Tag Archives: Celebration

As ridiculous as it may be, there are times I really wish I could be a woman…

A continuation of Point B:

Pay it no heed, t’is just a muse to dress in—

Concerning Woman…

IMG_6956 cIt is not uncommon for me to awake and only realise it because I must be in order to be thinking, before thinking I’m up and it’s time I should be able to think. Which can be disconcerting because of the realisation that all the preceding thoughts were a waste and an ultimately useless praxis of sleep-like consciousness. I mention it not because I consider the act of thinking without my knowledge or prior consent useless, but because I was thinking about, well…

Woman has been described in many fashions over the years— some have dated and many are just of an odd and barely bearable manner. But, thanks to man’s ineptitude for timely invention for all our sakes, few have been recorded.

From the foul creatures of bygone days, ingratiating and nefarious— to the ne’er do-wellers unheard of on the Earth today— there is a prism strong with the clutches of obsequiousness at the one end and oblique at t’other. Suggesting a submissive who ‘ain’t got no straight dice’ in her, on her, with her, or indeed ever-ever.

Naturally, I consider it a duty to expound such hostile ‘truths’ and then obliterate such indifferences if I found them to be harbouring even the slightest shreds of unfounded poppycock. Unfortunately, I think on the whole, a completely objective opinion is impossible to find, so I’ll not even attempt one.

The gist…

The morning I’m in question with, saw me becoming aware that I was awake and thinking about Woman, which considering the previous post is hardly surprising. There was no specific article or example, but more the age-old what are they? Which of course, any self-aware man will tell you who has taken the trouble to observe one for any period— and it needn’t even be considerable: they are anything they bloody well want to be when ever they damn well choose. Though on the face of it, this may seem unfair— there is a but.

It doesn’t stop man from secretly desiring the chance to be one, for a period— and it needn’t even be considerable.

I like to choose my words carefully and I would hate to think my last sentence was a badly phrased pun, as much as it was just badly phrased, because I can’t think of anything I’d like less than never having been one.

Unfortunately for me, I grew up only having Cauldron-stirrers to watch; and although they speak a little more whilst saying a little less than most, requiring the maximum of concentration for the minimum of reward— I’d have to experience the condition personally before forming an opinion as to why. That said, I’d rather not have to endure my time as Woman as a witch or hag should the opportunity for a touch of gender-bending ever arise.

What would be most satisfying though, would be to suffer despicably, at the hands of those ghastly hormones that run ruin throughout their bodies. I’d like to be ill with ovulation and feel the ‘eggs being fired out’, as an old friend once described it. Maybe a spot of pregnancy too— not so much as to over-stay my welcome by any means, but enough to know what the unusual cravings are like, and just perhaps, a little of the moaning, groaning and agonies of a thirteen hour labour.

I am a great fan of Woman and enjoy them on a daily basis in some way or another and I can’t help but feel they’ve been treated most meanly over the years and deserve to have things put right. With opinions like:

  • Woman’s at best a contradiction still…

  • Most woman have no characters at all…

  • Because women can do nothing except love, they’ve given it ridiculous importance…

  • A woman is only a woman, but a cigar is a good smoke…

You’d be forgiven for wondering why it has failed to stop man from wanting one. Strange isn’t it? Man likes nothing more than crediting Woman with innate deviance, perhaps even more than Woman herself…

And so…

There’s something so desperately feeble about it all. Woman though has her answers to certain profound quandaries— and enlightenment when it matters, ‘[they] have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size…’

But how wonderful it would be— as long as I could have the worst bits— how ever many there may be— just, to see if it’s all it’s cracked up to be. Anyway, it’s what I woke up in the middle of realising— when I was in fact already awake and thinking of something more wonderful than usual.

I am man, I count nothing human foreign to me…

Terence, Heauton Timorumenos

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The fewer the thoughts, the greater they weigh. It’s the nature of remembering & the autistic brain…

Moments aren’t for defining; they are to be put to song—

Instrumentals…

IMG_2445I was just lying there, stewing somewhat— having had a Shanghai of a day, cat in toe by my face most of it, swinging-low. She kept me working from the cave today but anywise.

I was flicking through some menus and films thinking; but at the same time, weighing things over and over quite involuntarily— things that weigh more, the fewer of them you have.

