In a few moments we begin the thrashing over an urn just six inches high—
- I may be a few days in the wilderness, just to be social— I have no idea as to how long— a day or two most probably but with the prospect of a long rail journey tomorrow, there’s bound to be something which catches the eye.
- I always carry a pen.
- I’ve a few pieces just about finished— they’re there or there abouts, so if I have time I’ll get them typed and up; I’ve tangents to fill after all and I’m not in the habit of leaving things unfinished.
- It is a pity— I had hoped not to miss a day.
- But in-case I do, I really would appreciate it if you didn’t go anywhere…
- Thanks chaps!
It’s time for The Ashes…
It’s a very odd thing—
As odd as can be—
That what ever Miss T eats
Turns into Miss T.
Walter De La Mare, Miss T.
As much as I used to love turning into a mouse, it kind of gets to you after a while. The ears are pretty cute if cute’s your thing, which it’s not, wasn’t or ever likely to be, so I’m looking for something else to be— and if I’ve learnt anything over the last few days, it’s that the female of species is distinctly off-limits.
You could say I’m on the market for a new barrel— a furry one, something that floats and preferably— something that tastes goood. Especially since I am having an extended vowel sound day…
I was chatting with my friend Delfinus some time ago about a similar subject. She’s from Illinois and unfortunately for her, had a peculiar blood condition which left her symptomatic of something rather less than alive, so there was not much else to do other than find a way to laugh at it. This was all pre-vamp chic, so being bitten by a vampires wasn’t quite the vogue it is today; and for a Christian: becoming affiliated with the dark side, had certain social quandaries and a similar ring to a teen-aged boys first foray into Playboy ownership.
Why else do you think we would’ve been discussing eating our neighbours pets?
She was philosophical about it, though it did get her down at times. It can’t be easy making friends with people and then eating them, can it? I’d even toyed with the idea of getting Hag to give her a few tips on what species of flesh tastes best and how to prepare it when you are in a spot— perhaps even consider opening an eatery for other Lords of the Undead, calling it Killer’s, specialising in corpses to go. But then again, I thought it for-the-best that not too many people find out about either of them, unless there were to be incentives like how to carve a wooden steak.
Like I was saying first of all, this mouse charade had to stop. I loved the ‘eeek-ing’ and I loved the fact I got to eat my weight in cheese whenever the transformation took place; but Autumn had started to give me looks. Brave she may not’ve beeen— since ‘positively cowardly’ is the only ‘pc’ in her routine— but when it came to getting a scamper on with only a couple of ‘eeeks!’ to defend myself, there are few realistic stands worth a chance in hell to bet against surviving— even if there was nothing remotely regimental about my cat.
This I suppose is still a dilemma, because it’s only a matter of time before I get eaten by something. And if I’m gonna get eaten, I want to taste goood!
Call me old fashioned, but I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant and found mouse on the menu— cat on the other hand? So I think I’m justified therefore, to conclude that they aren’t the best tasting rodent on the face of the earth. I wouldn’t even like to begin to imagine how much meat you’d get off one… Well, not again:
The last time I did, I declared that we should get a discount on the blind ones, only to be told that they were Chef’s speciality— reared in complete darkness in a cage strapped to the back of retired pit-ponies; something to do with the price of canaries spiralling out of control— and since they were gong to be killed anyway, it was cost effective to use them instead of the birds.
‘It all adds to the flavour’, said one old boy. ‘Thems there mices are bloody ‘eroes. Taste better then them others do too. ‘
To which I added very little but a wry smile and decided to try the fricassee’d panda. There is no doubt in my mind, that if they tasted like chicken there’d be millions of them— so dispute that at your peril.
So mouse-meat would not fill you up and in all honesty, would probably be bland. I find rabbit a little bland and they have a great deal more going for them then mice— but they don’t really have enough variation of sound to warrant a full coolness rating; much like the Martians, but they get discounted owing to their leathery skin; and our future monkey overlords who haven’t yet been introduced to the narrative— and besides I’ve already stated that I consider their meat to be a little tasteless.
