Self Fulfilling Prophecies.
They go like this:
You think you're bad, you're stupid, fundamentally flawed. You're too self indulgent. You think no-one likes you. You have a constant fear of rejection.
Therefore: You come across as sulky, self-indulgent, self-obsessed, mean.
Therefore: People tend not to like you very much, to find you difficult.
Therefore: You get rejected.
Therefore: You prove to yourself that you were right to think that you're bad and mean and no-one likes you in the first place.
Which makes you feel bad.
Therefore: You come across as sulky, self-indulgent, self-obsessed, mean.
Repeat to fade.
What a fascinatingly awful cycle of behaviour.
See, about two weeks ago I finally realised that most of my problems are entirely created by me. It's my fault there are arguments, because I create them. I create them because I feel unloveable. I take things the wrong way, assume people are being mean to me when they're not.
So I've been trying to stop it. I've been facing myself in the morning and trying to think of the good things about myself. I'm trying to stop starting rows and I'm trying to stop taking things the wrong way because not everything is my fault. I've stopped saying sorry so much. I say sorry so much I even say it to the directory enquiries lady when I ring up for a number. Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous.
I've been doing quite well. Two days ago I really quite liked myself. It was ace.
Then yesterday something happened which sent me reeling into the dark place.
And I dwell and dwell on it, on the injustice, the unfairness. Something more important happened for someone I dearly love at the same time yesterday but instead of being there for them, they ended up being there for me. They spent the evening trying to cheer me up and comfort me, all the while having to push their own far more real and considerable worry inward. Which is so wrong.
I know this, but somehow all the other things get pushed behind how bad I feel. But still I can see that what I am doing is only focussing on myself, (as usual) which is horrible because I hate myself for it but somehow can't stop it, and then before I know it I'm back in the downward slide.
I really, really want to fix it, and I don't know how. How do you fix a behavioural pattern like that?
Friday, November 04, 2005
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
My hungry neighbours.
The two Long-Eared Owl babies in my garden fledged a little while ago and now they're very noisy, playing and calling for food loudly in the trees. They don't go hoo-hooo, like you think owls do. They squeak. 'Eee-ip. Eee-ip'. Before I knew what kind of owl they were I thought they sounded like squeaky doors, and then when I looked them up in the book, it was easy to identify them. It says: 'juvenile begs for food with incessant high sharp squeaky-hinge calls'.
Mostly they sit in the trees right outside my window here, about fifteen feet away from me.
I've just been outside to look at them again. I was sitting in my pyjama's trying to make myself go to bed when I heard them shouting, so I put my army boots on and went to look. I can't stop doing it, I'm fascinated by them. As I went out they heard the door, so they flew over into the field and settled in the trees calling to each other. So I snuck around the house and over the lane and stood there a bit getting used to seeing in the moonlight.
They knew I was somewhere near because they went quiet, but after a minute or so I realised one of them wasn't in the trees because I could see it's outline in the moonlight, sitting on the telegraph pole. So I crept up really near and switched my torch on, and saw it properly, beautiful bird. It loooked at me for a few seconds, spread it wings, and then dive-bombed me, sweeping up over me at the last minute to land on my roof.
They're very, very noisy through most of the night at the moment, but I don't mind. They're only little, learning. And anyway, it's a priviledge to share their space.
I am secretly hoping that when they get big enough to move away from their mother they leave me a feather or two.
The two Long-Eared Owl babies in my garden fledged a little while ago and now they're very noisy, playing and calling for food loudly in the trees. They don't go hoo-hooo, like you think owls do. They squeak. 'Eee-ip. Eee-ip'. Before I knew what kind of owl they were I thought they sounded like squeaky doors, and then when I looked them up in the book, it was easy to identify them. It says: 'juvenile begs for food with incessant high sharp squeaky-hinge calls'.
Mostly they sit in the trees right outside my window here, about fifteen feet away from me.
I've just been outside to look at them again. I was sitting in my pyjama's trying to make myself go to bed when I heard them shouting, so I put my army boots on and went to look. I can't stop doing it, I'm fascinated by them. As I went out they heard the door, so they flew over into the field and settled in the trees calling to each other. So I snuck around the house and over the lane and stood there a bit getting used to seeing in the moonlight.
They knew I was somewhere near because they went quiet, but after a minute or so I realised one of them wasn't in the trees because I could see it's outline in the moonlight, sitting on the telegraph pole. So I crept up really near and switched my torch on, and saw it properly, beautiful bird. It loooked at me for a few seconds, spread it wings, and then dive-bombed me, sweeping up over me at the last minute to land on my roof.
They're very, very noisy through most of the night at the moment, but I don't mind. They're only little, learning. And anyway, it's a priviledge to share their space.
I am secretly hoping that when they get big enough to move away from their mother they leave me a feather or two.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
I think the Tooth Fairy might be overcharging.
The lovely boy has got two wobbly teeth at the front on the bottom. Behind the wobbly ones is a big tooth coming through. I ask him what the Tooth Fairy's going rate is and he tells me she pays one pound per tooth, one pound fifty for a big one. Since I used to get twenty pence, that's a very high rate of inflation.
In the bathroom this evening he is brushing his teeth in a really perculiar fashion, angling the head of the brush down behind his wobbly teeth. I ask him what he is doing.
"I'm brushing my special tooth," he says.
I am glad the tooth is loved.
The lovely boy has got two wobbly teeth at the front on the bottom. Behind the wobbly ones is a big tooth coming through. I ask him what the Tooth Fairy's going rate is and he tells me she pays one pound per tooth, one pound fifty for a big one. Since I used to get twenty pence, that's a very high rate of inflation.
In the bathroom this evening he is brushing his teeth in a really perculiar fashion, angling the head of the brush down behind his wobbly teeth. I ask him what he is doing.
"I'm brushing my special tooth," he says.
I am glad the tooth is loved.
'Everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people.'
I don't think the 'Tard blog is funny.
I wish I hadn't seen it, I certainly don't think it should be in the 'lovely links' thread on Lith and quite apart from anything else the word 'Tard' is a bit too near the word 'Turd' for my liking.
This is not a snap judgement. I've just sat and read lots of the stories, read the hatemail and read the lovemail. I've tried to look at it from a balanced point of view, but it just isn't funny.
Call me super-sensitive if you like, but:
"...And then they shat in their pants. Ha ha ha."
Isn't very nice.
I don't think the 'Tard blog is funny.
I wish I hadn't seen it, I certainly don't think it should be in the 'lovely links' thread on Lith and quite apart from anything else the word 'Tard' is a bit too near the word 'Turd' for my liking.
This is not a snap judgement. I've just sat and read lots of the stories, read the hatemail and read the lovemail. I've tried to look at it from a balanced point of view, but it just isn't funny.
Call me super-sensitive if you like, but:
"...And then they shat in their pants. Ha ha ha."
Isn't very nice.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
On not talking about the only thing I am capable of thinking about.
I'm tired of being unable to write here. I'm tired of the brief inanities that I can post. I'm tired of the lockdown, the impending showdown, the inevitable meltdown.
I want to write about what is happening to us all because writing it out helps to work through it. But it's no good writing it and keeping it; it's the sending it out into the ether that is the therapeutic bit. Because then my very big problem stops being mine and becomes a insignificant little page in the gargantuan internet book. The act of posting it feels like registering my feelings; 'I feel like this and it HURTS!' A simple record. And it's not to do with who notices, or if anyone reads it. It isn't to do with a desire for 'huggles', or online platitude, or even a need for the simple, gentle kindness of online friends (although that is of course lovely).
It's the simple act of it being there. That I've said it. That somebody completely uninvolved may stumble across it. It's the words, spoken, breathed out and unkeepable, the tears cried.
Oh.
I shall be so very, very glad when this is finally all over.
But it's like playing Grandma's footsteps. No matter how much it may appear otherwise, there is someone there and they are following.
I'm tired of being unable to write here. I'm tired of the brief inanities that I can post. I'm tired of the lockdown, the impending showdown, the inevitable meltdown.
I want to write about what is happening to us all because writing it out helps to work through it. But it's no good writing it and keeping it; it's the sending it out into the ether that is the therapeutic bit. Because then my very big problem stops being mine and becomes a insignificant little page in the gargantuan internet book. The act of posting it feels like registering my feelings; 'I feel like this and it HURTS!' A simple record. And it's not to do with who notices, or if anyone reads it. It isn't to do with a desire for 'huggles', or online platitude, or even a need for the simple, gentle kindness of online friends (although that is of course lovely).
It's the simple act of it being there. That I've said it. That somebody completely uninvolved may stumble across it. It's the words, spoken, breathed out and unkeepable, the tears cried.
Oh.
I shall be so very, very glad when this is finally all over.
But it's like playing Grandma's footsteps. No matter how much it may appear otherwise, there is someone there and they are following.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Guess The Google
If you do one thing today, let it be Guess-The-Google.
Currently my personal best is 199.
