some disturbing - even distressing - news which has set me back a bit. I cannot bring myself to tell you about it now - I am too depressed.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Love, as always
George
I was reading a book this morning, Anna - I haven’t read for a while because I can’t concentrate - and I thought to myself, every time I read a book my head expands a bit. You wouldn’t notice it; it’s too small even to measure. But it does – it expands. Well, to be more accurate, more scientific, it is my brain that expands, but in expanding it pushes my skull that little bit further forward. This is, of course, the reason why a human has a bigger forehead than his simian cousin. (Have you ever, when visiting the zoo, seen a monkey sitting down quietly, reading a book? No, neither have I – they’re either scratching themselves or showing you their bottom.)
Now, my reason for mentioning this important relationship between learning and cranium size is do with evolution. Or, rather, to suggest a possible leap forward in our evolutionary process. Suppose we humans could evolve is such a way that puberty (for male and female) occurred much later in life. Let’s say, around 30 years old – or even older. Just think how many more books we could have read; how much further our brains expanded and, crucially, how this expansion could be passed on genetically. Instead of evolution being such a slow process, it would suddenly be accelerated. Instead of it being in tiny incremental steps over millions of years, evolution would become exponential.
Of course, this would involve our heads becoming bigger and bigger but we would soon get used to this. Our vastly increased knowledge (not just scientific but philosophical, psychological, sociological and humanistic.) would help us to quickly come to terms with the radical change in our appearance.
Obviously some people read more than others and now they would be recognisable by their (considerably) larger heads. For the first time in the history of the species, intellectuality would be manifested in physical appearance. It follows, that the big-heads would be attracted to each other now on a physical as well as intellectual basis. They would, therefore, tend to partner with their own kind and the resultant offspring would be advanced exponentially (of their parents), not only intellectually, but in head size.
You might ask me: But how would the physical body keep up with all this? How would it develop so as to become strong enough to support a gigantic head?
My reply to you would be: Do you want me to do everything for you? I’ve given you the main idea – the blueprint. Don’t be so bloody lazy. Work it out for yourselves!
I haven’t taken my medication for ten days. They think I’m taking it but when they’re not looking I drop it down my pyjama top. (I’ve got to wear these damn things in here but, as you know, Anna, I wear nothing in bed. I cannot bear being restricted by clothing of any kind.)
Anyway, when they have gone I put the pills in the tin I used to keep my resin in. I’ve got quite a collection now - for a ‘rainy day’. Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink!
I have had some disturbing - even distressing - news which has set me back a bit. I cannot bring myself to tell you about it now - I am too depressed.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Love, as always
George
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A candyfloss head
*****************************************
Anna, Anna, do not distress yourself. Surely you did not think I would leave you out of all of this. And also, have you noticed that Purple Cow sends her regards AND points out that the award is for the 'George Says' Blog and so it is for you as well? I too would be interested to see what 10 things you will list. As for my 'peculiar habits'... well, you never compained before!
But enough of you - let's talk about me.
Red-rimmed eyes in a desperate face stare out at me from the mirror. Who is this stranger? What is he doing in my bathroom? Call Security! Okay, so I had a drink last night. Well, a couple. I had promised myself that when I finished this course of antibiotics I would drink lots of beer,and then fall over; actually, I had a pint of lager and a whisky (or three). I didn't fall over. I slept well but the next morning I had a candyfloss head.
Well of course Brian would know all about ‘Georgie Porgie’, lover of King James I! But Georgie (or George Villiers, first duke of Buckingham, as he was better known) was happy to swing both ways, and managed to keep a lot of ladies happy (including Anne of Austria, who was married to Louis XIII of France at the time). Oh yes, Georgie was a bit of a bugger (no pun intended), and it was only the King’s patronage that kept him out of serious trouble. Finally parliament had had enough (no doubt they were jealous) and stopped the King from intervening on the duke’s behalf, thereby putting a bit of a dampener on Georgie’s career.
I know that you are aware of this, Anna, but perhaps you could tell Brian that I am not attracted, in any way, to my own sex. I had a few chums at school, and okay one of them was the captain of the First XI, but that was as far as it went.
You know the old joke, Anna: Life is a sexually transmitted disease, with a 100% mortality?
Well, I think Life should come with a government health warning:
Not: "This product can kill you." But: "This product WILL kill you – in the end."
Still, as the hero in “The Black Obelisk” says: 'Since we lose in the end, anyway, we can give ourselves the luxury of winning beforehand.'
Let's do that - shall we?
I was so glad to hear from you, Anna. (I am feeling pretty dire at the moment). And it is good to know that your love for me is undemolished. I am not sure, though, that I like the idea of you talking to Freddie about me; discussing my case, it sounds like. Still, I suppose you both are doing your best for me. And believe me, I certainly need somebody's best being done for me.
I am beset by problems. Decisions of a fiscal (and emotional) nature which I do not intend to burden you with right now. I keep thinking of the song 'Irene, Goodnight':
Sometimes I live in the country,
Sometimes I live in the town -
Sometimes I take a great notion
To go jump in the river and drown.
They say drowning is not a bad way to die, that once you give up fighting for breath it is relatively peaceful. The river here used to be very polluted, but they cleaned it up and now salmon swim in it. So it would not really be fair on the salmon to suddenly have a human being threshing about in their midst, and then expiring and sinking to the bottom. Well, you wouldn't want it in your living room.
