As you may have gathered I do like to place one or two obstacles in my way of a good clear run.
As in - The Book.
Yes I'm sorry to mention this again but it's been on my mind. I do like to say things like 'I'm writing a book' even though I'm evidently not. The thing is - I'm BREWING a book. Designing it. Visualizing it.
And that is somewhat the problem.
Not only am I 'writing a book' but I am also illustrating it in technicolor, constructing a complicated pop-up fandango, planning out the several sequels and, more than likely, printing, packing and distributing the bloody thing too. No sweat.
Well - no sweat 'cos it's all talk. Or all think.
But yesterday I had a funny little idea scoot into my mind. What if I just WROTE ... THE ...BOOK? Huh???
No no no!!! It needs pictures - PICTURES!!!!!
What if I just Wrote The Book with some simple black-inky cartoons?
Huh?????????
Oh I dunno - it's just not my vision. Isn't that a cop out? Hasn't that been done before? It's not special......
Then today a couple of our gang were babbling about my latest rant on our Home Ed e-mail list thing - 'Oh you should write a book!'
'Funny you should say that. I sort of am. I mean I am. Yes. Sort of....'
'About Home Ed?'
'Oh yeah! Yeah.'
'Are you really?'
'Um well....yeah. I mean.... yeah! I've got a title and everything. Only........ it's going to be a big fully colour pop-up extravaganza. And well..... well I haven't quite managed to do all the drawings and stuff yet but........... oh are my chips ready? Mmmm-mmmmm-mmmmnn........ '
And off I go. Delving under the comfy covers of the day to day. Not writing a book.
So what the blinkin' blinkins SHOULD I do? Compromise and possibly finish a project, albeit a bit disappointing? Or reach for the stars - tempting fate to keep me in the gutter?
I need a plan. And a big stick. And a carrot. And a pencil. And a massive great kick in the arse. I might go and see if any of this stuff's in the fridge..... No No No. I know what I've got to do. I've just got to actually DO it. I think I'm close.
Closer.
.......Really trying not to add 'To the Edge'. Shit. I'm so predictable. The Great Procrastinator's refuge - crap gags. Everytime. I'm like Roger Rabbit when he just has to blow his hiding place 'cos his urge to yell 'TWO BIIIITS!!!' in response to the 'Shave and a Hair-Cut' TAP-TAPPITY-TAP-TAPPing of his enemy was just too great. If I feel the obvious joke just bursting to get out I will always lift the cage door, and am then immediately leaden with remorse. If I could harness my wasted energy such as this and focus on something that would truly fulfil I'd be ..... well.... probably in bed - stacking up the zeds. Preparing my rested brain cells for an early morning's gallop. Firming up my footing for the big jump. Fly baby fly!!!!
But what am I doing instead? Watching the forest grow around my tower. Asking stupid questions in some pretence that I'm being pro-active when I already know the damn answers. This is the therapy side of blogging. Seeing a counsellor is a device which makes you ramble on for about a year until you're sick of the sound of your own voice and it dawns on you that what you really need to do is stop talking and start doing. Blogging is the cheaper alternative. And it works every bit as well. So here goes. I'm not going to witter on about The fucking Book anymore. I'm just gonna DO IT.
OH YES.
Yes.
Just see if I don't!
!
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Special Status Revisited
Update on the wheatbag. Despite the previously mentioned needle scarcity I never lost sight of the achievable dream: to actually finish something.
It was to be a long wrappy-round-the-neck wonderful warming luxury. That's why I made it so damned BIG. It was born of 2 long sleeves from a dress I'd decided I hated, had dyed red, still hated, chopped off to be big top, and hated more but kept 'cos it was soft and a nice pattern and now a lovely red. Sewn together they looked kind of obscene, like really unpleasant baggy trousers, but I still had faith. Filled with oats and rice they were weighty, impressive, but this sadly exacerbated my slapdash sewing. But I had not given up. I had plans. In my head I worked out a great way to strengthen the joining seam without unpicking anything. And in my head it looked fab. All I needed was a little chunk of evening time in front of the telly and I would fulfill my ambition. I would finish something goddammit - and there would even be an extra treat at the end of the curling devotion, so damaging to my already aching shoulders - the finished product would be the cure for the labour! A heated embracing and pain-easing collar of joy. One might go so far as to say a triumphant circle of life type thang.
The evening came. The kettle boiled. My moment. So I lifted the giant soft red patterned sausage off the back of the kitchen chair where it had slumped for over a week, as gently as scooping up a sleeping baby. And then, as my slippers seemed to be filling with tiny snowflakes, I am once again slowly slapped back into the real world.
The recent noticable increase in mouse activity?
Puzzle solved.
Happy fat little rodents on the rampage again, fueled by a plentiful supply of fresh oats, obligingly dangled in climbable reach by a total fuckwit.
There. Just in case you thought I was in danger of alienating my audience by an unheralded dose of success, I bring it all back home in the nick of time. Phew..... Business as usual - The Grand Failure. All delivered beneath the familiar inpenetrable crust of adjectives. Under which I hide my head in shame.
But not for long. Will have to speak to the garage tomorrow to find out more on my buggered driveshaft. Drive shaft. Boy Words - no idea. Only when they've fixed that can they test my brakes. Because obviously me saying 'the brakes don't work' is a bit too Girl Words. They need to prove it. In fact the question dear Mr Roving Blade passed on to me from the garagey boys today was whether 'I may have just thought the car felt a bit odd 'cos the drive shaft had gone.' 'Would that affect the brakes then?' I asked. 'No.' 'But the brakes didn't work.' 'Well they can't test the brakes 'til they've fixed the drive shaft.' 'Ooo-kaaaaay..... but the brakes....didn't....brake.' 'Well we'll speak to them again tomorrow.'
'Yes dear. YOU do that.'
It was to be a long wrappy-round-the-neck wonderful warming luxury. That's why I made it so damned BIG. It was born of 2 long sleeves from a dress I'd decided I hated, had dyed red, still hated, chopped off to be big top, and hated more but kept 'cos it was soft and a nice pattern and now a lovely red. Sewn together they looked kind of obscene, like really unpleasant baggy trousers, but I still had faith. Filled with oats and rice they were weighty, impressive, but this sadly exacerbated my slapdash sewing. But I had not given up. I had plans. In my head I worked out a great way to strengthen the joining seam without unpicking anything. And in my head it looked fab. All I needed was a little chunk of evening time in front of the telly and I would fulfill my ambition. I would finish something goddammit - and there would even be an extra treat at the end of the curling devotion, so damaging to my already aching shoulders - the finished product would be the cure for the labour! A heated embracing and pain-easing collar of joy. One might go so far as to say a triumphant circle of life type thang.