I am rubbish, but obsessed.
If you do one thing today, let it be Guess-The-Google.
Currently my personal best is 199.
I am rubbish, but obsessed.
"What's Wrong With A Few Wisps"?
There's a minor flurry of debate on Barbelith about whether or not one should wax, shave, or basically delete one's pubic hair.
Yesterday I neary took all the skin off my armpits whilst trying to wax them, I mean seriously. They're red-raw today and the pain of applying deoderant is almost akin to what I imagine it must be like to put a Styptic pencil on piles. Not that I have piles. Or a Styptic pencil. I was just searching for a metaphor. So anyway, TBM said, "I don't know why you do it." And I was stuck for an answer. Because hairfree women are more beautiful? Because I'm not Swedish? Because a forest of pubic hair is not the sexiest thing I have ever encountered in a woman?
Or Because Men Like It.
Men like (relatively) hair-free women. And I really think that even if they say they don't mind your hairly legs/pubic region/armpits/ I'm not sure they're entirely telling the truth. I have had several men say this to me, but I don't actually think they could, in reality, really cope with a "few wisps."
Or in my case, a whole sheep load of wisps. I am in fact Beatrice Dalle in Betty Blue if I don't wax.
It occurs to me that I've been considering this problem for a while, but what most perplexes me is this: How do porn stars keep so hair-free? They can't be shaving since at some point they would surely have shaving rash, and they can't be waxing since they would at some point surely have ingrowing hairs. They would.
So how are their legs so perfectly smooth, their armpits so free of stubble, and how, how is their pubic region as soft and as hair-free as a baby's...
Well, lets not go there.
There's a minor flurry of debate on Barbelith about whether or not one should wax, shave, or basically delete one's pubic hair.
Yesterday I neary took all the skin off my armpits whilst trying to wax them, I mean seriously. They're red-raw today and the pain of applying deoderant is almost akin to what I imagine it must be like to put a Styptic pencil on piles. Not that I have piles. Or a Styptic pencil. I was just searching for a metaphor. So anyway, TBM said, "I don't know why you do it." And I was stuck for an answer. Because hairfree women are more beautiful? Because I'm not Swedish? Because a forest of pubic hair is not the sexiest thing I have ever encountered in a woman?
Or Because Men Like It.
Men like (relatively) hair-free women. And I really think that even if they say they don't mind your hairly legs/pubic region/armpits/ I'm not sure they're entirely telling the truth. I have had several men say this to me, but I don't actually think they could, in reality, really cope with a "few wisps."
Or in my case, a whole sheep load of wisps. I am in fact Beatrice Dalle in Betty Blue if I don't wax.
It occurs to me that I've been considering this problem for a while, but what most perplexes me is this: How do porn stars keep so hair-free? They can't be shaving since at some point they would surely have shaving rash, and they can't be waxing since they would at some point surely have ingrowing hairs. They would.
So how are their legs so perfectly smooth, their armpits so free of stubble, and how, how is their pubic region as soft and as hair-free as a baby's...
Well, lets not go there.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Sometimes
Sometimes I look at you and only recognise a tiny part of you.
Sometimes I look at you and all I see is a stranger.
Sometimes I talk to you and I feel like I'm speaking Croatian.
Sometimes you look at me and all you can see is a woman you don't know, sitting in your room, drinking your alcohol and gibbering at you in a language you don't understand.
Sometimes I turn to you only to find you are suddenly gone and in your place is an apparition.
Sometimes I can't find you no matter how hard I look.
Sometimes I reach for you and all I feel is the warmth where you just were.
Sometimes I long for you with no absolute certainty that you even exist.
Sometimes I reach for you and all I feel is air.
Sometimes I look at you and only recognise a tiny part of you.
Sometimes I look at you and all I see is a stranger.
Sometimes I talk to you and I feel like I'm speaking Croatian.
Sometimes you look at me and all you can see is a woman you don't know, sitting in your room, drinking your alcohol and gibbering at you in a language you don't understand.
Sometimes I turn to you only to find you are suddenly gone and in your place is an apparition.
Sometimes I can't find you no matter how hard I look.
Sometimes I reach for you and all I feel is the warmth where you just were.
Sometimes I long for you with no absolute certainty that you even exist.
Sometimes I reach for you and all I feel is air.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Suggestion or Premonition?
So I'm doing the recycling and I climb up the big metal stairs and I get this sudden picture in my head of me dropping my car keys into the big skip for cardboard which is about 2 metres high.
Then I drop my car keys into the big skip for cardboard which is about 2 metres high.
I can see them. Nestling in the crumpled corner of a wet cardboard box. So I tell the recycling man and he laughs at me, and I ask if I can climb in and get them and he says yes.
So I do. And for a second I have an "It puts the lotion in the basket" moment when I think I can't get out, but then I pile some boxes up and climb out, with keys.
And on the way home, I think this: "Did I drop the keys in because I'd given myself the suggestion that I was going to? Or did I have a premonition that I was going to drop them?"
So I'm doing the recycling and I climb up the big metal stairs and I get this sudden picture in my head of me dropping my car keys into the big skip for cardboard which is about 2 metres high.
Then I drop my car keys into the big skip for cardboard which is about 2 metres high.
I can see them. Nestling in the crumpled corner of a wet cardboard box. So I tell the recycling man and he laughs at me, and I ask if I can climb in and get them and he says yes.
So I do. And for a second I have an "It puts the lotion in the basket" moment when I think I can't get out, but then I pile some boxes up and climb out, with keys.
And on the way home, I think this: "Did I drop the keys in because I'd given myself the suggestion that I was going to? Or did I have a premonition that I was going to drop them?"
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
On Obsessive Archery Type Behaviour, Part One.
So the beautiful man and I have been doing archery with Puck as you know. And we like it so much we've finally bought our own bows, arrows, quivers, target and all the other gubbins you need to shoot.
Interestingly, it takes two and a half hours to fit a beginner with their own bow because they're tailored to your height, the poundage you can pull, the length of the arrow, the width of the arrow - so much detail, it's amazing.
So anyway. Now we're real archers (officially, although we have much to learn) and here are the pictures to prove it.
My latest war wound which resulted from the bow string hitting my arm:
My custom made arrows which are length, width and weight fitted for me, (and obviously with pink and white fletches, Darling):
My Bow and the new target:
The beautiful man and his new bow:
Oh, and you might be relieved to know, I've now got an armguard, so no more bruises.
Interesting fact: The reason I hit my arm with the string is because women often hyper-extend their elbow. The reason this happens is simple Physiology: a man stands with his arms down and because his hips are narrow, his arms hang straight. But a woman's hips are wider so her arms hang slightly outward, hence the hyper-extension, hence the bruises.
There, see? You tell me you don't learn anything here...
So the beautiful man and I have been doing archery with Puck as you know. And we like it so much we've finally bought our own bows, arrows, quivers, target and all the other gubbins you need to shoot.
Interestingly, it takes two and a half hours to fit a beginner with their own bow because they're tailored to your height, the poundage you can pull, the length of the arrow, the width of the arrow - so much detail, it's amazing.
So anyway. Now we're real archers (officially, although we have much to learn) and here are the pictures to prove it.
My latest war wound which resulted from the bow string hitting my arm:
My custom made arrows which are length, width and weight fitted for me, (and obviously with pink and white fletches, Darling):
My Bow and the new target:
The beautiful man and his new bow:
Oh, and you might be relieved to know, I've now got an armguard, so no more bruises.
Interesting fact: The reason I hit my arm with the string is because women often hyper-extend their elbow. The reason this happens is simple Physiology: a man stands with his arms down and because his hips are narrow, his arms hang straight. But a woman's hips are wider so her arms hang slightly outward, hence the hyper-extension, hence the bruises.
There, see? You tell me you don't learn anything here...
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
On Labour not representing what I think it does.
I (along with everyone else who has taken the test on my Live Journal friends list) appear to have got the Libdem result. Either this test is clever Libdem marketing, or I appear to think Labour is a different animal to that which it actually is.
You should vote: Liberal Democrat
I (along with everyone else who has taken the test on my Live Journal friends list) appear to have got the Libdem result. Either this test is clever Libdem marketing, or I appear to think Labour is a different animal to that which it actually is.
Who should I vote for?
Your expected outcome:
LabourYour actual outcome:
Labour -42  | |
| Conservative -53 | |
 Liberal Democrat 74 | |
| UK Independence Party 15 | |
| Green 43 |
You should vote: Liberal Democrat
The LibDems take a strong stand against tax cuts and a strong one in favour of public services: they would make long-term residential care for the elderly free across the UK, and scrap university tuition fees. They are in favour of a ban on smoking in public places, but would relax laws on cannabis. They propose to change vehicle taxation to be based on usage rather than ownership.
Take the test at Who Should You Vote For
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
On the fact that Canada doesn't seem to know that Thailand exists.
