Let’s talk dirty

There is only one marker of poverty today: Not when share prices fall so you can’t just nip into Harrods’ foodhall and indulge - it’s when you run out of toilet paper in the privacy of your own bathrooms and can’t afford to buy any more. That’s when you know for sure that you have hit rock bottom.

It’s not a concept easily understood in the Western World. Everybody seems to have forgotten what it was like before the softness to caress your behind was invented. The methods used even as late as sixty years ago when an outdoor latrine was not uncommon and bidets not yet installed make you wonder about how mankind coped with the whole unfortunate business of the digestive tract. Myself being immersed in history – and I am in awe how far we have come despite all the slaughter – I occasionally indulge in the less savoury sides of human existence. On the toiletting issue I’d recommend, amongst others, Ackroyd’s “London – The Biography”, Chapter 36 ‘Waste Matter’ . You’ll look at both your pristine toilet bowl and roll of luxury loo paper in a new way, I promise.

U

We attract what we need

As of an hour ago, not only has my happiness been restored, but trust in the good of some humans’ nature has been confirmed once more.

Never better to test another’s mettle, integrity and character than when you are down in the quagmire. Who will enquire after your wellbeing, who will kick you when you are down, you will hesitate and then decline, who will stretch out a helping hand? If it weren’t so strenuous on everybody involved I’d be tempted to make it a hobby of mine; assess and record nuances of my fellow men, to sort the tight from the empathetic, the shits from the kind; and of course I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t orchestrate the whole scala of the in-between-both extremes. Not that I am musical.

A smile meets a smile.

U

Lovingly yours

“Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame”.

In these paranoid copyright times I am sorry I can’t name the source; I don’t have it. For all I know it might be one of my brain children.

My next hand written note reads, and that’s definitely me: “Love makes you a jailed bird, in my experience.” It’s not as sour as it sounds. I love loving, I do it with abandon and am totally committed to anyone who has ever touched my heart: Friend, foe, sibling, youngsters, elders and betters; luckily I don’t spread myself widely – otherwise I’d explode.

Once that coil of affection has you in its tight grip, you try and escape it at your peril. I don’t know whether it’s spring delayed but currently everyone in my vicinity appears to be bitten by the bug: old bugs, new bugs, blossoming bugs, itching bugs, yearning bugs, you name it - it’s on my phone, in my inbox. My heart goes out to all of you (for reasons of economy some more than others); I’d like to clasp one or two of you to my bosom, comfort you and tell you everything will be alright.

My own mosquito bite was soothed this morning – by the cooling balm of an email. So all is well, providing it doesn’t end.

U

Modern medicine

Sometimes I wonder what philosophers did for kicks.

We all know what some of them died of – serves them right for having lived in the wrong century only to give us a headache hundreds of years down the line.

Nowadays, philosophers don’t die by their vices; neither do they exactly deliver the goods.

Anyway, back to Diogenes (of Sinope); I have always had a secret admiration for him: Imagine living in a barrel (without shower facilities). Unfortunately he was not only frugal, he was also highly arrogant: When Manes (his slave) left him Diogenes observed: “If Manes can live without Diogenes why not Diogenes without Manes?” Why not indeed? If only life were as simple as that egotistical bastard makes it out to be. But then that’s the Stoics for you; take Epictetus who thought that misfortune is good for the development of strong character.

Dear Epic, a) I already do have a strong character; b) I’d rather be weak than endure misfortune; c) Being anal-retentive, as you Stoics quite clearly were, gives you all sorts of ills in the long run (ask Freud or your nearest oncologist).

Nietzsche reiterated, many hundred years later, the same in the famous “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger”; I forgive Nietzsche the profanity but only because the guy had such a way with words and syntax. It still doesn’t make the sentiment any better.

And yes, my father brought me up in the vain hope that one day I might believe in the Stoics’ ”We are not disturbed by events, but by the views we take of them”. I keep telling him that it really is not as simple as that since heart and head seem to be at loggerheads a lot of the time.

U

Not so holy

Am I the only person in the whole wide world who can’t stand the woman?

She is ugly, she is cold; she has no charm. She has muscles like a man and she doesn’t know when to draw the curtain. My dislike is almost pathological in that I can’t listen to her music, watch her in action and when I come across a photo of her - as I did a minute ago - I can’t turn the page fast enough. If a friend posts her lyrics or – heaven forbid – a video of her I have to pass up and skip the favour. Recently someone asked me to buy her that woman’s latest album. I couldn’t do it; I refused. Yes, that bad …

As I am on my own this afternoon and therefore only have the cats to talk to, actually they too seem elusive, I went onto this – my – space; such comfort to vent one’s frustation in the anonymity of the aether. I can’t even bring myself to soil my blog by mentioning her name.