The evening came. The kettle boiled. My moment. So I lifted the giant soft red patterned sausage off the back of the kitchen chair where it had slumped for over a week, as gently as scooping up a sleeping baby. And then, as my slippers seemed to be filling with tiny snowflakes, I am once again slowly slapped back into the real world.
The recent noticable increase in mouse activity?
Puzzle solved.
Happy fat little rodents on the rampage again, fueled by a plentiful supply of fresh oats, obligingly dangled in climbable reach by a total fuckwit.
There. Just in case you thought I was in danger of alienating my audience by an unheralded dose of success, I bring it all back home in the nick of time. Phew..... Business as usual - The Grand Failure. All delivered beneath the familiar inpenetrable crust of adjectives. Under which I hide my head in shame.
But not for long. Will have to speak to the garage tomorrow to find out more on my buggered driveshaft. Drive shaft. Boy Words - no idea. Only when they've fixed that can they test my brakes. Because obviously me saying 'the brakes don't work' is a bit too Girl Words. They need to prove it. In fact the question dear Mr Roving Blade passed on to me from the garagey boys today was whether 'I may have just thought the car felt a bit odd 'cos the drive shaft had gone.' 'Would that affect the brakes then?' I asked. 'No.' 'But the brakes didn't work.' 'Well they can't test the brakes 'til they've fixed the drive shaft.' 'Ooo-kaaaaay..... but the brakes....didn't....brake.' 'Well we'll speak to them again tomorrow.'
'Yes dear. YOU do that.'
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Don't Care Was Made To Care
I do my best thinking when I'm on the road.
'On The Road'........ sounds romantic.
Not in my car it isn't. The bratskis take turns (sort of) with the CD choice (never mine), always an argument rising, a foot in the face, and a really unpleasant smell of..... um ...... children. Mixed with rotting food and whatever's come off their shoes. Or maybe what's in their shoes. I'm really not one for feet in general. I know they're very useful. But I'm glad they're located as far away from the face as possible. That's evidently gods' will. Mr Roving Blade was fishing for a pedicure tonight. Says he's not flexible enough to reach his own plates. Ever the dutiful wife, I ran like buggery.
Ah now, this has just been the perfect example of what I meant to write about - the way my mind drifts off when I'm supposed to be concentrating on something else. Like driving the car. And yesterday, following an etched-in-brain route, I had one of those eureka-esque trains of thought. Can't remember getting on the train but after a while I was stirring about in one of my usual ponderies:
'Why have I never really got anywhere?'
I've had my opportunities. I passed my 11+. I went to a grammar school. We were all told in our first year there that we were the cream of the crop. I remember squirming with narrowing eyes. 'Cream of the crop'? Funny..... Sounds like they're about to make us do something really crap. They did. Being there full stop was crap. But we were constantly reminded how we were the selected few. Weren't we lucky? Then they graded us at the end of the year and the little godlets went into the 'A' stream, the useless gits went into the 'B' piddle, and the heathen deviants went into the stagnant depths of 'C'. Nice work. University and a future for 'A's. Office dunce for 'B's if they can possibly aspire to such heights. Piss off 'C's you're simply an embarrassment to the school but if you can actually read then follow the sign that says 'free milk tokens' and this might just keep you out of the gutter for a while you leprous fuckwits.
'B' for me. Invisible. Tedious. Ripe for angst teen poetry and weird gothic biro doodles. Result? Art college.
Another great leap in educational fortune surely? Well now - I was good at wearing black, getting drunk, raiding skips, staying up all hours, waking up where I shouldn't've, running up an overdraft and being stared at by nice people. All that was perfectly executed. The 'art' bit was slightly lacking. But that was just a teeny detail and I'm all for impressionism me. And expressionism yeah. Anything for an ism and another coat of mascara on top of yesterdays'. No need for pride or details at all. Pride? Does not even compute.
And as for a career. That's for people who did stuff at college wasn't it? Proper stuff obviously - not art. No. I'm now over-qualified for shit jobs - 'we are concerned that as you have a degree you may get bored'. (That's a real rejection I really received.) But not actually qualified for anything at all. The only solution is to apply for shit jobs and lie. That sums up my CV.
So there I am - on the road - wondering where I went wrong. But I just can't put my finger on it. I COULD have been GOOD at school and been an 'A' princess and trodden silken paths to academic Achievia. No - I really couldn't've.
2 reasons:
1. My brain ain't wired that way. The only reason I passed my 11+ was 'cos I was sneaky and answered all the wordy questions first before indulgently allowing my one remaining open eye to rest on the numbery ones. I had therefore removed the pressure and panic and treated each mathsy conclusion as a bonus. This approach was the clever bit - not the stuff I wrote down. It worked. I was patted on the head. Tick. But the actual academonics? Nope. Tock - you're out.
2. I didn't give a fuck.
What if I'd 'knuckled down' (what?) at college and been all brilliant? What if I'd even done some actual 'work'? Why did I never know what anyone was talking about? Why had I never heard of any of the artists they all knew? Or the theories? Or anything at all?
2 reasons:
1. I'm just not that good. Being the best painter of stripey people at play group and the best drawer of big brothers' album covers at school did not make me stand out much at a college full of 'proper art' enthusiasts.
2. I didn't give a fuck.
And so to my working life. I never had the balls to go for a decent job. And I always pissed off every boss I ever had.
2 reasons:
1. Yes I was too clever for most of the jobs and was very very bored. Or if I had a difficult one (by difficult I mean operating the switchboard as a temp - I don't mean high powered nuffink) I would make myself ill with anxiety. The humiliation of being discovered as not clever enough for a shit job!
Am I clever or not?
Oh god - the light dawns! I never was the cream of the crop and I bloody knew it! And I just thought I was a 'different' clever all these years. The classic misunderstood genius. Oh how the truth hurts.