I suppose what I’m trying to say is, that if I had to eat someone or something, I’m betting it’s the ones I love that tastes better. Take Autumn or instance. My special lady she may be, but if it came down to having to eat her or some dog of the street. I’d eat her. If I had the choice to eat someone I had genuine affection for or a contemptible prick— I’d choose my friend…
This wouldn’t land me in good stead if mine were the only family left standing after a catastrophic event leaving the globe unpopulated. Between the green blood coursing through Toebag’s veins and Hag— I’d rather suffer the fate of the Stephen King’s Survivor Type as opposed to tucking into either one of those two. At least I know I’d taste sweeet.
Since I’ve failed miserably in my attempt to make a point by neglecting the original reason for making it in the first place and ended up making several completely different ones; I’m not sure whether I should elaborate on my meat theories— which are rather wonderful; further my discussion on the animals I fancy becoming when the moment takes my fancy; why Hag would make such a poor hor d’eourve; pointing-pictures, monkey kings; the website that does tell you how to prepare rogue flesh when you are in a spot; or why cosmetic labels are linguistic wonders.
I guess either way it’s going to be a busy week.
Back to the dinner plate; for it is my drawing board—
And today my pen’s a knife and fork…
Pay it no heed, t’is just a muse to dress in—
It 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 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…
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.
Terence, Heauton Timorumenos
And pre-cursing concerns: Point B…
It’d be an understatement to describe my feelings regarding discrimination, injustice and inequality as something I dislike. But as things, they denote unambiguous concepts which I like. One of the greatest challenges someone like me faces in the world growing up, is deciding what things are and how we can define them in stasis, as a unit of information we can be certain of and depend on: something inflexible if you like—but because no unit of information is ever completely still when it’s used situationally, more and more definitions are required that are context dependant; and you can be rest assured that those contexts are never dependant on just the one unit of information.
It’s one of the reasons why autistics are described as natural outside-the-box thinkers. There is truth in this, but only in as far as we’re never actually in the box. The box is jam-packed with the wheres, whys and whatfors of any of a hundred variations of contextual, situational determinant based on previous outcomes and strategies: whether they worked or not, but also an unimaginable series of permutations of static definitions that are in constant flux.
When we get it wrong it can be hilariously inappropriate and embarrassing for all concerned, but not always entirely pleasant. But this is the reason some environments are so exhausting— while the processes I describe take little discernible time, they are constantly active: we receive the information, intellectualise the information, throw it away, add it to the box, or discard something that’s no longer required— it’s a form over-clocking which is difficult to maintain for very long without practice and even then, it’s not something I’d describe as best practise. Far from it.
The reason I mention it, is to offer a context; describe the box as it were, because how stuff sometimes comes out is a mystery— links, overlaps, patterns, systems and definitions frequently collide and contexts are sometimes erroneously cast-off. But sometimes it’s nice to just, not throw these things away because they serve no purpose— because whether we like it or not, we are in some way defining ourselves as much as we’re trying to make sense of the world by defining what’s in it. Sometimes however, some things just will not be put in a box. No matter how much we’d prefer it.
“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and … as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do the same.”
Those of you who are familiar with that piece of text will know it be the work of H. G. Wells. It’s twenty words longer and less snappy than Jeff Wayne’s adaptation, but far fitter for the purpose of elaborating the work of John Gray Ph.D. I’m sure at the time of writing it, he considered women to be from Venus to be quite original, but I think the switch in celestial body was more a ploy to conceal his inspiration, just as Wells may have, regarding his epiphany about the Martians’ hostile take-over of the planet.
I certainly can’t see the problem with finding it analogous to certain gender-identity stereotypes, at least not with all these planets and primates whizzing around, and almost impossible not to with the application of the odd suppostion-paradigm to the text. I find it quite amusing how much Woman and aliens have in common in this respect— mass destruction and want to annihilate the species excepted.
But for starters, the period is a little off, so we’ll bring it forward a hundred years, at least in line with the post-internet shopping revolution, but for purely cosmetic reasons you understand: lipsticks and what have you. If I’m going to go-there, I want to get the scenery correct.
From there it’s easier to allude to the concept of being watched keenly and closely, for this is one of the more astute gifts Woman possesses: they will observe shoes, handbags and precious stones in great detail and all manner of things they rather like, whilst at the same time and without remorse find error in them; then tell each other about it. This is because Woman possess intelligences greater than man’s and were it not for other women, they might have nothing whatsoever to talk about.
