wish i’d said that…

We may misunderstand each other, but your voice is as true as mine. And your voice is as needed as mine.

ehj2

this appeared in the comments on the previous thread, but i like it and wish i had said it. thank you. i love my contributors and am sad when they fight, but resolving things brings special stuff too. wow that’s just like life – i’m so deep.

i have been away, but have returned with 40 yr old rhubarb from the garden of the house where i grew up – about to be sold in 2 weeks – and winter jasmine that started in my great-grandmother’s garden and will now come to my new garden. i hope it will continue down the generations, or not, as my sons (and daughters should i ever have any) see fit. the only heirloom they have or are ever like to have. i ran through that rhubarb when it was taller than me, dipped the stalks in bowls of sugar in the garden and wore the poisonous leaves as hats… god we knew how to live in 1970 north shields!

and the great search terms of our times now include ‘pubed panties’ – thanks for visiting, you person of very particular interests.

and if that triptych doesn’t constitute a miscellany, then you can all have your money back.

Advertisements

191 responses to “wish i’d said that…

  1. Every person may carry a secret in real life but it’s especially true in webby-space – I don’t go around telling my life’s story. Not sure what ehj meant by that quote, nor do I feel like going back thru a load of messages to try to adjudicate the progress of the threads as I am not a well person much of the time physically (oops, there’s a secret).

    As for “heavy secret” – it is no secret to those who know me that I feel “heavy” with the misogyny in the world, and if that colours my perspective, and means that I do not want to get involved in a discussion about frilly panties, I don’t think that’s too much to ask – they can carry on about the frilly panties but I will leave.

    That’s all. Like to keep it simple – best way in life – my target is the pornification of women in culture in all of it’s glory, that’s my focus – otherwise, I’m a rather funny person.

    My rages however, are notorious. Sorry you are sad SW – will lighten up now – I will change the subject and veer this off onto something totally different.

  2. pukeychum – totally agree; don’t think he was demanding a telling of your story – if you choose to tell bits of it here or elsewhere or not that’s great and up to you. do think his point was true and relevant; the blog is bits of my back-story, some in code and others less so.
    and please don’t let my being sad prohibit you from fighting here, when you want/need to – i’d hate to feel commenters thought they were censored here and anyway i can find other things to be sad about very easily. i just think the two of you (not paul, who as i said is paul – which does not excuse him when he is being a twit) can find much to agree on (oops – think ehj said that) and really neither of you were beyond the pale in rudeness.
    and i understand where you’re coming from and that if pantie discussions aren’t your thing you react as you choose – say so, don’t say so, leave etc – don’t believe they were defined as frilly but rather ‘white’ (not that it makes a difference). i don’t think the site will become a pantie discussion forum (will probably go somewhere less boring myself if that happens) as ehj has far more interesting things to say (and does say them). anyway, my absence from a keyboard has made me verbose (or more so) and will stop.

  3. Rhubarb right out of the ground, dipped in sugar? Yeah, that woulda been good, but me ‘n Dave in Mr.Hobson’s back yard vegetable garden would take a break eluding seekers as we hid, and eat rhubarb right out of the ground. Come to think of it we were kind of like naughty rabbits in a childrens book. Those were good times. We’d pee about anywhere we wanted too, in the back yards, in suburbia, behind a bush, hiding, seeking. All that rhubarb we ate, man! we coulda had sugar.

  4. Thanks SW I didn’t really think I was in that bad a mood, just felt a bit patronised is all. Can’t remember now. Probably just as well.

  5. OK – here’s one to start another mrs merton “heated debate” – when I came to this country and saw rhubarb (I’m sure they have this where I come from, just not in the part of the country where I grew up), and my ex bought some and made me cook it, so that he could have it with custard (another British culinary mystery to me at the time), I thought to myself “it looks like celery dyed for valentine’s day, tastes a bit like strawberries, cooks down to a fibrous mush”, (and as my ex was so fond of pointing out, would “strip the tarnish off the pot – won’t need to scrub it afterwards” ) …..thought to myself, “the Brits will eat anything – mustv’e learned to eat this stuff during the the war rationing” I now know that the French are much much worse in this respect, eating frogs, ( but only the legs) pour qoi? (is that the correct spelling?), eating snails (spew), all sorts of stuff that you wonder “who originally looked at a slimy snail and thought mmmmm, that’ll do for dins tonite”.

    Of course the french were like this long before the war (2ndWW I mean) and don’t even ask about the chinese.

    OK – just stupid ramblings and no mention of …errrr.. you know…..

  6. PuertoRicans eat blood sausage and pigs feet and cows stomach and pigs ears and pig skin, so, so do I, so do I- and like it.

  7. not another list of infidel food – that sorta stuff is just for vi, surely? (tho your comments on that thread had me in awe for their unrelenting fingers-in-ears lunacy. and their sheer volume.) when you lived on the posh side of the road, as we did, you had sugar on demand… as i was giving my drumming clas this morning, one of the four-year olds said ‘i like sugar – my dad let’s me eat sugar’. i advised him not to tell his mum. dads have to stick together.

    ah DP/DF…the CLP is a vegetarian and often has trouble in france (where i force her to go as often as she will let me). we stayed at one excellent place in normandy where the patronne actually said ‘oh la la’ on finding out CLP was a veggie. all night there was a strained politeness that was so much ruder than actual rudeness. CLP later described the experience of being veggie in france ‘still wiping the spit from my face’. think i blogged on that before, but probably before you happened here. that’s my excuse anyway.
    how did the french decide to eat snails? not ‘the question’ imo – ‘the question’ is: how did some monk with a tun full of cloudy 12th century ale decide to stick in the swim bladder of an unfortunate sturgeon in just in case it would clear it up?… praise the lord, brother jospehus, it worked!

  8. drunk, the portly friar, cheeks red bolted from the table spewing bits of raw sturgeon and gurgling something about Aslockton and the “het of the churg fu Lingland”Hiccup!” In his hand he held the sturgeons bladder he was fondling and as he lost his balance- whoop! sploosh into the keg of ale the buxom waif had been skimming.
    “Aye, will ye luke at tha..” “The bleedn’ yeasts done foamed up ‘n dropped right to tha botum” “Well drink up lads, tha friar’s clar’d tha ale”

  9. this was a well-travelled friar, it seems from the accent(s)

  10. and i think the monks were more the ones for brewing, but i accept the licence you employ for taking up and developing the conceit – you are a latter-day william webb-ellis…

  11. Thanks, you keep feeding me these interesting tidbits isinglass and rugby and what not, and I had acused Dave, who excelled in everything physical, of conceit, he did let you know how good he was, but he was, still…okay I was jealous. Two faced even. I didn’t even know you could develop conceit of a story- any who I take the ball as I do because I am ignorant of the rules- kinda like billy boy.

  12. “PuertoRicans eat blood sausage and pigs feet and cows stomach and pigs ears and pig skin, so, so do I, so do I- and like it.”

    So do Brits and Yanks – blood sausage = black pudding (I think there is a version of this in some states in the US), pigs feet (served in posh restaurants ), not sure about the pig’s ears, but pork scratchings are a way of putting a huge profit margin on pig skins – they have these in the states too but called something else.

    One to add in the UK – The Scottish eat sheeps stomach stuffed with some intestinal organ or other, mashed up with (of course) oats. Haggis.

    Sturgeon bladder from a bladdered monk?

  13. ps – admitting to being a vegetarian in most of france – I thought they just killed people who admit that.

  14. Dear SimplyWondered,

    I often find that when I’m moved by something out there, pleasant or unpleasant, it is often about something in here (and I’m talking to myself). While I interact with my projections out there, these echo interactions that are also happening inside me.

    So a part of me is constantly aware of what I’m saying or writing out there as if it’s really to a part of me in here. Sometimes, it’s not until later that I sort out the echos of the inner and outer conversations, but a lot of what I do is remind myself to be better (because if there are corporatists out there, there must also be one in here).

    The sentiment expressed in the words beginning your post are common to every philosophy, so that cannot be attributed to me (only the effort of being a philosopher and a good student who repeats well). The deeper truth is that these words belong to everyone participating in this conversation, because this is not a hundred solo parts played at the same time, but a symphony. The success of the music belongs to everyone. There’s no such thing as, “Your side of the boat is sinking.”

    At my best, I remember it’s always a symphony, it’s always shared music, it’s always dancing together, it’s always a shared feast.

    I have a vanity plate because I think it’s important to take a visible stand in the world, and to show children ways of possibility. It reads, “Monist” because I can think of no other word that stands for me more clearly.

    There is no brain/body split, no body/nature split, no man/god split, no man/woman split, no us/them split. There’s just One.

    There are days when I know this better than other days. The deep warmth of your words has made be feel this better than I have in quite awhile.

    Thank you for this place for us, this banquet, this feast, this moment of peace in the maelstrom of this One world.

  15. I mentioned Dave. His conceit. His alleged conceit. At the time of rhubarb an event took place sending me into a fluster, anyway I took a label maker- one of those click click things that actually sort of emboss the plastic and have this lame adhesive that fights the curve of the original roll until it loses and pops off so the thing you thought was so important to label is no longer labeled. I clicked out “Dave is Conceited” don’t remember why exactly, just remember I did. Then on this blog for no reason Simply Wondered goes and used “conceit” in a context I’ve never seen and I’m posting about Dave and me eating rhubarb- Well I can see this is terribly boring but never the less I can’t wait to see what pops up next. Monist in one time with expitiation.

  16. Ah the rhubarb patch…
    Fond childhood memories at Shirmoor.
    In addition, the Strawberries of course – that once had a spider in them. Now sparks is not keen on one, two three lots of legs and avoided the plot like the plague there after. Of course, when you are a child if there was one spider then there must be millions – forever.

  17. Expiation, but if you google expitiation, to check your spelling it isn’t a word, but it is serendipitously misspelled by a theology rag as the antithesis to propitiation, specifically applying to sacrifice, sin, and the lord granting pardon for sins or sinning, or something, at any rate- far more insightful and profound than monist/time/expiation, and it was an accident….or not? Davey Jones was clearly the headliner but he’s second stringer to Mickey Dolenz’s “Goin Down”…I knew I should have taken off my shoes….it’s front page new-ews …goin down, goin down…

  18. Spiders eat mosquitoes- that’s all I need to know. Go spiders! Even more- a certain jumping spider prefers malaria filled mosquitoes, gimme an “S”….

  19. No mosquitoes here = not allowed, therefore no need for lots of spiders – jumping *shudder swoon* or other wise. They are okay as long as don’t make their presence known and stay well hidden doing their fine work.

  20. Which brings me to the utterly spectacular performance of Prince, formerly the artist formerly known as prince and merely a symbol that cannot be phonetically conveyed but only drawn and not likely to be included in available fonts, during the superbowl- I almost cried. I did cry. I half thought the rain that poured down on him during his electrifying rendition of “purple rain” and other hits, that the rain would actually turn purple. wow! what an entertainer! On the other hand Cirq Duh Solay, what was that?

  21. There are plenty of spiders here, but no mosquitos, so the spiders-eat-mosquitos theory must be true – the comforting thought in all of this is that there are no poisonous spiders in Britain (as far as I know) – I think occasionally you get the odd tarantula who has hitched a ride in a box of bananas from puerto rico or wherever they come from, but thes are sussed quite quickly before they are able to scurry away to scare “miss muppet eating her tuppets”. (Is that the correct nursery rhyme?)

    However, this leaves me with one baffling question which will irk me for days if I don’t find out – if all the mosquitos have disappeared in Britain (it’s too cold for them anyway) – what diet do brit spiders subsist on?

    I grew up where mosquitos outnumber people by 5 million to one – the summers were unbelievalble if you were unlucky enough to have the air-con break down – you had a choice – no sleep due to sweltering humid heat and/or no sleep due to being eaten alive by the blood-sucking things, which would grow huge with being bloated with blood – lovely.

    Maybe I will google this.

  22. Daisy, just for you…

    Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
    Eating her curds and whey,
    Along came a spider,
    Who sat down beside her
    And frightened Miss Muffet away

    Ya see that’s me!

  23. Simply wonder about the adaptability of the humble Garden Spider that manages a perfectly adequate web in a weightless environment aboard the international space station. Not to keen on the possibility of flies, but who knows what epithelial skin cells get caught and digested as the amazing spider resorbs old web and builds anew?

  24. Some questions/points first to Sparkle – yes, I was sure it was “Miss Muffet” and not Miss Muffin (would not rhyme with “tuffet” anyway) or Miss Muppet (that’s me) – and secondly – what is a “tuffet”? (I feel a google episode coming on).

    Note infidel’s comparison to hanging on a spiderweb to being in a weightless environment – interesting analogy – I picture spacehelmet-wearing 8-legged creepies – – the spider has to eat it’s old web and build a new one as fast as he eats the old one? This sound wrong – it sounds like the same principle as the painting of the golden gate bridge – you finally get to the end, and by that time, the bit you started at the very beginning needs doing again.

    This I will bear in mind next time I walk out first thing in the morning, groggy-eyed and walking straight into a carefully and painstakingly constructed web which has appeared overnight like some silken type of barbed wire barrier, and which ends up on my face an clothes as I walk thru it (hopefull sans spider and it’s bits of trapped dinners).

    I feel a certain sympathy for spiders now – how would we feel after creating a work of art overnight only to have it decimated by some unfocused moron – the piece of art is not just for decoration, it’s the spider’s death trap for feeding itself.

    Google calls.

  25. I wasn’t making an analogy. One of the experiments NASA embarked on was to see how fucked up a spider’s web would be in a weightless environment. The spider kicked ass and astonishingly constructed a perfect web in spite of no gravity to hang.

  26. oh to be a NASA scientist – Iwonder what else they sit around thinking about and then running experiements on?

  27. Electrophoresis takes on a new aspect when your not fighting gravity. Orange juice pulp wouldn’t sink to the bottom of the bottle, nor would isinglassed beer impurities for that matter.

  28. I wonder if a weightless atmosphere would mean your mood does not sink. I must write to NASA. (note to self – more googling – “electrophoresis” and “isinglassed” as pertaining to beer impurities.)

  29. Electrophoresis: Electrophoresis is a method of separating large molecules (e.g. DNA or protein). An electric current is passed through a medium containing the molecules, and each molecule travels at a different rate depending on its electrical charge, size and shape. Separation by electrophoresis is based on these differences. In electrophoresis, agarose and acrylamide gels are used for electrophoresis of proteins and nucleic acids.

    “We did not find any results for ‘isinglassed’ “

  30. Sturgeons bladders turned into a mica like substance called isinglass- when you put it in beer.

  31. must’ve spelled it wrong – how unusual – learn sumthin new every day – now I will try to learn why sturgeons bladders need to be put into beer.

  32. After you learn how sturgeons bladders are used to clarify beer, remove impurities, just try to imagine what would have prompted a medieval fellow or gal to use such a device- it is as wonderful as the decision to eat oysters. Lending credence to the possiblity it was accident or desperation or quite possibly anything other than human intellect or deductive reasoning or inate insight. A bumbling monk, the stuff some situational comedy is made out of. Laugh harder next time you drink a beer, knowing the original beer was a total accident- some jamoke in China thought to make a stew, or was trying to preserve some hops, and literally stumbled onto an alcoholic beverage that left one in a pleasant stupor after imbibing, sharing it with fellow jamokes until the emperor started executing the insubordinate. Thus preserving forever the recipe and the result.

  33. “….just try to imagine what would have prompted a medieval fellow or gal to use such a device- it is as wonderful as the decision to eat oysters”

    2 points to address there – it was no doubt a “fellow” and not a gal – the “gals” wouldv’e been doing the washing up, not the beer creating – no doubt the original guy was the medieval equivalent of homer simpson. And yes, somewhere recently I commented on the french and how somewhere along the line, someone said, (imagine homer s here) – “mmmmmm, slimy crawly snails, mmmmm, dinner” or “mmmmmm slimy slippery frogs -don’t those legs look like tasty snacks for when I watch the (whatever the equivalent of football was in medieval times)”.

    Early on, my first association with the word “oysters” was from my mum, who, when sick with a chest infection (as most children have quite frequently), would describe the expectorant mucous bolii coughed up as “oysters” – she used to try to serve up oysters mixed with shrimp all breaded and deep fried to fool me into eating one, but I knew as soon as I bit into one, even cooked like that, that is was a semi-hardened bolus of mucous. As for eating them raw, don’t even get me started on raw shellfish and food poisoning/hepatitis.

