The axe is MOST CERTAINLY grinding

It’s quite phantastic.

I am heading towards what constitutes one of the toughest days of my life (yes, I was born on a Monday). I haven’t slept nor eaten in 48 hours, I have to meet a four hour dead line (I am writing this at 0400 hrs GMT) having to accomplish something that takes mere mortals days. I am not joking. I allowed myself a twenty minute liedown ca 0200 hrs only to be kicked ass by son who asserted that I cannot afford to go to sleep; how right he is. He recommended speed to keep me going – what do I need speed for? I am running on adrenalin.

To top it all – and I am annoyed about it – I’ve just started a hiccup.

U

PS Sweethearts, should you ever find yourself in a shithole and feel need to block out thoughts, feelings, anything in order to get the job done, don’t opt for Schubert, play Motorhead – full blast. It does wonders. Thanks, Lemmy.

Whom the axe grinds

Many things pain me at the moment.

Not least that I ever wrote an entry titled ”Lederhosen”. It’s a hit and I don’t understand why. Maybe I could do a “Dirndl” or an “Oktoberfest” to challenge the nether regions in popularity stakes. 

Kinder, Kinder, ich bin so kaputt. Finito, Basta, Fertig. Still, as I said to friend this morning: Nothing and no one, other than death, will bring me to my knees, ever. Thus, in the immortal words of Elton John who I don’t particularly like though, no doubt, we would make polite conversation, might even amuse each other, when sat next to each other at a dinner: I’m still standing.

For months and months after months I have been heading into the darkest of tunnels hoping to see that famous light at the end of it. As it is, I am holding a torch but have run out of batteries.

Help.

U

Wisdom – required

One needs to know when to quit.

Unfortunately, I don’t. As character defects go roughly on par with visiting the dentist. Not that there is ever anything wrong with my teeth (other than that I have just lost a crown).

In your opinions: Is “persistence” (within the parameters of endless patience and hope) a virtue or just one hell of a waste of time?

U

Years of well honeyed optimism

I have to learn to be the sophisticated woman I am perceived as.

In the meantime let my hot, salty, searing tears of utter disappointment with the shithole that life and its inhabitants manage to be at times fall on stony ground. I didn’t think it possible, until recently, to utter words like the previous. Now it’s reality.

One good friend perceived yesterday (she is Californian, my son’s father’s wife and Polyanna re-incarnated): If I were in your position I’d have most likely killed myself by now.

Cut to the chase.

Recently my life feels like a Hitchcock movie; maybe Sean Connery (Marnie) could rescue me, or that awful ginger haired London strangler might put an end to it all. I don’t want to be killed (particularly not with a tie by someone who peddles potatoes); Rhett Butler might, for a change, agree that tomorrow will be another day. Unlike him I can’t say “I don’t give a damn” (such a marvellous line). I do – give one hell of a damn.

U

Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse

If there is one among the few things in my life I hate with a vengeance it’s DELAY. 

I want instant gratification. NOW. That’s why I hate wordpress. First you press something wrong, only to be given a new password that takes Einstein’s brain, Felix’s ingeniousness and VOASF’s finely tuned sense of how to remember anything off the cuff. Make that an elusive piece of paper on my desk. To the tune of French “I ate it, I ate it, I ate it”. If only I weren’t throwing up all the time.

It’s interesting how the body digests grief.

U

Down the toilet

It’s just absolutely fucking marvellous.

In the wake of Obama’s decision on abortion I stumble across some website with more than 1,000 comments on the issue. Some of them [comments] so ridiculous I fear for mankind.

First of all – and, dear men, I know this is harsh – it’s a woman’s issue whether to bring a child into this world or not. I am livid reading so much self righteous shite as I have just done for the last half hour. Let’s be clear about two things: The aborted child will not know what he/she is missing; the woman aborting will have to live with her conscience all her life. Odd, isn’t it, that men never ever talk about one of their children having been aborted? And that’s good. The as yet unconscious does not care whether it lives or not. It doesn’t exist.

Nature aborts at the rate of knots -  Indiscriminately, at random, often with good reason. In fact, should do it more often.

Oddly, and if anyone can explain this to me, please do: Why do some anti-abortionists bring themselves to condone abortion of a child conceived by rape? Surely, going by your logic the poor mite couldn’t give a shit how it was conceived, as long as it’s borne?

I am sick and tired of the whole debate. Humans kill each other in many sanctioned ways. To mention one, war; but then I suppose that’s ok, isn’t it? Ideals, ideologies, religions to be defended – oh so glorious, oh so noble whilst making canon fodder out of real people – those who were borne and nurtured.

U

In short

KBO – Keep buggering on (what on earth was Churchill thinking of when coining the acronym). Or as, no doubt, my dear sweet professor would say “keep blogging on”. If only he would.

It is a bugger to be emotionally taken by a gay guy. I myself don’t care; let’s bend any which way.

Still, truth be told: If I were a man I might have the edge. Beloved old friend and alpha male of mine has no time for me on this one. Neither do my son, my father, my brother. That’s ok guys, there are more ways than one to draw a straight line across a wonderful friendship.

On other matters, and I have been told that this is not as funny as I think it is: I have learnt that members of my wider family think me quite mad and at least one wants me certified (I don’t know whether they have yet voted for a guardian). Can’t wait till Felix is 18, of age as it were, and see to my welfare, legally.