But then again, was it Reason Number 1 the REAL culprit? Orrrrrr, was it YOU REASON NUMBER 2!!?? Has my whole life been a total prolapse because of my innate Can't-Give-A-Fuckness?
And the grand solution to my decades-long circling seeking is YES! It's Number 2! My life has been a big Number 2 because of Number 2ness. It has always been my problem. Since The Voice first spoke. Come in Number 2. Your time is up.
But this in itself was not the big eureka. The big eureka was my brain's reaction to this revelation. My brain, The Voice, I ...... realised that ........
I didn't give a fuck.
I finally got it. I finally got 'me'. I really never gave a fuck about being clever - just never wanted to be pointed at by teachers, art lovers or receptionists for NOT being clever. I didn't want to be them, or like them, I just had a different notion of what was important and their stuff just wasn't. To me. And I didn't want to have to explain this 'cos that would be boring and pointless. And that's it. That's really all it is.
It was such a wonderful feeling to have peeled back those layers and find my little pickly self.
And it was in the middle of one of my favourite roads - through the yellowy open part of the Ashdown Forest, on the way to somewhere fun, with my little pickly offspring - all arguing and kicking and smelling. Ahhhhhhh....... I had Found Myself. And liked it. I mean me.
It was only a couple of minutes before I drove into a hedge.
Me brakes have gone again. I had to swerve across the road into the path of the on-coming car in the hope that the hedge would slow us down if the brakes didn't. It was either that or cruise out onto a road where you can't see what's coming round the left-hand bend. The other car did have plenty of time to see us and slow down, which they did. In fact they stopped up next to us for half a second to glare and gawp all cross and horrified before shaking their heads at us and driving on. Good stout English couple. Glad we got rid of them. EmBARRassing!
But a little later, awaitin' my nice AA man, I wondered if a woman with a carful of kids drove into a hedge before my eyes, would I wag my finger and clop off on my high horse or would I pull up and ask her if they were OK? Would I ............ give a fuck?
Yes I would. For that, I would.
But for another's judgement on education, high-browiety, and worthwhile employment, I ... would ... not.
And despite my current status as bright orange courtesy go-cart totin' liability, I am very happy with my own head.
It's MY head.
And I'm not afraid to use it.
'On The Road'........ sounds romantic.
Not in my car it isn't. The bratskis take turns (sort of) with the CD choice (never mine), always an argument rising, a foot in the face, and a really unpleasant smell of..... um ...... children. Mixed with rotting food and whatever's come off their shoes. Or maybe what's in their shoes. I'm really not one for feet in general. I know they're very useful. But I'm glad they're located as far away from the face as possible. That's evidently gods' will. Mr Roving Blade was fishing for a pedicure tonight. Says he's not flexible enough to reach his own plates. Ever the dutiful wife, I ran like buggery.
Ah now, this has just been the perfect example of what I meant to write about - the way my mind drifts off when I'm supposed to be concentrating on something else. Like driving the car. And yesterday, following an etched-in-brain route, I had one of those eureka-esque trains of thought. Can't remember getting on the train but after a while I was stirring about in one of my usual ponderies:
'Why have I never really got anywhere?'
I've had my opportunities. I passed my 11+. I went to a grammar school. We were all told in our first year there that we were the cream of the crop. I remember squirming with narrowing eyes. 'Cream of the crop'? Funny..... Sounds like they're about to make us do something really crap. They did. Being there full stop was crap. But we were constantly reminded how we were the selected few. Weren't we lucky? Then they graded us at the end of the year and the little godlets went into the 'A' stream, the useless gits went into the 'B' piddle, and the heathen deviants went into the stagnant depths of 'C'. Nice work. University and a future for 'A's. Office dunce for 'B's if they can possibly aspire to such heights. Piss off 'C's you're simply an embarrassment to the school but if you can actually read then follow the sign that says 'free milk tokens' and this might just keep you out of the gutter for a while you leprous fuckwits.
'B' for me. Invisible. Tedious. Ripe for angst teen poetry and weird gothic biro doodles. Result? Art college.
Another great leap in educational fortune surely? Well now - I was good at wearing black, getting drunk, raiding skips, staying up all hours, waking up where I shouldn't've, running up an overdraft and being stared at by nice people. All that was perfectly executed. The 'art' bit was slightly lacking. But that was just a teeny detail and I'm all for impressionism me. And expressionism yeah. Anything for an ism and another coat of mascara on top of yesterdays'. No need for pride or details at all. Pride? Does not even compute.
And as for a career. That's for people who did stuff at college wasn't it? Proper stuff obviously - not art. No. I'm now over-qualified for shit jobs - 'we are concerned that as you have a degree you may get bored'. (That's a real rejection I really received.) But not actually qualified for anything at all. The only solution is to apply for shit jobs and lie. That sums up my CV.
So there I am - on the road - wondering where I went wrong. But I just can't put my finger on it. I COULD have been GOOD at school and been an 'A' princess and trodden silken paths to academic Achievia. No - I really couldn't've.
2 reasons:
1. My brain ain't wired that way. The only reason I passed my 11+ was 'cos I was sneaky and answered all the wordy questions first before indulgently allowing my one remaining open eye to rest on the numbery ones. I had therefore removed the pressure and panic and treated each mathsy conclusion as a bonus. This approach was the clever bit - not the stuff I wrote down. It worked. I was patted on the head. Tick. But the actual academonics? Nope. Tock - you're out.
2. I didn't give a fuck.
What if I'd 'knuckled down' (what?) at college and been all brilliant? What if I'd even done some actual 'work'? Why did I never know what anyone was talking about? Why had I never heard of any of the artists they all knew? Or the theories? Or anything at all?
2 reasons:
1. I'm just not that good. Being the best painter of stripey people at play group and the best drawer of big brothers' album covers at school did not make me stand out much at a college full of 'proper art' enthusiasts.
2. I didn't give a fuck.
And so to my working life. I never had the balls to go for a decent job. And I always pissed off every boss I ever had.
2 reasons:
1. Yes I was too clever for most of the jobs and was very very bored. Or if I had a difficult one (by difficult I mean operating the switchboard as a temp - I don't mean high powered nuffink) I would make myself ill with anxiety. The humiliation of being discovered as not clever enough for a shit job!
Am I clever or not?
Oh god - the light dawns! I never was the cream of the crop and I bloody knew it! And I just thought I was a 'different' clever all these years. The classic misunderstood genius. Oh how the truth hurts.
