Sunday, 21 May 2017

THE SABBATICAL ENDS

I miss writing, but I am mostly speechless.

 Capricorns love being know-it-alls.  But, when mad things happen, Capricorns hide.

It's time to feed the soul and nurture the body.

The eternal struggle with cigarettes persists. I am great at stopping and equally likely to chain smoke. I take vitamins.  I consider walking more, but aimless wandering doesn't suit me.

I'm taking a break from my usual life to rest.  I expect to be indulging in more spiritual endeavours, encouraging new friends and maybe learning new things.

I feel a bit like a teenager.  Venturing out into the world alone.

I shall enjoy visits from my grandson, but that definitely means the body is going to need more attention.

And I need a solution to my snoring which my diplomatic daughter says isn't pleasant.

Mid-year goals set.  Looking forward to the adventure.

Love and Light.



Tuesday, 9 May 2017

COMEDIANS AND PLUMBERS


When comedians stop, not Dylan Moran, of course, we will fight to the death for wine, cigarettes and common sense.  Well, he will. I'm not promising anything.

Where was I?  Yes. Without comedians, I think we will be led down a dangerous road of ... wait for it ... religious extremism and all manner of not so nice adventures.

I bet there isn't one comedian out there under the bombarded, drone infested skies.  Maybe a plumber. But no funny man.

Political correctness has taken on because society is afraid of consequences.It is now just cover from the opponent for a sinister empty threat: Truth is unwelcome, even if it's funny. Try it and you die.  

My studies in Kabbalah have taught me that political correctness is spiritual.
One does not bad mouth the man in power.

I don't indulge in President bashing. Unless deleting pictures of a sunburned contorted face is a kind of bashing.... I suppose it is.  Mia culpa.

To quote from a movie, "Don't tease the beast."   ("Boys on the Side," I think.)

Besides I was safe while President Obama was in the White House.  I couldn't find fault with him. Now, of course, one is tested.  I can proudly announce that my President can read. He's iffy on big numbers, but he can read.

So don't stop the comedians.

They are probably the only guys and girls out there who really get what's happening. They have to read newspapers and watch the politicians ... that's where they get their material.

They make it palatable.  Not that it matters, I don't think.

The Beginning is nigh, the last board in the street read, albeit in a photograph and not on my street

But, back to religious extremism.

Christians are being murdered and arrested and ...

That is as far as my delicate soul is prepared to research, coming back from the dark, as I have, I need a bit more time to digest where I left off and what's happened since.

Artists and writers, poets and sculptors, these are our historians. Most die in poverty because no one owns them.

Anyway, welcome, Madam President. I know you can't resist.

Being a Catholic Christian, with affiliations to the Church of Antioch as well as a Kabbalah student, I promise I'll survive any comments, but none are required unless you are in the mood.

Well, it's morning.  At Last.

LOVE AND LIGHT


















Wednesday, 28 December 2016

Humans, one to another.

2016





A tall man with an unusual name does me a favour.  I protest.


"I have no money presently!"


"What is a human if he cannot assist another human with something he can easily do?"


I felt myself  blush.  


I recently apologised to a petrol attendant for having no cash on me for a tip.


"You are not required to pay me to do my job."


I felt myself blush.











Wednesday, 2 November 2016

WALL FLOWERS AND COLOURS inspired by OAKHURST LODGE, RIVERSDALE


 YELLOW COAT
A roady song.  I'm a roady and I am writing another song.



I think Joan Baez was the wall flower's Bob Dylan.  No offense to Joan Baez. A Wall flower could sing along. Her diction was better. Elocution was a value.  I flowered on walls.

No one talks about wall flowers these days unless they mean flowers growing on the wall in a basket or a climber.  A barrage of more offensive terms have become familiar. Geek used to be a bad thing, now it's a good thing. No judgment either way, but society morphs. Different values for old connotations emerge all the time.  It all starts in the school yard.  

School is a form of torture.  The classroom is where humiliation, sleep deprivation, lights in your eyes, orders from the bad cop are screamed at you and then you pee your pants. If you react badly to this form of torture they send you to the head who beats you with a stick.  OK. Back in the day. 

The playground is like the prison yard. Alliances are formed.  Some gang into bands and others fight. Only the Jews feel anything for the schmuck in the corner of the yard with no clue how twenty kids get together, choose sides and play a game with invisible rules.  

One just hangs back in wonder.  A nice Jewish girl used to give me her sandwiches made by a food guru and I survived until my last two years. Getting out of there was tangibly close.  The books were the key.   

We didn't have phones or pods to capture our eyes or hide behind.

All the geeks were wall flowers too, back then, only I was not a geek per se. They propped up the walls while the rest popped lolly pops into their mouths hung with a chum. 

So I celebrate geeks.  It took 24 years for me to find Ayn Rand midst frowns of disapproval and disdain. She's an atheist so everything she wrote was dismissed by the Christian world I grew up in, with nuns and no guns. 