One of them was an idea I had some time ago for a clock, that would no doubt cause its owner endless torment with the perverse manner in which it kept time. But it’s in their nature: it just so happens to be what they do— because they’re secretive. It’s also the nature of remembrance, that the only function it serves is to remind us of other things— which is why, as we grow older— we tell each other stories in the hope they will remind us of other stories.

It’s as fitting an analogy as I am prepared to make to the autistic brain today, short of explaining the mechanisms of the clock. Remembrance is not an uncomplicated process. It’s a voluntary act dependant on a series of involuntary recalls. There may be a degree of summons, but like the cat this morning, there is a powerlessness to affect what happens next.

I’m reminded of an early Latin text— one of the earliest and funniest extant, as it were— written in or around the first century, so I wasn’t around at the time to comment as to the prevalence of what it describes. The truth is, I care only to recall but bits of it, and one of them concerns a water clock in a dining room, with a trumpeter, whose only function was to announce the time, so at any time, the clocks owner would know precisely how much of his life he had lost. Make a note, because I’ll be returning to this observation another time.

In turn, I was reminded of several observations made by friends over the years: that by and large I keep my thoughts about my person, and they are at times saddened I do not, cannot or wiln’t share them. I’ve been criticised for it a number of times; my thoughts it seems, are worth more than dust or my company— and regardless of the humour involved in such comments, they always leave me bound to a curiosity I either do not or cannot explain. You could argue then, that by doing so, you make a case for saying you can measure whatever life you’ve had, you’ve lost— by the measure of whatever life you’ve failed to share.

Rough notes as they are, capsulise the multiple ironies therein: life lost incorporates everything; it’s an imperious semantic field from which, not even thought can escape. It is for all intents and purposes infinite, but yet there was once a man with a leaky pot and a trumpet attempting to measure it; to share the thought: that I don’t readily share my thoughts is awkward to validate in as far as you must do one to do the other— and in order to remember it, I had to think of other things— while lying there— stewing somewhat.

It’s funny; it can take as long as an hour to capture the essence of a moment in order to share it. It’s not something I find displeasing— it just reinforces, on a personal note— how powerful the implications are of such generosity. Most people will never work it out; because it’s not in their nature; they are unfortunately, not enough like clocks.

So the next time you ask yourself, where it was you think that you last saw your glasses and are startled by the response— be sure to take another note, that it’s time to re-examine the events leading up to it. If however the response is along the lines of, I don’t know where they are but I heard them land a moment before catching a satisfied glimmer, only to see them perched exactly where you left them.

Ask yourself this:

What then was it you think, that you heard land?

*tick*

Two fortnights; four weeks; one month or thirty very odd days…

To a month of links and thinking differently;

And a little bit of noise—

I hope it’s been some fun…

coacheswar-crimescricketbreadsticksblogging cats baby-sitting aboutbad-teaching balloons  ettiquette  coffee furniture girl gnomes habits grammar house-sitting immigration golf knitting meltdown marshmallows lost miniamlism nail-clippings onearmed man rules procrastination phone-calls senses shit pockets sick

stuffed-cats superhero syntax

I would rather entertain and hope that people learned something than educate people and hope they were entertained…

Walt Disney

By all means, you’re welcome to eat any way you see fit; I’ll just use the spoon…

Neither electricity nor pomposity is the silent servant; it is manners—

Recalled with the assistance of Conrad, The Wine Wanker

nouvelle_cuisine_cartoonThere are people who mean what they think, then say what they mean; and some are just mean and don’t think, then say whatever they damn-well please.

I am not renown for being pompous. It is however a useful tool to have in your armoury, particularly when it needs to be pointed out in others. As a communication method, it is practically impossible to take seriously, thereby lending its itself perfectly to other more declarative forms of expression. But under no circumstances would I advise for, the pompous rhetorical question: that would be in shockingly poor taste. Especially when it involves food.

When used for bringing volume to one’s airs in a manner more supercilious than enlightening however, I find the very register of immediate comic effect. It can sound so aloof and so lofty that I’d have little trouble receiving the positions of cannibals, revolutionaries, reactionaries, nuisance-callers, even vegans owing to the very towering nature of their argument. This is something I fail to see as bad thing, because in the end gravity always wins.