But then again, was it Reason Number 1 the REAL culprit? Orrrrrr, was it YOU REASON NUMBER 2!!?? Has my whole life been a total prolapse because of my innate Can't-Give-A-Fuckness?
And the grand solution to my decades-long circling seeking is YES! It's Number 2! My life has been a big Number 2 because of Number 2ness. It has always been my problem. Since The Voice first spoke. Come in Number 2. Your time is up.
But this in itself was not the big eureka. The big eureka was my brain's reaction to this revelation. My brain, The Voice, I ...... realised that ........
I didn't give a fuck.
I finally got it. I finally got 'me'. I really never gave a fuck about being clever - just never wanted to be pointed at by teachers, art lovers or receptionists for NOT being clever. I didn't want to be them, or like them, I just had a different notion of what was important and their stuff just wasn't. To me. And I didn't want to have to explain this 'cos that would be boring and pointless. And that's it. That's really all it is.
It was such a wonderful feeling to have peeled back those layers and find my little pickly self.
And it was in the middle of one of my favourite roads - through the yellowy open part of the Ashdown Forest, on the way to somewhere fun, with my little pickly offspring - all arguing and kicking and smelling. Ahhhhhhh....... I had Found Myself. And liked it. I mean me.
It was only a couple of minutes before I drove into a hedge.
Me brakes have gone again. I had to swerve across the road into the path of the on-coming car in the hope that the hedge would slow us down if the brakes didn't. It was either that or cruise out onto a road where you can't see what's coming round the left-hand bend. The other car did have plenty of time to see us and slow down, which they did. In fact they stopped up next to us for half a second to glare and gawp all cross and horrified before shaking their heads at us and driving on. Good stout English couple. Glad we got rid of them. EmBARRassing!
But a little later, awaitin' my nice AA man, I wondered if a woman with a carful of kids drove into a hedge before my eyes, would I wag my finger and clop off on my high horse or would I pull up and ask her if they were OK? Would I ............ give a fuck?
Yes I would. For that, I would.
But for another's judgement on education, high-browiety, and worthwhile employment, I ... would ... not.
And despite my current status as bright orange courtesy go-cart totin' liability, I am very happy with my own head.
It's MY head.
And I'm not afraid to use it.
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Does Elvis Talk To You?
Madame has a headache.
This is of course entirely the fault of her Inner Voice. It won't bloody stop yapping.
It's always been the same Voice - naturally - but I mean it has always had the same questionable motives. I can remember at age five The Voice planning disruptive yet undetectable random acts of dissent to perform when I got to Big School. Maybe clapping under the desk when the teacher's back was turned may not seem so dangerous now but when I was five it kept The Voice happy.
There is a file of our lives somewhere, held as ransom against future deviances. Mine will have concerned scrawls across it from toddlerdom. I wasn't especially naughty, I don't think, but The Voice didn't have much patience with adults' nonsensical requests. I remember a 'test' thing once, must have been only three or four, when the 'doctor' chap asked me to place all the little dolls housey things he had in 'the right place' while he yabbered to my mum. So I did. The dog in the basket, the cake in the oven, the cat under the table, the vase of flowers on the table blah blah blah. 'Done it.' Yabber yabber yabber....... 'I've DONE it!' 'Pardon? Oh yes.' Then he UNdid it. He messed up my house. 'Now do it again' he said all brushy-offy and carried on yabbering to my mum. The Inner Voice probably didn't know the word 'wanker' at that time but was definitely thinking it. Hmmmnnn.... What to do for the best....? The Voice knew a verbal protest would have been futile. Knew those doctor types. Children are to be peered at and scribbled about. So, in a silent protest, I placed the cat in the oven, the dog on the table, the cake in the basket and the flowers under the table etc etc. 'Done it.' 'What! No. You've done it all wrong.' He didn't understand my humorous yet superior stance. He started talking all patiently to me like I was stupid. This just made my innocent blood boil but I still didn't crack. The Inner Voice just took notes on the idiocy of the adult. Especially doctors.
The Voice still holds firm this opinion. Not just doctors, although believe me I could list a thousand affirmations over the years. It has a problem with any hint of authority in general. This explains my utter lack of an employer's good reference. Even I wouldn't give me one. It also explains my utter lack of success of any of my great creative plans. I would have to employ myself to carry out these projects. And without a decent reference from any former boss, including myself, I'm afraid I cannot concievably offer myself any position I may have at present and will unfortunately be unable to place me on a waiting list for any future opening. I hope I may enjoy more luck with an alternative conciousness and who may be better equipped to fully appreciate my talents. Now if I would be so kind as to remove my delinquent self away from my presence as I'm detecting an unpleasant odour ...... like singed fur or something.
In quieter moments I do wonder if The Voice was the fittest survivor of many weaker sibling voices. Like baby birds of prey, did it somehow smother its rivals, maybe devouring them while they were looking the other way? Is this how our individual consciousness is developed? Would a parallel me in a parallel dimension share this Voice? Were there parallel me's born to my parallel mum? Would they have a Different Voice? Were there parallel me's born to my same-dimension mum with parallel Voices? Before I ever knew I could form a choice, was choice performed by variant Voice victors? Would an other-dimensional Voice be so bloody annoying? I want to go to bed. WHO SAID THAT? HOW DARE YOU. I AM YOUR VOICE. But I'm really tired. YOU WILL GO TO BED WHEN I SAY YOU DESERVE IT AND NOT BEFORE. I want a New Voice. I'm getting too old to stay up all night playing on the computer instead of getting some beauty sleep and then I could be all perky in the mornings and maybe even write a book or something. YOU? WRITE A BOOK? WHAT ABOUT, FOR THE LOVE OF TUPELO? Um.... me and um.....we. WHO IN THIS DIMENSION WOULD WANT TO READ ABOUT YOU, YOU PITIFUL NEVER-BEEN? DROP AND GIVE ME 20 MESS UPS ON THE DOUBLE. But it might just, you know, give some other people out there some kind of hope that someone like um me could like...... do it. YOU? WHAT IS YOU? YOU MEAN ME! HMMNNN..... YES. I'D LIKE A BOOK ALL ABOUT ME. BUT I DON'T WANT YOU TO WRITE IT. YOU'RE TOO BLOODY UNRELIABLE, ALWAYS LATE, NEVER FULFILL YOUR POTENTIAL AND EVEN WHEN YOU TRICK SOMEONE INTO BELIEVING YOU'RE SOMEHOW WORTHWHILE YOU ALWAYS FUCK IT UP BECAUSE YOU ARE PERENNIALLY SUBVERSIVE FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN TO SIMPLY SEE THE FLIP SIDE AND ARE CRIPPLED BY YOUR FOSSILISED INGRAINED INSUBORDINATION. NO I'M NOT LETTING YOU WRITE IT. You mean I haven't got the job? NO PISS OFF YOU'RE MAKING MY OFFICE LOOK SHABBY AND TAKE THAT BLOODY CAT OUT THE OVEN.