That said however, I draw the line at making inferences suggesting Woman’s ability to reason is better than man’s, because I cannot and nor can anyone on Earth— which is quite fitting as I have imagery of Woman having man scrutinised and studied [like] creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water and finding error with them, just whizzing around. I think I’ll let the ‘drip’ similes speak for themselves, of which there are many, as it seems especially pertinent when comparing man to the contents of a Petri-dish— and by water, I do not mean Coco Channel.
Woman is not afflicted with infinite complacency either and though man may be serene in [his] assurance of their empire over matter, they are not when it comes to Woman: Woman is less straightforward than that. Matter has rules which govern it: Woman does not.
And so on and so forth…
Personally, I have always found this streamlining of humanity problematic; as much as I need definition to function properly, I resent pigeon-holing, and no doubt the invaders did too. I don’t even associate masculinity and femininity as too separate an entity, or even two too separate entities, considering instead gender-identity to be more in-keeping with sexuality; more along the lines of a spectrum— quite where I’d place Martians on the scale is by the by, but for all their questionable habits, I wouldn’t discount the possibility of the odd conscientious objector.
Whether it is intended or otherwise, discrimination will always occur with such binary systems, hence the medieval logic earlier: conflict cannot be avoided. It’s why I don’t think I’ve never met a feminist, despite meeting a lot of people who claim to be.
I find it’s as much a language issue than anything, because I’ve never heard the same definition twice and I’ve heard thousands— as such the term is completely without meaning to me; and I’ve always felt that tacking it on to what are sometimes supportable, passionate and well reasoned individual beliefs to be utterly devaluing to the person having them because of it.
Just because [some] feminists: “embody an ideology based on what is best about our species both emotionally and spiritually for the betterment and improvement of the world,” doesn’t make them separate beings.
That’s not equality— which is one of the things they seem to agree with: equality that is, but you’d be surprised by the number that don’t. With equality however, it’s far easier to ask: what is Woman, if not the heart of the world?
Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
Thematic Semantics: Point A—
Flap you b@#$%&?!
Since its inception, I’ve found myself plodding along at a far steadier pace than I had intended— especially after a lay off as long I had; but I’m pretty sure I’m enjoying myself upon more than just similar lines. As such I’m more than willing to play more. If one is able to do after all— it’s criminal not to; so do, is what I’m doing.
I had intended to weave a little Welles into my thoughts— but it’s far too important a thing to have lost, wasted in ridiculous so soon without a little context to grease the tracks first— besides, if I keep it up, I’ll have exceeded half of all the probabilities I’d originally set myself, and in the hood of all likeliness— I’ll be lucky to fill the other.
Although, that being said, I do have the odd treat up my sleeve— it’s not as if I have it planned as much as it’s more a case of learning to fly again by jumping out of a plane with someone with a parachute beside me asking, with some urgency I might add, ‘why aren’t you flapping?’
So, from the springboard of planes and parachutes, it’s quite possible to take monkeys, aliens, world-domination and even woman around a peculiar semantic merry-go-round; such are the contextual marvels of alternative thought. But like all good things, we must start at point A. And for the next few days I’ll be following a thematic-chain which will no doubt lead me right back to here, past through and perhaps over some of these most inevitable of categories.
The reason for my desired launchpad is owing to the quasi-obssession I’ve had for many years with the first 45 minutes of Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds. It has a tendency to collapse in on itself during the second half which is hardly a crime as there have been many very good works falling short of greatness owing to a lack of lustre in their final third— but for three quarters of an hour we are treated to one of the greatest voices there’s ever been narrating away with his life, very much in the balance— we even get to hear him say whoosh— which makes the fee for the CD alone, worth an admission.
If I had Richard Burton’s voice for a day, I would make my million and retire— so long as my ‘million’ was pounds and not just trilbies for a secret army of chimps; which would be quite ridiculous. There’s not a scenario I can imagine where I’d actually be able to keep an army of chimps secret. And it’s not through a lack of trying.
Anywise, the Martians have this great war-cry. Actually, it’s the only thing they do say, which is probably why they’re so angry and destructive in the first place: it’s a cry for help, an out-shout for a better vocabulary: we want your planet and your dictionary. It certainly resonates far stronger with me, than some nonsense about the proliferation of their species.