It’s actually a style I like to frequent from time to time, as it puts me in mind of a more civilised time and affords me the use of a lexicon that would otherwise look out of place and silly. Add to that an inwardly facing superiority, whereby rendering only myself as little foolish and it makes the business of remembering things a somewhat pleasant jolly. So with that throw-back in mind, I’d like to cast back some twenty years to Rheims, the world’s champagne capitol.

Rheims was hosting a week long, sister-city ceremony with the Germans, Austrians and Italians and of course the Britainnians for sporting events, drama, frivolity, art and food, with the intention to bring together the very best of our national and cultural identities and celebrating our differences. The Maastrict treaty was in its infancy, so it was a all a bit of a to-do.

Anyway, I had been selected for Canterbury’s cricket team and we had been selected to travel with the rugby squad— a term I use lightly: not before nor since have I ever witnessed beer-swilling quite like it in a bus, nor the heckling; as not a single lady escaped the collective cheers of Nicole Papa along the route, as our burly continent appropriated the same side of the bus to suck the windows. The driver was certainly nonplussed, harvesting fears, as some of us were, that we might at any moment capsize; fears, in no way allied by my impression that rugby was supposed to be a game played by gentleman. My dad however, was just praying they didn’t burst into the chicken song.

Upon arrival, we checked in to our hotels then made our way to the town-centre to be entertained by a gathering of troupes from our respective homelands. It was magnificent, the costumes, mediaeval weaponry, assorted acrobatics, the costumes and colour. It was pageantry at it’s very finest, all meticulously choreographed and splendid— until we found the British.

For all of the rich and vibrant history we boast, our contribution to this culturally dynamic affair, was Morris dancing: a side of black-faced, befeathered men and women in boiler-suits trying to brain each other with big sticks and bells. I cringed. There wasn’t a canon or spadroon in sight, just Morris dancing— and not even the type I mind least. Not only did it have an improvised feel to it, but when the mascot attempted to juggle with one ball, he dropped it.

To describe it as as a bit of a let down would be gross, but with the banquet at the mayor’s residence to look forward to, not to mention the cricket, the gala and evening laser-show— there was plenty potential to wipe the disappointment bare and salvage the experience. That was the hope anyway. Actual hope, and then the dinner happened…

You’ll have to imagine the dining hall for yourselves: hundreds of years old, a vast ceiling laden with gold leaf and quite the most exquisite carpentry. The tables were round and we were seated randomly for the most part— I found space for our group so we could dine as one and alighted with genuine excitement. It just so happened we ended up sharing a table with the chairman of one of the Arts Committees— no doubt the chap responsible for the fiasco earlier; and it wasn’t long before all the hopes and joy began to seep away.

If you’ll permit me, I must impress upon you how noisy his style was. He spoke loudly, his word choices thunderous. I think without labouring the point, you’ll know the type: he wanted to be in charge of the dinner table; in fact, left to his own devices, I’m sure he would’ve eaten our meals for us too. Unfortunately for us, he made it so we could hear everything he said, and the next table and quite possibly the table next to that.

I have mellowed a lot since then in a number of ways— I have become more tolerant of things others may say to me, about me or even near me— now whether or not these things are in the best of intentions or otherwise, what I do object to, now, just as I did then, is having manners thrust upon me. I deplore rudeness you see: it takes the same amount of time and effort to be pleasant as it does to be a dick; it never ceases to amaze me why certain fellows would choose the latter?

So, long before even the starters had been served, it had been impossible— quite impossible to ignore all the chat about etiquette. It was etiquette this and etiquette that and etiquette, etiquette, etiquette. To be fair to him, I had considered he may have been overcome by the splendour, but as long as he kept himself to himself. I may have been young, but I certainly knew not to eat from the inside out.

Suffice to say, I was taking an ever increasing dislike to him and his nose. When they are decidedly upturned, endearing yourself to another is quite the gift, and nostril-hair is the last thing you want to be thinking about before tucking into a posh meal. So when this chap leaned over, obviously mistaking us for riff-raff and reminded us exactly where we were and not to forget our etiquette, I turned to him and smiled and with as rounded and precise a smile as I’ve ever made, and told him ‘bollocks!’.

Then proceeded to eat my entire meal with a spoon..

Etiquette means behaving yourself a little better than is absolutely essential

True story…

Image: Royston Cartoons