Via my good friend Suzy who lives in Thailand, a conversation one of her friends Mothers had with Purolater (like Fed Ex) whilst trying to send a package to Thailand.
"Do you purolate to Thailand?"
"Yup"
"Good. I need to purolate this to Bangkok."
"Ok. Where is that?"
"It’s in Thailand"
"Where is that?’
"It’s in Asia"
"Is that in South America?"
"No. It’s in Asia"
"Where is that near?"
"The tsunami. It’s where the tsunami hit."
"South America then?"
"No. Look, it’s important that we get this right.
It’s important that this gets to Thailand, not South
America. South America is in the Americas, on this
side but south. Thailand is near Indonesia where the
tsunami hit, in Asia."
"Ok. We have this code chart here. Europe is #1. Is
it in Europe?"
"No. It’s code 4, see? Right there where it says
Asia"
"Japan is code #2. Is it close to Japan?"
"No".
"Code #3 is North America, so it can’t be that."
"It’s code 4. Trust me Just write that."
"Are you sure that it isn’t in South America?"
"Look, is there someone you can ask?"
"Yes, I can call the office in Toronto......"
From another room.......
"Hello? I have a lady here who needs to send a
package to Singapore. Can you give me the code for
Singapore?".
Yelling into the next room: "NO WAIT! NO IT’S
BANGKOK!! BANGKOK IN THAILAND!! NOT SINGAPORE!!".
"What?"
"BANGKOK!!! BANGKOK!! TELL THEM BANGKOK!!"
"She says its Bangkok. Yes. OK Thank you"
Entering the room..."That’s Bangkok. Code #4".
"Yeah. OK. Thanks."
"So where is that in Bangkok?"
"Bangplat." (Sensing trouble here)
"What?"
"Bang....plat, Bang...kok"
"Bangsplat?"
"Yeah, Bangsplat. They call it that because of all
the earthquakes. Whenever there is an earthquake,
everyone yells Bangsplat."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
Via my good friend Suzy who lives in Thailand, a conversation one of her friends Mothers had with Purolater (like Fed Ex) whilst trying to send a package to Thailand.
"Do you purolate to Thailand?"
"Yup"
"Good. I need to purolate this to Bangkok."
"Ok. Where is that?"
"It’s in Thailand"
"Where is that?’
"It’s in Asia"
"Is that in South America?"
"No. It’s in Asia"
"Where is that near?"
"The tsunami. It’s where the tsunami hit."
"South America then?"
"No. Look, it’s important that we get this right.
It’s important that this gets to Thailand, not South
America. South America is in the Americas, on this
side but south. Thailand is near Indonesia where the
tsunami hit, in Asia."
"Ok. We have this code chart here. Europe is #1. Is
it in Europe?"
"No. It’s code 4, see? Right there where it says
Asia"
"Japan is code #2. Is it close to Japan?"
"No".
"Code #3 is North America, so it can’t be that."
"It’s code 4. Trust me Just write that."
"Are you sure that it isn’t in South America?"
"Look, is there someone you can ask?"
"Yes, I can call the office in Toronto......"
From another room.......
"Hello? I have a lady here who needs to send a
package to Singapore. Can you give me the code for
Singapore?".
Yelling into the next room: "NO WAIT! NO IT’S
BANGKOK!! BANGKOK IN THAILAND!! NOT SINGAPORE!!".
"What?"
"BANGKOK!!! BANGKOK!! TELL THEM BANGKOK!!"
"She says its Bangkok. Yes. OK Thank you"
Entering the room..."That’s Bangkok. Code #4".
"Yeah. OK. Thanks."
"So where is that in Bangkok?"
"Bangplat." (Sensing trouble here)
"What?"
"Bang....plat, Bang...kok"
"Bangsplat?"
"Yeah, Bangsplat. They call it that because of all
the earthquakes. Whenever there is an earthquake,
everyone yells Bangsplat."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Letters To The Other Side, Part One.
Dear .............................. (insert appropriate Godform)
Further to my recent prayers, which have so far gone unanswered, please may I have the solution now?
I have thought hard, meditated, focused, performed random acts of good, donated to charity, read lots, then read some more. I don't pick my nose (much) or fart in public, I wash, I work hard, I don't consider money to be the meaning of life, I practice yoga and my mind is always open.
I have prayed and pleaded, been zen in my calm certainty, acknowledged my anxiety, and I am aware of my faults and am trying to fix them. I laugh. I am kind. I don't kick the dog, I don't kick anyone.
I love like we were built to do. I adore my child and my lover and my mother, my friends and family. My heart is full but not full-up.
I don't hate. I am not bigoted or intolerant.
I make tea for people other than my boss and I smile at strangers, even when they are rude to me. I don't beep my horn (much) and I promise, I would give anyone my last Rolo if they were sitting next to me and eyeing it hungrily.
I don't sideline the talents I have been given, and when people destroy plants it makes me cry. I try not to watch too much television, I whistle to the birds, and throw spiders gently out of the house.
I am a third through my life and I have asked you for very little up till now. But I'm 32. I really think I must have a few questions in lieu and there is one problem pending which could really, really do with solving.
I know you're busy and all that.
But still.
Love always,
Olulabelle.
Dear .............................. (insert appropriate Godform)
Further to my recent prayers, which have so far gone unanswered, please may I have the solution now?
I have thought hard, meditated, focused, performed random acts of good, donated to charity, read lots, then read some more. I don't pick my nose (much) or fart in public, I wash, I work hard, I don't consider money to be the meaning of life, I practice yoga and my mind is always open.
I have prayed and pleaded, been zen in my calm certainty, acknowledged my anxiety, and I am aware of my faults and am trying to fix them. I laugh. I am kind. I don't kick the dog, I don't kick anyone.
I love like we were built to do. I adore my child and my lover and my mother, my friends and family. My heart is full but not full-up.
I don't hate. I am not bigoted or intolerant.
I make tea for people other than my boss and I smile at strangers, even when they are rude to me. I don't beep my horn (much) and I promise, I would give anyone my last Rolo if they were sitting next to me and eyeing it hungrily.
I don't sideline the talents I have been given, and when people destroy plants it makes me cry. I try not to watch too much television, I whistle to the birds, and throw spiders gently out of the house.
I am a third through my life and I have asked you for very little up till now. But I'm 32. I really think I must have a few questions in lieu and there is one problem pending which could really, really do with solving.
I know you're busy and all that.
But still.
Love always,
Olulabelle.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
The photogenic myth and other tall tales.
The beautiful man's friend has taken a beautiful picture of him which I am not going to post here due to the publicness of it.
However, it is, of course, lovely.
Which is more proof of my point; this photogenic thing - it's just rubbish. If you look nice in real life then you'll photograph well. I just don't believe that a person can look OK face to face, but shit in photographs. All the lovely looking people I know also photograph well too. I think the unphotogenic myth is propaganda put about by people like me, purely to slightly mollify ourselves.
*Sigh.*
It's like the coolest guy in school going out with the fat stupid one. Despite what everyone says you just know it's for a bet and somehow, someway she's going to get laughed out of the playground sooner or later. And what's worse is, you know she knows that too, but the here and now is worth the ridicule for being so foolish when it inevitably comes.
The beautiful man's friend has taken a beautiful picture of him which I am not going to post here due to the publicness of it.
However, it is, of course, lovely.
Which is more proof of my point; this photogenic thing - it's just rubbish. If you look nice in real life then you'll photograph well. I just don't believe that a person can look OK face to face, but shit in photographs. All the lovely looking people I know also photograph well too. I think the unphotogenic myth is propaganda put about by people like me, purely to slightly mollify ourselves.
*Sigh.*
It's like the coolest guy in school going out with the fat stupid one. Despite what everyone says you just know it's for a bet and somehow, someway she's going to get laughed out of the playground sooner or later. And what's worse is, you know she knows that too, but the here and now is worth the ridicule for being so foolish when it inevitably comes.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Two roads diverge in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by...
Everyone's got an opinion. Everyone thinks they know best. Everyone thinks they are right. (No, really, they are, you just don't see it.)
An eye for an eye they say. An eye for an eye, fuck the person who fucked you, make them bleed, make them scream. Make them cry.
But what if it's you that has to make the choice, be the bad guy, cut the eye out, let the blood? What if it's you that has to live with the consequence? Because, what if no-one's right? What if there is no right answer? There isn't always.
What if all roads, all the roads lead to upset, to sadness, to displacement, to devastation?
What if the choice is so hard that the only option you can see is to pluck your own eyes out instead? To forgoe the choice. To pass it over. Give it to someone else.
What happens then?
Everyone's got an opinion. Everyone thinks they know best. Everyone thinks they are right. (No, really, they are, you just don't see it.)
An eye for an eye they say. An eye for an eye, fuck the person who fucked you, make them bleed, make them scream. Make them cry.
But what if it's you that has to make the choice, be the bad guy, cut the eye out, let the blood? What if it's you that has to live with the consequence? Because, what if no-one's right? What if there is no right answer? There isn't always.