    “….Lending credence to the possiblity it was accident or desperation or quite possibly anything other than human intellect or deductive reasoning or inate insight. A bumbling monk, the stuff some situational comedy is made out of. Laugh harder next time you drink a beer, knowing the original beer was a total accident- ”

    Yes, referrring back to snails and frog legs, probably more a combination of drunkedness and desperation as to the discovery of those two (added to that semi-starvation), but I think a lot of the food that’s been “invented” was an accident of some sort. But really, where would a chinese monk get a sturgeon’s bladder, and why would he just happen to have one on him when he (why again?) manages to stumble into an alcoholic beverage (must have been a very small monk and a very large drink). These musings entertain me and keep me from driving others mad .

    You look at some of that stuff they have to eat on “i”m a celebrity get me outta here” – kangaroos testicles, eye-of-koala, and live creepy crawlies and you think “I have never really been hungry in my whole life” – not really at all!

  34. I fasted one day and my head was pounding, I was weak, my bones moaned, my joints hurt, all cause I sat down with an Indian(from India) on the El and he said, “If you wish to cleanse yourself you must fast one day a week.” No clue why he said this to me, but since it was spontaneous I thought I’d give it a try, and for the next six months I fasted one day a week- Thursday- what’s more, to make it mean something, I did it in honor of Ghandi- the movie had come out that year. It did alot for me, mostly taught me the horror of those people who go without food for whatever reason.

  35. I wonder what it was he thought it was that needed cleansing out of you? Seeing as he said it apropos of nothing.

    Fasting is supposed to be good for you yes,… I am not being flippant, (who me?) but some days I just don’t eat anyway due to lack of interest and money,not necessarily in that order – never did me any harm (faints).

  36. I have never been even close to being without food. I have never taken food for granted, my parents were WWII /Depression exposed and just did things like reusing aluminum foil and saving jars and bags. Strange Strangers are always drawn to me- I’ll be the one the guy at the airport will single out for a donation, an old sailor came up to me in the street with a thousand other people bustling by and screamed at the top of his lungs- like I even understood what he said- he wasn’t looking for a reply, I get pins, flowers, Jehovah’s witness pamplets. One time a little boy, introduced by Manuel or something came in and started reciting Leviticus. The Indian on the Elevated was just another stop along the way. It makes me feel kind of anchored while all these characters are passing through- I don’t do that to others, wouldn’t think of it.

  37. fidel – you will be happy to know this was comment no 666 on there’s a place for us.
    nuff said.

  38. I count 663. Did you nix 3? 37,24,66,11,4,12,102,9,29,10,9,32,9,0(Justice),56,73,0(Storm in a Hijab),5,38,15,7,15,12,24,40,8,12,4.

    Justice, very odd I’d be drawn to a zero there, hmmmm?

  39. To Whom it May concern (as I am not sure just who exactly to address this to) – Just have a good look under the hair on his head – I think you will find what you are looking for (wait til he’s asleep otherwise he’ll rumble you)

  40. Co*% Suc*&$MotherFu*&er. Could ya spare some old change for an alter b0y Fatha? Look what Regan can dooooo Bleeechhh! It BURNS…IT BURNSSS..

  41. Aha – I knew it was you!

  42. Jabez Stone is mine, Daniel Webster, I’ve got the paper right here. He got his part of the bargain, now give the devil his due.
    I’d like to be atop that mountain and tell Mr.Beezlebub to take a hike. To spurn eartlhy delights for the greater ethereal good. Peace on Earth, and Goodwill. Still having a ring of invisibility I would lurk and steal, oh, and I would be a superhero- weeding out evil and corruption.

  43. right: i admit it – i have lost this thread (if ever i had it) and fear it has gone beyond … well other things really. i showed a friend this place of ramblings and she looked baffled and shook her head at me – and this is an intelligent woman who knows me well. ‘hurrah’, say i. thank god for the surreal tendency.

  44. Elephants.

  45. No way. “Let’s go see the Elephant!” Let’s have sex for the first time, let’s look for gold in California as a rookie, let’s get our first taste of battle in war, let’s hail from a rural county in midAmerica and do something exiting and new, “Let’s go see the Elephant!”

  46. SW I am merely doing what I try to do best try to understand, but in reality, I’m just blagging it going witht the flow -every time i’ve trid to work it out, I’m flummoxed again so I dedided to flummox back (sort of ) – don’t worry I don’t think we are meant to understand (on terms of this earthly mind , or on this astral plane I mean -oooohhh!!) my eyes are crossed from tiredness and painkilers (fun!) so will not be making much sense anwyay – just say that it was my turn-ish – to post so took my responsibilitly and honoured it. Ah wtf,,,zzzzzzzzz

  47. …”brother jospehus”…

    ????

  48. Where but here would you read about triptychs and isinglass, missing are the monks and spiders.

    Conservation treatment
    The panel measuring 112 x 78 x 8 cm, would originally have formed one wing of a triptych. It dates to around 1500 and its provenance is Tyrol. The entire object is made of softwood. The polychrome carved panel on what originally would have been the inside of the wing depicts the Nativity scene. The badly damaged panel painting on the outside shows Mocking of Christ. Approximately one quarter of the polychromy on this panel is missing (Figure 1). The bottom right corner of the frame was loose and there was serious movement related to this damage. The pierced panel below the Nativity was also loose.
    There is a record of a conservation treatment dating to 1955. The surviving documentation mentions the treatment of the Nativity only, which was at the time cleaned and consolidated. Overpaint was also removed from the architectural part of the carving. A detailed report on the recent conservation treatment and polychrome identification exists in the Sculpture Conservation files 1 .
    This article summarises the most relevant parts of the treatment of the Mocking of Christ only. The severe flaking of the entire surface was first consolidated with isinglass, using the tissue and heated spatula method. This was the first overall consolidation which enabled safer handling of the panel painting without losing any more flakes. Prior to varnish and dirt removal the second consolidation was carried out, using Primal WS24, an acrylic dispersion, and a heated spatula. The varnish and dirt removal was then started. The best method proved to be softening the very discoloured varnish with a gel (200 ml of ethanol, 50 ml of toluene, 50 ml of water, 10 ml of Ethomeen C25 and 6g of Carbopol ETD 2623). The gel was removed with a mixture of 50% white spirit and 50% ethanol, occasionally a small amount of acetone was added to this mixture. Further consolidation was carried out at this time in areas which required it, using the same consolidant. Where necessary, additional cleaning was done with triammonium citrate (5% in water). This was mainly used to remove or reduce a grey veil found on several areas of deteriorated pigment. These areas are primarily the dark shadows where madder, a red lake, was used in the form of a glaze. Generally, as is common with these types of panel paintings, the more lead white is present in the paint, the better preserved it is. Therefore, the areas of lighter hue are in a better condition than the darker, sometimes more thinly painted, parts of the painting. After consolidation and cleaning the painting was varnished with dammar resin in Shellsol A.

  49. Fidel – you managed the triptych and the isinglass, but forgot the monks and spiders. You even got Ethomeen C25 , triammonium citrate and Carbopol ETD 2623 in there too, which quite frankly, we are bored with hearing about. More technical stuff please – or, an essay about a monk and an arachnoid.

  50. Once upon a time, in a land long long ago there lived a monk and a spider ….

  51. …it was the second epoch of Isinglass. The world had been engulfed in a gelatinous goo. Mara, who looked alot like Sigourny Weaver, had some knowledge of isinglass because like Sigourny Weaver’s part in GhostBusters II, she worked on restoring old art. The ethomeen C25 had just been spilled on the floor and when she bent to pick up the vial she spotted sandals. Her eyes drew up the portly monks frame and was met with a round jovial face flushed with exitement.
    “I just found my sturgeons bladder and I’m ready to clarify the beer” Brother Jospehus blurted. He had been sampling the cloudy brew he called beer and Mara had earlier told him if he found a sturgeons bladder, she could make his digestive problems go away. But the smell of the fish and the ethomeen had started to overcome her and she uttered, “Brrr-oth-errr Josss puh hutt” and collapsed against his robe grabbing the rope he used for a belt as she fell…

  52. Sarmorrow, I could’ve written that, substituting the word spider for arachnoid – really, elaborate please!

    Fido – where did S Weaver find the bladder? Can you get off your face with ethomeen and fish vapours? If so, I will have to try this. Getting off my face is one of my few talents.

    I am worried at how you left us hanging, so to speak, with Sigourny “accidentally” grabbing the monk’s belt – uh oh, can see where this is leading……

    I am hoping Brother Josephus is not left feeling too drafty after the swoooning Mara tried to save herself with his ropey belt. Gawd.

    Fido, are you by any chance in a comedy duo called mighty boosch??

    ps – you still haven’t got that spider included in your epic – but I have a feeling that is being dealt with as I type…..

  53. …hanging there between the monks legs Mara thought she glimpsed the coveted “Spider Diamond” of legend and she slipped away into the nightmare that is:
    “The Legend of the Rare Blue Spider Diamond ”

    -cue the organ

    Through vaseline lens we see Mara in a loin cloth cowering down a dimly lit cavern, torch in hand. The walls are wet and the ceiling drips from the ancient stalagtites into shallow pools making echoed plops in concert with her heavy breath and timid footfalls. Plop op op, plop op op, swish ish ish, swish ish ish, Plop op op, breath eth eth, plop op op, ish ish eth…

  54. ***Applause***

    (on the other hand, is your name Dan Brown?)

    Can you follow that sarmorrow?

  55. ps – try to incorporate some rhubarb in there next time – perhaps a re-draft?

  56. Through vaseline lens we see Mara in a loin cloth and sporting a rhubarb headress, cowering down a dimly lit cavern, torch in hand. The walls are wet and the ceiling drips from the ancient stalagtites into shallow pools making echoed plops in concert with her heavy breath and timid footfalls. There, at the end of the cavern, on a sill hewn from the rock, a shrouded mystery awaited her quest. Beside the opening a convenient hole made a quick sconce of her torch. As she pulled back the shroud she recognized Belleanees masterful trademark, marble so delicately carved as to make the rhubarb foliage translucent- isinglass from stone she used to think during her training at the convent. The panels of the triptych opened effortlessly and silently to reveal three magnificently carved scenes in relief of the Tridgean wars and there in the center of the center panel gleamed the rare “Blue Spider Diamond”

    -cue the organ

  57. I know, I know, but what do you want, a frigg’n sturgeon flopping around on the cave floor??

  58. I suggest that what happened – how the bladder was found is this: a sturgeon was imported by the head monk (forget what you call these – “father superior”) to have for his special dinner, which Mara had deftly picked up and hidden under her loin cloth whilst stealthily creeping thru the kitchen, whilst on her way to see the monk reputed to be the holder of the elusive Blue Diamond Spider, saw the stugeon and immediately recognised that it was exactly what she needed to help brother jo with his digestive ailments, deftly extricated the bladder with her swiss army knife, and threw the rest of the sturgeon into one of the shallow pools under one of the stalagtites – no time to waste with trying to find a better hiding place (she did not realise the full significance of thie sturgeon – friar superior was givning a honorary dinner that nite for the “secret society of the Blue diamond Spider” , which only happnes once a year – the invitation only hinted at the possibility that the actual BDS may have been very close to being discovered, and the sturgeon was to be prepared specially by chef, stuffed with peacock eggs, rare spices and some old taramasalata that needed eating that he thought would not be sussed) – he also wanted to use some rhubarb, but this too proved a fruitless quest to find.

    This is how Mara came to find the sturgeon! (I didnt want to say and ruin it for some)

    She was amazed to not only find the sturgeon’s bladder, but a lush bush of rhubard screening the Elusive Blue diamonod Spider – the web was spun from blue diamonds of course!

  59. So, see, no need for a floppy sturgeon – writers find ways round these problems – althtough a floppy one may be written into the next chapter, as father superior will be going ballistic when he discovers his rare sturgeon was replaced in a last minute panic by the chef, with a carp he bought off the ” day-old” fish monger.

    So, special honorary dinner may have to be held again!

  60. That fish monger was none other than the famous master of deductive reasoning himself, master of disquise and slave to a twenty per cent solution- Sherlock Holmes!, but I digress…

  61. Meanwhile back at 21 Baker street:
    “Mind you, mister ‘olms, its not me break’n the blather bout your fish stink’n of late- tis the neighbors, bless me Mr.’olms tis the whole bleed’n neighborhood! They’ve all been inquir’n ’bout how you’ve gone and rapped yourself down a full two tiers in your stature, and some are even say’n, not that I put stock in it, that you’ve actually hit the landing, and be smelling of all the wiped shoes there.”

  62. oh lord

  63. sherlock holmes did an especially convincing fishmonger, specialising in carp and pickled herrings – but….. in reality…the twist in this is that Mara was really holmes’ loyal and faithful assistant, none other than watson himself. You don’ think holmes would have entrusted anyone else do you? -Particularly as watson was renowned (amongst a chosen few trusted friends) to wear a loin cloth like no other on earth, not even tarzan or raquel welch. He was a stunner in a loin so was perfect for this subterfuge bit of acting,

    The neighbours smelling the foulness of the day-old fish only added to the convincingness of the deciet, as for him smelling of the wiped shoes, well, don’t know about his neighbourhood, but if it had been mine, theywould have smelled of a mixture of hot tar, vomit, old joints, stale beer, and poodle shit.

    Yes, Holmes conveniently being there with a substitute carp – I should have seen this coming.

  64. When she awoke, (remember the vaseline lense{it was from that point on- a dream} or was it???), it was upon the lord Privy’s bed. The high canopy made her feel a bit of vertigo as did the poof softness of the feathered mattress. Everything was so clean, all the cleaner when juxtaposed against the presence of her prior being, for when she wasn’t being wafted through corridors or tunnels, brick or bushey mazes in the blurry haze of a dream, she was herself particularly immaculate. She dealt with specks as small as mites, often her eyes saw only magnified vistas. Her talents as a restorer of ancient artifacts had brought her here to the enclave of the Bastion Brotherhood, a monastery dedicated to the preservation of the time before the first Isinglass epoch, when fish were plentiful and head monks and monkeys ate alike.

  65. Peter Tosh and Michael Nesmith were late and attempted to take their seat anonomously at the grand table, but having notice their entrance, and having the full attention of all assembled, Davey Jones, in his most regal manner, bowed deeply towards them to the titters of the assembled, then raised his glass, bellowing, “And now let us all rise and honor Friar Superior who, as we know, without whom, this gathering together for the commencement of the third enlightenment of ‘the Secret Society of the Blue Diamond Spider’ could never have commenced.”
    With that, an ovation ensued and as it subsided a man of large stature akin to Paul Bunyan, who required a special seat at the table, made his way into the room from the ante room past the great doors and the between the two Knights in shining armor to the podium. Davey had strategically taken his seat next to Mara and was making his best effort to woo when Paul started in.
    “Regards to the Bastion Brotherhood!”
    Ovation
    “This evening I wish to tell you a story of freedom!”
    Ovation
    “Freedom and sacrifice!”
    Ovation
    “I’m not going to give you false hope!”
    Ovation
    “I’m not going to paint you pictures of pettycoats and pixie dust!”
    Ovation
    ….

  66. I never plagiarise other’s work of course.

    So, having dealt with the small mite-sized specks, in the obsessive-complusive manner that she did normally, and realising that perhaps her recent memory was a dream, looking also for the vaseline, she also realised that if indeed, the whole memory was really a long dream, this, horrifyingly might mean that she was victoria principle!

    As Mara/Watson was OCD-ing more minute specks off of his/her dirty smudged skin, a cowled monk entered the room thru the heavily-hinged, heavyily-beamed door. Crrrrrreeeeeeekkkkk …….went his knees as he knelt down on the damp stone mouldy floor. His presence seemed sinister, yet somehow protective.

    He held in his hand a strange looking implement – and no don’t be thinking that – It had a handle and lots of stringy bits hanging down.

    He proceeded (god this is now sounding like a police report) to strip from the waist up – Mara/Watson gasped in horror – his back looked like the map of the motorway system in the UK – he then proceeded to take (she now knew it was a whip of some sort) the implement and fling it back onto his back – WHACK! WHACK! – she saw the blood, she could not see the pain on his face, but if she could have, she would have seen not pain, but raptured orgasmic joy!

    He stopped, turned to her and said “Care for a bit of opus dei my sweet? It’s just the thing for recovering from a bad dream” – he looked very intently at him/her as he said this, menacingly almost she thought.

    She faltered – then said “sod that for a laugh, I’m off to t’pub me old china”

    He replied “you will be punished in other ways my child” ….to which he/she turned around defiantly, looked at him straight into his black fathomless eyes, and said “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn”.