It was you who put that bloody cat in the oven. I just want to be normal.
OI! SHUT THE DOOR ON THE WAY OUT. WERE YOU BORN IN A BLOODY PARALLEL DIMENSION?
I wish.......
This is of course entirely the fault of her Inner Voice. It won't bloody stop yapping.
It's always been the same Voice - naturally - but I mean it has always had the same questionable motives. I can remember at age five The Voice planning disruptive yet undetectable random acts of dissent to perform when I got to Big School. Maybe clapping under the desk when the teacher's back was turned may not seem so dangerous now but when I was five it kept The Voice happy.
There is a file of our lives somewhere, held as ransom against future deviances. Mine will have concerned scrawls across it from toddlerdom. I wasn't especially naughty, I don't think, but The Voice didn't have much patience with adults' nonsensical requests. I remember a 'test' thing once, must have been only three or four, when the 'doctor' chap asked me to place all the little dolls housey things he had in 'the right place' while he yabbered to my mum. So I did. The dog in the basket, the cake in the oven, the cat under the table, the vase of flowers on the table blah blah blah. 'Done it.' Yabber yabber yabber....... 'I've DONE it!' 'Pardon? Oh yes.' Then he UNdid it. He messed up my house. 'Now do it again' he said all brushy-offy and carried on yabbering to my mum. The Inner Voice probably didn't know the word 'wanker' at that time but was definitely thinking it. Hmmmnnn.... What to do for the best....? The Voice knew a verbal protest would have been futile. Knew those doctor types. Children are to be peered at and scribbled about. So, in a silent protest, I placed the cat in the oven, the dog on the table, the cake in the basket and the flowers under the table etc etc. 'Done it.' 'What! No. You've done it all wrong.' He didn't understand my humorous yet superior stance. He started talking all patiently to me like I was stupid. This just made my innocent blood boil but I still didn't crack. The Inner Voice just took notes on the idiocy of the adult. Especially doctors.
The Voice still holds firm this opinion. Not just doctors, although believe me I could list a thousand affirmations over the years. It has a problem with any hint of authority in general. This explains my utter lack of an employer's good reference. Even I wouldn't give me one. It also explains my utter lack of success of any of my great creative plans. I would have to employ myself to carry out these projects. And without a decent reference from any former boss, including myself, I'm afraid I cannot concievably offer myself any position I may have at present and will unfortunately be unable to place me on a waiting list for any future opening. I hope I may enjoy more luck with an alternative conciousness and who may be better equipped to fully appreciate my talents. Now if I would be so kind as to remove my delinquent self away from my presence as I'm detecting an unpleasant odour ...... like singed fur or something.
In quieter moments I do wonder if The Voice was the fittest survivor of many weaker sibling voices. Like baby birds of prey, did it somehow smother its rivals, maybe devouring them while they were looking the other way? Is this how our individual consciousness is developed? Would a parallel me in a parallel dimension share this Voice? Were there parallel me's born to my parallel mum? Would they have a Different Voice? Were there parallel me's born to my same-dimension mum with parallel Voices? Before I ever knew I could form a choice, was choice performed by variant Voice victors? Would an other-dimensional Voice be so bloody annoying? I want to go to bed. WHO SAID THAT? HOW DARE YOU. I AM YOUR VOICE. But I'm really tired. YOU WILL GO TO BED WHEN I SAY YOU DESERVE IT AND NOT BEFORE. I want a New Voice. I'm getting too old to stay up all night playing on the computer instead of getting some beauty sleep and then I could be all perky in the mornings and maybe even write a book or something. YOU? WRITE A BOOK? WHAT ABOUT, FOR THE LOVE OF TUPELO? Um.... me and um.....we. WHO IN THIS DIMENSION WOULD WANT TO READ ABOUT YOU, YOU PITIFUL NEVER-BEEN? DROP AND GIVE ME 20 MESS UPS ON THE DOUBLE. But it might just, you know, give some other people out there some kind of hope that someone like um me could like...... do it. YOU? WHAT IS YOU? YOU MEAN ME! HMMNNN..... YES. I'D LIKE A BOOK ALL ABOUT ME. BUT I DON'T WANT YOU TO WRITE IT. YOU'RE TOO BLOODY UNRELIABLE, ALWAYS LATE, NEVER FULFILL YOUR POTENTIAL AND EVEN WHEN YOU TRICK SOMEONE INTO BELIEVING YOU'RE SOMEHOW WORTHWHILE YOU ALWAYS FUCK IT UP BECAUSE YOU ARE PERENNIALLY SUBVERSIVE FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN TO SIMPLY SEE THE FLIP SIDE AND ARE CRIPPLED BY YOUR FOSSILISED INGRAINED INSUBORDINATION. NO I'M NOT LETTING YOU WRITE IT. You mean I haven't got the job? NO PISS OFF YOU'RE MAKING MY OFFICE LOOK SHABBY AND TAKE THAT BLOODY CAT OUT THE OVEN.
It was you who put that bloody cat in the oven. I just want to be normal.
OI! SHUT THE DOOR ON THE WAY OUT. WERE YOU BORN IN A BLOODY PARALLEL DIMENSION?
I wish.......
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Say it Again.......
OK - I think I've got it pretty well pinned down - it's just that the rest of the world hasn't quite got the capabilities to understand my explanation of it.
I'll do me best........