What if all roads, all the roads lead to upset, to sadness, to displacement, to devastation?
What if the choice is so hard that the only option you can see is to pluck your own eyes out instead? To forgoe the choice. To pass it over. Give it to someone else.
What happens then?
My Grandma and Quan Yin
My Grandma would not have known about Quan Yin, the goddesss of compassion, of loving and kindness.
Actually, I have no idea if that's true.
She didn't know about a lot of things: she didn't know about computers or mobile phones or internet shopping or any of these 'new fangled technologies' but she may very well have known about Quan Yin. She may very well have called it 'mumbo jumbo', but she may equally have studied mysticism, spirituality, Buddhism, Hindu. The thing is, I have no idea whether she did or not, because she never told me. I was always too little for her to have initiated discussion on such matters.
Mainly I just wanted to make jam tarts with her, and go to the beach.
Anyway. When my Grandma died she left me some money which I have now been given. And with some of it, I bought this:
It's Rose Quartz with Quan Yin carved on it. It also has Rubies in it and Pink Tourmaline. Rose Quartz and Pink Tourmaline are for love, self love and tenderness, purity, kindness, energy, passion, compassion, loyalty, faithfulness, happiness and softness and they both stimulate your heart chakra, Anahata. Rubies also stimulate Anahata, and they are intense, vivid and they teach you how precious you are.
And I really think, regardless of her knowledge of all things Buddhist, and what she might have had to say about crystal healing, Chakras and Kundalini, my Grandma would have though my Quan Yin pendant an excellent thing to spend her money on.
So Grandma. Thank you.
Actually, I have no idea if that's true.
She didn't know about a lot of things: she didn't know about computers or mobile phones or internet shopping or any of these 'new fangled technologies' but she may very well have known about Quan Yin. She may very well have called it 'mumbo jumbo', but she may equally have studied mysticism, spirituality, Buddhism, Hindu. The thing is, I have no idea whether she did or not, because she never told me. I was always too little for her to have initiated discussion on such matters.
Mainly I just wanted to make jam tarts with her, and go to the beach.
Anyway. When my Grandma died she left me some money which I have now been given. And with some of it, I bought this:
It's Rose Quartz with Quan Yin carved on it. It also has Rubies in it and Pink Tourmaline. Rose Quartz and Pink Tourmaline are for love, self love and tenderness, purity, kindness, energy, passion, compassion, loyalty, faithfulness, happiness and softness and they both stimulate your heart chakra, Anahata. Rubies also stimulate Anahata, and they are intense, vivid and they teach you how precious you are.
And I really think, regardless of her knowledge of all things Buddhist, and what she might have had to say about crystal healing, Chakras and Kundalini, my Grandma would have though my Quan Yin pendant an excellent thing to spend her money on.
So Grandma. Thank you.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
What Art Are You For?
I think everyone should do this, it's a fascinating exercise.
As a result of this text by Claes Oldenburg, Puck asked on his blog, "What art are you for?"
These are my answers.
I am for an art that wakes me up before my alarm for the first time since winter, the one that wafts golden bright dust particles through my curtains and across my room.
I am for an art that grabs my arms and stops me dead, that demands I observe and interact with it, that shouts and screams for attention like a terrible two-year-old tantrum.
I am for an art that weaves itself subtly through my body, slow, yet insidious in its pervasion. An art that taints my blood without me noticing until it is too late, until I am well and truly hooked.
I am for an art that takes me by surprise.
I am for an art that is slipping, sweating, perfectly tangled loving naked bodies, loving naked minds and the indescribable beauty of the love despite imperfection.
I am for an art that is ever changing, multi-directional, and yet intricate in its simplicity. Spaghetti Junction and the Mobius Strip.
I am for an art that takes the piss. The art of trickery.
I am for an art that chops vegetables swiftly and perfectly with the sharpest knife available, each slice exact and identical to the next one. Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop. And I am for an art that is a bright red drop of blood on the tip of a knuckle as the knife slips.
I am for an art that is blue sky at the top, green grass at the bottom, and white space in the middle where you draw things like dinosaurs with impossible limb positioning. And people with no necks, transparent clothes and dots for eyes. I am for an art that has been laboured over, tongue sticking out.
I am for an art that appears with the ease of a flock of Swallows turning, the one, two, three strokes to a perfect form.
I am for an art that lets my fork be a thing of beauty, my toothbrush be a thing of beauty, my teacup be a thing of beauty.
I am for an art that embraces messiness, that encourages orderliness, that delights in simple extravagance.
I am for an art that grows trees. And bluebells. And coral. And Army Ants.
I am for an art if you are not.
I am for an art that insists upon emotional response but is liberal in what that response is. An art that dictates the uncomfortable, the confrontational, the depraved and the sick, the wonderful, the delightful, the ecstatic, the amusing. The utterly miserable and despondent. The weary.
I am for an art that takes my focus until I am quite, quite still and barely breathing, art that makes me go to bed at four in the morning because I can’t tear myself away from it, take my eyes off it, take my head out of it.
I am for an art.
What art are you for?
I think everyone should do this, it's a fascinating exercise.
As a result of this text by Claes Oldenburg, Puck asked on his blog, "What art are you for?"
These are my answers.
I am for an art that wakes me up before my alarm for the first time since winter, the one that wafts golden bright dust particles through my curtains and across my room.
I am for an art that grabs my arms and stops me dead, that demands I observe and interact with it, that shouts and screams for attention like a terrible two-year-old tantrum.
I am for an art that weaves itself subtly through my body, slow, yet insidious in its pervasion. An art that taints my blood without me noticing until it is too late, until I am well and truly hooked.
I am for an art that takes me by surprise.
I am for an art that is slipping, sweating, perfectly tangled loving naked bodies, loving naked minds and the indescribable beauty of the love despite imperfection.
I am for an art that is ever changing, multi-directional, and yet intricate in its simplicity. Spaghetti Junction and the Mobius Strip.
I am for an art that takes the piss. The art of trickery.
I am for an art that chops vegetables swiftly and perfectly with the sharpest knife available, each slice exact and identical to the next one. Chopchopchopchopchopchopchopchop. And I am for an art that is a bright red drop of blood on the tip of a knuckle as the knife slips.
I am for an art that is blue sky at the top, green grass at the bottom, and white space in the middle where you draw things like dinosaurs with impossible limb positioning. And people with no necks, transparent clothes and dots for eyes. I am for an art that has been laboured over, tongue sticking out.
I am for an art that appears with the ease of a flock of Swallows turning, the one, two, three strokes to a perfect form.
I am for an art that lets my fork be a thing of beauty, my toothbrush be a thing of beauty, my teacup be a thing of beauty.
I am for an art that embraces messiness, that encourages orderliness, that delights in simple extravagance.
I am for an art that grows trees. And bluebells. And coral. And Army Ants.
I am for an art if you are not.
I am for an art that insists upon emotional response but is liberal in what that response is. An art that dictates the uncomfortable, the confrontational, the depraved and the sick, the wonderful, the delightful, the ecstatic, the amusing. The utterly miserable and despondent. The weary.
I am for an art that takes my focus until I am quite, quite still and barely breathing, art that makes me go to bed at four in the morning because I can’t tear myself away from it, take my eyes off it, take my head out of it.
I am for an art.
What art are you for?
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Erm...How the buggering hell did this happen?
From: "xxxxx xxxxx"
Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2005 15:38:20 -0000
Subject: Today weblog
Hi,
Thank you very much for applying to be a blogger for the Today programme during the forthcoming General Election campaign. In order to further narrow down the many many applications we received, we'd like to see what our potential bloggers would actually come up with if chosen…
If you're still interested in blogging for us, please submit a sample blog (anything up to around 700 words, but it can be as short as you like) between now and 10pm Friday. Please send it direct to me at xxxxx.xxxxx@bbc.co.uk
The blog should be politically-themed - as it would be during the campaign - and should be as personal, opinionated and punchy as possible. Humour wouldn't go amiss, but isn't compulsory. Listeners will be able to respond to the thoughts of our chosen bloggers: what have you written that would arouse their interest and make them want to respond?
You can pick on anything - or anyone - the choice is yours.
And thanks again for taking part
xxxxx
xxxxxxx xxxxxx, Today
http://www.bbc.co.uk/
I appear to have been shortlisted for the Today weblog, as a result of the 100 words on why I should be chosen which I submitted last week.
This is lovely, but more lovely is that it is the second thing in one week to make me feel more confident about my writing. The first thing is the comment someone identifying themself as a professional writer posted here the other day. They wrote: Like that weirdo from the TV..today I was 'mostly going to drink beer and write beautifully' Then I accidentally landed on this site and today I mostly sat and read your archives from start to finish! It took me 5 hours.
There's much more, some constructive criticsm that my writing was more 'vibrant' in 2003, which I actually agree with, and some advice. But basically it's the best compliment I have ever had about what I write.