    (Rather proud of that last original retort).

  67. Realising that she/he had spoken in some sort of yorkshire dialect, she/he did not know whether to be relieved that she/he was neither victoria principle nor docor watson, but then realised she/he may be experiencing some sort of “speaking in tongues” ……. perhaps she/he should have had the self-flagellation after all – this could have brought him/her to his/her senses completely….but this thought only stayed with him/her for a moment …. micro-specks on his/her immaculately maintained body were bad enough, but a stripey/scarred back? Vanity kicked in and he/she was reassured that he/she still had some tiny shreds of evidence locked away in his/her brain that he/she had not dreamt anything after all!

  68. Mara(Watson), turned to Davey and told him straight up he was in drag and had just had an “encounter” and was not interested in hearing the latest song he’s plagerized, with consent, from Neal Diamond, that the only diamond, in fact, that she is interested in, at the moment, is of a “blue spider” variety, and would he please shut the f*&$ up!

  69. Mara/Watson had rushed in a frenzy up to the banquet of course…..he/she had quickly recovered her/his memory and composure from dream(?) and the self-flagellating monk, had rushed up the stairs, only to encounter an even more horrific scene – Davey Jones, and Mike Nesmith (who STILL had that hat!) …even worse, Davey, the oldest swinger in t’village was trying to chat ‘er/him up!! She /he smiled sweetly, but thought to her/himself “ugh…an old hairy monkey”….however, she/he was willing to put up with this, even the toasting of some silly brotherhood or other, as he/she eyed the table…… she/he realised that he/she had not eaten for at least an hour….the last meal may have even been dreamt food….holmes had unknowingly, by using his fishmonger disguise so convincingly, had given watson a semi-addiction to those stringy pre-shaped crab finger errr..thingies, and he/she eyed the table voraciously. Sadly, all he/she could see were cheese and pineapple on sticks, crisps, and ferrero roche’. She/he looked for some sort of ambassador to obtain permision to begin eating the ferreros, but the only person who even looked authoritarian was him/herself, so he/she wolfed them down without asking. The were a poor second to the stringy crab sticks and for that matter, dairylea triangles, which she/he was also hoping to see laid on the table.

    Drinks consisted of cloudy beer, and lucozade.

  70. She/he was too hungry to think about the blue diamond – she/he wondered, thinking about musicians and songwriters attending the banquet, whether this was a clue to the whereabouts, indeed, the real name of the Blue Diamond Spider – he/she remembered the fish connection also (sturgeon) and suddenly a light bulb went off in his/her head! Yes!!! He/She had found a secret meeting/gathering of the Blue Oyster Cult!

  71. my head hurts….

  72. ..Mr Bunyan continued
    “A wise man once told me if you want to catch worms you might get a little muddy!”
    Ovation
    “And a Rolling Stone gathers no moss!”
    Ovation
    “Instead of group healthcare provided to you, in part, by your employers, we will modify the tax code and make sure you are refunded an amount equal to the premiums on a simlilar type coverage plan from any one of six designated insurance companies that are on board with this initiative!”
    Ovation
    “The economy is strong!”
    Ovation
    “We have made great strides in the past five years!”
    Ovation
    “We have stunned the world with our seven part World Order Dictate!”
    silence
    “Uh. I meant six.”
    still silence
    Then murmmer.
    Then Micky Dolenz jumped to the podium, grabbed the head monks cape, curling it up into his chest and carried his body weight straight through Paul Bunyans’ . Off the stage they tumbled and as suddenly an enraged bull plowed throught the great doors impaling one of the armored guards while snorting great clumps, or oysters, of mucus out of its snout.
    Everyone was up at this point, scrambling for the doors but for Mara(Watson{Victoria[bazoozoo]}). It just sat calm as the sea at sunset on a sandy beach somewhere in the Solomon islands during a September snowstorm in Saskatoon. Calmer even than a spider, waiting for the prey to fail its own defence and blunder into the trap.

  73. …. what happened next happened very quickly – there was much confusion in the aftermath of the bunyan/dolenz incident – the raging bull rampaging thru the great hallway had taken everyone so much by surprise that they did not realise that it was just a metaphor – it was really sly stallone wanting to defend his country’s honour. Metaphor or not, the damage was too obvious. Sly was angry that Bunyan had forgotten to include the saying “if you want to make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs”. This was one of sly’s favourite homepsun sayings, and used it all the time – he did think that Forrest Gump had made it up somewhere along the lines, but of course we all know this is wrong, it was actally Abraham Lincoln (or may have been Jackie Collins)- (Sly’s only points of reference were movies, hence he always thought that everything in the universe originated from a film somewhere somehow – he lived in fantasy land most of the time – I digress).

    Watson, although showing his usual calm exterior, was a shaking mass of jelly internally (too much dodgy trifle eaten too fast – still didn’t manage to find any crab sticks alas) and the fear made him puke all over the huge tray of moussaka – in the confusion, no one noticed the difference (the chef had a certain reputation anyway for inventive sauces), and carried on eating. Many were too bladdered (there’s that word again) to notice rampaging bull and men rolling around on the floor -besides, it was a great huge hall, so large that one end was in Somerset, the other in Oxfordshire, so was easy to miss goings on if you were placed too far away from the other end – the waiters had to wear roller skates, well, the master bought them some of those new trainers with skiddy low wheels – the master was quite trendy like that.

    The chef, who had heard the commotion, ran from the kitchen (or should I say skate/skidded), saw the great masses of the oysters that the snorting bull had expelled, and thougth on his feet, seein a golden opportunity to save on the housekeeping/food budget, and seizing a new recipe idea! “ooh arr, those globs will make a fittin feast for the master on the morrow -will do a right treat for his hangover, roll ’em in a bit of egg and sum breadcrumbs, and fry up the beauties – eh voila! Garnished with summma dat luvvly muddy grass the bull dragged in, and rhubarb crumble, with happy shopper custard for afters, me job’s already half done fer tamorree!”

  74. Tried submitting this a few hours ago – did not seem to go – so, edited and trying again – apols for any duplication mr blog-master!

    the story continues…. what happened next happened very quickly – there was much confusion in the aftermath of the bunyan/dolenz incident – the raging bull rampaging thru the great hallway had taken everyone so much by surprise that they did not realise that it was just a metaphor – it was really sly stallone wanting to defend his country’s honour. Metaphor or not, the damage was too obvious. Food, crockery, and cutlery had gone flying everywhere. Sly had gate-crashes as he was angry that Bunyan had forgotten to include the saying “if you want to make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs”. This was one of sly’s favourite homepsun sayings, and used it all the time – he did think that Forrest Gump had made it up somewhere along the lines, but of course we all know this is wrong, it was actually Abraham Lincoln (or may have been Jackie Collins)- (Sly’s only points of reference were movies, hence he always thought that everything in the universe originated from a film somewhere somehow – he lived in fantasy land most of the time – I digress).

    Watson, although showing his usual calm exterior, was a shaking mass of jelly internally (too much dodgy trifle eaten too fast – still didn’t manage to find any crab sticks alas) and the fear induced a projectile vomiting episode all over the huge tray of moussaka – in the confusion, no one noticed the difference (the chef had a certain reputation anyway for the inventive and “creative” use of “alternative” ingredients for sauces and other dishes- in an effort to save money and appease the scrooge-like master – read further), and the guests just merrily carried on eating, thinking they would soon be one of the elite who had actually seen the mythical and much sought-after Blue Diamond Spider (even though they had named their secret group after a blue shellfish in order to confuse their rivals).

    Many were too bladdered (there’s that word again) to notice rampaging bull and men rolling around on the floor -besides, it was a great huge hall, so large that one end was in Somerset, the other in Oxfordshire, so was easy to miss goings on if you were placed too far away from the other end – the waiters had to wear roller skates, well, the master bought them some of those new trainers with skiddy low wheels – the master was quite trendy like that – he loved to impress his guests- he was miserly in other ways however.

    The chef, who had heard the commotion, ran from the kitchen (or should I say skate/skidded), saw the great masses of the “oysters” that the snorting bull had expelled, and thought quickly on his feet/skates, seeing a golden opportunity to save on the housekeeping/food budget, and seizing a new recipe idea! “ooh arr, those globs will make a fittin feast for the master on the morrow -will do a right treat for his hangover, roll ’em in a bit of egg and sum breadcrumbs, and fry up the beauties – eh voila! Garnished with summma dat luvvly muddy grass the bull dragged in, and rhubarb crumble, with happy shopper custard for afters, me job’s already half done fer tamorree – no one’ll be the wiserrr – oohh arrrrrr!”

    (footnote – tamorroee is not the same as “tamari” which is a Japanese pure soya sauce- even our chef knew that.)

    The chef, normally who kept a clear head in crises situations, this time did confuse the bull-expectorated globules as leftover “oysters” that had flown from the table in the kerfuffle of Bunyan/Dolenz, (Oysters being served as a tribute and acknowledgement to the name of the group – Blue Oyster Cult).

    He noted that Mike Nesmiths hat had come off, for the first time EVER since Nesmith had been born, and recoiled in horror with what he saw……

  75. OK-wordpress is acting up – looks like there will be 2 similar posts – sw can you please delete the first unedited one?

  76. Well that one just now went ok – what’s going on?

  77. sorry for the prolonged silence – i’ve just been down the publishers with this manuscript and they want 28 chapters of the same and they are paying me (as your agent naturally) a huge advance, of which you can have a small portion; so, write, slaves!

  78. All yours all in a place for us…
    The big blue ox had shook loose the tattered and bloodied metal shell of an officer of the grand guard and had cornered Micky, nodding jerkily and pawing, with stomps, the hardwood floor.
    “Babe?” queeried Mara(Watson{Victoria[bazoozoo]}) gently, “doncha wanna see da widdle cupie oopie?” and she pulled from her/his/its bodice a barbie sized “Girl from Iipaneema” doll and started coooing in her best Astrud Gilberto voice the song “Girl from ipanema”
    At that the Babe’s tongue fell out and his tail started wagging. There was a light of delight in his eyes and it was clear Micky was no longer any part of his world. Like a drunken acrophobic climbing the stairway to heaven, Babe, in a trance inched towards Mara and the doll she was making dance in little cute tilty hops.

  79. What happpend to the long post (errrer chapter )I wrote earlier? I think it went in your spam box? I still have it but it was in sequence to infidel’s post before this last one. Wil ltry again –

  80. …. what happened next happened very quickly – there was much confusion in the aftermath of the bunyan/dolenz incident – the raging bull rampaging thru the great hallway had taken everyone so much by surprise that they did not realise that it was just a metaphor – it was really sly stallone wanting to defend his country’s honour. Metaphor or not, the damage was too obvious. Food, crockery, and cutlery had gone flying everywhere. Sly had gate-crashes as he was angry that Bunyan had forgotten to include the saying “if you want to make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs”. This was one of sly’s favourite homepsun sayings, and used it all the time – he did think that Forrest Gump had made it up somewhere along the lines, but of course we all know this is wrong, it was actually Abraham Lincoln (or may have been Jackie Collins)- (Sly’s only points of reference were movies, hence he always thought that everything in the universe originated from a film somewhere somehow – he lived in fantasy land most of the time – I digress).

    Watson, although showing his usual calm exterior, was a shaking mass of jelly internally (too much dodgy trifle eaten too fast – still didn’t manage to find any crab sticks alas) and the fear induced a projectile vomiting episode all over the huge tray of moussaka – in the confusion, no one noticed the difference (the chef had a certain reputation anyway for the inventive and “creative” use of “alternative” ingredients for sauces and other dishes- in an effort to save money and appease the scrooge-like master – read further), and the guests just merrily carried on eating, thinking they would soon be one of the elite who had actually seen the mythical and much sought-after Blue Diamond Spider (even though they had named their secret group after a blue shellfish in order to confuse their rivals).

    Many were too bladdered (there’s that word again) to notice rampaging bull and men rolling around on the floor -besides, it was a great huge hall, so large that one end was in Somerset, the other in Oxfordshire, so was easy to miss goings on if you were placed too far away from the other end – the waiters had to wear roller skates, well, the master bought them some of those new trainers with skiddy low wheels – the master was quite trendy like that – he loved to impress his guests- he was miserly in other ways however.

    The chef, who had heard the commotion, ran from the kitchen (or should I say skate/skidded), saw the great masses of the “oysters” that the snorting bull had expelled, and thought quickly on his feet/skates, seeing a golden opportunity to save on the housekeeping/food budget, and seizing a new recipe idea! “ooh arr, those globs will make a fittin feast for the master on the morrow -will do a right treat for his hangover, roll ’em in a bit of egg and sum breadcrumbs, and fry up the beauties – eh voila! Garnished with summma dat luvvly muddy grass the bull dragged in, and rhubarb crumble, with happy shopper custard for afters, me job’s already half done fer tamorree – no one’ll be the wiserrr – oohh arrrrrr!”

    (footnote – tamorroee is not the same as “tamari” which is a Japanese pure soya sauce- even our chef knew that.)

    The chef, normally who kept a clear head in crises situations, this time did confuse the bull-expectorated globules as leftover “oysters” that had flown from the table in the kerfuffle of Bunyan/Dolenz, (Oysters being served as a tribute and acknowledgement to the name of the group – Blue Oyster Cult).

    He noted that Mike Nesmiths hat had come off, for the first time EVER since Nesmith had been born, and recoiled in horror with what he saw……

  81. I am writing as instructed, but they are not being accepted – have I been blocked? does this blog have some sort of “weirdness” detector? In which case infidel should have been blocked ages ago – get the tech probs sorted asap mr agent!

  82. [audio src="http://ctijazz.com/getz_gilberto-stan_getz_and_joao_gilberto/01.mp3" /]

  83. Wow, I have just witnessed the beginning of the universe I think – does steven hawking know about this? and is this the universe my 3-times attempted posts disappeared into? (If so, I didn’t see them 😦

  84. righty ho

  85. …Micky meantime has picked up a piece of armor and has managed a makeshift ride symbol to Mara’s song. This totally flattens the dumb blue animal who tries to do a stutter step kind of samba in sync with the still hopping Barbie and ends up in the abandoned sturgeon/ ne carp.
    “Come on Watson, let’s go!”
    “There was cheese and pineapple on sticks, crisps, and ferrero roche’, but there were no salad forks and the wine was a Cabernet.”
    So Mara, who I really, really, wanted to be a kind of Sigourny Weaver but Daisy, you, must have your Watson, and anyway what’s a Holmes without a Watson, a Paul Bunyan without a Babe, a..
    “It’s such a relief, Holmes, to be rid of those clothes and be back in my comfy, there’s just one thing I don’t understand.”
    “Oh, Watson.”
    “During the fracass with the Friar Superior I couldn’t help feeling there was something strange about the food.”
    “Quite brilliant, Watson, Please go on. Your faculties of deduction are far superior to what they were some years ago when you first took lodging here after your ordeal in the Crimea. It tickles me to see them develop so steadily. A doctors predisposition I attribute it to. But prey, good doctor, go on.”

  86. “There was cheese and pineapple on sticks, crisps, and ferrero roche’, but there were no salad forks and the wine was a Cabernet.”

  87. There is something strange about the food.

  88. DAISY! DON’T EAT THE….

  89. wooah! i am some sort of techno god – it’s sorted. don’t know why, but the machine thought they the comments were spam. i wrestled with it, slew the gorgon and bring you its metaphorical head – no don’t look…oh dear…sorry.
    my bill (it’s all in the contract) will be with your estate soon, with flowers.

  90. Thank you sw – I did say it probably went into your spam err……thingy.

    Oh dear, it may be out of sequence now, but hell, the only ones who have any faint or remote sense of continuity is Fidel and moi – it’s all nonsensical silliness anyway – I understand mine, and Fidel understands his and hey, if anyone happens by chance to be entertained, then that’s a uuhhhhh…. bonus.

    Fidel – you do not need salad forks for cheese and pineapple on sticks or ferrero roche’ (god after the years of seeing those ads, you would think I would be certain of it’s spelling but I’m not).
    SW – when you send those flowers, make sure there are some daisies amongst the other dead ones.

    Uh oh, the flow has been interrupted – I have writer’s block – I will have to re-read previous entries – I may be some time.

  91. SW – your blog does not like me! Just sent another one and it blanked me (this happens a lot with people in real life).

    You are the techno-god!!!!!! Make your blog love me again please.

    I must go and read some more dan brown and some stephen king for inspiration.