What goes up must have a better view but may not appreciate this and so must necessarily come back down all the same and, evidently, also goes around. It then naturally comes around, except when you are waiting for it, and if you don't look at it, it might just stop for a quick quantum fag until the speed of lighter fuel runs out. Upon which particle of truth we can depend on the perpetual lack of boiling supervised water - because of its rapidly changing from a liquid to a vapour, thereby disappearing before our microscopic lenses, but is nonetheless simply moving from our understanding of reality in three dimensional space into an alternative dimension, because as we all know energy cannot die so there must be an ever-expanding universe of steam powered mass fuelled by the unquenchable thirst of the basic human need for habitual refreshment. This is known as the Rosie Lee Principle. It also explains what we once thought were inexpensive sets for Doctor Who in the 1970's, when the producers of the series were in actual fact replicating somewhat effectively the moisture-rich veil of the Cup O. T. astral clusters of this atmospheric phenomenon.
Now, you're probably wondering about the authenticity of my research. If indeed Einstein couldn't prove that the moon continued to exist if noone was looking at it, then I challenge anyone to prove that I have made any of this up. After much concentration over the course of many meditatively worshipped and most emphatically actual moons, I transcendentally and humbly became aware of the magnetic nature of the primitive human psyche to subconsciously draw information being projected from another reality by an alternative version of oneself with a higher-developed cranial wave-force. This still throws up the question of whether the particle-splitting nature of parallel universes allows the sharing of conscousness, whether partly in 'real' time or on a sliding scale of a warping 'time-share' basis, and whether indeed giving anyone, even yourself - or another spectrum's version of your'self' - a piece of your mind is in fact a solid idea. If, by any cultural notion, an idea can ever be described as 'solid'.
This also begs the question of, if you have messed up bigtime in this life, would you somewhere/sometime/somehow otherwise be considered a prophet of inspirational creativity in that otherwise free-from Earthbound-concensus of opinionated 'world'? A potential circling (and at the same time shapeless in a non-gravitational sense) deeply conclusive redemption?
That's pretty much it. If anyone has any questions on these revelatory theories, or on quantum ping or dwarf planets in the greenhouse equation, then do not hesitate to take the BBC to court. I shall be in my quarters contemplating the exciting new discoveries of midget gems in the sweetie tin.
Thank you my fellow devotees of the spiritual and tangible correlation of sugar and the mental well-being of the female breeding organism. I wish you all a very good night, or indeed, any time-sensation of your own choosing.
And in addition of course, any pain-relieving tablet of your own choosing.
Footnote to the above: hand notes are infinitely preferable to the untrained eye than the scrawlings of the cheesey foundation plates. As correlated and confirmed by Professors Peep and Toe.
I'll do me best........
What goes up must have a better view but may not appreciate this and so must necessarily come back down all the same and, evidently, also goes around. It then naturally comes around, except when you are waiting for it, and if you don't look at it, it might just stop for a quick quantum fag until the speed of lighter fuel runs out. Upon which particle of truth we can depend on the perpetual lack of boiling supervised water - because of its rapidly changing from a liquid to a vapour, thereby disappearing before our microscopic lenses, but is nonetheless simply moving from our understanding of reality in three dimensional space into an alternative dimension, because as we all know energy cannot die so there must be an ever-expanding universe of steam powered mass fuelled by the unquenchable thirst of the basic human need for habitual refreshment. This is known as the Rosie Lee Principle. It also explains what we once thought were inexpensive sets for Doctor Who in the 1970's, when the producers of the series were in actual fact replicating somewhat effectively the moisture-rich veil of the Cup O. T. astral clusters of this atmospheric phenomenon.
Now, you're probably wondering about the authenticity of my research. If indeed Einstein couldn't prove that the moon continued to exist if noone was looking at it, then I challenge anyone to prove that I have made any of this up. After much concentration over the course of many meditatively worshipped and most emphatically actual moons, I transcendentally and humbly became aware of the magnetic nature of the primitive human psyche to subconsciously draw information being projected from another reality by an alternative version of oneself with a higher-developed cranial wave-force. This still throws up the question of whether the particle-splitting nature of parallel universes allows the sharing of conscousness, whether partly in 'real' time or on a sliding scale of a warping 'time-share' basis, and whether indeed giving anyone, even yourself - or another spectrum's version of your'self' - a piece of your mind is in fact a solid idea. If, by any cultural notion, an idea can ever be described as 'solid'.
This also begs the question of, if you have messed up bigtime in this life, would you somewhere/sometime/somehow otherwise be considered a prophet of inspirational creativity in that otherwise free-from Earthbound-concensus of opinionated 'world'? A potential circling (and at the same time shapeless in a non-gravitational sense) deeply conclusive redemption?
That's pretty much it. If anyone has any questions on these revelatory theories, or on quantum ping or dwarf planets in the greenhouse equation, then do not hesitate to take the BBC to court. I shall be in my quarters contemplating the exciting new discoveries of midget gems in the sweetie tin.
Thank you my fellow devotees of the spiritual and tangible correlation of sugar and the mental well-being of the female breeding organism. I wish you all a very good night, or indeed, any time-sensation of your own choosing.
And in addition of course, any pain-relieving tablet of your own choosing.
Footnote to the above: hand notes are infinitely preferable to the untrained eye than the scrawlings of the cheesey foundation plates. As correlated and confirmed by Professors Peep and Toe.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Maths.......Huh! What is is good for? Absolutely nuttin'......Say it again.....
'But you'll never need this in REAL life' I used to wail at my maths teachers.
And then I go and watch BBC's Horizon - 'What Is Reality?'
Now my head is throbbing with wild notions of parallel universes, lots of me's out there doing different things, perhaps even being successful - (it's my fantasy, I can type what I like here........) Real things like a single proton of light being in 2 places at the same time, but only when you don't look at it. (Like me at ballet class show the parent day, I was fab, until looked at. 'You look like a wet dish cloth' the scraped-headed one bellowed and that's one reality I hope was not bounced about the universe.) It's Red Dwarf stuff. But Kryton or Holly always managed to explain it perfectly well. Clever professors can't, even using pumpkins or tennis balls. One silver-bearded dome-head was describing his widely accepted theory that we are all just a hologram projected from the edge of a black hole and when the interviewer stuttered that she thought she understood he got very cross 'No you don't! You don't understand it! None of us do!' I think all of the clever bods agreed that we don't have the human language to understand 'reality'. It was the chap up a lighthouse scribbling his hieroglyphic mathematical equations all over the windows that made me really 'ping' (in the lightbulb sense - so apt for the location). He was glowing with love for his equations - 'this one tells us all about ..... (god knows), and this one tells us all about..... (blah blah)......' For him, the only language to attempt to understand reality is the language of mathematics.