So yes. And now 'Today'!
What the hell am I going to write about? The whole bent of my 100 words was that they should pick me precisely because I am not an obvious great political thinker, but that many things currently in my day to life would be relevant and pertinent. So I don't have to write about the in's and out's of parliamentary questions or detailed comment on the economic implications of the budget. But I still have to find something interesting.
Tactically the best move would be to write about my job, since it's very unusual and very relevant. It's being directly affected by the election in that the government will not make a decision on the A303 tunnel until after the election and this means we cannot make a decision on Stonehenge. But the thing is it's a tricky issue because I am also supposed to remain impartial on the whole subject. Writing an opinionated 700 words on how the government should get on with it might compromise the project somewhat.
I could write about being sent to the back of the list for my Rheumatoid Arthritis specialist even though I've been through the system once, purely because the last appointment I had to see him was over a year ago. This is quite frankly, outrageous because the specialist told me to make another appoinment when my hands got worse. I have no control over how long that has taken! Now I have to go back to my GP, get referred to the specialist and go on the waiting list again.
I could write about lots of things, but I just don't know what!. Help. Help...
From: "xxxxx xxxxx"
Date: Wed, 16 Mar 2005 15:38:20 -0000
Subject: Today weblog
Hi,
Thank you very much for applying to be a blogger for the Today programme during the forthcoming General Election campaign. In order to further narrow down the many many applications we received, we'd like to see what our potential bloggers would actually come up with if chosen…
If you're still interested in blogging for us, please submit a sample blog (anything up to around 700 words, but it can be as short as you like) between now and 10pm Friday. Please send it direct to me at xxxxx.xxxxx@bbc.co.uk
The blog should be politically-themed - as it would be during the campaign - and should be as personal, opinionated and punchy as possible. Humour wouldn't go amiss, but isn't compulsory. Listeners will be able to respond to the thoughts of our chosen bloggers: what have you written that would arouse their interest and make them want to respond?
You can pick on anything - or anyone - the choice is yours.
And thanks again for taking part
xxxxx
xxxxxxx xxxxxx, Today
http://www.bbc.co.uk/
I appear to have been shortlisted for the Today weblog, as a result of the 100 words on why I should be chosen which I submitted last week.
This is lovely, but more lovely is that it is the second thing in one week to make me feel more confident about my writing. The first thing is the comment someone identifying themself as a professional writer posted here the other day. They wrote: Like that weirdo from the TV..today I was 'mostly going to drink beer and write beautifully' Then I accidentally landed on this site and today I mostly sat and read your archives from start to finish! It took me 5 hours.
There's much more, some constructive criticsm that my writing was more 'vibrant' in 2003, which I actually agree with, and some advice. But basically it's the best compliment I have ever had about what I write.
So yes. And now 'Today'!
What the hell am I going to write about? The whole bent of my 100 words was that they should pick me precisely because I am not an obvious great political thinker, but that many things currently in my day to life would be relevant and pertinent. So I don't have to write about the in's and out's of parliamentary questions or detailed comment on the economic implications of the budget. But I still have to find something interesting.
Tactically the best move would be to write about my job, since it's very unusual and very relevant. It's being directly affected by the election in that the government will not make a decision on the A303 tunnel until after the election and this means we cannot make a decision on Stonehenge. But the thing is it's a tricky issue because I am also supposed to remain impartial on the whole subject. Writing an opinionated 700 words on how the government should get on with it might compromise the project somewhat.
I could write about being sent to the back of the list for my Rheumatoid Arthritis specialist even though I've been through the system once, purely because the last appointment I had to see him was over a year ago. This is quite frankly, outrageous because the specialist told me to make another appoinment when my hands got worse. I have no control over how long that has taken! Now I have to go back to my GP, get referred to the specialist and go on the waiting list again.
I could write about lots of things, but I just don't know what!. Help. Help...
Friday, March 11, 2005
Dog Experiments Part One.
Dogs can make choices! I've just put three things on the floor for my dog Pickles to choose from. I offered him a piece of dried liver, a piece of dried tripe (see the pattern emerging?) and a piece of dried bulls penis. (I kid you not. In the Pet shop it's more politely referred to as bulls pizzle but it's basically bull knob. Dried. Eeewwww.)
Anyway. I put them down for him and he sniffs them one by one, and then goes back around and sniffs them all again and then he picks up the dried liver and takes it back to his bed. (Please note, I don't condone eating dried liver in bed, it's a dreadful habit.)
So I think, 'Ha! You made a choice!' and I start to put the other two away but then I realise he's coming back. He's coming back to get the other two things.
So not only did he make a first choice, he also has enough brain to realise if he comes back quickly enough the other two things might still be there to have as well.
Yes.
Tune in tomorrow for more gripping installments.
Dogs can make choices! I've just put three things on the floor for my dog Pickles to choose from. I offered him a piece of dried liver, a piece of dried tripe (see the pattern emerging?) and a piece of dried bulls penis. (I kid you not. In the Pet shop it's more politely referred to as bulls pizzle but it's basically bull knob. Dried. Eeewwww.)
Anyway. I put them down for him and he sniffs them one by one, and then goes back around and sniffs them all again and then he picks up the dried liver and takes it back to his bed. (Please note, I don't condone eating dried liver in bed, it's a dreadful habit.)
So I think, 'Ha! You made a choice!' and I start to put the other two away but then I realise he's coming back. He's coming back to get the other two things.
So not only did he make a first choice, he also has enough brain to realise if he comes back quickly enough the other two things might still be there to have as well.
Yes.
Tune in tomorrow for more gripping installments.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
On University Being An Abstract Country Shaped Thought, And On Why Mothers Of Seven Year Olds Think They Know Everything But Appear, It Seems, To Know Precisely Nothing.
I have been duped by a seven year old.
I have, his Dad has, his Gran has, the beautiful man has. We've all fallen for what shall henceforth be known as 'conning-your-parents-itis'; a disease which manifests itself in the form of butter-wouldn't-melt smiles, general helpfulness and tears if told off even just a little bit when at home. 'When at home' is the crucial bit.
Because (so I was told at parents evening) it appears that at school there is also a seven year old who is kept in at playtime for not finishing his work, who is regularly hauled in to stand outside the staffroom if he actually does make playtime because he 'plays too roughly,' who won't apply himself, who is angry and cross and who actually spat at someone the other day.
I don't think I have ever, ever spat at anyone in my life.
On his good days (of which there are more than the bad, by the way) he's a top mathematician, ace at writing and reading, helpful, friendly to the littler children, artistic, creative and has a good imagination. Sometimes he gets stickers for picking up rubbish.
That's the good days. But apparently, his behaviour is 'erratic'.
Anyway, so I come home from parents evening and I front him up about it and he cries. His teacher and I have talked about this. She calls the tears 'guilty tears.' So I tell him this and he just stops instantly, flabbergasted. And I ask him why he's been behaving like this, but he doesn't know. Or he won't tell me. So I make him sit and write a page in his best handwriting on what he thinks he's done wrong, what he's going to do to address it, and his Dad tells him over the phone to write down five things that make him angry and cross and behave badly at school.
This is what he writes:
I had bin asked to rite this becuase I was beining horrid and in future I will think before I do anything and when im at school I will change my attitude from now on.
1. Ollie make me upset.
2. Work is boring.
3. Cose Ollie dose it.
4. I talk too much when im working.
5. Cose the big boys do it.
[SIC]
He asked me how to spell attitude, the rest is all his own.
So I do the big long talk about how school is very important and that he only gets one chance at it, and how that the way he behaves now will affect him for the rest of his life, and that it's not me he's letting down, it's himself.
And I mention University.
And he says this:
"Oh. I thought University was a country."
So here's what I've learned;
The Vital Parent Rules:
1/Your child is not telling the truth when he says school was 'fine' and 'nothing happened'.
2/Just because your child is sweet and good at home does not does not automatically discount him from turning into the Troll under the bridge on arriving at school.
3/It's got to be someone's child who is the naughty one.
4/If it is your child who is the naughty one, it's not another child's fault, and he's not being 'led into it'.
Finally,
5/Be clear. If you say someone's gone to University and you don't explain any further, it's likely your child will assume it's some far flung country.
I blame the parents myself.
Oh bugger. That's me.
I have been duped by a seven year old.
I have, his Dad has, his Gran has, the beautiful man has. We've all fallen for what shall henceforth be known as 'conning-your-parents-itis'; a disease which manifests itself in the form of butter-wouldn't-melt smiles, general helpfulness and tears if told off even just a little bit when at home. 'When at home' is the crucial bit.
Because (so I was told at parents evening) it appears that at school there is also a seven year old who is kept in at playtime for not finishing his work, who is regularly hauled in to stand outside the staffroom if he actually does make playtime because he 'plays too roughly,' who won't apply himself, who is angry and cross and who actually spat at someone the other day.
I don't think I have ever, ever spat at anyone in my life.