  92. Watson had correctly deduced that there was something not quite right about the food – he was aware that the “bechamel” on top of the moussaka was his own “little britain” type lunch from a few hours ago. He was aware that you never EVER serve cabernet with crisps or cheese and pineapple, he was trying to work out what the salad forks were for, (besides being tools for volumising your hair), …..and suddenly, it came to him ……. the chef had cheated and gone to Marks and Sparks!!! The master would not be happy that he had frivolated the food budget in such a cavalier manner – how was the master to know the chef had panicked when he heard an emergency dinner/meeting had been called for the Blue Oyster Cult? How could the master understand the pressure and stress this had put the already-overworked chef under? The master would soon find out – Watson would not tell of course, but the tell-tale plastic microwave containers would soon spill the beans (literally) – the friar-master -superior would have a fitting punishment indeedy for the chef………it’s almost too much to bear thinking about………

  93. The chef meanwhile, was far too distracted to have noticed that the microwave-containered food was speaking volumes about the fact that he had not had any hand whatsoever in assembling the culinary offerings (except to go shopping and also run the microwave a few times). He was far too traumatised, having seen that, not only was the bull NOT sly stallone after all, but the pet oxen of the mythical, yet iconic, lumberjack Bunyan (no, not bunion). However, it did become apparent that the oxen had morphed into a bizarre hybrid of stallone and the original horned best friend of Bunyan the Lumberjack. He had not time to dwell on this except for a micro-second, as his brain jolted him back to the horrific image of M Nesmith with his hat!

    Nesmith had collapsed into a heap – he was rather like Samson after his hair had been chopped off – powerless – not a muscle in his body would respond – he had become a crumbled blob – his hat was just beyond his reach, and his non-responding body could not recover his source of power. Who would help? But it was too late – had anyone else besides the chef seen what the hat had hidden all of these years?……which was……..OMG!

  94. “666”
    Mike Nesmith- the antiChrist. Well not actually “THE” antiChrist, but the ancestor of the antiChrist. Everyone in the brotherhood sported the mark, Mike’s stood out because of his bald spot and long hair- the other monks had the obligatory circle of hair that resembled Ceasars crown of laurel leaves or some such but their marks were invariably obscured by the sparse hair and never in the shiney absence as Mike’s was.
    When the chef did see the mark it came as a suprise to him as a fan of the Monkees, he had thought this event was just a regular gig for them and never imagined them to be brothers.

  95. …for as horrific as the image of MN was to the chef his Elephant Parts was stellar.

  96. Mickey Dolenz and Davey Jones had, by this time, recovered enough from the Babe/Stallone/Bunyan/Raging Bull fracas to note what had transpired with Nesmith and Chef. The looks on both Nesmith’s and Chef’s faces were one of horrific realisation – from different perspectives, Nesmith because the secret of what lay under the hat had been revealed (but, it was not what it seemed – more later), and Chef’s look of course thinking he had met the son of Beelzebub, and that this group was in reality, some sort of Oyster eating devil cult.

    Dolenz and Jones acted quickly – there was no time to shilly-shally – Dolenz leaped up on the table like a giant frog over the now-exhausted Babe, Jones quickly followed (Jones was a bit like that, never taking the initiative and being just generally useless when it came to thinking on his feet – well, thinking at all).

    Dolenz ran quickly, traipsing thru the saucy moussaka and pineapple bits, mixing them together and creating yet another new recipe suggestion (the other guests still carried on eating, thinking that this was all part of the “ceremonial proceedings” and just jolly good japes really – meanwhile, Bunyan was still trying to inspire everyone with his special “sayings” and poetry recital- the guy was a determined enthusiast – fanatic more like?) and reached the Somerset end of the Great Blue Oyster Hall with Jones not far behind, thought for a spit-second and prioritised the Nesmith/Chef situation as thus – get the hat back on the head first – damage limitation – and also, he made the decision, well, there was no choice really, to take the Chef to one side and reveal the true nature of what he had seen.

    This is what he had to tell Chef – Nesmith’s had originally had been used to cover his blonde roots (mixed with salt and pepper gray) – he had known that being blonde would do jack for his career, and besides, the Monkees (the name Monkee is significant, but more on that later) already had a “blonde ditzy one” (name escapes me – he was good at acting ditzy and flipping his blonde hair around – it was always having to be combed back into perfect shape after each head-flipping take on the set) anyway….. so the hat-wearing trademark by Nesmith was born because, quite frankly, it was labour-intensive and time-consuming to keep touching up those damned blonde roots all the effing time – being a Monkee was high-maintenance – it was hard work, not just working on the bad miming, but keeping that special Monkee “look” polished at all times. It was only when the male-pattern baldness began, that he noticed the strange marking appearing slowly, and over the next few years the realization dawned on him.

    He had read, quite by “accident” of this strange secretive cult which no one was actually sure really existed – there were rumours of their secret handshakes when, for example, one of “them” met another “one” they suspected was a special “chosen” one, and was not sure if the other one was one, out comes the secret-handshake to confirm that yes, the other one was a special “chosen” one too. There were rumours of dark, sinister, clandestine meetings where new initiates had to be tattooed with special markings, there was evidence of what was thought as hairdressing sessions, they had to swear allegiance to some “higher power” and the rumours of shirt-ripping, breast-beating and kneeling with head hung low in humility and servitude, toes being cut off, stupid tasks being given to have to “prove” your dedication, or just to make an idiot of you (such as, “hey Mick, go down the DIY and get us some tartan paint, a rung-less ladder, and and a rubber hammer with glass nails – smirk, snort, subdued laughter).

    There were, at the time when the hair was shedding, strange (in hindsight) coincidences for Nesmith ( Dolenz did not elaborate on these – no time) – eventually resulting in him realizing, that he was the new incarnation of the Master of the Secret Order of the Blue Oyster Cult, whose sole mission was to keep searching for the Blue Diamond Spider! The marking on his head was not 666, but looking at it upsidey-downey-…of course! 999 – also the number of the emergency services in England UK!!

    It was all clear now – the tattooing rumours , the weird tell-tale hair found on the floor after meetings in various places – most members were not naturally monk-coiffed and none of them had the 999 mark as a natural marking from birth, so tattooists had to be used, and heads shaved in a precise pattern – Nesmith’s own hair and marking was as Mother Nature had bestowed!! It was truly awesome to behold.

    When word spread like wildfire thru the secret network that – Hark! the Highest of High Most Supreme Highness Monk had been found – he was formally crowned in a special ceremony as “His Grace Lord Very Sir Lord Michael Nesmith, Supreme Monk On High, Order Of The Righteous Astral Blue Oyster Cult the Ambidexterous of Barton in the Beans” – otherwise known as “Imperial Majesty Michael Nesmith Supreme Monk the Inexorable of Hopton Goosnargh, of Oxford and Cambridge Holiness On High” ……. (they were called Monks, hence the significance of being in group called the “Monkees”) He was instantly given a special fur-lined floor-length cape, a crown (which they borrowed from the queen), and a jeweled scepter –he sat Pope-like and somber, residing at all meetings (mostly, unless invited to the Great Hall of the Blue Oyster- in which case remained incognito). Dolenz could have droned on and on about other details in his explanation to Chef about his mistaken assessment of Nesmiths bald marked head, but did not have time.

    Chef was trying to take this all in…he was relieved that he had not stumbled upon the sign of the beast….as he processed all of this visual and verbal information, the realization came, that the Master of the Great Hall of the Blue Oyster would not only suss the Marks and Sparks food and his extravagant piss-taking of the food budget, but that he would be punished forthwith for this and when the Master became angry, he was very imaginative in his “disciplining procedures” – (Chef had subconsciously noted the pineapple/mousakka combo for future ref, and also thought that the addition of rhubarb to this new recipe suggestion would be delicious too).

    Now, the author is off to take a nurofen, and ring her psychiatrist (not in that order). She has no idea if this “chapter” makes any sort of sense whatsoever, indeed if it did, she would section herself.

  97. ….”its all starting to make some sense”, uttered Watson under his breath, “Holmes! I know where the Blue Spider Diamond is.”
    Holmes had crept to the door and motioned to Watson to keep conversation going.
    “…ahem…uh…yes quite….as I was saying Holmes, the key to the quest of the blue spider…”
    The door was flung wide and into the humble flat tumbled Mrs.Turner, the lady who sold 21Baker street to Holmes and who had proved to be such a superfluous landlady promting the return of Mrs.Hudson(Martha) the original owner.
    “By jivy its you, Mrs.Turner” Holmes retorted
    “Right ya are, Mr. ‘Olmes, ya snow nosed addi and blighted spuds tha twit of a sawbones roomy a yurs tew.”
    “You’ve been missing your script again haven’t you Mrs.Turner?” offered Watson, who, in a gesture of kindness had just months ago done the favor at Mrs.Hudson’s request, of looking into the craggy old spinsters disposition. “You know how you get Mrs.Turner.”
    “So ya think ya’ve found er, ave ya, doctor high and mighty? Ya think ya found tha BlewSpidyD at that? Well I’ve somethin ta tell ya both, and ya better listen. You’ll nay twit tha noddle fif yer neeps a’dune be tog!”
    Holmes and Watson looked quizically at one another and started to laugh. This so enraged Mrs.Turner that at the top of her lungs well into her flight to, through, and out the window and down to the street below, she was screaming, “HEY,HEY, WITH THA MONKEES!”

  98. Watson thougth he knew for certain alright where the Blue Diamond Spider had lain hidden all these years, Mrs Turner was sure she knew too (she gave a slight clue as she exited for the high street via the 3rd floor window and gracefully floated down, her long billowy skirts acting as a sort of parachute and bellowing the theme tune to “the Monkees”)

    When she landed softly on her tippy-toes, looking somewhat liket the dancing hipppos in “Fantasia”(she even used the opportunity to do an arabesque en pointe) , she shouted back up to the astonished Watson and Holmes “Yer laups bin sarled inta a’wantin me krupes” – again, they looked at each other quizzically – but Watson recognised it although he did not completely understand it – it was the language of the Secret Order of Righteous Astral Blue Oyster Monks On High of Barton on the Beans!! He was not sure, but he thought she may have said outright the location of the elusive Blue Spider Diamond –
    she did, but what did she say? and…. was she right?

    Just to the right, from around the corner, a crumbled hunched and somewhat scruffy figure approached…….”‘scuse me ma’am, could I have a moment of your time, I couldn’t help overhearing what you said – my name is Columbo, detective Columbo……..

  99. His hand went to his forehead and his thumb and forefinger bounded the severely knitting brows. It looked to a casual observer like he had a terrible headache and although he looked unfocused and suffering nothing could be farther from the truth.
    …”ah, pardon me for asking maam, but maybe you can help me understand something that’s been bothering me.”
    “Oy take tu tha ally, ya blighter, an gi’mee ny right a way, for I ring yore dingle an yur sang’n saprano spagghetti man.”

  100. “…ah, It won’t take a second maam, It just bothers me, ah, you would’t happen to have the time would you maam, never mind, you see my wife’s gotta have front row tickets when she goes to the ballet, gotta have ’em. Now me, I’m happy to just be there, with the music, the people, but for some reason she’s gotta be in the front row. She;s just that way, like my dog Max, if I don’t put his bowl in the corner of the kitchen he won’t eat. Same food. Makes no sense to me, but there it is, won’t eat a bite unless its in the corner. Which brings me to this problem I’ve got, maybe you can help me with…

  101. As Jung might say, “Isn’t active imagination a wonderful and powerful thing.”

    Active imagination, in Jung’s analytical psychology, is a term of art, and describes the activity we engage in when we attempt to interact with the productions and images cast up from the unconscious. They mean something, they’re always pertinent, however in code they may seem.

    It’s all related. The image that comes to mind for me is the way light curves through the cosmos to return, in a curved space, to its origin.

    The flight of fancy is really still always about now — a notion confirmed by the separate disciplines of critical theory and neurobiology. All we can see in art is projections of ourselves, and all we can know of the universe is already within us.

    At the end of the day, the only treasure valued by the psyche is meaning — only meaning can give substance to existence. Projections of detectives and problem solvers and treasure hunters is the recognition that something critically important is missing that must be found.

    The nature of the detective in art over the recent decades has changed profoundly. We have moved from stories of efforts to prevent death and disaster … to stories about solving horrific crimes (often grisly serial murders) that have already taken place. What is numinous and ubiquitous in current art is an awareness that we may have already destroyed something immensely valuable. While it is obvious that America has trashed (in a long sequence of grisly serial crimes) what were once proclaimed its core values (always the pure and innocent are devoured), I can only hope these images are not about our actual world.

    What kind of people blithely build 30,000 nuclear weapons, whine about wanting more while consuming 1/4 of the world’s resources, wage savage war without justice or reason, invoke the gods to perform only more evil, and ignore their role in savaging the very planet that sustains all?

    Can a blue-diamond be found? Blue, of course, is the color of consciousness, as red at the other end of the spectrum represents feeling and passion and emotion. Can we wake up and become aware of what we are doing? Or will the parts of our culture that represent the treasure-hunters fail, and the boon of awareness remain hidden and lost?

    The spider’s web has, for thousands of years, been an image of maya, the web of illusion that holds man trapped in darkness. Can the illusion be found and broken? Can we find enough pure blue consciousness, transparent as a huge flawless diamond, to see through what we have done and step aside from the path we currently walk?

  102. Dectecive inspector Columbos’s hand stayed on his forehead, and then, without moving any other part of his body, his other arm went up and his other hand gestured, head turned away from the person he was gesturing to, as if to say “well, goodbye, actually piss off, begone, I take my leave at once, but I do it in a spirit of casual friendliness-ish!” (one of his other character trademark gestures/body postures that had become cliche’d). The unlit cigar, sodden and soggy from being a constantly used prop, remained firmly clenched in his teeth. You could, if you listned carefully, hear a sort of sucky, slushy icky sound as he chewed it.

    He could tell Mrs T was going to be a tricky witness and would find it difficult to entrap her with his “dumb sloppy cop” act, not least because he was from LA, and could make head nor tail of what she was saying. He did recognise the words “spaghetti man” and thougth she was possibly chatting him up with an offer of some dinner (with meatballs).

    He replied “no thanks ma’am, I’m on the job” (if the offer had been one of a bowl of chili, he would’ve suddenly taken ill, rung the dept to tell the chief to fake a sickie).

    Mrs T looked puzzled – she looked up at Watson and Holmes standing at the window – Holmes was furious – another detective on he scene, and one dressed so unfastidiously, Tsk tsk thought the prissy Holmes – he said to Watson “tell that horrid man to go have his overcoat pressed at once!” Watson, who was going to exit in the manner of Mrs turner, realised he had no voluminous skirts to buffer the impact (he was hoping to better her arabesque and also do a grande jete’ as a gesture of one-upmanship), tore down the stairs.

    By the time he arrived at the scene, Columbo had driven off in his old Peugeot, (with cliche’d obligatory backfiring sound effect) and Mrs T was using hitching post to practice her barre exercises. She was quite nimble considering her size and could still hoick her leg up onto the bar/post without breaking the improvised barre. Actually she looked silly, but thought that demonstrating her other talents may get her a bit part in one of the Columbo episodes – alas, he had disappeared.

    Why was Columbo baffled? Would a rivalry feud develop between the 2 detectives or would they join forces across the centuries and combine their 2 very differing styles of investigation – Holmes, with his talent for dressing up and pretending to be anything from a scullery maid, to a blue-blooded memeber of royalty – a queen – (and let’s not forget his convincing “fish monger” deception )- and then Columbo, with his talent for acting stupid, looking at things in his wonky way, and generallly using the same formula every time to get his man/woman, the suspect would start out all cocky, then as Columbo would drop hints “oh, by the way ma’am, one more thing” as he would be leaving, get them more and more irritated and worried, then BANG – moves in for the kill,

    How the hell had Columbo found out about the incident at the great Hall? Had word of Nesmith’s great hat revelation been leaked to the “outside” – Nesmith was also from LA and perhaps Columbo had been tryint to find one of the secret lairs of the Highest Order of the Blue Oyster Cult Monks, and ultimately the locaton of the Blue Diamond Spider??? Was the FBI or CIA now involved? Why did they want to know if so?

    Conspiracy theorists were already putting special websites up around this new development, monitoring this with technologically advanced surveillance equiment (in other words, geeks who needed some excitement in their lives, who liked to make up alternative explanations for perfectly sound events) – in this case, they could be justified for their obsession? THis cult had mystified and confounded the geeks for years, much like the search for the holy grail, the Blue Dia..etc was their holy grail, and the Monks were the connection. Had Mrs T given the secret away?