And now, the glorious misfits, the geeks, are taking over the world.  Not me. Not so much.  I am a clan mother, a Baba Yaga, with not a slither of political interest except for the interest I have in those who have an interest.  With my new-found (recently, in the last however many years) wisdom of Kabbalah. I know more than I used to when I knew alotalot about everything.   

I only know a smidgen of what there is to know, and what there is to know is illogical and supernal and invisible to the eye.  Laughing.  And they all liked The Little Prince who said "What is important is invisible to the eye."  

They thought it meant love.  It did, but not puppy love.   Gangwar love.  Revolutionary love. Unreasonable love.      

I hope the captured geeks are independent and not being manipulated by wrinkly old men who talk with cigarettes dangling out the side of their mouths, with ease, as if the cigarette were part of their mumbling  Think X Files.  Is it there that the grey smoke rises in an airless room like a serpent? 

On a road trip.  My eyes couldn't stay open.  Stopped at Oakhurst Bed and Breakfast in Riversdale. I have a bed. It's large, white linen, there is a television and a shower; and an air conditioner. I have a bedside lamp that focuses on my book and my body is comfortable.  My driving eyes are wide open now that the road has gone.  As hard as it was to keep them open, it's as hard to keep them shut.  Go figure.

The establishment is surrounded by trees filled with birds, pigeons, and littlies, the wind drives the leaves into a flutter and there are ripples on the blue water pool outside all of which I can spy from my upstairs room window.   

"You need a cigarette," the voice in my head repeats as if it's an airport notification about abandoned baggage, but it's a smoke-free zone.  I've smoked so much I'm all croaky.  I left my toothbrush in the house in the bay and have no toothpaste. 

I snuck down to the dining room and pinched a salt pot. Brushed my teeth with my fingers, gargled with hot salt water after drinking copious cups of coffee. I recommend it. It clears the throat and the teeth feel clean.  A sip of the salty brew took the cramps out of my thighs. 

I have no sleep in me tonight.

Tomorrow I shall rise early, rather than wake up early, since I shall no doubt not sleep at all, which is a blast since my internet voucher is just about to run out and there is nothing but SKY News which is to the news like herbal tea is to filter coffee. (Thank you, Harry)

I like the feel of this establishment.  I could spend a week here.  Since this is Bucket List time, I shall begin to save and do just that.  Come for a week and do all the things to do they offer in the bedside information booklet and see what there is to see.

Joan Baez is here because the song is fabulous.   I used to have it on a tape, (yes, that long ago), and I lost it.  I've only just found it again.

My eyes could not stay open on the road;  now I have a bed I can't keep them shut.

LOVE AND LIGHT











WALLS AND WINDOWS

BORN TO BE BLUE is playing on the DVD machine.  Fast forward.  There's too much pain to watch it slowly.  One of my actors - not one I'm in love with - not like John Dunbar - Kevin Costner.

Ethan Hawk of Dead Poet's Society is playing, it seems, a famous trumpeter with a drug habit. I only fell for him because when he was young he resembled Bernard when he was young and I was in awe of him.  I call him the Tin Man because of another song - The Tin Man by America.  

"Some times late when things are real and people share the gift of gab between themselves ..... But Oz never did give nothin' to the Tin man what the Tin man didn't  already have ..... soap suds green like bubbles ...   and cause never was the reason for the evening .... so please believe in me .... "  
Bernard calls me Darth Vadar since the twin towers fell down.  He says I can't ever come back.   He got stuck in Ayn Rand and I moved on to a greater Cause and Effect which is supernal.  Physical cause and effect one can see. Drop a brick on your foot. Pain.   Cause pain and effect comes surely, but not always swiftly.  But it comes.

 Bernard didn't want to get that.   It's too Quantum.

Darth Vadar was a bit harsh, but sticks and stones and all that.  I miss him.   He's 60 now.  I wonder what he looks like and how he is in the land of brave.

"How do you like me so far?" a man once said after shaking my hand at our first meeting.
 

Ethan Hawke, I don't know and I don't want to, especially since he plays parts that are indefinably disturbing.  Acting hard roles for the sake of perfection, immersing one's soul into the underworld, on purpose and doing all you can to portray that soul you are playing, real or fictitious damages your Light.  And then, sometimes, you die.

I can't watch the destruction of humans in slow motion.  CHOOSE LIFE!

Passionate musicians should seek to be quietly noticed and they should not give a damn about fame and fortune.

When Elvis emerged I was quite a child and I remember the elders saying, "No good will come of this." When The Beatles came up, they said, "No good will come of this." When Bob Dylan came they said nothing except, "He can't sing."   I don't mean the critics. I mean my elders.   I agreed. I'm tone deaf so I can't sing.  But, Bob Dylan is hard to hear.

It's just me, I discovered.   I can't hear rap words either.  I think Bob survived, (thumbsucking) because he didn't, doesn't, give a damn. Frankly.   You can't mess with a human who has risen above froth.

And, you don't kill him.  Heaven forbid.  You give him a Nobel Prize.  

What has this to do with Walls and Windows?  There's a movie coming slowly to our net of the bush. THE WALL.   Pink Floyd.   Now, I like them, I do, but with the sound turned down.   I fear it might be another fast forward movie for me, but I will give it a shot.