On his good days (of which there are more than the bad, by the way) he's a top mathematician, ace at writing and reading, helpful, friendly to the littler children, artistic, creative and has a good imagination. Sometimes he gets stickers for picking up rubbish.
That's the good days. But apparently, his behaviour is 'erratic'.
Anyway, so I come home from parents evening and I front him up about it and he cries. His teacher and I have talked about this. She calls the tears 'guilty tears.' So I tell him this and he just stops instantly, flabbergasted. And I ask him why he's been behaving like this, but he doesn't know. Or he won't tell me. So I make him sit and write a page in his best handwriting on what he thinks he's done wrong, what he's going to do to address it, and his Dad tells him over the phone to write down five things that make him angry and cross and behave badly at school.
This is what he writes:
I had bin asked to rite this becuase I was beining horrid and in future I will think before I do anything and when im at school I will change my attitude from now on.
1. Ollie make me upset.
2. Work is boring.
3. Cose Ollie dose it.
4. I talk too much when im working.
5. Cose the big boys do it.
[SIC]
He asked me how to spell attitude, the rest is all his own.
So I do the big long talk about how school is very important and that he only gets one chance at it, and how that the way he behaves now will affect him for the rest of his life, and that it's not me he's letting down, it's himself.
And I mention University.
And he says this:
"Oh. I thought University was a country."
So here's what I've learned;
The Vital Parent Rules:
1/Your child is not telling the truth when he says school was 'fine' and 'nothing happened'.
2/Just because your child is sweet and good at home does not does not automatically discount him from turning into the Troll under the bridge on arriving at school.
3/It's got to be someone's child who is the naughty one.
4/If it is your child who is the naughty one, it's not another child's fault, and he's not being 'led into it'.
Finally,
5/Be clear. If you say someone's gone to University and you don't explain any further, it's likely your child will assume it's some far flung country.
I blame the parents myself.
Oh bugger. That's me.
Who are you in Middle Earth?
Via Barbelith I have discovered that my Elven name is Aredhel Lossëhelin. Which I like.
Far less glamorously, in The Shire I am Belladonna Bramble of Willowbottom.
Via Barbelith I have discovered that my Elven name is Aredhel Lossëhelin. Which I like.
Far less glamorously, in The Shire I am Belladonna Bramble of Willowbottom.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
On why the age-old Darlek joke is not funny anymore.
Everybody, it's not alright. You are not safe. Get back behind the sofa (and there's no point choosing one that's upstairs). Dr Who is back and it's not funny, because now the Darleks CAN...
Everybody, it's not alright. You are not safe. Get back behind the sofa (and there's no point choosing one that's upstairs). Dr Who is back and it's not funny, because now the Darleks CAN...
Friday, March 04, 2005
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
The Definition Of Crap.
On LJ everyone's making lists of 5 things they are crap at.
Here's mine:
1/ The cup and ball game.
2/ Going into town without buying something.
3/ Not rising to the bait.
4/ Remembering the 8 times table.
5/ Keeping my fingers off cheese grated in exactly the correct quantity for a recipe.
Making that list is not as simple as it looks. You try it. It took me ages, and it occurred to me that I thought I was crap at a lot more than I actually am. So I got to thinking about why we constantly assume we are crap at things when actually we just haven't learn how to do them yet.
For instance, if I were to try to build a house it would probably be crap, and if I were to try and translate Japanese into Russian it would also be crap, but that's only because I haven't learnt how to build houses and I don't know how to speak Japansese and Russian. I'm crap at Poker because I never learnt it. I'm crap at reading music and crap at playing the guitar because I don't practice enough. And today I'm crap at doing my work because I've got things on my mind and it's easier to divert myself from them with the internet than it is to divert myself by battling with complicated mapping software.
Then there are things we are crap at because we don't really want to do them or we are scared to; I am crap at ringing people I love but whom I haven't spoken to in a while, and I'm crap at giving up smoking. I'm crap at riding a motorbike and I'm crap at getting up in the morning.
There are also things we don't like doing so we're crap at them too, I am crap at listening to the football on the radio because I don't follow football and so to me it's like trying to make sense of a language I have never heard before.
And then there are all the things we are crap at simply because they're completely impossible or impossible at that point in time; I am crap at fitting into size 10 jeans because I'm not a size 10, I'm crap at writing with my right hand because I'm left handed and I'm crap at seeing those magic eye pictures because I have imperfect vision in my left eye but a normal right one, and you need both eyes to see at the same level to make the pictures work.
So what's the definition of crap? Things you can't do no matter how hard you practice? Things you can't do no matter how much you will yourself to? Things you see a certain way no matter how much you try to see them in another?
If you think about it it's not very often that you try and try and try but you simply can't do. I'm good at many, many things, crap at a few and have a very great deal to learn.
But I really am and always will be crap at the cup and ball game.
On LJ everyone's making lists of 5 things they are crap at.
Here's mine:
1/ The cup and ball game.
2/ Going into town without buying something.
3/ Not rising to the bait.
4/ Remembering the 8 times table.
5/ Keeping my fingers off cheese grated in exactly the correct quantity for a recipe.
Making that list is not as simple as it looks. You try it. It took me ages, and it occurred to me that I thought I was crap at a lot more than I actually am. So I got to thinking about why we constantly assume we are crap at things when actually we just haven't learn how to do them yet.
For instance, if I were to try to build a house it would probably be crap, and if I were to try and translate Japanese into Russian it would also be crap, but that's only because I haven't learnt how to build houses and I don't know how to speak Japansese and Russian. I'm crap at Poker because I never learnt it. I'm crap at reading music and crap at playing the guitar because I don't practice enough. And today I'm crap at doing my work because I've got things on my mind and it's easier to divert myself from them with the internet than it is to divert myself by battling with complicated mapping software.
Then there are things we are crap at because we don't really want to do them or we are scared to; I am crap at ringing people I love but whom I haven't spoken to in a while, and I'm crap at giving up smoking. I'm crap at riding a motorbike and I'm crap at getting up in the morning.
There are also things we don't like doing so we're crap at them too, I am crap at listening to the football on the radio because I don't follow football and so to me it's like trying to make sense of a language I have never heard before.
And then there are all the things we are crap at simply because they're completely impossible or impossible at that point in time; I am crap at fitting into size 10 jeans because I'm not a size 10, I'm crap at writing with my right hand because I'm left handed and I'm crap at seeing those magic eye pictures because I have imperfect vision in my left eye but a normal right one, and you need both eyes to see at the same level to make the pictures work.
So what's the definition of crap? Things you can't do no matter how hard you practice? Things you can't do no matter how much you will yourself to? Things you see a certain way no matter how much you try to see them in another?
If you think about it it's not very often that you try and try and try but you simply can't do. I'm good at many, many things, crap at a few and have a very great deal to learn.
But I really am and always will be crap at the cup and ball game.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Everybody!
You need one of these:
It's a Kitchen Waste Digester from the Living Soil site.
We've got one and it's brilliant. It turns all your waste food into compost, including cooked food and meat. The only thing it doesn't like is Teabags.
Oddly.
You need one of these:
It's a Kitchen Waste Digester from the Living Soil site.
We've got one and it's brilliant. It turns all your waste food into compost, including cooked food and meat. The only thing it doesn't like is Teabags.
Oddly.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
I feel like utter crap today. And it's funny because my Biorhythms say I should be on a high. Which goes to show. What do they know? Crying in the loo and staring out the window. Too hateful of myself to bear looking a/down or b/in the mirror. I keep thinking that maybe what I need is a really big cuddle but that's not something that's available from anyone right now.
I am so sick of hating myself, christ, I can't even look people in the eye. I think people hate me, can't be bothered to waste time talking to me. This is so egocentric! Nobody gives a shit what I look like, why should they? But still I keep saying hideous things to myself, then try to counteract that with something nice. I know the lines about being good to yourself to feel good, being kind to yourself, making yourself feel special. I know that, but the trouble is the real bit of my brain, the 'me' bit, (not the faker saying the kind things it is 'supposed' to) the real me bit knows that the faker's talking bollocks and that it, me, I, am right.
Uplook your very own biorhythms here.
I am so sick of hating myself, christ, I can't even look people in the eye. I think people hate me, can't be bothered to waste time talking to me. This is so egocentric! Nobody gives a shit what I look like, why should they? But still I keep saying hideous things to myself, then try to counteract that with something nice. I know the lines about being good to yourself to feel good, being kind to yourself, making yourself feel special. I know that, but the trouble is the real bit of my brain, the 'me' bit, (not the faker saying the kind things it is 'supposed' to) the real me bit knows that the faker's talking bollocks and that it, me, I, am right.
Uplook your very own biorhythms here.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Maryland is for crabs.
It says here.
What a wicked gift! It's from my friend in America whom I've never met in person, but with whom I regularly correspond via the internet and parcelforce. Chocolate is the mainstay of such parcels but occasionally wonderfully weird things like this lighter also arrive. And I do love this parcel correspondence because there is never any discussion of it, things just come and get sent.