(note: In the final verse of the original 'Leadbelly' song he sings I'll take morphine and die. )
Marianne Faithful sings about Sister Morphine, and I can understand why. Some years ago I had back pain so severe that a doctor was called, and he gave me a shot of morphine. Almost immediately I felt like I was floating away on a lovely warm sea. What a way to go.
When you think about it, Religion is a dying trade.
If people were not afraid of dying there would be no religion. Religion deals in death – even though it sells ‘eternal life’.
Some people are so afraid of facing this great leap into the unknown that they will clutch at any bent straw; swallow any old load of nonsense, if it promises them ‘eternal life’.
I am afraid of dying – but I am trying to get along without religion. (Spirituality is something else. Sally Brampton quotes an ex alcoholic: Religion is for those who are afraid of going to hell. Spirituallity is for those who have been there.
I find it hard to conceive of a time when I will not exist. In fact, I consider it a damn shame if I cease to exist; what a waste of talent. But I have to consider that if I can survive death then so can my cat; and so can all the other animals, and the worms in my garden, and all the insects and the fishes. And, I mean, where are they going to put us all?
This is not a trivial question. And here is another important question: Suppose I have been married three times, my first two spouses having died, then to whom shall I be wed in the afterlife?
Ah, but – say the clerics – there is no marriage in heaven. Oh, so it’s ‘free love’ then? I'm afraid not, they tell me: you won’t need sex because you won’t have a body; bodies are only for this earthly plane. Fair enough. But my friend, Gervaise, says he lives for sex – so he’s going to be disappointed then. Best take Andrew Marvel’s advice to his Coy Mistress, and get it on while you can.
And without a body you can’t drink beer, wine or whisky; you can't smoke, enjoy chololate. If you haven't got a body you won't be able to ride a horse or a motor-bike, or swim or skate or play tennis. So what are we going to do in the 'afterlife'? Sit around and sing hymns? But no, you can't even sit around, because you haven't got an arse.
Yes, you need to think carefully about the eternal life package they are selling you. Read the small print; get a another quote.
(And by the way, Anna, Gervaise is the 'friend' whose name you could not remember - and why on earth does Freddie say I should be careful of my friends?)
It occurred to me the other day, what were things before they were cool?
Of course, in the sixties things were Fab. The Beatles being the "Fab Four".
Jazz musicians used to talk about things being solid. "Solid man, solid." Other expressions came from jazz: "He plays a mean trombone." And, of course, hip.
Did hip give rise to the "Hippies".?
And before the Hippies there were the Beatniks. What expression did they use?
Talking of the Beatniks, I recall a scene from a black and white film: A room, with beatniks lying about on the floor, smoking; off their heads on dope.
1st. Beatnik: Hey, what's that up there, man?
2nd Beatnik: That's the ceiling.
1st. Beatnik: Best place for it.
Ah, golden days. Where have they all gone?
Why do we bother, Anna? All this time, this effort, this sweating and grunting and straining - and for what? A couple of lines in the obituary column of the local paper?
And all this writing - what's all that about?
Magritte, when asked why he painted, said "Life compels me to do something - so I paint."
Maybe that's as good an answer as anything.
I still haven't recovered my taste or smell after this ferocious infection. If you can't taste and you can't smell, there's two dimensions of your life gone. The sense of smell is so important. One of the 'ten things I love' - which I was going to write down but didn't - is 'The smell of memories'.
I should like to end this piece on an optimistic note - a sort of 'Top C' - that would be real solid, man; mean, hip, cool. But I cannot hit Top C this morning. Maybe tomorrow?
So I think I will let Clive have the last word (he still hasn't started his own blog)
It comes as no surprise to me,
To learn I once lived in a tree
And that a monkey is my cousin -
Well not just one, but several dozen -
For often, when I go outdoors,
The urge to walk upon all fours,
Swing from a lamp-post, just for fun,
Quite suddenly comes over one.
Yes, though you think you're very cute,
You're just a monkey in a suit.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
I am feeling much anger, Georgie. What is all this about rewards... awards.... whatever? Eh? Why does no one ask me ten things about myself? Tell me that? And also I could tell all these people a lot many more things about George than what you put in your list. Oh yes! How about that? Like some of George's peculiar habits which I will not mention of for fear of embarassing, but which I may do in future sometime if I do not get satisfactory outcome.
I am so angry I tell Brian. He say - Do not distress yourself Annakins (this is his pet name for me - why do you not have pet name for me, eh? Never mind for now.). Brian say - George may just have forgotten in his excitement of being awarded. But I say, this no excuse. I would not forget him in such circumstances. But Brian put arms around me (which is very nice) and say - Come, let us go to pub where I will buy you pint of strong lager to calm you down. Which we do. But it take two pints before I am calm. But I am still angry.
So I am deciding to take bull by his horns. I am writing down (with much thought) ten things about me - which will be bloody sight more intersting than yours. Sorry, but still angry. Then these things will I post to the blog.
