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.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
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.
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