    The geeks had recorded her words, and their sophisticated decoding software was whizzin away trying to decipher her words…….. had Columbo actually really understood her? Or was he just acting dumb??? That guy is so clever yet devious……..

  103. What kind of people blithely build 30,000 nuclear weapons, whine about wanting more while consuming 1/4 of the world’s resources, wage savage war without justice or reason, invoke the gods to perform only more evil, and ignore their role in savaging the very planet that sustains all?

    us of course – that’s such an easy one – you surprise me.
    it’s great that you’re back, ehj.
    i have long since stopped commenting on this vast surreal ramble, but i do like it.

  104. The mystery to me is not “who” but “what kind of people” are we?

    This conversation may be surreal, but not more so than actual conversations I have ongoing with republicans and conservatives. They are in some story that is meaningful to them. I just can’t figure out what that story is.

    There is a notion in critical theory of incommensurability. The notion recognizes, for instance, that two conversationalists may be unable to come to any practical consensus because their basic worldviews are so at odds. There is — for instance — just no way of dealing with someone who believes the world is 6,000 years old and is certain that god planted a fake fossil record to tempt the elect.

    We have the same notion reflected in physics. Something can exhibit behavior that is both wavelike and particle-like — yet these two behaviors are utterly incommensurable. Is this a metaphor of the way we perceive reality (because obviously the physics actually works just fine and “recognizes” no incommensurability)?

    We know, by way of analogy, that optical illusions are patterns of objects that can be seen completely one way, or completely the other way, but not both ways at once or anything in between. You either see a chalice or the outline of two faces. The two images themselves are incommensurable.

    We live in a world with people who look like us, but they are mad and many of them are functioning psychopaths with no empathy or regard for others or logic or truth. Words, ethics, principles mean whatever they want them to mean in the moment. They make their own reality and they want their own way, and capitalist systems tend to put them in charge.

    Can there even be a shared reality in a world of incommensurate worldviews? If not, then what hope in a world with such incredible weapons in the hands of the mad?

    When reality itself is chaos, what hope of any story or narrative being otherwise?

  105. Columbo had figured out that the whole plot was about to be slated by the critics – he drove off with a half-smile on his face thinking “ah, if they had paid attention, they would have seen the coninuity in the surreallity – but it was nice to be a part of a bit of surreal nonsense in sea of all of the pessimisitic ‘the world as we know it will end soon’ seriousness” – c’est la vie.

  106. Many miles away, there’s a shadow on the door, of a cottage on the shore, of some Scottish lake.
    …or Meanwhile in a bunker deep beneath the sands of IwoJima a German scientist is finalizing his preparations.
    “Zis vill finish zee firshed part uff my MagnumOpus. Now all I need iss zee blue diamond and zee vorld vill all bend zare nees to me.”
    “Not so fast, Doctor Willhelm…don’t you mean ours?”

  107. Dear Daisy,

    I think we did (and do) see the continuity in your narrative, in addition to its surreality. “Surreal” is not an epithet. It’s a description, like “blue” or “animated.” Surreal is the description of the analogies and metaphors I offered in my own short posts. Light, in the theory of quantum electrodynamics, is wavicle — wave and particle. An optical illusion is nothing if not surreal. The notion in critical theory that people may in fact see the world in utterly oppositional ways is both surreal and as truly dangerous as the imagined perils you describe in your rich narrative.

    I beg you not to see insult or slight were none is intended.

    My posts were my own effort to take you seriously, and to show the relation to the real in the surreal. You may posit that your narrative of a hundred detectives from across the ages in search of a priceless treasure is about nothing more than an escape from the plight of the world, when in fact to me nothing could be more clearly the collective common truth — every thinking person of every age has struggled to find the priceless treasure of personal and world peace.

  108. Yes ehj, absolutely, I love your realization of what may or may not fall into place as we add and try to keep centered. The “Blue” prize, the quest, the detectives reflecting what were crime what are now horrors. Is there room inside you to explain the sturgeon or the rhubarb? If there isn’t there isn’t, I honestly did not see what you pointed out before, and I am seeing it now. Sometimes you don’t even know what you write until someone reads it and tells you.

  109. and here was me thinking it was just some bloody stupid story…

  110. Dear Infidel,

    Given the answer to your question, some might easily think I prompted you in asking it. In your selection of the symbols ” sturgeon” and “rhubarb,” (you could easily have chosen many others) you’ve touched on a core alliance in a number of significant myths.

    The communion feast in many religions consists of fish and wine.

    Fish is food from the sea (where even the light of the sun cannot go), from the mysterious depths of the unconscious (where awareness itself does not go). Knowledge and wisdom are always unconscious first, then made conscious. They are pulled, like food for the psyche, from the depths. They aren’t out there first — they’re in here first. We have hundreds of narratives of the gods offering men fish as food — and even their own bodies as both fish and food.

    The celts refined this further. The salmon is the fish of wisdom in celtic (and later alchemical) lore because the salmon knows where it came from. Salmon are born in fresh waters and go to sea. They return to the very stream of their birth to spawn. Imagine a person wise enough to know — in such precise detail — where she came from. In Buddhist thought, this is expressed with the question, “What was your original face?”

    You too — incredibly — chose a fish for your narrative that is born in fresh water and spends part of its lifecycle at sea — feeding and living at ease in the depths of unconscious life — before returning to fresh water to spawn. This impressed me deeply on my first reading of your narrative.

    Rhubarb is deep red, and like any plant that appears humanlike in any respect (such as mandrake resembles a small human and an animal’s horn resembles a penis), it symbolizes the human in nature — and the link of nature in the human (that might be either overcome, or strengthened).

    Rhubarb was used in alchemy — because it linked man and blood and nature.

    And rhubarb was used to make wine. Or fire water — and as such symbolized two of the four original elements, earth, water, air, fire.

    The Last Supper consisted of fish and wine, as the body and blood of an incarnate god.

    ~~~

    Your story invoked dozens of symbols and myths and relations and connections. The fact that you link these two in your question betrays some deep awareness that they belong together.

    It’s a gift to hear the language of the unconscious and reproduce it with fidelity — without saying, in effect, “Oh, that doesn’t make sense, I’ll just change it and make it better.” In an honest life, the conscious doesn’t get to edit the voice of the unconscious. It has to listen to the story the way it is actually offered up and understand it (like a dream) or not.

    The truth of a story or a myth is reflected in the way the real images evoked reflect each other and honor the natural symbolic language of the unconscious — a constant stream of related images/symbols and corresponding deep (tidal or oceanic) feelings.

    To perceive this way defines you as an artist, one who pulls these images into the conscious world and gives them expression. All the answers we seek are in the personal and collective unconscious. Artists who heed the voice (sometimes called the still small voice within) are the only guides we have into any sustainable future. The stories they share are the only insights available to us.

    Said another way, storytellers are the priests of our time. Inflected differently, what priest in any time has been other than a storyteller?

  111. Columbo just drove on, chewing on his squishy cigar, still smiling grateful for a bit of fun within the usual banality of life…… the Chef carried on with his dangerous “cooking” of the food budget books and his “creative” recipe suggestions, Nesmith got his hat back, and the Monk(ees) carried on as before….the search contined for the Blue Diamond Spider within the secret Blue Oyster Cult, and Mrs Turner, Watson and Holmes remained civil to each other as neighbours, despite Holmes’ various odorous disguises (which, let’s face it, she realised were all worth it for they ultimately helped in entrapping the bad bad men who did bad bad stuff).

  112. Thanks for the insight ehj, I’m sure I’m not as deep as that – can’t speak for infidel – but it was SW who mentioned rhubard first I believe?

  113. Dear Daisy,

    The way we relate consciously to stories and the symbols in stories (including the stories we live) is so complicated we can barely see the outlines of what is happening.

    But objects become symbols of something else after sufficient use as symbols. They become a kind of “code” for the other thing, and to the extent they become the other thing, the things themselves become diminished in their own reality.

    When we look at a mechanical clock, it’s easy to not even see the clock anymore — we see the time. Even working on a clock to, say, replace a battery, which forces us to see and deal with its physical reality, we constantly see the position of its hands and hear a little voice nagging at us the time.

    I don’t so much think of my postings above as deep, but as the contributions of someone who tries to remember that a clock is still a clock, and the symbol (time) is separate but simply uses the clock to stick to.

    Clocks, of course, don’t even measure time. Time, like numbers, doesn’t exist. We invented time. And we made clocks mean time.

    We’re surrounded in a sea of symbols, most of which we don’t even see anymore, in part because we’ve forgotten they are symbols and what they represent. We’ve surrounded ourselves with abstractions that don’t exist — yet they are often more real to us than the physical objects that reflect them. We’ve literalized them.

    Not only physical objects (like crosses, talismans, holy relics, rabbit feet) become imbued with other-reality, but words themselves, which are from the outset no more than abstractions. A word like “freedom” (or, perhaps a little closer to home, “panties”) is laden with so much otherness it is almost an object in the way people will fight about what “freedom” is and what it means. But no matter what “freedom” means, it’s just a symbol meaning that, and people may stick different symbols and meanings on the same object (word). It’s the that which matters.

    At the end of the day a word is just a sound in the air. It doesn’t convey much (including which symbol is attached to it), so we don’t see it. We see the symbol we think is stuck to it. Written, it’s just squiggles on paper.

    The notion in zen is that words and text and symbols and concepts are just a finger pointing at the moon. The moon is what matters. But people keep looking at the finger — they’ve literalized the abstraction, and think the finger is the moon. Notice that since no finger can be the moon, it can easily be argued that some other finger is a better symbol. Then people can easily fight over fingers, thinking they are the moon.

    Why are we made like that?

    More — how do we maintain a civilization knowing we are made like that — and that when we are afraid, it is almost impossible for us to see beyond our symbols?

    Respectfully,

    p.s. i’m not really satisfied with this post, mostly because i sound like a complete pompous ass when i’m really only a partial pompous ass. and i’m pretty sure it’s not as clear as i’d like, but it’s about as good as i can do and i’m going to let it go. i hope you’ll be generous in your reading and see something of what i tried to convey. and thanks for the opportunity to try.

  114. oh so it’s my fault for mentioning rhubarb, now…jeez!

  115. dear doctor wondered,

    if the shoe fits … and so on.

    so you’re an alchemist … perhaps a connoisseur of blood-red wines … inspired (which means breathed by an invisible spirit) by the transformation of grapes into … spirits …

    aren’t you in the storyteller business? a priest perhaps?

    and he spoke in parables …

  116. You might use isinglass to clarify a wine. There are other stories, there are true stories and there are stories of instruction- these might be seen as stories without the symbolism beyond that symbolism inherent in communication through symbols and/or words written/or spoken. They might be seen as sincere efforts to convey an experience apart from the meaning that experience may have possessed or created. I can tell a story of fire without intending to convey the evil of life or the pain of seperation or whatever inherent meaning fire possesses. The rhubarb cannot help but mean wine? The rhubarb cannot help but mean man/nature bound? The deep red stalks, blood, drink this wine….

  117. Dear Infidel,

    You can’t convey anything directly. You have to use the abstraction of words and pictures, and you can’t know how your audience interprets your words and pictures. Even things as “crisply” defined as numbers (like 3) — forget about colors (is your blue the same as mine?) — mean different things to different people. No matter what your context, if you say “3,” a christian will always hear the trinity invoked.

    Worse, you can’t experience reality directly anyway — it’s mediated through yours senses, and they give you endless distortions and illusions. You look for patterns where none exist. It’s just two squiggly lines on a piece of paper — why do you see a chalice or two faces?

    Paper is flat, but you are more than willing to see three dimensions in a photograph.

    It’s all just abstractions. It’s all just metaphors. An incredible amount of what we think we know is culturally determined — things are true only because everyone acts like they are.

    This is a metaphor of a conversation. But no one is here. There is no here. And no one is speaking. Who even is listening?

    You know them wily buddhists. If you ask “who am i, then” they’ll answer “who is asking?”

    There are no words on this page. There is only the impression of words in your head. You put them there. And you interpret them the way you interpret them. And your interpretation will be different from that of every other person.

    No two people inhabit the same world.

    But you already know all of this. So I’m just talking to myself.

  118. There are not just abstractions, there are not just metaphors. Of course, and inescapeably, words carry more meaning than intended but certain words do that to more a degree than others. There is no exact truth, but if we are carefull with the words and symbols we use to communicate the truth we see, we can minimize the tranference blurring or outright miscommunication. In fantasy or in fiction, what does it matter- it matters not at all- have it be what you will and hopes of pleasure and stimulation to anothers fiction and fantasy play albeit tightly adhering to developed strictures, norms, societal mores, psychological tendencies, and personal attributes and sensitivities- we are what we are, we enjoy what we enjoy.
    No one interested will listen or read a scientific paper and misinterpret it because “3” was used, and the “Trinity” invoked- that is utter nonsense. There will be an invocation of the Trinity, in its magnitude in significance to a Christian it will cloud the entire interpretation of the scientific paper there is no doubt- still that very three if it is said to be added to “4” or has to be the power of “2” needed for entropy or whatever-it will be 7, or it will be 8, Trinity or not, a wise and thoughtful Christian will still see the true significance of the number 3, and a dumb and ignorant Christian will miss the significance altogether unless they are told to do otherwise by a member of the Church in authority.

  119. Dear Infidel,

    You invoked the appropriate metaphor in your own narrative — vaseline-covered lenses. At best, we see the world darkly.

    We’re in sufficient agreement that I don’t need to go further here — I’m happy if I’ve stimulated some thought — but I’ll leave you with one example of why your entire sensual experience of the world is no more than a metaphor.

    Your perception of color.

    There is no color. There is only light at different wavelengths, frequencies, energies. Instead of a graduated scale with numbers in your brain for light frequencies, you and I experience color. The color is no more than a metaphor of what is directly experienced — and that is simply photons crashing at 186,282 miles per second and at a specific frequency to stimulate a system of nerves in the retina and optic lobe.

    In absolute darkness, I can put pressure on your eyes and you will see light, because that is all the nerves in this region can do when stimulated. Some people readily experience light shows in their mind from appropriate sounds — the senses seem to bleed around. Imagine how much of your “direct” experience is actually coded (precoded if you prefer) this way.

    A metaphor is when something is something else. For instance, a woman is a moon and sun and stars. The sky is blue. It isn’t blue, but blue is a nice shorthand for the experience of it, and expressing it this way makes it — in any full conversation about the way we experience the world — a metaphor.

    Because everything we experience is a metaphor (removed from direct experience and abstracted in some way), our metaphors can, with some energy to redefine the abstraction, be transmuted.

    Right now, we are admonished (and many agree) to limit speech in order to retain free speech, destroy our markets to have free markets, impoverish millions to remain wealthy, close our borders to remain free, imprison the innocent to be unimprisoned, and practice torture and terrorism to prevent torture and terrorism.

    Observe how easily we now say without apparent irony — war is peace.

    I liked it better when we said war is hell, but that too is a metaphor.

    Regards,

  120. How terribly correct your vision of we. We have much to do and there is much we do we shouldn’t do. I, apart from we, I am so very lazy. I believe I don’t do much I shouldn’t. I know there are things I can do that I should. , This can be distraction and focus- thank you,

  121. “oh so it’s my fault for mentioning rhubarb, now…jeez!”

    Was not apportioning blame at all – just pointing out a fact.

    Wow, what happened to a sillly story for the sake of a silly story, without analysis, without “reading into the darker symbolism” or whatever – have some fun for crying out loud!

    I’m off – you guys are too serious 🙂 😦

    I have used 2 opposing smileys – what does that say about…… oh to hell with it lol.

  122. Janis & Joplin

  123. Dear Daisy,

    I’m one of those engineers (and I don’t know any who aren’t) who believe that knowing some science about a flower only adds to the poetic magical mystical awe inspiring beauty of the flower itself. However elusive and incomplete knowledge is and will remain, there is an intense beauty in it that draws many of us to the sciences and philosophy.

    There is the flower’s incredibly complex chemistry that allows it to live on light, the magic of the way colors reflect and refract in its various structures like visible symphonies from a sun eight light-minutes away, the way its intricate biology is incredible and fascinating at every level from the microcosmic atomic and cellular to the macrocosmic view of a carpet of plants and how they interact and support each other in a bio-system within an eco-zone.

    I do enjoy a story both where it is, and at every other level of understanding I can acquire (which is why I’ve studied stories and myths and the nature of human communication so deeply).