It all seemed rather beautiful.
But you can't ever use this in real life.
Can you?
Damn you BBC......
I shall go to bed now and work it all out and let you all know the answer tomorrow.
I shall let you know if the moon still exists when noone's looking at it. Einstein couldn't prove it did. Just give me a couple of hours.
And then I go and watch BBC's Horizon - 'What Is Reality?'
Now my head is throbbing with wild notions of parallel universes, lots of me's out there doing different things, perhaps even being successful - (it's my fantasy, I can type what I like here........) Real things like a single proton of light being in 2 places at the same time, but only when you don't look at it. (Like me at ballet class show the parent day, I was fab, until looked at. 'You look like a wet dish cloth' the scraped-headed one bellowed and that's one reality I hope was not bounced about the universe.) It's Red Dwarf stuff. But Kryton or Holly always managed to explain it perfectly well. Clever professors can't, even using pumpkins or tennis balls. One silver-bearded dome-head was describing his widely accepted theory that we are all just a hologram projected from the edge of a black hole and when the interviewer stuttered that she thought she understood he got very cross 'No you don't! You don't understand it! None of us do!' I think all of the clever bods agreed that we don't have the human language to understand 'reality'. It was the chap up a lighthouse scribbling his hieroglyphic mathematical equations all over the windows that made me really 'ping' (in the lightbulb sense - so apt for the location). He was glowing with love for his equations - 'this one tells us all about ..... (god knows), and this one tells us all about..... (blah blah)......' For him, the only language to attempt to understand reality is the language of mathematics.
It all seemed rather beautiful.
But you can't ever use this in real life.
Can you?
Damn you BBC......
I shall go to bed now and work it all out and let you all know the answer tomorrow.
I shall let you know if the moon still exists when noone's looking at it. Einstein couldn't prove it did. Just give me a couple of hours.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Back to Life......
She wanted the sewing machine.
At our Hall meeting yesterday we made wheat bags (with oats actually) and while I sat, head bowed, and sewed mine up by hand, Minx collared the clever lady who'd brought her sewing machine. 'It looks real!' So today she wanted my needlesome beast to be dug out.
Sewing machines are instruments of mental destruction. They suck hours of your life without ever giving anything in return. Except knot galaxies and scary humming.
But we travel under the firmament of Autonomous Education. She wants the sewing machine. I must make it so.
I knew it was a bad idea. I think she's done. She's busy making a small boy squeak, (well he was just 'there'), ignoring the nest of purple thread, broken needles and the dead spiders we'd brushed off the now abandoned bastard. And I've stomped off over to the computer to make an adulty phone call. 'Cept I couldn't. Had notions of gathering a group educational discount thingie from some on-line 'fun' reading organisation. Failed. Changed my mind. But the sewing machine's still out so I'm staying over here. It'll take me another half an hour to shove that bloody thing back in a suitable nook in my 'utility room' (big cupboard). This place is known as My Hole. It's where I spend most of my time. There's enough space for me to turn around - and maybe squat while I look for/hide things. Things that once suggested I had a creative streak. Now are obviously obsolete as I have no business trying to make anything. My purpose in life now is to pick up crap that others drop. Either to wash or stuff in the bin. Sometimes to slide into a bursting bag that I call My Scrapbook. Potentially it is. Potentially my house is a home. But reality shows it is simply a ear-melting example of what some clever scientist was explaining on telly last night - something about the universe's natural state is chaos. We try to order it but buildings fall down when left alone - they don't build themselves, and gardens go wild when ignored - they don't weed themselves, and children try to kill each other...... Well they do here. I think there is also a theory that children, if left, will educate themsleves. Mine have doctorates in violence. I'm with the scientisty man. Here, King Chaos ever surely reigns.
I made a stab at cool orderliness yesterday at the Hall. I attempted to make some bread. Been given a selection of flours by an emigrating friend. Ridiculous idea to keep in my house. Me and cooking don't go. But after not quite finishing my wheat bag, (a bit big), I had the urge to appear grown-up and enthusiastic. Even coralled some willing young helpers but I misread the instructions and added stuff when stuff didn't need adding, and then tried to rectify this by adding different stuff to get it back to the state it had been in before. Sigh..... One of the girls, I think she's about 10, decided to take control. I was sidelined. Shamed. Washed up - in both senses. But still game, just as we had got all used to the smoke and smell, I opened the oven to see a beautiful golden loaf. Redemption. Pride. Fall. For the other side of this beauty was a blackened rock. Not to despair I cut into the object and smiled ever harder as it out oozed a slow creeping pale viscous vomity goop. I still didn't give up. I ate the bits that were in between meteorite and porridge and said 'Mmmmnnn!' convincingly. But I had lost my audience. I am an embarrassment to my children. Hey - always a silver lining eh?
Later on I thought I'd be all strikey-while-the-iron-is..... what's an iron again? Never mind - I resolved to finish the wheat bag that very day. Used a whole 1kg pack of oats. Still room for more. Topped up with an expensive bag of Fairtrade wholegrain organic brown basmati rice (the emigrating friend's supply again - obviously). Still a bit floppy but sod it - gotta save something to eat. Sew it up while the going's good for gods' sake. But my needles have gone missing. Nowhere. Needles! Loose! Unearthed Minx's sewing box. Her needles also missing. What's with the Needle Goblins? Needles man! Like sharp and pointy. At large! Eughhhhh....... Maybe they've just gone the same way as my marbles. Wheat bag closure denied. Back to the kitchen then. Oaty rice mountain on the floor. My floor. My filthy floor. 'FOR FUCK'S SAKE WHAT LITTLE SHIT DID THIS?!!' 'I'm - on - the - phone!' hissed Mr R Blade. '....Oh she's fine. Yes you just say when's good for you and we'll just fit right in. We'll be no trouble.....' That's our invitation to Arizona buggered then.
Back to My Hole.
.......But wouldn't it be great if when they're ready to fly the kids could cook and sew and hammer and fish and drive and weed and build and ............. be all useful and practical and self-sufficient and ...........
They're good at racing games on the computer.