Your, still angry
Anna
I am so angry I tell Brian. He say - Do not distress yourself Annakins (this is his pet name for me - why do you not have pet name for me, eh? Never mind for now.). Brian say - George may just have forgotten in his excitement of being awarded. But I say, this no excuse. I would not forget him in such circumstances. But Brian put arms around me (which is very nice) and say - Come, let us go to pub where I will buy you pint of strong lager to calm you down. Which we do. But it take two pints before I am calm. But I am still angry.
So I am deciding to take bull by his horns. I am writing down (with much thought) ten things about me - which will be bloody sight more intersting than yours. Sorry, but still angry. Then these things will I post to the blog.
Your, still angry
Anna
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
AWARDS
Thank you Purple Cow for this award - and for the other one (so it really was meant for me)
And for inviting me to join the party.
I am not much good at talking about myself, but I will have a go. And I will try to keep the silly stuff to a minimum. Can't guarantee though.
Okay, 10 random things about me.
1. I was an only child (and, sadly, still am)
I was brought up in a household of women, and cats. This probably explains why I befriend stray women - but have an ambivalent attitude towards cats.
2. I have a motor bike, and ride when I can. I once went to America and hired a Harley Davidson for a week.
3. I bought my first jazz record when I was seventeen ('Get out of here and go on home' by Humphrey Lyttleton) and from then on I have been hooked on jazz - all sorts, shapes and sizes. I had a go at playing the trumpet when I was in the Air Force - I now play the drums.
4. Writing (anything and everything) is for me a kind of therapy. I have read a lot but now prefer to write. (I still read though - anything that takes my fancy). I also take the odd photograph - 'odd' being the operative word.
5. I am an idealist, a romantic, a dreamer (my favourite food is 'pie in the sky'). Some people say I can be very analytical. I am still trying to find out who I am - I think that is why I write so much.
6. I like jellies and cakes, and elephant steaks/And peppermint creams and haricot beans... that was a silly rhyme I learnt when I was a child. I've never eaten an elephant steak, but the other stuff, I like. I enjoy chocolate too. I don't particularly like the taste of alcohol but I enjoy the effect it produces.
I tried smoking but never quite mastered the technique - so I gave it up. Well, one cannot be good at everything.
7. I am a 'late developer'. After ducking out of Grammar School before taking any exams I came back into education and did a degree and a couple of diplomas and stuff. I trained as a neurotic, and later as a psychotherapist, and I also lectured. Now I just continue to develop.
8. I love children. I believe them to be both wise and vulnerable. So we should listen to them, and protect them. And we should not try to 'educate' the wisdom out of them - nor blunt their vulnerability.
9. I sometimes type on a manual typewriter. I like the clunk and thwack of the metal keys as they cut my thoughts into virgin velum.
10. I can hypnotise goldfish (and people)
I am a bit new to this award game, but here are a few blogs I would like to award because,
And for inviting me to join the party.
I am not much good at talking about myself, but I will have a go. And I will try to keep the silly stuff to a minimum. Can't guarantee though.
Okay, 10 random things about me.
1. I was an only child (and, sadly, still am)
I was brought up in a household of women, and cats. This probably explains why I befriend stray women - but have an ambivalent attitude towards cats.
2. I have a motor bike, and ride when I can. I once went to America and hired a Harley Davidson for a week.
3. I bought my first jazz record when I was seventeen ('Get out of here and go on home' by Humphrey Lyttleton) and from then on I have been hooked on jazz - all sorts, shapes and sizes. I had a go at playing the trumpet when I was in the Air Force - I now play the drums.
4. Writing (anything and everything) is for me a kind of therapy. I have read a lot but now prefer to write. (I still read though - anything that takes my fancy). I also take the odd photograph - 'odd' being the operative word.
5. I am an idealist, a romantic, a dreamer (my favourite food is 'pie in the sky'). Some people say I can be very analytical. I am still trying to find out who I am - I think that is why I write so much.
6. I like jellies and cakes, and elephant steaks/And peppermint creams and haricot beans... that was a silly rhyme I learnt when I was a child. I've never eaten an elephant steak, but the other stuff, I like. I enjoy chocolate too. I don't particularly like the taste of alcohol but I enjoy the effect it produces.
I tried smoking but never quite mastered the technique - so I gave it up. Well, one cannot be good at everything.
7. I am a 'late developer'. After ducking out of Grammar School before taking any exams I came back into education and did a degree and a couple of diplomas and stuff. I trained as a neurotic, and later as a psychotherapist, and I also lectured. Now I just continue to develop.
8. I love children. I believe them to be both wise and vulnerable. So we should listen to them, and protect them. And we should not try to 'educate' the wisdom out of them - nor blunt their vulnerability.
9. I sometimes type on a manual typewriter. I like the clunk and thwack of the metal keys as they cut my thoughts into virgin velum.
10. I can hypnotise goldfish (and people)
I am a bit new to this award game, but here are a few blogs I would like to award because,
1. Australian in Athens.
You invited me to join the party
You (probably) saved George and Anna's lives.
My fascination with your life grows with every post.
2. Propoquerian
Your sense of humour - guy or no guy - is great.
3. number87x
LIZ - You have such a bouncy inner-child, and she writes so beautifully.
4. Liyalolita
You can take pictures without a camera - and tell us about them.
5. Yellowstonetrailblazer
I don't think you are just an 'average, everyday, normal guy.