    I’m sorry I may have spoiled some of your fun. I was just trying to offer the psychological notion that it is almost impossible to spontaneously invent a story that is not about our current concerns. This is because the unconscious never stops working on keeping us alive and continually throws up images and ideas that might be relevant.

    Why I can’t see a silly story for the sake of it is exactly why I have begun to see through the patriarchal story we all live within; and — as you are aware — many call our natural order. Too many ask, just as you do here, why can’t I just leave it alone for the sake of it and stop disturbing everyone.

    Only the willingness and desire of many men (and women) to analyze and begin to see through the stories we live will enable men to see how poorly we treat women and how frequently we misuse the terms and concepts of our discourse (such as panties) that sometimes injure them.

    My apologies and regards,

  124. Look how ehj2 is like isinglass, a gel gumming up the works, combining his essence with the symbolism clouding up the story we were brewing. Like it or not the associations are there between the blue diamond, the rhubarb, even the famous detectives- ehj2 has latched on to them and identified them giving them more weight then they used to have, now they can drop from the brew leaving it clarified. A finer drink for the efforts, but I must say I was having alot more fun getting goofy.

  125. … and the nature of making and distilling and refining the beer itself (the numinous image that — because of its powerful unconscious connections — started and sustained this entire conversation) is … refinement and transformation

    alcohols aren’t called “spirits” without reason …

    to drink it is to be intoxicated … so let us be, as the gods have always been … intoxicated and seriously goofy …

  126. it’s all good – you can’t have the beer without the cloudy bits and anyway they just make it better

  127. I’ll drink to that. La chchhhkkyme!

  128. ehj I am not at all offended by anything you have said – no apologies needed – and I do understand what you have said (sort of) but we were just running with that a randomly making it up as we went along, bouncing off each other’s stupidness, silliness and surrealness – just being sillly that’s all.

    And yes, the patriarchal world is serious, which is why we all need some light relief now and again from the fight – all I know is I was in fits of laughter reading and writing a lot of that stuff, and just free-flowing with whatever came into my head.

    So, you are you, I am me, sw is sw (most of the time, infidel is infidel thank goodness – let’s drink some isinglassed wine to that – here’s to us – cheers!!!

    (The story may carry on soon anyway so be warned – I love Columbo – wait til I get to the Charlie’s Angels involvment, both the 70’s ones, and whenever the remake was made late 90’s? early 00’s?)

  129. ehj I am not at all offended by anything you have said – no apologies needed – and I do understand what you have said (sort of) but infidel and I were just running with that story and randomly making it up as we went along, bouncing off each other’s stupidness, silliness and surrealness – just being sillly that’s all.

    And yes, the patriarchal world is serious, which is why we all need some light relief now and again from the fight – all I know is I was in fits of laughter reading and writing a lot of that stuff, and just free-flowing with whatever came into my head.

    So, you are you, I am me, sw is sw (most of the time, infidel is infidel thank goodness – let’s drink some isinglassed wine to that – here’s to us – cheers!!!

    (The story may carry on soon anyway so be warned – I love Columbo – wait til I get to the Charlie’s Angels involvment, both the 70’s ones, and whenever the remake was made late 90’s? early 00’s?)

    This may be submitted a few times as it keeps going into the spam filter.

  130. early ooos and ahhhs.
    If Podunk were a city, she’d be the kind of city you’d call home. Her eyes would shine at night- a thousand, a million of em, all glassy and filmed. Her breath would be the breath of a mint julip on some mysterious morn with the dew glimmer and the fog lifting from the bayou bogs. But her nature, rather than pure would have the impurity of pure razor blade technology- steel,concrete,and glass. Tar would fill her cracks and the people of Podunk would walk barefoot on sweltering days to find the sticky pools of black moosh- betting their better knowledge they could maximize that moosh without getting a tough sticky stain on their toes. Pushing at first gently, then mashing down a great toe to the delight of fellow chance takers. If Podunk were a city. But with a sad eye and a sticky toe Mara looked up at the glinty sun and squinting, began to try to extricate her toe to get the minimum amount of tar to have to clean off. She was expected at the paste bar at a quarter to nap time and didn’t want to spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning up.
    “Mara, did you hear what happened in Tridgean?”

  131. Mara was missing the “do” at the Isinglass and Monkee pub in Windsor – she was gutted that she was stuck in old Podunk, and Windsor was a long wayz away! Paste bar? She was torn – make her way down Old windsor way? Or hang around to find out what had happened at Trigdean – if it was anything like what had happened at Upper Wallops, she would be flabbered!!

  132. It was well known, Mara’s facination with the Tridgeans, how had they ever come to be, a race, a nation, Millions in their numbers and as one in their thinking. Every year they would migrate to the opposite hemisphere, thinking it was their migration that tilted the earth on its axis. Through the years it never failed but Mara wondered how they had ever attained such a great knowledge of the celestial and be so clueless. The Tridgeans were steadfast in their beliefs and would fight fierce wars in order to trek across others’ territories. In the course of their repeated migrations their numbers had diminished and their fierceness wanned. At last only a few hundred thousand dispersed around the globe would secretly make the journey and often not make it very efficiently- still the earth tilted on its axis and it couldn’t be denied that there was some correlation between the two. The news then that Mara received was bitter sweet. All remaining Tridgeans had been identified and everyone of them was currently being plotted on line, ostensibly without their knowledge- further more the combined forces of every group of Charlies Angels ever assembled had been tasked with their extermination, and it was going to be in REAL TIME.
    When Mara had logged on it had already started. The thumbnail in the corner repeatedly showed two disparate blips on a world map turning into bursts and then a little balloon within which a blinking “Click On For Video”. She was literally frozen with disgust and loathing, tears fell, she had to do something.

  133. I so totally don’t understand British people. You’re almost as confusing as Americans!

  134. Just to see what she was up against, and yes with a little sick curiosity she clicked on the burst that had been a blip that was in Canada just north of the upper most tip of the upper peninsula. All the blips were currently in the far northern hemisphere and if you watched the “over time” version you might see how they were slowly finding their way south, all these Tridgeans. When the video finally loaded and it was time to play, Mara hesitated, then clicked. The quality was like that of daylight color Blair Witch Project(hand held video, very jerky). It was summer in the great white north and the big sky held up an ocean of water in great white and various greys, shapes of all imagination crazy in size and how melded into one another, there was a wind and the birds flew where they would. A man was being approached from behind, there were at least two approaching- the camera operator and another sporting a long sleeve plaid fleece, and Colorado hiking boots, they weren’t trying to be very stealthy and as the Tridgean turned BLOOOP he was engulfed in a large bubble of isinglass, (quite similar to that terrible sphere that was chasing Patrick McGuuwen around in “Secret Agent Man”) then it just rolled away.

  135. I so totally don’t understand British people. You’re almost as confusing as Americans!

    but rarely confused with them – fortunately.

  136. Oops – I gave up on one of my posts being rescued from the spambox – it looks like it was, but sort of changed? – the story goes on and i havne’t a clue where to pick up……. Trigdean? Upper Wallops? Mara had amnesia – these things sounded vaguely familiar…. she woke up and saw the sign “Port Merion” – Patrick McGewwwen was running from a giant rolling ball……

  137. She then looked up to the sky – shit, the World’s largest Dark Sucker had disappeared – shit – she was still in England (ish).

    Oh well, at least she was away from the American toursist (who thought of England as one giant Ye Olde Worlde themepark).

    She then heard the accent… ” I so totally don’t understand British people. You’re almost as confusing as Americans!” “Ah” she thought, “all is not what he thinks it is” – the Americans usually interpreted the British accent as a secret code of some sort, when in fact, it was just typical chit-chat about the crap weather, and of course the topical world-takeover attempts by the migratory Trigdeanites.

  138. “Tridgeanites are all the same, they go north, then they go south, all the time going north or south depending on the time of year. Like birds, they are, and they aren’t happy till they get there- then, they turn around and damn if they don’t just get up and get themselves going the other way!”
    “Yeah.” agreed Brother Bosoinne, “and you know its a Tridgeanite that’s past you cause they’ve got that gait, like their always a little off balance. I once saw one of em walk right off the side of a bridge.”
    “Bosoinne boy, you aint seen nothin till you catch a flock of em comin down the shore, all wearin different clothes from every walk of life, keep’n to the wet sand so as not to get too much sand in their shoes- it’s a picture.” Father McCreary had just tapped himself another beer and as he sat down he had to brush the remaining sturgeon off the heavy wooden stool.
    “Fathers right, Brother, the way them Tridges get themselves tanked up and all worked into a frizzle at those gatherings- then they bust out the door with one thing in mind- gettn to where they aint yet.”

  139. Dissertation on the Phenomena of Global warming on the migratory patterns of the Yellow-billed, webbed trigdeanites –

    The Trigneanites become very confused, what with all the global warming confusing them as to the time of year – this is especially true when they are trying to migrate in the british isles – one day, it’s springtime, buds on trees, bunnies running around all happy and fluffy, then overnight, the big guy with the big puffy cheeks in the sky, blows the arctic right back – the trees suck the buds back in, the birdies stop in mid-mate, and the population sinks into a freezing stupor once again.

    Confusion reigns as one spring day means, that clothes are re-arranged in wardrobes – the warm-weather stuff is hauled out, the coats put away and sandals brought out into the light of gray. This is a curious british pattern, kind of endearing, where they truly believe, “yes, this time it will last – it will be spring and then summer”. but no, it has been known for rain to reign at wimbledon and every year, the spectators hope for a glimpse of cliff richard trying to jolly eveyone up with his ever-optimistic rendition of “we’re all going on a summer holiday” (and the best bit is where you can see his breath turning to steam as it hits the arctic air).

    But the really lucky spectators will see the confused trigdeanites running into each other – some coming back from the north, some heading north from the south thinking summer has come, and the ones coming down from the north thinking they might be able to get warmer. It’s a spectacular sight, mass confusion and mayhem as they decide where the hell they should be!

    But never mind wimbledon

  140. As angels go, she was quite homely, but there was a quality to her movements that made her beyond pleasing to the eye. She moved in dance, not overtly. Her subtle steps brought you closer to her next inevitable station in your captive stare which was to her the mundane motions to where she wanted to be. Charlie realized this and added her to the fifth triumverate stable because he had found that beauty, as mesmerizing as it might be, hadn’t always been enough when distraction and slight of hand had to be a known in the high stakes life or death situations he would put his girls in. There were some who could ignore gorgeous, none whose glance couldn’t be caught by Rena’s fluid action. When she was still, she could be invisible unless you were watching when she made her last movement, then she had just turned you to stone as you would wait for her next. It was just such a state the poor Tridgeanite found himself in when the two other angels chimed in a little chuckle in unison to the click of handcuffs and the wooosh of a burlap bag over his head. He knew what had happened to him. He knew he wasn’t going to fight or complain. He knew his last image was plenty enough for him to contemplate as he was led away. Rena had looked him in the eye, hadn’t she?! It was hard for him to decide whether she had merely started to look towards … No…their eyes met…surely….but it was so close….

  141. That image…. he would never know? but he realised that … she was not looking at him, she was looking THROUGH him!

    She had been carrying out her duties as one of the angels, on auto-pilot so to speak, but her mind had been elsewhere.

    She had been dreaming of the….. “ah shit” she thought, “I really hate this damned job – capturing stupid criminals and having to keep my false eyelashes in place at the same time and all the damned time – and the silly hair – don’t get me started” – I’m going to get a nice easy job down at sainsbury’s. “Charlie can kiss my toes.”

  142. “Can’t Do That Angel” . The booming voice had come out of her car speaker.
    “Charlie, you scared the heck out of me.”
    “Bosley is at the house, Rena, he’s found some more straying Tridgeanites.”
    “What do you do with them, Charlie?”
    “Believe me Rena, our plan, when finished, will set the world on its side..Ha…Ha..”
    “Oh Charlie”

  143. “Ok Charlie – you are trying to deflect the conversation away from the fact that I told you to kiss my metatarsophalangeal joints/appendages – typical! – please do not patronise me by trying to play on my sense of duty to your plan for the Trigdeanites – I am not one of your angels any longer – and don’t ring me on my mobile as I cannot take it on the shop floor whilst I am shelf-stacking.”

    “But as a favour to you, I will tell you that I have just seen a few Trigdeaners sneaking up behind Cineworld and Megabowl trying to eat their BK flame-grilled whoppers on the run. They did look scared. That’s all I can tell you – I am done with you Charles and your master plans – oh yes, can I keep all the nice shoes?”

    “I want no part of your axis-turning global plan – be gone with you and be about your business and I will set out forwith about my own new life without you, you sad faceless winker!”

    Her heart was beating so fast she thought she would faint – she had never spoken to Charlie like this, never given away her cranky pmt moodies, never let on that she was fed up with his constant demands – ahhh- the shelves looked so calm and peaceful (if a little untidy) – they were such a refreshing and reassuring sight to what she had been used to – she took a deep breath and started on her new life in aisle 17 where the cornflakes needed to be re-stocked – they had all been bought up. Life is good thought in amazement to herself.

  144. Of course she was optimistic, she was in the breakfast aisle- smiling faces, sunny dispositions, bright, exiting, new to you each morning, start your day off right, crunchy, healthy. She might not have felt so uppity had she been at the seafood case where the bound lobsters suffered their final captivity to the stoic stares of the frozen catch of the day, where various fish flesh lay stacked up like so many cords of wood, lifeless and white, cold like the deep from which they came, begging to be cooked hot in oil, seasoned and consumed. Not a happy section of the store, but one where the sated laugh off thier guilt over washes of fine wine down their gullet and thank Charlie for keeping the riff raff out of their back yards, thank you. Better for them too. Lots of stories of Tridgeanite beatings and lynchings all in the name of balance and property rights. Who are the Blue Oyster Cult that thier policies should hold sway over the covenent of the upper Placiades. Anyway that’s over and here we are- no turning back- no going the other way.

  145. No Rena did not like the fish counter (they ate fish for breakfast in some countries – uckkk she thought) besides, she was vegetarian – the closest she got to having animal product for brekkies was the rooster on the cornflakes packs. She also loved putting raisins on her morning bowl’a – it was in her career plan that her next move would be to be promoted to the aisle with the dried fruit. She had wild almost delusions of grandeur – of dreams of managing both the cereal aisle and the “baking goods” aisle where the raisins were stocked. Sigh. “All in good time” she thought. She looked at her new domain and noted at the other end were the teabags – “oh good” she gleefully made a mental note – ” I love hearing the swooshy sound when I shake the box of new unopened PG tips and the crinkle of the cellophane wrapping as I do this” – was this what was meant by “teabagging?” she wondered??

    No time to dwell on that – she went for her break, noted on the front of all the papers, even the trashy tabloids, that the Trigdeanites had been busted on a shit load of “cash for honours” from Davie C – and the tories had not even got back into power -she shuddered in horror.

    She unlocked her padlock to get into her staff locker to get her money for her cuppa coffee – the 4-digit code was 6993…………This rang alarm bells with her……why or who had given her this padlock with this familiar sounding number?…………She racked her brains………

  146. “Scuse me, where would I find the crisps?”
    Rena turned and locked eyes with Joergen, tossle haired decendant of Vikings with eyes so blue they seemed to glow.
    “Aisle 8, past the spaetzle” Rena had managed to feign busy, and convincingly came off as staff to customer, but inside her ‘attraction flags’ had been raised, perhaps too quickly, so she tried to pace herself.
    “Has that granola got dates?” Joergen asked
    “I’d love to go on a date, tonight?” Screw it, she thought, Charlie was history, she was embarking on a new life, let Joergen get in on the ground floor, it’ll serve him right for being in this place at this time.
    “Your quite the stocker, what’s your name?” Here he was behind the cart, what was in the cart? Rena would want to know, Joergen was busy taking stock of the cart contents in his head and was about to look to see how telling its contents might be, Rena was about to look to see how telling the cart contents might be, and time stood for a moment while neither of their eyes would move from each others as both awaited the moment their eyes would move to the contents of the cart.