Guess who …

U

Logistics

I am beginning to worry about myself.

How can I feel happy and cheerful when I am down in the dumps? It’s awful. Everyone who has been calling me in the last 24 hours tells me my life must be great considering how chirpy I sound. Yeah, well, whatever makes you, the caller, happy.

The poet thinks I am yet another branch of MI5 because I won’t tell him anything. The very person I want to think about me – and write to me - is probably trying his hardest not only to ignore me, but to forget me. The gentlest man I promised to write to some more has wilted for all I know. And then there are the back and forward catalogues of other friends and family.

It’s fantastic: If you think a spider’s web is intricate, try my life. And I am a hermit.

U

De Profundis

Montaigne said of his friend Boetie who died four years after they had met: “If you press me to say why I loved him I feel that it cannot be expressed except by replying: ‘Because it was him; because it was me’.

To me, the most beautiful line ever to describe friendship.

Montaigne was lucky in that he buried his friend. How Oscar Wilde suffered over Lord Alfred Douglas.

Always informative to speak to my father: Yesterday, learning about my heartache and my consequent roaming of graveyards, he listed – just off the drop of his hat – the best cemeteries of Europe to visit – including their most famous inhabitants. I admire brains like that – mine is like a sieve; albeit a clogged up one which lets very little through – as sieves go useless for its original purpose. My dear Professor, I can’t let you go after all.

U aka Eliza

When feelings run high

When feelings run high: Visit a graveyard and meander.

Tranquillity will envelope you and soothe you – it will still a fever of happiness, it will help to blunt the edges of pain.

Silence is the only sound.

A new ante chamber to the finish

Has everyone been clubbing together to keep the sock in?

Come 0400 hrs last Friday morning I am cut off from every type of long distance communication (internet, phone); I was reconnected about an hour ago (yes, four and a half days later). VOASF, your little Dachau incident at the gym counter pales into insignificance as to what I have been through – non stop inane conversations with my service provider, leading to little, hour after hour, day after day. If it had been you in the same situation, you’d have evaporated by now. I kept my nerve for about 62 hrs when I started losing my temper and shedding a few tears which fell on granite ground.

I am the least vindictive person I know but I am on the war path now. I’ve promised the company publicity (big time) and the letter to big boss has been written too.

However, a number of good things have come out of this dire hole too: Firstly, more than ever, I despise how dependent we are on modern technology to make us feel whole. Secondly, I had the most wonderful Sunday, getting the garden ship shape, sitting on the patio and reading a book. Thirdly, and I don’t know how that happened, the poet – of all people - managed to get through; trouble being that he likes his women quiet which is difficult to achieve over the phone. But the best thing was Felix stating, somewhat baffled: “Mama, how can you be so happy and in such a good mood when everything is just  ….. up.”

Well, I hope you have all missed me dreadfully, though I yet have to receive any enquiries as to my well being or indeed flowers or grapes to help my speedy recovery. Other than that I am bereft – Felix flew off to Italy (Florence) this morning.

U

PS Any of you googlers out there please do not trouble yourself trying to find out what VOASF stands for – you won’t. Let’s just say that if only he’d let himself, he’d be the most sweet tempered man.

Botch Job

As holidays go this one has been cut short. Words want to spill and so they shall.

A new acquaintance of mine, and Paul please don’t laugh or say ‘Told you so’, has asked me why I feel the urge to comment on blogs (including his own) and has told me in no uncertain terms that all further contact with the men in my life (other than those related to me by blood) will be severed once we get together. Fat chance – of either; particularly since he already has declared me mad. And we know what happens to mad women, don’t we? They get locked away. As I like to give people the benefit of the doubt let’s just say – it’s a cultural thing; we are talking continents here (Eastern promise). All I can hope for now is that he never finds out about this – my – blog or I’ll be dead. That’s what professional poets do in their spare time – they kill you, not so gently.

Talking about death – despite the fact that this British summer is abysmally short of sunshine the mosquito, the fly, the wasp and the moth will still find their way into our house. Felix and I deal with the nuisance in different ways: Felix mostly shouting “Mama, there is wildlife … do something”, and me either defending an innocent life or – as last night – taking the short cut. Which has left me with a ghastly smudge right above this particular laptop (white wall – what else?).

I am under no illusion what I’ll come back as in my next life – all I am hoping for is that I’ll find myself squashed in a prominent spot on the wall of the dasher of my hopes for him to be reminded of his evil deed.

U