A JOURNAL
"Allow me to learn with you," as one of my teachers always begins his lectures.
And to quote my core belief:
"A sense of separation from God is the only lack you really need to correct." T.1.VI.2:1
Thunder and Lightening.
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Who knew? Someone actually took the time to make this.
Back in the madding "old days" when we wore mini skirts one minute and got thin as sticks and the next we hid our fine bone structures under midi's until denim saved us all, I was a fashion buyer for Garlicks. It was my favourite job. I fell in love with the whole business of Garlicks. Hat departments, gloves, stockings, scarves and bags, the glorious showroom with lah-di-dah ladies wear and a restaurant with fine food for lunch. I smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes, with a filter, by then, having given up the Texan plain after spitting out fragments of tobacco and ripping the skin off half my lips often enough. I could not get used to smoking. It was hard. I hated the smell and the taste, but damn, I thought it looked cool, so I went on and on until I found Lucky Strike. Bob's your uncle we used to say. By then I could drink whiskey too, neat, and leave Rhodesians under the table after a challenge. I was so stressed that it didn't touch sides. ...
I can't resist the bookshop. It has taken the library's place. Three copies of Jordan Peterson's book lie on the shelf with a slight discount. I bought them all. Why not? Someone is going to need to read it before long. I am poised to go off into a spiritual retreat where I shall cleanse my soul, uplift my soul and come out rising on the wings of eagles, I think HaShem missed Job, so He created me. That's okay. I'm down with Job. I have the patience of Job and his bloody opponent, dogging my heels, but no matter. I cling to the Creator. For future reference, my eyes are bad and I sometimes plonk in a comma when I mean a period, and sometimes, for safe measure, I give you both. My dyslexia prevents me from picking it up when I write in the lamplight, which is not great, but my autism doesn't like bright lights. It is what it is. Giving everything over to HaShem is, or can be, difficult. I have good moments ...
https://youtu.be/synJSNIJ8QE ( link to the title of this) Interesting fact. I drove an ordinary Hilman Vogue back in the late-ish seventies. Used the same filling station every week. Creature of habit. I knew the attendants. They certainly knew me. Good service. Friendly. Lovely people. Africans. Love them. All good. My friend Doug has a clapped out Merc, holding on by the golden thread that love is, through menopause and breathlessness - exhaust fumes will do that to you. "I'm going home to Australia for the holidays. Will you drive the old girl for me?" "Gosh. Really? Its a big car. Do you trust me? (I am an undiagnosed weirdo who smokes non stop and is skittish in a good situation). "She is easy to drive. She just needs to go for a run every day to keep going." I think of an old race horse. "Okay..." I am freaked out, but he is my best friend - the only friend to be honest, the only man who respects my friendshi...
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