The lovely boy adores these sometime packages as much as me, especially when as a result of them he gets to eat Spongebob Squarepants sweets for pudding.
Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to say was, 'Maryland is for crabs' is the best tourist slogan I have ever come across and I couldn't begin to compete. The only thing I have which is even vaguely similar, is this:
For those of you unclear about the picture, it depicts 'zummerzet' locals drinking cider.
Oh, and now you nick my lighter at your peril. I defy anyone I know in the UK to own such a thing.
It says here.
What a wicked gift! It's from my friend in America whom I've never met in person, but with whom I regularly correspond via the internet and parcelforce. Chocolate is the mainstay of such parcels but occasionally wonderfully weird things like this lighter also arrive. And I do love this parcel correspondence because there is never any discussion of it, things just come and get sent.
The lovely boy adores these sometime packages as much as me, especially when as a result of them he gets to eat Spongebob Squarepants sweets for pudding.
Anyway, I digress. What I wanted to say was, 'Maryland is for crabs' is the best tourist slogan I have ever come across and I couldn't begin to compete. The only thing I have which is even vaguely similar, is this:
For those of you unclear about the picture, it depicts 'zummerzet' locals drinking cider.
Oh, and now you nick my lighter at your peril. I defy anyone I know in the UK to own such a thing.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
'Missing' Plutonium...
Apparently, Sellafield has 'lost' enough Plutonium to make seven Nuclear bombs. (They don't say what size bomb.)
But it's alright though because it's only a 'paper' loss. In other words their records say they should have it but in practice it's not there.
Hello?? Isn't that an actual loss? If the petty cash tally says you should have fifty quid in the box but inside there is only forty, surely the answer is that someone is nicking it?!
Apparently, Sellafield has 'lost' enough Plutonium to make seven Nuclear bombs. (They don't say what size bomb.)
But it's alright though because it's only a 'paper' loss. In other words their records say they should have it but in practice it's not there.
Hello?? Isn't that an actual loss? If the petty cash tally says you should have fifty quid in the box but inside there is only forty, surely the answer is that someone is nicking it?!
Repeat after me: Gotobedgotobedgotobed.
Failing that...
I've got a friend who is appalling at spelling. However he's one of the most articulate, intelligent, fascinatingly erudite people I know. His tutor at college (he's a mature student) told him he should be tested for Dyslexia but he's worried that if he gets tested and he's not Dyslexic, then that means he must be thick.
This is what I think.
If he gets tested and he is Dyslexic then surely that would be nice to know. Also it means he can hand in all his written work on Tape (Strike that, these days I mean CD) which is fairly bargainous to say the least. And if he isn't Dyslexic it just means that he didn't pay very much attention in English at school. That, however, doesn't make him any less intelligent. It just makes him once a child who was far more interested in Lego/Building den's/Star wars* than learning that 'I' comes before 'E' except after 'C'.
I mean, do you know when the Crimean War was? I'll tell you. It was 1853.
Do you know Florence Nightingale had a tortoise on her ward in hospital? That she kept an owl called Athena? That she died in 1910 aged 90?
No, neither did I, even though I was taught it in school. I know it as of yesterday purely because the boy had a homework project to find out about Florence so we had to look her up. You see, it's interesting now. Of course it is! Now I'm 32 and care about knowledge and learning and such like.
*Sigh.* I really think we should start school when we're about 25 and start to care. Before that we should be allowed an entire childhood of dicking about.
*Delete as appropriate.
Failing that...
I've got a friend who is appalling at spelling. However he's one of the most articulate, intelligent, fascinatingly erudite people I know. His tutor at college (he's a mature student) told him he should be tested for Dyslexia but he's worried that if he gets tested and he's not Dyslexic, then that means he must be thick.
This is what I think.
If he gets tested and he is Dyslexic then surely that would be nice to know. Also it means he can hand in all his written work on Tape (Strike that, these days I mean CD) which is fairly bargainous to say the least. And if he isn't Dyslexic it just means that he didn't pay very much attention in English at school. That, however, doesn't make him any less intelligent. It just makes him once a child who was far more interested in Lego/Building den's/Star wars* than learning that 'I' comes before 'E' except after 'C'.
I mean, do you know when the Crimean War was? I'll tell you. It was 1853.
Do you know Florence Nightingale had a tortoise on her ward in hospital? That she kept an owl called Athena? That she died in 1910 aged 90?
No, neither did I, even though I was taught it in school. I know it as of yesterday purely because the boy had a homework project to find out about Florence so we had to look her up. You see, it's interesting now. Of course it is! Now I'm 32 and care about knowledge and learning and such like.
*Sigh.* I really think we should start school when we're about 25 and start to care. Before that we should be allowed an entire childhood of dicking about.
*Delete as appropriate.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Tick, Tock, Ticky-Tick-Tock.
Where does the time go?
I don't have any time any more.
I can't sleep, I don't dream, and my days are spent writing documents about rare snails and light pollution. I get home, I feed the lovely boy, I feed me (too much) I drink (too much) and I watch crap television. Television is crap. Why do I waste my time watching it?
Where has the sun gone? Where does the day go? I drive two hours a day to get to work and I leave in the dark and get home in the dark.
This is not life.
Where has this evening gone? It's one o'clock in the morning. I should be in bed, to not sleep, to not dream, to get up in the morning, bleary eyed and have to switch all the lights on in the house.
It's halfway through February already.
Give me back the sun, the warm evenings. Let me have the time to paint, to write, to learn the guitar. Let me learn how to silversmith, to make soap, to dream.
Give me back the loveliness of laziness. The laziness of love.
To dream.
This is not life.
Where does the time go?
I don't have any time any more.
I can't sleep, I don't dream, and my days are spent writing documents about rare snails and light pollution. I get home, I feed the lovely boy, I feed me (too much) I drink (too much) and I watch crap television. Television is crap. Why do I waste my time watching it?
Where has the sun gone? Where does the day go? I drive two hours a day to get to work and I leave in the dark and get home in the dark.
This is not life.
Where has this evening gone? It's one o'clock in the morning. I should be in bed, to not sleep, to not dream, to get up in the morning, bleary eyed and have to switch all the lights on in the house.
It's halfway through February already.
Give me back the sun, the warm evenings. Let me have the time to paint, to write, to learn the guitar. Let me learn how to silversmith, to make soap, to dream.
Give me back the loveliness of laziness. The laziness of love.
To dream.
This is not life.
Friday, February 11, 2005
The UK has finally turned into an everlasting episode of The Day Today.
First, there was the new IKEA superstore riot in London as people crushed each other (actually crushed each other) in order to get their very own fitted washable covered sofabed for a knock-down price.
This in itself is dowright strange because it means as a nation we appear to be completely apathetic about, say, participating in a war, but are prepared to stage a full riot in order to refurnish our houses.
But then I heard Newsnight reading an email sent to them by Alistair Campbell in response to the infamous alleged Jew bashing adverts, which finished with (and I kid you not) "Now fuck off and do some work, you twats."
Alistair Campbell.
Sent that to Newsnight.
...
First, there was the new IKEA superstore riot in London as people crushed each other (actually crushed each other) in order to get their very own fitted washable covered sofabed for a knock-down price.
This in itself is dowright strange because it means as a nation we appear to be completely apathetic about, say, participating in a war, but are prepared to stage a full riot in order to refurnish our houses.
But then I heard Newsnight reading an email sent to them by Alistair Campbell in response to the infamous alleged Jew bashing adverts, which finished with (and I kid you not) "Now fuck off and do some work, you twats."
Alistair Campbell.
Sent that to Newsnight.
...
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Not-so-free information
So whilst at where I work we are killing ourselves trawling through ancient and dusty stacks of old files, picking out the relevant bits in order to comply with the new legislation, the government, it appears, can't really be arsed...
Not-so-free information.
So whilst at where I work we are killing ourselves trawling through ancient and dusty stacks of old files, picking out the relevant bits in order to comply with the new legislation, the government, it appears, can't really be arsed...
Not-so-free information.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
OXFAM's Spending Habit.
I'm looking for the income versus expenditure figures of Oxfam, I heard somewhere that the amount of money that actually goes to funding projects is a scarily low percentage of what they get as donations and I want to see the figures.
My figures web-fu is not too hot...where might I find this?
All I've got so far is this: random chart but it really doesn't make much sense to me. What's it telling me?
I'm looking for the income versus expenditure figures of Oxfam, I heard somewhere that the amount of money that actually goes to funding projects is a scarily low percentage of what they get as donations and I want to see the figures.
My figures web-fu is not too hot...where might I find this?
All I've got so far is this: random chart but it really doesn't make much sense to me. What's it telling me?
Monday, January 24, 2005
S.A.D?
I've just read a description of the symptoms of S.A.D. and it sounds suspiciously like me.