I am desperate, so very desperate. In more ways than one. Those are the wonders of the bland world of the internet: You stand in your wood, you shout – and then you wait: For an Echo.

Something, anything.

U

and then you delete.

Falling apart

Sweethearts and other foundlings, if you want a shallow glimpse into another’s happily desolate soul keep reading.

I like Oscar Wilde (particularly in the guise of Stephen Fry) but his frequent bon mots can be quite tiresome. Just now I came across something along the line that he doesn’t like principles but prefers prejudice any time. Well, Oscar, that’s just crap and plays on cheap alliteration. I don’t know what you had for breakfast – probably Weetabix with too little milk.

I am not exactly ANTI-marriage (though, truth be told, I am) so, naturally, in moments when the maso of my sado gets the better of me I imagine myself hitched to the various greats and little of literature, philosophy and history, sitting opposite them at breakfast, lunch and dinner. As torture, laughter, amusement and mirth go you cannot better either joy or pain over conversations had – or not.

And whilst, on good hair days and becoming blush to my cheek bones, I have been likened to the Pre-Raphaelites’ vision of  woman (think Rossetti) the expendable side of my personality is that benevolent sisterly nurse hiding in the wings. Give me a case (preferably nut) and salvation will be yours.  However, people I imagined sane now wish to cut my tongue and, as I have just found out, my sisters hate my guts. I wouldn’t go as far as to recommend never to trust anyone born in 1961 (a good friend of mine was on Christmas Eve) but they should come with a health warning nevertheless: First they bleed you dry, then let you hang and consequently deny all knowledge of their doing so. Let’s leave the gay guy out of the equation, I am gutted over vintage 1961 sister of mine.

Back to men: The great, good and lost. When I was little I took pity on Jesus Christ – till I learnt that he was well looked after by Magdalene. So, more of me left for the rest of you. Wilde’s pride, prejudice and principles: I live my life by principles – leaving little of my energy to pride and virtually none to prejudice.

To think that my second son was to be named Oscar.

U

Blow the cushion

I am vaguely irritated in that slightly grumpy way which often befalls me on a Sunday afternoon.

It doesn’t help (JT, take note) to read the blasted Sunday papers. Since I have to wean myself off a number of things, and people, at the moment anyway (no wonder, my mood is slightly temperamental) I thought I might as well go the whole hog and not buy ALL the broadsheets. Forget it. If anything, by concentrating on one publication, my pains are magnified. 

Under headline of trite ”Cushion the blow”, when, in truth, the headline writer should be fired since “Blow the cushion” would have made so much more sense considering the lean times we live in, we learn that you can buy a cable knit blanket for a mere £132.00 (saffron yellow) courtesy of Terence Conran and his empire. Excellent. Bloody marvellous. Can’t wait to get my knitting needles out. No doubt, now that no one can afford gas or electricity any more, designer hot water bottles will sell like the proverbial cakes – with a price to match.

In order to maximise profits, I have decided to take road of least resistence and take a leaf out of the 1920/30s US prohibition and establish public places (say, pubs) where people are allowed to smoke INDOORS. It might re-ignate more than the cigarette industry. In fact, it might start a revolution.

And before any of you come down on me like a ton of bricks: No, I myself do not smoke though I wish I did – and have done so recently, forced upon me by one of Felix’s more militant friends – he doesn’t take no for an answer – whilst discussing the intricacies of life how only seventeen year olds can. Talk about time travel.

U

Blog Standard

Sometimes I think I’d rather walk a field full of randomly strewn land mines than the wonderous world of the weblog.

A few months ago I was commissioned to do in-depth research on blogs, blogging and bloggers. As assignments go it’s money hard earned. Whilst I am patient with fellow humans, and persistent to the point of possibly being pathological, my boredom threshold is low.

Vanity and vacuity are the riches in the world of virtual verbosity.

And then there are the “rules”. What is one blogger’s cherished comment is another one’s deleted faster than he can say: Fuck off – true meaning: “Don’t question anything I say.” 

Two published poets I unhappily stumbled across in my research cut  commentors not so much down as shred them. Guys, let me tell you one thing: We are all a little  tortured in our souls – not only those of us who put feelings into rhyme if  little reason.  How did AJ, the Irish voice in my life, summon it up yesterday,  sparingly: ”Prima Donnas”. Comments welcome, DJB? Do make me laugh.

Blogiquette has yet to be underwritten. If my dear good John Morgan, fastidious to the point of fatigue, had not seen fit to commit suicide before his time he’d have included in his “Debrett’s Guide to Good Manners” a chapter on how to blog and, more importantly, how to  treat those who have the courtesy to respond and comment on a blogger’s musings.

Note to self: Do not tread on freshly pedicured and nail varnished toes of self importance.

Dear god in heaven, I have just remembered I am writing on my own blog. Benevolence, vengence, vehemence, vitriolity, venom and vulnerability are mine!  The virtual word is my sharp edged and fresh oyster! Repeat after me:  In the confines of the padded cell of our blog idiocies  may bounce. If only others let us bounce within theirs what fun we’d have on the playground of many an opinion.

And some of you are most generous. I salute you  for being open minded, warm hearted, kind, intelligent and man/woman enough to take the rough with the smooth.

Vanity fair of the virtual world: My dear Thackeray, what you missed by being born too early to be able to record what makes tbe mind bloggle you’ll, luckily, never know. Becky Sharp would have had a field day.

Wonder when the bidet to the virtual bog and its world will be invented.

U