  147. “You got anything in that cart you don’t want me to see?” asked Rena
    “I don’t think so, let me think about it” Joergen and Rena had turned to stone
    “Well, mind if I take a look?”
    “I’d really like to drag out the suspense, could you just let me think about it?”
    “How about you tell me, what’s in the cart, before I look- Then you can explain before I ask?”
    “Yeah” said Joergen softly, “Uhh.. peas, the little baby ones, LeSuere or something Frence, they come in a little can, the size the mushrooms come in.”
    “Mushrooms?” asked Rena
    “No, peas.” Returned Joergen

  148. Rena was hugely disappointed – her private investigative mode was still with her – she felt ashamed that she had gone straight into “interrroagative” angel mode and realised she had lost the ability to “chat up” – she had also hoping to see in his cart, the more sophisticated canned mixed peas and mushrooms as any culinary expert will tell you – NOT in separate cans – her face fell – she did not have a true gourmet in front of her after all, and all the questions had been in vain, in the hope of bagging herself a “man in touch with his feminine Side” – she waited for more declarations from Joergen to disprove what was becoming apparent – could he save himself? Did he have the item in his cart that would save the persona he was trying to put out in the hope of pulling a stunna? (He had a deliberate plan when shoppping – his lists always included such things as veggie burgers, diet coke, and chocolate bunnies in order to attract women and get them chatting to him – he even would go to the library and check out Danielle Steel and recipe books).

    She tried in vain not to look down – he saw her – no, it was too late – she saw the Cap’n Bird’s Eye fish fingers hidden, but not hidden enough, under the “reduced sugar and salt” baked beans – buy one get one free.

    Her heart sunk even lower – she said “I have to go back to work now – this palette of corn flakes will not stock themselves you know – have a nice day”.

    He was as gutted as the cod and haddock lying on the fish counter – he would find another way – could he claim the shopping trolley belonged to his granny whom he kindly did shopping for every week? That one always worked as a “tug on the heart stings” with the women and without fail, always elicited an “aawwww” or “aahhhhh” how sweet.

    Next time, he would babysit for his sisters young child and take him shoppping, this always worked too. “Oh, I’m buying the little tinker some special treats today” – but he would have to bide his time – next time, he thought – lesssons have been learned – but next time.

  149. So Joergen slinks on up to the check out and starts unloading his peas, fish fingers, mac&cheese, etc. Meanwhile the lady behind the counter is avidly listening to the animated buzzard in front of Joergen in line, who’s only groceries are a bunch of cilantro and a pomegranate, he’s finishing up his joke and you can see he’s been telling it for a while and he’s in a groove of sorts, confident that he’s hooked the lady for at least an uncontrolled guffaw at the punch line he’s headed towards delivering. “So he turns to Galahad while Lancelot slinks away with the hound and he says to him, ‘I wouldn’t send a knight out on a dog like this’.
    HAAAAA! HAAAAAA! WOOOOO. Haaa ha ha ha. Oh my god! whew! Haaaa haaa ha ha snort snort cough HAAAA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
    …Then the lady starts choking and alternately choking and laughing that laugh that makes no noise, where the lungs have expelled all and the throat is about to come up through the vocal cords to make the next laugh sound….HHaaaaCoughCough OH MY GOD! HAAA AHHHAAAAAA…then she’s on the floor convulsing with laughter swiping her arms around flailing like some wacky inflatable arm flailing tube man..and the old man is starting to get nervous. “YOU OK!” Joergen in the mean time is looking around for any help and he spots Rene coming up aisle 8.

  150. Regina Phalangee

    Rena freaked out and fainted – the she took the joke too seriously – so, Joergen had to pretend to know first aid (in order to impress the “ladies”) with not one, but two victims, one of whom he wanted to kiss, but not THAT way! Rena would come to and no doubt feel a right fool.

  151. Joergen, being a big burly man, decided to revive two birds with one manouvre and gathered up both women, the craggy checkout lady and Rena. With his hands locked just below Rena’s chest at the solar plexus, and Viola(the checkout lady) sandwiched snugly behind Rena he began to Hiemlich away. The buzzard who started it all with his stupid joke and his goddamn cilantro got critical all of a sudden of the herculean effort Joergen was performing. “It’s Vi what’s choking, dumbass, the girls gonna need mouth to mouth!”

  152. The buzzard cilantro guy pushed in and grabbed Rena and began the life-saving, if gross, exercise (he had garlic breath and hadn’t cleaned his dentures) – Joergens’ brain was screaming internally “NOOOOOOO – I’ m supposed to be doing that, you’re supposed to be heimliching your checkout friend – you grabbed the wrong one you silly ass”!!

    It was Joergen’s fault for not assessing who needed what in his efforts to prioritise the situation as thus: 1) impress rena first 2) impress everyone else 3) kiss rena 4) maybe save the checkout woman and 5) save rena’s life.

    There was a fast-moving blur of activity – where Joergen was trying to muscle in on Buzzard’s action – meanwhile, the emergency services arrived and pushed them all out of the way – Rena woke up to the sight of the bluest blue eyes she hadever seen and thought “am I in heaven – is this an angel?” …Mabel the checkout lady had recovered and was chatting up cilantro guy again, all was normal…….? orrrr???????

  153. “Do you have any fresh sturgeon today?” The voice came from from a portly red cheeked monk wearing a tattered robe and sporting a rope belt of sorts and old sandals. His toes were clean but chubby.
    “Sorry, father, all the excitement, let me go in the back and see what I can find, that is if your quite done with me officer” The store manager, Percy, had been supplying next of kin, addresses, and insurance info to the disheveled detective in the wrinkled overcoat now for some time and assumed it was about time to get back to making business with his customers again, despite the still wirling emergency lights, and the detective not yet pocketing his little notebook.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry, yeah, go right ahead, sturgeon, ahh, pardon me you said sturgeon? Could I go with you sir, I’d like to see that sturgeon, you see back home where I come from, we’ve got a fish market, there’s cod and haddock, tuna, and orange roughy, but I’ve yet to see a really nice sturgeon, they’re either too big or the bladders have been cut out of em, they get em flown in from Russia or something, I’d love to see what real fresh sturgeon looks like from one of your Sainsbury’s, the Piggly Wiggly’s got some, but its frozen in a box.”
    “Quite” Says Percy as he escorts the detective to the back of the store. The monk waddles after, leaving the frantic EMTs, the heroic and deflated Joergen, and the victims now being loaded into an ambulance to make the obligatory trip to the hospital emergency room to get checked out.
    “..night out on a dog…haaaaaaaaa”
    “There Vi, don’t get yourself worked up again.”

  154. “Mabel are you ok?” a middle aged mother with toddlers in tow fidgeting and fighting
    “Mabel? I thought your name was Viola” said the cilantro man.
    “Knight out on a dog woooo! haaaaaa ha ha cough corncrake crak hhhhaaaaa!” choked Maviolabel. “Knight out ona…hhaaaaa!”
    Meanwhile the three sturgeon seekers had made it to the back of the store where the walk in freezer was and were about to walk in when Percy held out white hard hats to the monk and the detective. “Here, you have to put these on, its a requirement.”
    “I understand entirely”, said Columbo”My brother Sydney woudn’t think of letting me on any one of his construction sites without one of these hats, one actually saved his life once but not in the way you might think, he had one with him one time when he had gone out on the bay. The motor broke down and the boat sprung a leak. There he was out half way to Alcatraz with a leaky boat and a hard hat. So you know what he did. He bailed and paddled with that hat and made it to shore.”

  155. Jane Daisy Doo-Doh

    “Flipping heck” thought Rena – “it must be something serious – that famous detective inpector wass-his-name – you know with the wonky eye – you know – thingimee whatsit – colombus? had arrived on the scene to take charge” ….. she was still confused in the ambulance, even though she thought she had only fainted at the funniest joke she had ever heard – (the “fainting” diagnosis was still to be discerned by the doctors at emergency room)

    Why had they sent the top man? And he was speaking to Percy and some weird bald guy with a long dress on and pudgy toes – she kept hearing the word “sturgeon” – she wondered if Columbo was going to try to get some to take home to his wife – she seemed to remeber him telling someone that she (wife) was partial to a sea creature or 3 now and again. But could the curiosity about the sturgeon have more sinsister implications? Damn this ambulance, could he not drive faster and louder? She had to get back to find out what was gawn dan like.

    She wished she had had the presence of mind to ask DI Columbuso for his autograph – in reality, Columbo had recognised her as an ex -Angel and was going to come back to the store later to get HER autograph – damn he thought, that joke must’ve kicked some seriously humourous ass!” (Although Columbo never used rude words out loud, the words “silly ass” often went thru his mind when thinking how stoopid criminals could be).

    Back at Sainsbury’s, the hard-hatted trio were searching in the fish section – “yeah” said the crumpled DI – ” I was on a case once, and we were in a freezer like this – the guy was trying to hide a whole side of illegally imported polar bear – darned thing was not hooked on properly and down it came – we sure were glad we had on our hats that day, our heads were ok , it’s just that our arms, legs, ribs and feet were busted up so bad we were bedridden for months – at least the grey matter was protected!” Columbo always tried to related anecdotes with a lesson-learned at the end.

    Still, they looked, the monk was getting uncomfortably cold toes – he needed another supplier of sturgeon’s bladders – the big spring feast was coming soon and beer needed to be clarified!

    He would use some of Columbos interrogation techniques to try to trick Percy into telling him where the wholesaler was!

    God, he hoped he didn’t run into that cilantro guy when leaving the store.

    Meanwhile, Rena and Mabel were waiting patiently at the NHS hospital – they had done quite well, – ticket no. 6993, and there were only 678 in front of them. It would only be a matter of days before the whole pic became clear……..

  156. Jane Daisy Doo-Doh

    Rena realised that they were calling Viola Mabel. she did now want to pry really – was Mabel some sort of supermarket undercover spy and her double ID had accidentally been revealed in all the fracas?

  157. “Calling 6315” “6315”
    “Here” said the lady looking at her ticket and gathering up her limp child. The child, a boy, was positively green and he looked about to vomit, but managed, with mothers help to shuffle to the desk, then the two were escorted back into one of the rooms where finally he would get looked at.
    Viola Mabel was still getting overhead paged and her ploy to separate herself from her Sainsbury coworker was as transparent as a fresh batch of isinglass.
    “Oh dear, Rena dear could you hold my purse, I’ve got something in my eye love, damn, oh damn, scuse me dear I have to run to the powder for a second.”
    She ran down the wrong hall. What, was she some kind of doctor or something?
    “Calling 6316″”6316”

  158. ViolaMabel was actually Uleula Ooober, the wicked matriarch who had ruled during the first epoch of Isinglass when the world had first been covered by the sticky goo as a result of some mad scientist’s personal vendetta against an imagined lizard that actually didn’t live in this universe but rather an alternative crystaline universe that was experiencing the virtual reality of a paid for vacation that offered “an alternative from the straight. Experience curves and bumps and random shapes of every kind. Only 9 zods and you can spend a whole week away and never leave!”
    The lizards name was Henry and he went on realilty trips whenever he could, or so thought Hienz- the mad scientist who was backed by the power and resources of the largest producer of beer on the planet- Anhauser Busch.

  159. So, it was Hienz the mad scientist who was indirectly affecting the world shortage of sturgeons bladders for their beer. “Balderdash to all these conspiracy theories about the russians and the eskimo terrorists taking all those bladders “said Columbo to Rena – it was all down to american imperialism – trying to take over the world with their beer – first mcdonalds, and now this! “Piggly Wiggly and Sainsbury’s receive what they think is sturgeon, but in actual fact, it’s a complex polymer silicone imitation – the brits would not know the differenc in the taste or texture – after all, they were eating mcdonalds and drinking Bud, safe market for them to target! The plot gets more and more complicated and Columbo sure hoped he didn’t get even more confused with all the acid that Mabel had obviously slipped into his coffee – (he had started seeing lizards and sticky goo that covered a parallel universe – he knew the signs) she had offered him a glass of Bud but “no thanks ma’am, I’m on the job, my wife would kill me if she knew I had imbibed as such – thanks anyway ma’am”

    Where was the monk? Was he locked in the freezer still searching vainly for sturgeons or had he left to look for a 3-pack pair of thick socks for his frostbitten toes? someone had once said to him “why don’t you buy some proppa shoes like doc martens?” He replied that they did not go with his outfit.

    Sheesh – ………………….

  160. Regina Doh Phalangee

    As the monk looked for the special packs of socks , he passed the aisle with the spaggheti-o’s – “hmmm” he thought, ” a nice hot plate of those would warm up these frostbitten tootsies a treat” – he might even eat some.

    He found the socks too, but wondered where Columbo had gone, as well as that nice lady at the checkout with the weird bird-call laugh – where had he heard that? The words “crunchy nut” kept entering his head – he shook off these thoughts – his priority – find out who was buying up all of the world’s quickly-diminishin sturgeon, but more importantly the bladders – he did not like eating fish, only clarifying his beer with the bladders – the spaghetti-o’s were sounding more and more appealing – dammit, where were the ones with reduced sugar and salt?? (He was trying to stay on his diet and his robe hung more loosely – he hoped to be Slimmer of the Year and featured on a docu-drama on channel 4’s “look good naked”).

  161. Uleula Ooober, meantime, the former wicked queen of an isinglassed world had made her exit through a back door at the hospital, had called for transport, pulled her wig off, and was pocketing her little cell phone, all frantically as she entered the back of the shiney black limo. She had faked the attack in order to get close enough to Joergen to slip a microtransponder deftly into his shoe where a tiny neutronic burst would form a adhesive blister that would encapsulate the bug protectively and undetectably on the sole of his foot. He was now tagged. Another Tridgeanite monitored, but at what cost? the tast of CilantroMan still lingered in Uleula’s mouth so it was with a grimaced pleasure she knocked back a hefty draught off the fifth of Johnny Walker Black that was to be found in the plush back area of her custom limo. She pressed a button and a screen appeared pneumatically with a smooth action and solid locked position, she pressed another button and commanded “Jules, let’s get to the cave before Columbo figures out the hard hat.” Some boot screens flashed and then a solid map with blinking and beeping markers and a placid drone voice iterrating “regal five grid coordinates, time sixteen hundred, estimated time to target two hours, six minutes, twenty seven seconds….”

  162. Uleula Ooober (Viola Mabel) screamed again – “Put your foot down Jules and don’t spare the horses !”

    Rena was still in a daze at the hospital – she had not obtained Columbo’s autograph – she was beginning to think he could be an imposter – and that hard hat – why had he still been wearing it?

    She was dazed mostly because she had been waitng for 2 weeks in the A&E at W Middlesex Hosp – not an easy thing to do. Suddenly it occurred to her – the hard hat looked rather big – had it been hiding something?

    Cornflakes, raisins, teabags, what the freakin heck was going on?

    She suspected that the Trigdeanites had infiltrated up to the point where they had used their shape-shifting powers to be other people – she had not been speaking to Columbo at all – Joergen had been tagged, but he was actually the Mr Big in the secret world of the Tracers of the Trigdeanites. She had tagged her own kind!

    Would Rena be fired from her short-lived employment because of this inadverdent inclusion into the international world of anti-trig takeover and subterfuge – little did the sainburyites know how close they had come to total decimation by a bomb made out of baking soda, peroxide, milk of magnesia, rhubarb, superglue and nivea for men after shave. It had all been hidden under someone’s hat – someone who may not be all he seems ….

    Oh heck she thought, I have got “thinker’s block”

  163. “Thinkers block indeed” retorted Columbo, there were lights blinking on his hard hat now, “its the same thing those bastards at nbc did when I first started out!” His eyes had become hard and it was obvious from his slow agitation and the increasing frequency of the lights on his hat that things were coming to a climax, “They wouldn’t give me my own time slot, I had to share it with some cowboy in the city or that Polish insurance guy Banechek every other week, or that blind guy detective Longdongstreeet, or that married couple what had a gay actor..actor…no…nooo! I’m an L.A. Detective, a leutenant…noooo!” JUst then an orderly ripped off a fake beard, knocked the hard hat in the corner, and began to pummel it with a dog headed hardwood cane. Turning to a disheveled, more disheveled than usual Columbo, Holmes introduced himself magnificently then added, “Doyle got paid by the word from the Strand my good fellow, I never had to play that network sixty second spot nonsense, now the games afoot, I’ve got Dr.Watson on Uleula’s tail, you’ve just got time to give that young lady an autograph, then we’re off.”

  164. The dishevled DI made a mental note to ask the ex-charlie’s thingy woman( what was the word for it?what were those things with big white wings and halos that everyone was supposed to have with them all the time from birth and some lived in heaven – guardian whatsits) he scratched his head in his usual gawky way trying to think of the word – Charlie’s ……. damn – he was going to ask her for her autograph and had his original speech all ready – “scuse me ma’am, well I don’t watch the show any more, and I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t remember your name in the show, but you see, the missus never missed a one, you were her favourite, why, she even bought one of those jumpsuit things to wear and some espadrilles … why ma’am, she got so into character in that gear, that she tried chasing the guy who tried to steal a snickers bar down at the 7-11 and damn, if she didn’t catch him – tackled him and got a reward from the owner of the store – a free icee – ma’am, why she loved your show, so, if you wouldn’t mind, could you sign this? it’s not for me, but the missus would be over the moon and I would get brownie points til xmas – thank you ma’am” .