6. Sparrowchat
Underneath the caustic comments, the acerbic wit, I get a faint whiff of canals - a gentler world.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
Georgie Porgie
Pudding a and pie,
Kissed the girls
And made them cry –
When the boys came out to play
Georgie Porgie ran away.
Brian tells me of this English what you call nursery rhyme. And I am hoping it is making you smile. Of course typical of English girls that kissing should make them cry. Never make me cry, kissing. Specially not with my Georgie.
Please be forgiving me for the lateness of my writing to you. My head has been dried up of what to say. Please do not be thinking that a lack of copulation on the Sunday visit is the cause. No, it is not. It was lovely to see you after such long times – more than my words can be telling. And my love for you is undemolished. So I want for you to get better so we can be together.
But Freddie speaks to me privately before I leave. Saying it is not good for you to be experiencing extremes of emotion at such delicate stage in your treatment. And so he ask me to go slowly. Well, you know me, I have never in my life gone slowly – only the fast lane for Anna. But for you, I now do this.
You WILL get better George. This I know. So please believe. Just need to be patient. But Freddie tells me about these people like Clive and Eric and Carmen and that other person whose name I do not remember who you talk to. I think you need to be careful of these people and not be believing everything they are telling you.
Anyway, I am pleased to see how you are looking not one day older than when we last conjoin at Wynorin, which is such long a time ago. Maybe perhaps a few more grey hairs in beard. I do not tell Brian what is your age, and I can now inform you that he thinks you are ten years younger than what you really are! Now, does this not make you happy?
I wish you could be happy, George – or just ordinary miserable, like Mr Freud say.
I think you need love of good woman – which is me. But first you must get better. I know I am repeating what I have said previous, but need to emphasise this fact. But complication is, that all this thinking and stuff what batter that poor head of yours is also YOU George. And it would not be good to blast it all out with millions of the electric voltage. It is much of this which make you creative and funny and which I am in love with. Freddie tell me he is trying to help you manage all this stuff, and not just chuck it away. This is really important.
Know that I am here for you always. And I will come to visit you when Brian has next day off the bus driving. They are bit short on the staffing at the moment on account of many drivers off sick with the type of shitty bug you have had. Poor Georgie, what a time of it you must have been suffering through, not knowing when next you will be running for lavatory before bowel explodes again. So exhausting this must also be because of efforts your insides are making to squeeze all nasty bacteria out of you – at both ends too. Anyway I am glad you are much better – I think you must have been run down (is that correct expression?) and I also think the mental sickness has probably added to your running down.
It is also nice to see that you are being thought about by Purple Cow lady - you see I do read comments! And good that you comment back to thank her. Do not worry – I am not jealous!! Oh, and am also glad to see that your National Health Service is working well for you. I think you should perhaps (when you are really better) send e mail to man who runs service to tell him. Because newspapers always full of stories of people who get killed in your hospitals by various mistakes and bugs. I am sure this must be very dispiriting for Mr Cameron (such a good looking man), so he will welcome a bit of praise. I bet he will read your e mail out to his wife at breakfast time and say – there you are, at least one bugger is grateful for what I am doing.
Brian is a good man – even though he does not fancy me for the sex he has been really kind to me. And as I said, he will bring me at first opportunity he is getting. You know, I think he likes you, Georgie – not in a homosexual way. He just think you are a nice man. Which of course you are, so do not be forgetting. And also do not be too hard upon yourself. Do not so much try for being the perfectionist. It is ok to make mistakes. I know, because I make plenty (and hope to make plenty more – such a naughty girl am I). No, but I am serious about this, Georgie because I think a lot of your mental sickness in the head comes from trying too hard. Always trying to ‘get it right’. Why not have a go at getting it wrong?
Anyway, I am ending here as it is late and I make cocoa for when Brian returns.
So much looking forward to seeing you soon.
Your ever loving Anna.
Pudding a and pie,
Kissed the girls
And made them cry –
When the boys came out to play
Georgie Porgie ran away.
Brian tells me of this English what you call nursery rhyme. And I am hoping it is making you smile. Of course typical of English girls that kissing should make them cry. Never make me cry, kissing. Specially not with my Georgie.
Please be forgiving me for the lateness of my writing to you. My head has been dried up of what to say. Please do not be thinking that a lack of copulation on the Sunday visit is the cause. No, it is not. It was lovely to see you after such long times – more than my words can be telling. And my love for you is undemolished. So I want for you to get better so we can be together.
But Freddie speaks to me privately before I leave. Saying it is not good for you to be experiencing extremes of emotion at such delicate stage in your treatment. And so he ask me to go slowly. Well, you know me, I have never in my life gone slowly – only the fast lane for Anna. But for you, I now do this.
You WILL get better George. This I know. So please believe. Just need to be patient. But Freddie tells me about these people like Clive and Eric and Carmen and that other person whose name I do not remember who you talk to. I think you need to be careful of these people and not be believing everything they are telling you.
Anyway, I am pleased to see how you are looking not one day older than when we last conjoin at Wynorin, which is such long a time ago. Maybe perhaps a few more grey hairs in beard. I do not tell Brian what is your age, and I can now inform you that he thinks you are ten years younger than what you really are! Now, does this not make you happy?
I wish you could be happy, George – or just ordinary miserable, like Mr Freud say.