Seriously. It can't be right to want to eat beef stew and dumplings and mashed potato and syrup-sponge every night, and I don't do it in the Summer.
And I won't even begin going over the sleep thing again. I already feel like it's all I ever talk about.
Hmnmm...
Can they test for it? You know, measure your seratonin levels or whatever? Isn't depression to do with your seratonin levels anyway? And if so, why are sun-lamps not the treatment for depression in general?
I've just read a description of the symptoms of S.A.D. and it sounds suspiciously like me.
Seriously. It can't be right to want to eat beef stew and dumplings and mashed potato and syrup-sponge every night, and I don't do it in the Summer.
And I won't even begin going over the sleep thing again. I already feel like it's all I ever talk about.
Hmnmm...
Can they test for it? You know, measure your seratonin levels or whatever? Isn't depression to do with your seratonin levels anyway? And if so, why are sun-lamps not the treatment for depression in general?
Friday, January 21, 2005
Neurocam
I'm tired of reading everyone's blogs and all the chit chat about Neurocam, but never finding anything out.
Does anyone know what the point behind it actually is yet? Or is everyone joining and being given random small tasks just because everyone else is?
I might join.
An article in The Age started the worldwide interest and lady j's site is full of information about it. But no real help...
Sod it. I'm gonna join.
I'm tired of reading everyone's blogs and all the chit chat about Neurocam, but never finding anything out.
Does anyone know what the point behind it actually is yet? Or is everyone joining and being given random small tasks just because everyone else is?
I might join.
An article in The Age started the worldwide interest and lady j's site is full of information about it. But no real help...
Sod it. I'm gonna join.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Friday, January 14, 2005
R.A.F. Music Choices of the Sick and Twisted Kind.
On Desert Island Disks this morning SAS soldier Andy McNabb chose Phil Collins "In the air tonight" as one of his records.
This is wrong for several reasons, not in the least because it's unkind to inflict Phil Collins on people at any point of the day, but especially first thing in the morning. More specifically however, it's wrong because of this:
The reason he gave for choosing it was that during the Gulf War the Royal Air Force played it as background music to a sequence of images of target 'acquisitions'.
Hello???
That's just seven shades of wrong...
On Desert Island Disks this morning SAS soldier Andy McNabb chose Phil Collins "In the air tonight" as one of his records.
This is wrong for several reasons, not in the least because it's unkind to inflict Phil Collins on people at any point of the day, but especially first thing in the morning. More specifically however, it's wrong because of this:
The reason he gave for choosing it was that during the Gulf War the Royal Air Force played it as background music to a sequence of images of target 'acquisitions'.
Hello???
That's just seven shades of wrong...
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Googlebomb.
Read this:
Basically it says if you have a website, you should help create a new Googlebomb.
The target is the website of Christian Voice, the organisation who have the audacity to complain about Jerry Springer The Opera, whilst preaching their anti-gay, anti-abortion, racist message, and the link text is ignorant bigots.
That's, ignorant bigots.
Read this:
Basically it says if you have a website, you should help create a new Googlebomb.
The target is the website of Christian Voice, the organisation who have the audacity to complain about Jerry Springer The Opera, whilst preaching their anti-gay, anti-abortion, racist message, and the link text is ignorant bigots.
That's, ignorant bigots.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
On The Tale Of The Blogger Who Shouldn't Have.
And the moral of that story is;
a)Do not adapt the name of the company you work to 'bastardanything' on your blog because 'bastardstones' is clearly not 'Borders'.
b)Do not call your boss sandal-wearing and evil if you have already identified yourself as from Edinburgh and working for 'bastardstones'.
c)Do not post about your evil sandal-wearing boss at 'bastardstones' if you're doing it from the 'bastardstones' office.
d)Be very aware that your blog is not a private conversation down the pub with your mates and is in fact a private conversation conducted in front of an audience of thousands and is accessible by anyone who can be bothered to look.
And the moral of that story is;
a)Do not adapt the name of the company you work to 'bastardanything' on your blog because 'bastardstones' is clearly not 'Borders'.
b)Do not call your boss sandal-wearing and evil if you have already identified yourself as from Edinburgh and working for 'bastardstones'.
c)Do not post about your evil sandal-wearing boss at 'bastardstones' if you're doing it from the 'bastardstones' office.
d)Be very aware that your blog is not a private conversation down the pub with your mates and is in fact a private conversation conducted in front of an audience of thousands and is accessible by anyone who can be bothered to look.
Friday, January 07, 2005
I'm back!
I'm back and I can post again after the fiasco that is my ISP ditched my whole site by accident.
So I'm back and what a thing to start with:
On Good, Good Things That Make You Feel So Sad You Can't Stop Crying.
I get a CD in the post today and it's by a band I've never heard of and I know I didn't order it and there's no note or anything but it's from the band's website. So I put it on and it's this beautiful folk band called Show of Hands.
And instantly I know who its from. Because for my birthday I got a card from my Step-Mum (of 22 years) which said she'd bought me a CD in it, but that it would be late arriving.
This is important because we've fallen out over something really quite trivial in the long term scheme of things, yet it was a thing that was vitally emotionally important to me. So we fell out and it's all the worse because my Dad died and so there's no blood-family link between us anymore.
In fact if my Dad hadn't died we wouldn't have fallen out because the book wouldn't have been published and I wouldn't have not been thanked on it and I wouldn't have got upset and...well anyway.
We haven't talked for about a year, except to exchange Christmas book vouchers and birthday cards.
So then I play this CD, and the last song is called this: "Don't be a stranger.'
Here are the lyrics:
We’ve been together 100 nights or more
10,000 miles on the clock
But the year is almost over
And others voices call
And so this journey has to stop
Whatever roads may follow
The parting of the ways
In times of doubt and danger
Think about this moment
Look back on these days
And don’t be a stranger
The spoils have been divided
Numbers exchanged
Promises were make to keep in touch
All the secrets we confided
All the lives we gently changed
The best intentions only mean so much
Whatever roads may follow
The parting of the ways
In times of doubt and danger
Look back on these moments
Think about these days
And don’t be a stranger
Time and space conspire
To gently dowse the fire
Of friendship we fought so hard to light
So pass this way again
Let our laughter fan the flame
It’s embers will warm us through the night
Whatever roads may follow
The parting of the ways
In times of doubt and danger
Think about these moments
Look back upon these days
And don’t be a stranger.
I transcribed them so that I could post them here, because they don't exist on the internet.
And as I looked at the track list I knew why she'd sent it, so I played that track which is the last one on the CD and I listened and I cried, and I cried and I cried.
If it wasn't so late I'd ring her and tell her I'm sorry and I love her, but it is so I won't.
But I will and I do.
What a beautiful, lovely gift to give.
I'm back and I can post again after the fiasco that is my ISP ditched my whole site by accident.
So I'm back and what a thing to start with:
On Good, Good Things That Make You Feel So Sad You Can't Stop Crying.
I get a CD in the post today and it's by a band I've never heard of and I know I didn't order it and there's no note or anything but it's from the band's website. So I put it on and it's this beautiful folk band called Show of Hands.
And instantly I know who its from. Because for my birthday I got a card from my Step-Mum (of 22 years) which said she'd bought me a CD in it, but that it would be late arriving.
This is important because we've fallen out over something really quite trivial in the long term scheme of things, yet it was a thing that was vitally emotionally important to me. So we fell out and it's all the worse because my Dad died and so there's no blood-family link between us anymore.
In fact if my Dad hadn't died we wouldn't have fallen out because the book wouldn't have been published and I wouldn't have not been thanked on it and I wouldn't have got upset and...well anyway.
We haven't talked for about a year, except to exchange Christmas book vouchers and birthday cards.
So then I play this CD, and the last song is called this: "Don't be a stranger.'
Here are the lyrics:
We’ve been together 100 nights or more
10,000 miles on the clock
But the year is almost over
And others voices call
And so this journey has to stop
Whatever roads may follow
The parting of the ways
In times of doubt and danger
Think about this moment
Look back on these days
And don’t be a stranger
The spoils have been divided
Numbers exchanged
Promises were make to keep in touch
All the secrets we confided
All the lives we gently changed
The best intentions only mean so much
Whatever roads may follow
The parting of the ways
In times of doubt and danger
Look back on these moments
Think about these days
And don’t be a stranger
Time and space conspire
To gently dowse the fire
Of friendship we fought so hard to light
So pass this way again
Let our laughter fan the flame
It’s embers will warm us through the night
Whatever roads may follow
The parting of the ways
In times of doubt and danger
Think about these moments
Look back upon these days
And don’t be a stranger.
I transcribed them so that I could post them here, because they don't exist on the internet.
And as I looked at the track list I knew why she'd sent it, so I played that track which is the last one on the CD and I listened and I cried, and I cried and I cried.
If it wasn't so late I'd ring her and tell her I'm sorry and I love her, but it is so I won't.
But I will and I do.
What a beautiful, lovely gift to give.
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