The window part escapes me now.  

"I think it's going to rain today." by Bette Midler.   My girls learned the words and they still sing it to me when I hit the deck with things empathable to cope with.   Here is the picture of the video from YouTube but it won't play.



The words start...
"Broken Windows... empty hallways....  "  and later, "human kindness, overflowing"

I had a picture framed and the glass broke in a move.

There is something about broken glass.   The cutting edge times.

I've too little for you today.

Singing softly in my head songs that won't play here and sad I can't share them with you.
Check my facebook.  They are there.

Music for my heart.

Love and Light







Monday, 31 October 2016

I CAN FIX IT!

One keeps things, even broken things, because ...  

"It's fine!  I can fix it!"

And so the pondering frog, with a leg and a hand detached, ended up on the dining room table.  The little metal bird with its wing undone, the spring sprung, lay beside him.  I had the fullest intention of repairing them both neatly.

I came across them at 3.00 a.m. today since I still can't sleep. I  don't think I will for a while yet.  It doesn't matter. I'm not tired.  It will not last much longer. Not this particular night.  

The morning birds would already be conversing. Nay. Concluding morning prayers. I would be writing about them if I were "home", but I am "home" in the Bay, again.  All I can hear is the fishpond waterfall and a few crickets. The house has its own voice. Creaks in the ceiling. Fridge rattles.  My laptop sounds like a toy house fridge.  Same noise, just softer.

I took out five movies.  I only watched Benicio Del Toro as Escobar. Paradise Lost, it's called.  I love that face.  His mouth whispers - well, almost whispers.

"I love you," sounds like a death threat.

He also acted in, "Things we lost in the Fire"

Weird with the X Files and Whitney Huston mix of actors, but the kids are great. They fit the man with the smile that wrinkles so much it looks like a wince, frowns so hard that it looks like a trick smile.  A pretend frown, not confused, a laughing kind of think about that for a bit before you think that, kind of a smile.   

For one who reads faces and hands and lips and all the gambler's tells, he's a pudding in a fancy fine dining place where the portion is tiny, sculpted and tinted to make you want to take it home and keep it on the mantelpiece to look at when there's only yesterday's bread in the bin and the peanut butter jar is empty, lying through its lid because one can never get that layer off the glass.

I don't like to read about the men I love - actors I mean.  I like to think of them and how they make me feel about them, even the villains.  I don't want to find out that Al Pacino is a nice man who walks grey ladies to church. I want a mean man who can tango and name the fragrance I sprayed about my head hours ago, drive a Ferrari, blind, and take down the establishment with one single speech and a uniform.  And then fall in love by accident.

Del Toro is the Benicio of all perfumes and it's just too late, I'm sorry to say.  I fell in love with him when I first clapped eyes on him and not even Robert Redford can unseat him, or Mr Pitt nor my darling of all darlings, (lies, lies, lies!  I have so many darlings and I refuse to kill them) Tom Hanks and Magnum. Oh, and Colin Firth and the lovely late lad who was a dad and I know it was the Joker that did him in, not the drugs, the meds, the be still my heart stuff some of us take when we feel too much good or bad or both.

We keep the broken things because they once charmed us enough to make us take them home, and there is always a tale that becomes endearing, if it wasn't already, right then and there, in the shattering, that sticks with us enough to hold us back from heading for the bin.  

One ditches a broken glass, a cup even, plates, hearts, and God only knows what else is disposable these days, but those little shards of time, past, bleat when a frog's hand shifts from under a sheet of paper doodled to death, one hand waving, or when the steel bird scrapes across the glass and falls to the carpet with only a little bit of a clang.  

There is preciousness in the buying, the keeping dusted and then in losing with a breaking.  It's all good.

I really only get that now.  Frog and Bird hit the bin today because the dining room table is a mess of no dining and that needs to change.  Besides, they are fixable.  

They are even charming in their brokenness.  They will land in the spot they must be in and a collector of things will find them there.  Frog will find his leg and sit in the sun on a window sill. Bird will fly once again from a spring or a string tied to the hook in the ceiling, or hooked, if she's blessed, and I am sure she is, to the branch of a tree.  They have begun another journey.

And sometimes broken people are brought into our lives for us to fix, and fix them we do, but in the fixing, there is a losing, and what is lost cannot be gained again.  

But, yes.  I can fix it.  I can fix it so I can lose it to someone else who finds it charming, broken bits notwithstanding.   

Bye, Bye, dear Frog.  You will be blessed with kisses from princesses and maybe one day you'll turn into a real boy.   

I've gone and fetched Bird.  She's a real Lady and she's too precious to leave to chance.  There are no trees where she'll be going and no ceilings either, come to think of it.  I shall take her "home" with me and hang her in our tree. Yes.  

I can fix it.

Oh, Lord.  I can't dump Frog.  Let me get him out that bin and spend the day with glue.  I think I shall go for a walk now.  The dark has departed. The pond waterfall sounds louder somehow.

Music for my heart.

Love and Light.