I think you need love of good woman – which is me. But first you must get better. I know I am repeating what I have said previous, but need to emphasise this fact. But complication is, that all this thinking and stuff what batter that poor head of yours is also YOU George. And it would not be good to blast it all out with millions of the electric voltage. It is much of this which make you creative and funny and which I am in love with. Freddie tell me he is trying to help you manage all this stuff, and not just chuck it away. This is really important.
Know that I am here for you always. And I will come to visit you when Brian has next day off the bus driving. They are bit short on the staffing at the moment on account of many drivers off sick with the type of shitty bug you have had. Poor Georgie, what a time of it you must have been suffering through, not knowing when next you will be running for lavatory before bowel explodes again. So exhausting this must also be because of efforts your insides are making to squeeze all nasty bacteria out of you – at both ends too. Anyway I am glad you are much better – I think you must have been run down (is that correct expression?) and I also think the mental sickness has probably added to your running down.
It is also nice to see that you are being thought about by Purple Cow lady - you see I do read comments! And good that you comment back to thank her. Do not worry – I am not jealous!! Oh, and am also glad to see that your National Health Service is working well for you. I think you should perhaps (when you are really better) send e mail to man who runs service to tell him. Because newspapers always full of stories of people who get killed in your hospitals by various mistakes and bugs. I am sure this must be very dispiriting for Mr Cameron (such a good looking man), so he will welcome a bit of praise. I bet he will read your e mail out to his wife at breakfast time and say – there you are, at least one bugger is grateful for what I am doing.
Brian is a good man – even though he does not fancy me for the sex he has been really kind to me. And as I said, he will bring me at first opportunity he is getting. You know, I think he likes you, Georgie – not in a homosexual way. He just think you are a nice man. Which of course you are, so do not be forgetting. And also do not be too hard upon yourself. Do not so much try for being the perfectionist. It is ok to make mistakes. I know, because I make plenty (and hope to make plenty more – such a naughty girl am I). No, but I am serious about this, Georgie because I think a lot of your mental sickness in the head comes from trying too hard. Always trying to ‘get it right’. Why not have a go at getting it wrong?
Anyway, I am ending here as it is late and I make cocoa for when Brian returns.
So much looking forward to seeing you soon.
Your ever loving Anna.
Monday, May 31, 2010
"The creative genius stands always outside the circle of experts." - Adolf Hitler
***************************************************************
Hard work is not something I have ever been good at.
But immediately having made that statement, I realise it is less than the truth. (Here we go, the old ‘truth’ thing again.) I can be – and often am – very creative. And when I am creative, I suppose I work hard at it – although I don’t call this work. It is more like enjoyment.
But what I mean is: the capacity for applied, sustained effort has been cruelly denied me. It’s a gene thing, I suppose. And it is a pity, because if I had had this gift bestowed upon me – along with the creativity, of course – then by now I would have written several best-selling novels, have the cream of the acting profession fighting to be cast in my plays, and be a famous face on television talk-shows. Oh yes, and be very wealthy.
But alas, I was pitched onto this stage-set we call ‘Life’ with a ragbag of tricks and gimmicks, and a script with several pages missing, and told to get on with it. And that is what we all have to do. A Bugger - is it not.
Yes, I am in a reflective mood tonight, Anna. I have been reading some of these blog ‘profiles’ and wondering whether I should expose more of myself in public. This is something I have often felt the urge to do but, being of a shy, reclusive disposition find so difficult. What do you think?
I saw the doctor today. Not our little Indian lady – she is taking a holiday to visit her parents, in Bradford. Gretchen drove me to the local GP’s surgery, where I saw Dr Plankton. He placed his stethoscope upon various parts of my body, telling me to breathe in and out. I took care to turn my face away from him so as not to blow my germs up his nose. (Although he did not seem particularly worried - I imagine doctors are used to this sort of thing and probably become immune after a while.) Then he looked down my throat inviting me to say ‘Aaaaa’, and followed this by tapping my head and face in various places, and asking if it hurt. ‘Only when I laugh.’ I replied. No, I didn’t.
Finally he looked in each ear with a little lamp. His diagnosis was that I have an infection and definitely need a course of antibiotics.
‘So it’s no alcohol then.’ I said, dispiritedly.
‘In moderation,’ he replied, ‘No more than two units a day.’
Well, I never drink more than a pint of beer anyway, so I was quite pleased.
I thanked him, and Gretchen drove me to a pharmacy where I got the tablets. I have to take one, three times a day. I have taken two so far. I hope they do the trick because I don’t think I have ever felt so ill as I have these past two weeks. (Well not for such a length of time.) I expect it’s a bit early to see any improvement, although, strangely enough, I am feeling a little better tonight.
Next morning…
Oh dear, like the girl on the bridge at midnight – I spoke too fucking soon.
At 11pm I had diarrhoea – and again a couple of times in the night. I guessed it was a reaction to the antibiotics and so this morning it was a visit to the emergency surgery: this time it was an Indian gentlemen. (I was going to ask him if he knew our little Indian lady doctor, but I suppose India is a big place, and anyway I couldn't pronounce her name.) He was very thorough. After an examination which took in blood pressure, temperature and being stethescoped all over, he prescribe different antibiotics. I have started on these and am hoping they work because I feel drained of energy and totally out of it.