But instead they caught a cold. But not before crying ooohlaaa! a few times, which is actually pretty creepy as it is. However, if you isolate it; run it through a few filters, transpose it a little then play it a little louder than is really necessary, it becomes positively disturbing. And what is especially alarming is if you allow your computer to cry it out whenever it feels like it.
Half a dozen times a day I used to hear it and every time I’d get one of those wtf moments— you’d expect after a while that the nerves would take a bit of a shredding, but it actually became quite therapeutic, particularly when it provided an excuse to leak sentences…
And with that, we’ll just have to see where it takes us.
H.G. Wells, The War of the Worlds
Write about our lives, because not only do we reveal our minds through revelations our thoughts provide us—
But it gives us an incentive to be honest…
It’s almost impossible not to consider the value of thoughts with the fairly steady flow of them; their rudimentary worth, relevance to our lives and the importance to the people who have them. It’s easy to see how distorted a thought can become when left to constant re-examination and how faceless victim/culprit dichotomies are given grounding by a name or a hover-card. If the last few weeks has demonstrated anything, it’s how something as simple as a pen-stroke can release the burden and stresses they invariably cause. I’ve had glimpses into how fears, confessions, pains and crises can be put right by words creating deeds by changing little parts of the world. And I shouldn’t be surprised: we write about things and repeat ourselves about things that have meaning to us.
It keeps me humble…
But where there’s challenge, there’s triumph…
I’ve not been able to get past this image today— whether it’s because my post is too large or small, or too plainly insignificant— it’s not that it’s even particularly serious; in fact it’s quite absurd.
But of the thousands of portraits I’ve taken, this one gets to me every now and then— mainly when I’m feeling a little conflicted about something I’ve said or haven’t said in the right way, wrong way, or anyway— It happens occasionally, so the leveller comes out: the corrosive for recursive thinking. A mental pacifier, an eraser for the clutter. Sometimes it’s a room or place: a good pace. And sometimes a picture.
It’s just, I have absolutely no idea what he is thinking; but it helps…
“Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play.”
The Grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for…
Allan K. Chalmers
I prefer to think in terms of the not-so-grand essentials that work just as well. We cannot put a quart in a pint glass after all, because abstractions of such can never agree and invariably come back to the same thing: something to hope for.
Reinhold Niebuhr wrote:
“Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime. Therefore, we are saved by hope.”
Which is pretty gloomy stuff, but goes on to state that:
“Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore, we are saved by faith.”
Which is more or less exactly the same thing— all the while making a non-essential argument about ‘grand things’. It is however, more than likely that he’s saying— it can be no more separated from patience than from the form itself. You see, there will always be a little something along the way to chew.
Like the devil said to Noah, it’s bound to clear up.
A lack patience is the reason liquor was created; made in mind for those who wanted a hundred beers but only a small pocket to carry them in. It is the original vendible distilled— sometimes many, many times— in order to promote a little optimism in its users’ lives. There should however, be more— something that doesn’t consider one’s innards to be comestible.
The Hope Springs flavoured Waters range would be a step in the right direction, particularly for those with a more delicate sense of taste; preferring a cool and smooth beverage as opposed to something that thinks of you as food— which is why there should be a Hope-I-don’t-Bloat range of dietary snacks; or perhaps an educational device: The Hope-I-Float swimming trainer; an invaluable tool for first time paddlers.
But there should at least be something for those of us who are concerned that our child or childs will fall for the wrong ‘sort’: the I Hope they don’t Elope parental handbook, would deal with that, providing the reader with all those woes, a tender examination of possible solutions— and if all those fail; a how-to-guide composed of violent recriminatory advice entitled: Acrimony before Matrimony.
Personally, I’d prefer to see something on the lines of:
Hope on a Rope
It would be less retentive than water, with fewer calories than food; you’re less likely to get drunk and drown because you’ve forgotten your arm-bands; and no one’s father is going to shoot you. Instead, you can just lather up and rinse and drip-dry, safe in the knowledge that you need never hope you smell well, again. Or simply, wear your hope and make it real— we wear our hearts from time to time do we not?
Porro fides est rerum sperandarum substantia, demonstratio eorum quae non videntur—
Which is probably the most elegant of all definitions: the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen…
It certainly has a better ring to it than Pope-soap.