I'm not. And I can't cook. Can't sew. Can't speak mechanical. Can't really do much that's very useful. That's a grammar school education for you then. Finished off with art college. Possibly the most undovetaily combination. Going from 'Do what we say the way we say it when we say it and don't argue' to 'So.......? Ok! I'm very interested in what you...... Yeah.... I don't like it.... ' My squashed-up rebelliousnes was patted on the head and then flicked away and has been ricocheting off the mountains ever since. Let me know when it hits a target. I'll come out My Hole and celebrate with a chocolate digestive.
Mr R Blade keeps 'offering' to send me on a nice cookery course. Grounds for divorce. I don't threaten him with latin dance training. And meanwhile the small dirty things keep asking me when I'm gonna finish on the computer. Can't they see I'm clinging to the keyboard for dear life? I'd really like to to hide away with a scribbling book and my knotted wheat bag all heated up round my poor broken shoulders. But it's not time to think silly creative thoughts. That sewing machine needs putting in its place. And so, it seems, do I.
We foolishly create the castles and the sea just sweeps them away.
It's the natural order of things.
Gotta laugh!
At our Hall meeting yesterday we made wheat bags (with oats actually) and while I sat, head bowed, and sewed mine up by hand, Minx collared the clever lady who'd brought her sewing machine. 'It looks real!' So today she wanted my needlesome beast to be dug out.
Sewing machines are instruments of mental destruction. They suck hours of your life without ever giving anything in return. Except knot galaxies and scary humming.
But we travel under the firmament of Autonomous Education. She wants the sewing machine. I must make it so.
I knew it was a bad idea. I think she's done. She's busy making a small boy squeak, (well he was just 'there'), ignoring the nest of purple thread, broken needles and the dead spiders we'd brushed off the now abandoned bastard. And I've stomped off over to the computer to make an adulty phone call. 'Cept I couldn't. Had notions of gathering a group educational discount thingie from some on-line 'fun' reading organisation. Failed. Changed my mind. But the sewing machine's still out so I'm staying over here. It'll take me another half an hour to shove that bloody thing back in a suitable nook in my 'utility room' (big cupboard). This place is known as My Hole. It's where I spend most of my time. There's enough space for me to turn around - and maybe squat while I look for/hide things. Things that once suggested I had a creative streak. Now are obviously obsolete as I have no business trying to make anything. My purpose in life now is to pick up crap that others drop. Either to wash or stuff in the bin. Sometimes to slide into a bursting bag that I call My Scrapbook. Potentially it is. Potentially my house is a home. But reality shows it is simply a ear-melting example of what some clever scientist was explaining on telly last night - something about the universe's natural state is chaos. We try to order it but buildings fall down when left alone - they don't build themselves, and gardens go wild when ignored - they don't weed themselves, and children try to kill each other...... Well they do here. I think there is also a theory that children, if left, will educate themsleves. Mine have doctorates in violence. I'm with the scientisty man. Here, King Chaos ever surely reigns.
I made a stab at cool orderliness yesterday at the Hall. I attempted to make some bread. Been given a selection of flours by an emigrating friend. Ridiculous idea to keep in my house. Me and cooking don't go. But after not quite finishing my wheat bag, (a bit big), I had the urge to appear grown-up and enthusiastic. Even coralled some willing young helpers but I misread the instructions and added stuff when stuff didn't need adding, and then tried to rectify this by adding different stuff to get it back to the state it had been in before. Sigh..... One of the girls, I think she's about 10, decided to take control. I was sidelined. Shamed. Washed up - in both senses. But still game, just as we had got all used to the smoke and smell, I opened the oven to see a beautiful golden loaf. Redemption. Pride. Fall. For the other side of this beauty was a blackened rock. Not to despair I cut into the object and smiled ever harder as it out oozed a slow creeping pale viscous vomity goop. I still didn't give up. I ate the bits that were in between meteorite and porridge and said 'Mmmmnnn!' convincingly. But I had lost my audience. I am an embarrassment to my children. Hey - always a silver lining eh?
Later on I thought I'd be all strikey-while-the-iron-is..... what's an iron again? Never mind - I resolved to finish the wheat bag that very day. Used a whole 1kg pack of oats. Still room for more. Topped up with an expensive bag of Fairtrade wholegrain organic brown basmati rice (the emigrating friend's supply again - obviously). Still a bit floppy but sod it - gotta save something to eat. Sew it up while the going's good for gods' sake. But my needles have gone missing. Nowhere. Needles! Loose! Unearthed Minx's sewing box. Her needles also missing. What's with the Needle Goblins? Needles man! Like sharp and pointy. At large! Eughhhhh....... Maybe they've just gone the same way as my marbles. Wheat bag closure denied. Back to the kitchen then. Oaty rice mountain on the floor. My floor. My filthy floor. 'FOR FUCK'S SAKE WHAT LITTLE SHIT DID THIS?!!' 'I'm - on - the - phone!' hissed Mr R Blade. '....Oh she's fine. Yes you just say when's good for you and we'll just fit right in. We'll be no trouble.....' That's our invitation to Arizona buggered then.
Back to My Hole.
.......But wouldn't it be great if when they're ready to fly the kids could cook and sew and hammer and fish and drive and weed and build and ............. be all useful and practical and self-sufficient and ...........
They're good at racing games on the computer.
I'm not. And I can't cook. Can't sew. Can't speak mechanical. Can't really do much that's very useful. That's a grammar school education for you then. Finished off with art college. Possibly the most undovetaily combination. Going from 'Do what we say the way we say it when we say it and don't argue' to 'So.......? Ok! I'm very interested in what you...... Yeah.... I don't like it.... ' My squashed-up rebelliousnes was patted on the head and then flicked away and has been ricocheting off the mountains ever since. Let me know when it hits a target. I'll come out My Hole and celebrate with a chocolate digestive.
Mr R Blade keeps 'offering' to send me on a nice cookery course. Grounds for divorce. I don't threaten him with latin dance training. And meanwhile the small dirty things keep asking me when I'm gonna finish on the computer. Can't they see I'm clinging to the keyboard for dear life? I'd really like to to hide away with a scribbling book and my knotted wheat bag all heated up round my poor broken shoulders. But it's not time to think silly creative thoughts. That sewing machine needs putting in its place. And so, it seems, do I.
We foolishly create the castles and the sea just sweeps them away.
It's the natural order of things.
Gotta laugh!
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