Our National Health Service comes in for so much criticism, but I could not have wished for more speedy, attentive care had I been a ‘private patient’. And, of course it did not cost me a penny. Incidentally, my prescription was made up there and then by the on-site pharmacy – which is open seven days a week up until 10.0pm.
(And thanks Gretchen for your sterling work at the wheel.)
Anyway, I am now taking things easy: a little rice and tuna here, a bowl of soup and a bit of pasta there… let’s see what tonight brings.
It brought the following morning - but not before my encyclopedia of dreams opened at several unrelated places. I mostly enjoy my dreams - you meet such a variety of people. Unfortunately I have not had an erotic dream for ages.
Now then, Anna, please do not take this as a threat, but if I do not hear from you soon I may do myself a mischief.
Your lonely George
Hard work is not something I have ever been good at.
But immediately having made that statement, I realise it is less than the truth. (Here we go, the old ‘truth’ thing again.) I can be – and often am – very creative. And when I am creative, I suppose I work hard at it – although I don’t call this work. It is more like enjoyment.
But what I mean is: the capacity for applied, sustained effort has been cruelly denied me. It’s a gene thing, I suppose. And it is a pity, because if I had had this gift bestowed upon me – along with the creativity, of course – then by now I would have written several best-selling novels, have the cream of the acting profession fighting to be cast in my plays, and be a famous face on television talk-shows. Oh yes, and be very wealthy.
But alas, I was pitched onto this stage-set we call ‘Life’ with a ragbag of tricks and gimmicks, and a script with several pages missing, and told to get on with it. And that is what we all have to do. A Bugger - is it not.
Yes, I am in a reflective mood tonight, Anna. I have been reading some of these blog ‘profiles’ and wondering whether I should expose more of myself in public. This is something I have often felt the urge to do but, being of a shy, reclusive disposition find so difficult. What do you think?
I saw the doctor today. Not our little Indian lady – she is taking a holiday to visit her parents, in Bradford. Gretchen drove me to the local GP’s surgery, where I saw Dr Plankton. He placed his stethoscope upon various parts of my body, telling me to breathe in and out. I took care to turn my face away from him so as not to blow my germs up his nose. (Although he did not seem particularly worried - I imagine doctors are used to this sort of thing and probably become immune after a while.) Then he looked down my throat inviting me to say ‘Aaaaa’, and followed this by tapping my head and face in various places, and asking if it hurt. ‘Only when I laugh.’ I replied. No, I didn’t.
Finally he looked in each ear with a little lamp. His diagnosis was that I have an infection and definitely need a course of antibiotics.
‘So it’s no alcohol then.’ I said, dispiritedly.
‘In moderation,’ he replied, ‘No more than two units a day.’
Well, I never drink more than a pint of beer anyway, so I was quite pleased.
I thanked him, and Gretchen drove me to a pharmacy where I got the tablets. I have to take one, three times a day. I have taken two so far. I hope they do the trick because I don’t think I have ever felt so ill as I have these past two weeks. (Well not for such a length of time.) I expect it’s a bit early to see any improvement, although, strangely enough, I am feeling a little better tonight.
Next morning…
Oh dear, like the girl on the bridge at midnight – I spoke too fucking soon.
At 11pm I had diarrhoea – and again a couple of times in the night. I guessed it was a reaction to the antibiotics and so this morning it was a visit to the emergency surgery: this time it was an Indian gentlemen. (I was going to ask him if he knew our little Indian lady doctor, but I suppose India is a big place, and anyway I couldn't pronounce her name.) He was very thorough. After an examination which took in blood pressure, temperature and being stethescoped all over, he prescribe different antibiotics. I have started on these and am hoping they work because I feel drained of energy and totally out of it.
Our National Health Service comes in for so much criticism, but I could not have wished for more speedy, attentive care had I been a ‘private patient’. And, of course it did not cost me a penny. Incidentally, my prescription was made up there and then by the on-site pharmacy – which is open seven days a week up until 10.0pm.
(And thanks Gretchen for your sterling work at the wheel.)
Anyway, I am now taking things easy: a little rice and tuna here, a bowl of soup and a bit of pasta there… let’s see what tonight brings.
It brought the following morning - but not before my encyclopedia of dreams opened at several unrelated places. I mostly enjoy my dreams - you meet such a variety of people. Unfortunately I have not had an erotic dream for ages.
Now then, Anna, please do not take this as a threat, but if I do not hear from you soon I may do myself a mischief.
Your lonely George
Thursday, May 27, 2010
"We are that which others allow us to be": Discuss
***********************************************************
Yesterday, whilst leafing idly through this month’s issue of What Fetish (which I take for the crossword – page 4) I came across an article in which it was suggested there is a bit of the masochist in all of us. I agree. There is also a bit of the sadist. If these terms are too strong for those with a delicate constitution, then how about: ‘victim’ and ‘persecutor’? Of course there is also something of the ‘nurturer’, the ‘carer’ or the ‘rescuer’.
There are many and various 'strands' within us, and I think other people (different people) act as magnets (different magnets) to bring out these different strands. And perhaps the people we most like to be with are those who bring out the strands (we may call them 'traits')) that we favour, feel more comfortable with – or think are more the ‘real me’- when, of course, they are no more real than the other bits.
Last night I got high on a cocktail of paracetamol, cough-mixture and whisky. I awoke on a downer. If this infection or whatever it is does not clear soon then I think I may as well turn it in.
I looked up, on the Internet, the efficacy of Prozac, as an overdosing agent. (I already knew the answer, but I looked anyway). It’s a bit hit or miss. Not recommended. You would probably vomit – bile and blood – and damage liver and kidneys to a serious degree, but it is unlikely you would kill yourself.
“Is this a dagger I see before me…?”
Only joking.
Wherefore art thou, Anna?
Yesterday, whilst leafing idly through this month’s issue of What Fetish (which I take for the crossword – page 4) I came across an article in which it was suggested there is a bit of the masochist in all of us. I agree. There is also a bit of the sadist. If these terms are too strong for those with a delicate constitution, then how about: ‘victim’ and ‘persecutor’? Of course there is also something of the ‘nurturer’, the ‘carer’ or the ‘rescuer’.
There are many and various 'strands' within us, and I think other people (different people) act as magnets (different magnets) to bring out these different strands. And perhaps the people we most like to be with are those who bring out the strands (we may call them 'traits')) that we favour, feel more comfortable with – or think are more the ‘real me’- when, of course, they are no more real than the other bits.
Last night I got high on a cocktail of paracetamol, cough-mixture and whisky. I awoke on a downer. If this infection or whatever it is does not clear soon then I think I may as well turn it in.
I looked up, on the Internet, the efficacy of Prozac, as an overdosing agent. (I already knew the answer, but I looked anyway). It’s a bit hit or miss. Not recommended. You would probably vomit – bile and blood – and damage liver and kidneys to a serious degree, but it is unlikely you would kill yourself.
“Is this a dagger I see before me…?”
Only joking.
Wherefore art thou, Anna?
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The thing about being ill - you can do it anywhere
***************************************************
I feel rotten. Following on from the gastric flu, I now have a stinking cold (or a respiratory infection) as I prefer to call it. The infection has now found its way down to my chest - not too difficult a journey for the bloody germs, I suppose – and now I am coughing. I’m just hoping the urinary tract isn’t next. If that happens this bloody thing will have affected every bodily orifice. If I had a thermometer I would take my temperature. I wish I were working – then I could have a day off.
Yesterday I asked Carmen to take my photograph (with my new camera). In the grounds, sitting on a bench by a tree. She made three attempts before she got it right. ‘I’m a dozy cow,’ She said.
I didn’t argue.
You may think it vain, asking someone to take your photograph. But there was a reason. And it was not because I had had my haircut the same morning. (Remember I told you that we have a lady hairdresser who comes regularly and sees to our tonsorial needs.) It is to prove that I am here – that I really exist. And why should I need to do that? Well, that is something I will get around to telling you. I just don’t know how to do so at the moment.
Where are you Anna? Is it because I have this infection that you don’t want to write?
A sick George
I feel rotten. Following on from the gastric flu, I now have a stinking cold (or a respiratory infection) as I prefer to call it. The infection has now found its way down to my chest - not too difficult a journey for the bloody germs, I suppose – and now I am coughing. I’m just hoping the urinary tract isn’t next. If that happens this bloody thing will have affected every bodily orifice. If I had a thermometer I would take my temperature. I wish I were working – then I could have a day off.
Yesterday I asked Carmen to take my photograph (with my new camera). In the grounds, sitting on a bench by a tree. She made three attempts before she got it right. ‘I’m a dozy cow,’ She said.
I didn’t argue.
You may think it vain, asking someone to take your photograph. But there was a reason. And it was not because I had had my haircut the same morning. (Remember I told you that we have a lady hairdresser who comes regularly and sees to our tonsorial needs.) It is to prove that I am here – that I really exist. And why should I need to do that? Well, that is something I will get around to telling you. I just don’t know how to do so at the moment.
Where are you Anna? Is it because I have this infection that you don’t want to write?
A sick George
Sunday, May 23, 2010
CHARLEY
Every time I switch this computer on it says I have files waiting to be burned to disk. I haven’t. (Perhaps someone else has – other people use the computer). Then another little box appears telling me some programme wants to update itself. I ignore these messages. I don’t mean to be rude - I just don’t know how to respond.
That's a problem in life generally: knowing how to respond. To a situation, a person, a remark. Well, it used to be, for me. Now, I do just whatever comes into my head.
Last night I asked Freddie if I could take his dog for a walk. Evenings are the worst for me. I don’t know what to do with myself.
Freddie’s dog is called ‘Charlie’. I think all dogs should be called ‘Scamp’ or ‘Rover’ – they were in the books I read when I was a lad. Or ‘Patch’, if they had splotch of different colour over one eye. ‘Splotch’! That would be a good name for a dog.
But Freddie’s dog is called Charlie. Charlie is a spaniel. He has huge paws, and long ears that brush the ground when he walks. He always has his head down, sniffing at everything. I once read that a dog’s sense of smell is many times more sensitive that that of a human. That is why they sniff so much when you take them for a walk. Smell is their world. A dog’s reality is different from ours.
We think we know ‘reality’, but all we have is a perception of reality; a perception formed by our senses. The hard wiring of our brain. That is why Huxley, Laing and others experimented with LSD and other ‘mind altering’ drugs: to fiddle with the wiring and open the doors of perception.
Maybe that’s what I need: a mind altering drug, to oil the hinges so I can kick open my creaking doors of perception.
I took a plastic bag with me in case Charlie wanted to do his business. He didn’t – but he had two pees.
I have heard it said that dogs see us humans as sort of extremely clever and powerful dogs. Actually, I don't think a dog knows it is a 'dog'. 'Dog' is a label: a human construct. I doubt if a dog ever thinks about it. A dog just IS.
But Charlie is a very friendly dog – he didn’t bit me once.
Oh, and Purple Cow - I told Clive what you said about having his own blog. He thinks it's a great idea. And because of your interest in his work, he wants to share one of his more 'serious' poems with you. He says he wrote it for his grandson, on the day he started school. Here it is.
FIRST DAY AT SCHOOL
You stand before me -
Short trousers, grey;
White shirt, all neatly pressed;
And your first tie
(on a string).
And I smell again the polish,
Hear nervous plimsolls
Squeak
On shiny wooden floor.
Taste dusty milk,
Warm, from being set out too long
In thick grey beakers.
Again I fight
The waves of fear, that rise
And threaten to drown me
In shame.
‘Be a brave soldier’.
They said.
I swallowed hard –
And tried.
What can I tell you, Thomas?
I just swallow hard.
******************************************
Where are you Anna? I know that you are there, somewhere – but I can’t get to you.
Your lonely
George
Friday, May 21, 2010
Blues for an unknown spider
This is a photograph of a dead spider I found on the bathroom window-sill. I photographed it in situ - like the police do before they remove the body from a 'crime scene'. But I don't class this as a crime scene. I don't know how the spider died, but I don't suspect foul play. I have not yet, however, removed the body.
I am not an arachnologist but I would say this spider died of starvation - I have not seen many flies in the bathroom - or I wonder could it have been affected by some toxic (to spiders) chemical in the various bathroom cleaners we employ. Or perhaps it simply died of old age. How long do spiders live? I don't know. It's hard to tell the age of a spider, anyway, even when alive, but when dead and dessicated like this - it is nigh on impossible.
As well as not being able to ascertain the cause, I am unable to confirm the time of death. I don't think the spider was there yesterday, but it may have been and I simply hadn't noticed it. (I've had a lot on my mind). On the other hand it may have become deceased some place else (like the ceiling) and then drifted down here later. I know spiders are quite at home hanging from a ceiling, but for how long after death can they cling on? I simply don't know. In fact the incident has brought home to me how little I know about spiders and, more importantly, how little we all know about death.
Of course, the spider, lacking consciousness (or so we are told) is unaware of the approach of the Grim Spider Reaper. Wouldn't it be nice if we could switch off that part of our consciousness that makes us aware of our mortality? Just that one part? Some may argue that that would take away the greater 'meaning' of life. What meaning?
Sorry Anna, I am prevaricating, playing for time. The truth is (or might be, or could be - and it may even change tomorrow) I don't kinow where I am up to - in my head. I don't know what to say to you. I wanted to begin this post by saying 'Well, Anna, the wardrobe door really swung open for me!' But that wouldn't be quite accurate - even as a metaphor.
It was good seeing you, though. A few little strands of grey in that beautiful, natural (I should know) blonde hair, but still my Anna, not looking a day older than that last fateful occasion when they came for me at Wynorin. And you were wearing those shoes!
It was so good to see you. I know you wanted a conjugal visit - so did I - but Freddie did not. And I think he may have been right. Perhaps we should take it slowly, considering my rather unstable condition at the moment. As Freddie said, "A good fuck can do wonders for one's health - mental and physical. But a bad fuck can undo weeks of successful therapy." And I don't think he said that entirely out of jealousy - oh yes, I saw him looking at you! But I think he's got both our interests at heart. Anyway he did say you could visit anytime, didn't he? I know that you are reliant upon Brian, and his days off work. Incidentally, he seems a nice chap. I was surprised how short he is - I marvel that he manages to reach the pedals of his bus. Or perhaps he just looks short, standing by your side.
I am sorry I have taken so long in writing. I know I asked you to give me time to assimilate all that had gone during your visit, and I do appreciate your understanding - and patience. I intended to write earlier but I have had one of my "low" periods and this has been compounded by a bout of gastric flu during which I have pebble-dashed the lavatory pan many times over. This activity has now ceased but I am left feeling like a piece of chewed string. The other inmates have been quite sympathetic. Clive even wrote me a little poem:
Ode to Gastroenteritis
You shit
And you shit,
And you think - well, that's it .
But it's not, 'cos you're shitting again.
Then to put Top Hat on it,
You're starting to vommit -
Look out! Here it comes again.
I will close now. The sun is shining brightly and I may take a stroll around the grounds. They have flowers and plants and other green stuff. I don't know the names of any of them, but I have my camera and will take some photos.
(I have now removed the body and flushed it down the lavatory. A sort of burial at sea. I didn't say a prayer, or give thanks for a spidery life. I just said "Cheerio" - and pulled the lever.)
I think of your each day. Please write soon - and visit when you can.
Your (next time?) lover,
George
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