    This had distracted him temporarily from the fact that his hat-bomb had been detonated – he had been planning to get that Uleula Ooober (oh yes, he knew who she was all along – she had been slipping thru the Trig-tracers fingers for years – a real teflon-coated villain) – she made out that she was on the side of the Trig Busters, but in fact she was a double agent – The Trigs were counting on her to make sure every single sturgeons bladder in the world would belong to them – they would have sole world contol of this valuable commodity – people would pay vast sums – particualarl the Brits – as cloudy beer was the most disgusting thing you could hope to drink – dishwater would be preferable to them.

    She could see it now, riots in the streets and all because she alone had the key to clear beer – she rubbed her hands together in eager anticipation and then, that laugh, the screech of the corncrake ……. it echoed thru the night -Rena thought she heard the sound of a …. shudder …she did not know what it was, but she felt an ominous premonition and shivered again – suddenly she heard “5778 – next please” – she sighed and fell into a deep dreamless sleeep….the peace would be short-lived….

  165. Saidy McAsidy

    Rena felt the fear…. she dreamt of a story written by Stephen King….

    Survivor Type’ …. about a doctor that became shipwrecked on a desert island. He had been a bit of a rogue doctor, and on the ship had been a load of drugs that he was supposed to deliver at the other end (heroin) for which one assumes he would be handsomely paid – however, the ship sinks (cannot remember why) and he manages to save the drugs somehow. More deserted than desert would be applicable for the island’s description, as it was barely twenty yards across with only rocks on it for shade. As the story progresses the doctor is left with no water or food, and the story is told from the perspective of his journal, as he sees the events happen. The primal fear of death is told through this man’s journal, and the instinct to survive is his only outlet. As time goes on the island he attempted to catch a seagull for dinner and broke his ankle on the rocks. Now that he is immobilized there is nothing to do to try and survive, and he becomes greatly depressed and thinks of how he ended up in that situation. While his ankle festers he comes up with the idea to amputate it, since he is a doctor. Well, amputate he does,(he has the handy drugs to keep the pain at bay and make the self-amputation easier – being off his face and all) and instead of disposing of the foot, he eats it in order to survive. As one can see, the fear of death is so overwhelming in this man that he has resorted to eating his own foot in order to survive. Since he ate his foot, he really has nothing, so as time goes on he begins to amputate various other body parts all the way up until his journal becomes so garbled and unintelligible that the reader can only fear the worst for the good doctor. The fear of death, and a bad stroke of luck, was what caused the doctor’s death. If he were able to control his fear, he may have survived.

    she wondered, how the hell did he think of that storyline? and why could she not wake up from this fearful dream? The only thing to fear, is fear itself -but waiting for 2 weeks in the hospital was taking it’s toll- she was becoming paranoid and full of terror – please make the dream stop!

    She was hungry, she was in a hospital, there were doctors — NO! the thoughts were pushed from her mind – was that the shriek of a seagull, a corncrake or???? Mabel???? Surely not?

  166. She thought of putting her foot in her mouth but then her thoughts wandered towards a book she read when she was very little, “Shag-A Buffalo”, the story of Shag, it follows Shag from his very early life when he had plopped out and his mother nudged him to stand, to wobble, to walk and to run, then to run from the Red Man, then to run from the White Man- the red men respected him, the white men did not and when his mother was shot and stripped and left to rot in the sun Shag was just a little buffalo. The Shag grew into a big buffalo with horns and… “5780 please, 5780″…

  167. you guys realise you’ve been writing this since february!!!
    do you want another ‘magic if’ to develop alongside this thread? i can come up with some small contribution in the face of this rampant creativity (and someone with so many email addresses…)
    ps you are brilliant

  168. I swear I was just about to invite our most gracious host to jump in if he’d like anytime, you’re input would be most welcome, even desired more than blood on the tracks, but I didn’t want to break in on the narrative thread, but how coherent have we been anyway? like ….you know you can jump in anytime, anyone? Suit yourself. In this corner of the world wide web, in this corner of wordpress, in this corner of a place for us, at the current endpoint of a never ending story- there ya go. Thanks again Simply, having a ball. Phalangie, Daisey, Saidey, Jane, you bring out the best, you are the best.

  169. Hi – popped back in after a short break due to hiding from evil imposters taking the puke name in vain!

    SW – anyone can add to this at any time – as long as there is some very tenuous connection to the characters it’s fine – the more surreal the better IMO – (my, this weather means you can wear sandals, and wow, some of those feet on show look mighty tasty! – trick is to pick the ones without athlete’s foot or verrucas). 🙂

    Thanks sw and ‘fidelio!

  170. I just realised that I was telling sw what he could and could not do on his own blog – sw, you must be more masterful and assertive. (Well you can try, I would only ignore you probably).

  171. PS -It is not generally known, but, to hardcore foot fetishists, finding a nice verruca on a foot is the equivalent to a Michelen star chef happening upon a juicy truffle in the forest in Provence somewhere.

  172. “5784, 5784”
    “Damn, they were counting up again!” Thought Rena,”I’m outta here!” she blurted out loud as she stormed out. The huddled masses still yearning to recieve medical care gave her a cursory glance, nodded, then resumed their individual suffering. What had she been doing there anyway for…anyway. She tried to recall and then it occurred to her, the only reason she climbed into the ambulance was the possibility of hitching up with mr. blue eyes, who, when he climbed into the other ambulance- the one with Mabel(Viola)Uleula, that was the last Rena saw of him. She decided to walk back to work, at Sainsbury’s where Percy would no doubt greet her and dock her for the days she was off because technically she hadn’t given a full twelve hour notice. For this she needed the time and the peace and the rejuvination a walk would give her, especially if she took the scenic route through Banesbury woods. It was a beautiful day. She strolled off the beaten track and from the feel decided to take off her shoes and walk barefoot. She felt her steps slowly and at one point had to stop, having felt a seeming void beneath her left great toe. Digging into the earth a bit she discovered to her amazement a beautiful truffle. Rena gathered up her things, carefully stashing away her discovery and picking up her pace, was on her way again to work but then she found herself suddenly surrounded by a small field of rhubarb, grabbing several stalks with their huge leaves the former angel turned stock girl fashioned herself a bonnett peculiarly green and extremely wide brimmed. She felt positively giddy and started to pirroette, and leaping gracefully, taking a few strides, turning and launching herself again. Somehow all her baggage, rather then clumsily bouncing to and fro, took on the dance and swung in harmony as her hat flapped like an erudite owl in direct opposition to the flopping one might have expected with such an abomination. It all made her bearing a transgression of dissappointment that it be so transient and gone when she passed- it was her way as she went on her way to work. Charlie had given up on her, he had no desire to force anyone to do anything against their will, he had ethics and was resolved to respect Renes’ decision even though he had counted on her alone to break the Tridgeanite conspiracy once and for all. For years he had devised his plan and had designed it around an imaginary angel that would possess very specific and if trained properly, very decisive talents- in Rene he had found that Angel and now he was torn between devising another plan altogether or resuming the search for the perfect Angel once again.

  173. Regina Phalangee

    “you guys realise you’ve been writing this since february!!!”

    Going through old comments on this thread and others, I am finding occasionally recurring topics as follows:

    Feet
    Black gooey tar which people’s feet become stuck into
    Black gooey gangrene edible foot
    More goo from the first Isinglass epoch
    Verrucas
    Black gooey (?) truffles
    Sturgeon (and their bladders)
    Another fish ref – Cap’n Birds Eye Fish Fingers (or fish sticks)
    Lots of food – cornflakes, raisins, granola (with no raisins only dates), peas, mushrooms
    Alchohol – beer, Johnny Walker, wine?

    Note – the style of this narrative is conherent incoherence using the concept of connective dis-connectivity. A bit like that Daisy Puke.

  174. so it’s about goo, foot ailments, food, fish and booze.
    we are simple souls.

  175. Regina Phalan-goo

    I was trying to re-cap and find common thread – that was what I found – I’m sure if i looked harder, I could mention multi references to tv detective characters, pop bands of the 60’s named after chimpanzees, and vague styles reminiscent of Stephen King, Dan Brown and even some Mad magazine thrown in. Infedil has his own secret sources, chemical formulae being one…..

  176. Just to recap, we have the monk beer, oops a sturgeons bladder, Sigourney Weaver with rhubarb on her head in a dream later attends big dinner where Watson is her and Paul Bunyan takes a hit from Mickey Dolenz, oh yes the Monkees, Sherlock Holmes, Columbo. Somewhere along the way we have the revelation it was none of that but “the blood of life itself and the iniquities of humanity in the form of resident inferences to inadequate efforts on the part of law enforcement…or something and how the word meaningless is meaningless unless it means something to you ” then Charlies Angels meets Sainsbury’s and once again healthcare rears its ugly head, now our characters, rather then being elaborated on, are falling away while new ones arrive so as to carry the reader on a readers journey as opposed to the reader observing the passage of a character.
    The Monk, Sigourney, and the Spider Diamond.
    The monk is a jolly fellow, a good soul, niave and slow of mind but good in every way and happily celebate, preffering a good brew to a roll in the hay, he is portly, wears only a robe tied with a rope, sandals and at one time he possessed the much sought after Spider Diamond- it was there under his robe, Sigourney saw it as she slid into a deep funk as a result of fumes. How had the monk come upon the diamond?, why was he hiding it under his robe? Sigourney, a strong willed intellectual, skilled in the rare area of art restoration, a chemist, an artist, a historian, an artisan, has the knowledge of just exactly what the spider diamond is and what significance it has- she must be the source of the readers insight into the story line as it developsl, but no…she isn’t Sigourney at all she is Dr.Watson Sherlock Holmes assistant…Mara, Mara is her name, I had to go back to find out. This is nuts.

  177. In the interest of capsulizing it I left out some tidbits. There are the Tridgeanites, Rena, the store manager, the three epochs of Isinglass, Uleula Ooober…etc..etc… What this narrative needs is a cute little dog! One of those yip yip dogs, a shitsu or something, along the lines of Toto. Then when the movie comes out they’ll be able to get some really talented pooch, and if “The Mystery of the Bleu Spider Diamond” flops, it can be shrugged of as a vehicle for a smart dog.

  178. Don’t forget the Blue Oyster cult, the chef and his Marks and Spencer’s food which he had cheated with, (he bought it ready-made and pretended it was he who prepared it – a great British tradition) – the vomit which ended up in the – oh wtf was it? The marks and sparks lasagne??? No one even noticed that it was vomit, they just carried on eating thinking it was some marvellous bechamel sauce with a new secret ingredient – I remembered all that without even re-reading – and no, Infidel, one of the foodstuffs actually NOT mentioned in this gripping epic was NUTS!

    So I will start one off – Rena had grown tired of waiting for so long in the NHS A&E dept (2 weeks and she still had 211 in front of her ) she was hungry, did not want to inject numbing drugs in order to have to amputate and eat her own foot just to survive – but she did wonder if a pink sparkly pedi-prosthesis would look fab??? – then she suddenly thought “KP!” I saw KP nuts in the vending machine – if those aren’t a slow-release source of high-density calories which would fit in with her GI diet, she did not know what was – did she have a five pound note needed to buy the 25 gram packet from the machine just outsid the waiting room? (well, the nhs has massive overheads and has to recoup them somehow – ploy by the accountants – make patients wait ungodly long amounts of time, they get so hungry and thirsty that they will pay any amount to get something to keep from fainting- rena did not want to do again what got her here in he first place) and hey presto -more profit!

    She sold her shoes, her jewellry and her beloved “angels” ID badge, just to get 3 packs of the nuts. She took names and addresses to buy them back at twice the price later on – in effect – t his had turned nhs waiting rooms into unofficial pawn shops and there were many a faker in there who could spot someone who was desperately hungry, waiting to take advantage.

    She wished now she had not been so abrupt to Jurgen and his awkward attempts at chatting her up – if he was here, he would’ve given her back her stuff at no profit to himself.

  179. Rena also decided that, as the weather in the UK had turned back to Feb – and all the Trigdeanites – who had earlier been confused due to the south being warm, the north being cold, then the situation reversing, and being confused as to migration direction, all decided to migrate en masse to the south of france, where the weather did not shilly shally for months as to what it was going to do – Rena longed for the south of france – MY GOD – was she turning into a Trigdeeanite?? Did she have Trigdeanite blood in her ancestry which was giving her these subconscious longings for lovely sunshine, heat, blue sea, good food, and blue sky???

  180. Infidel said – “What this narrative needs is a cute little dog! One of those yip yip dogs, a shitsu or something, along the lines of Toto. Then when the movie comes out they’ll be able to get some really talented pooch, and if “The Mystery of the Bleu Spider Diamond” flops, it can be shrugged of as a vehicle for a smart dog.”

    Brainstorming here – we’ll give it a sinister new twist – we will give Rena some sparkly red shoes that,when she clicks them together (very femininally of course – is femininally a word?) and closes her eyes, and concentrates really hard (enough to defy the botox injections), and repeats over and over “there’s no place like the south of france, there’s no place like the south of france” etc…. while she holds abovementioned yippy toto-like dog (we’ll make the dog one similar to the “live” accessory that paris hilton and all her wannabees abuse, sorry, own) – Rena will perhaps be totally sucked into the snobby celeb/loadsamoney culture of monaco or monte carlo and perhaps be duped by some Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (lots of film refs in there to get stuck into).

    If this flops, the dog (a bit like Joey from Friends) could have it’s own spin-off cutesy show as you suggested – it could be called “Yip’s Trips” and woud be a bio-series about all his adventures combined with “spilling the beans” to do with his rich heiress abuser – oops sorry – owner. Yip Bite’s back!

    In the meantime, Rena would have to resort to waiting tables in monte carlo in the hope of meeting Jurgen or another rich millionaire of either sex – (there are no sainsbury’s or even tesco’s nor piggly wiggly’s in monte carlo – can you believe it!).

  181. Rena’s “waiting tables” career move would also enable her to feed herself whilst settling into this new lifestyle – what bigger thrill could a woman have than to bite into a half-finished steak that Sly Stallone had left on his plate? Or a salad that Ivana only picked at? She could auction bits on ebay for extra dosh after all , someone got a wodge of money for chewing gum spit out by Britney S – ah she thought, capitalism, celeb culture, ebay – it all comes toghether quite nicely here in this beautiful place with beautiful people (even if all their yippy dogss looked exactly the same – there was a rumour that there were even trigdeanite breeds of dogs!) She didn’t want to think about that at the mo – all those red ferraris were getting dead boring to look at all the time – why could someone not drive around in that car like that nice detective colombo drove?? And made noises which had all the anti-t**rist police running around like headless chickens?

  182. “arf!” “arf!” Jumpy little Nina, all flyinig hair, paws, tongue and tail frantically bumped the sliding glass doors of the E.R. waiting area. An ambulance had recently arrived and having gotton the patient onto a gurney, the EMTs started to rush the patient in. The sliding doors whooshed open to first let in the “outdoor” sounds of this summers…..the clickety clackity of Nina’s little claws on the gleamin tile of the hospital floor….whoa!, whoa…wait a minute, what’s was the point my whole May 4th 2007 5:46pm post about Rena getting back to Sainsbury’s if we’re going to bring Rena all the way back to the hospital again. I must insist if you are to blatantly contradict my narrative you have to…wait…no…I see now…the wicked matriarch who had ruled during the first epoch of Isinglass when the world had first been covered by the sticky goo as a result of some mad scientist’s personal vendetta against an imagined lizard that actually didn’t live in this universe but rather an alternative crystaline universe that was experiencing the virtual reality of a paid for vacation not only went on vacation but stayed there while a perfect double had been created in the other universe and been sent back in his place. So this lizard becomes Rena and having not succumed to any isinglass at the moment, and having found its lizardly self in a medical center looking at a reflection of itself and then seeing another independant being with the exact same features, figured this is going to be one hell of a vacation!
    “I think I’ll pay heir Hienz a little visit, I’m sure he’ll be tickled to have some non-Tridgeanite female companionship”

  183. Rena did not remember how she got where she was – she remembered something about wearing sparkly red shoes, wishing about – was it france?- and had some yippy dog in tow – Nina??? Nina rhymed with Rena – how did she get an accessory dog with a rhyming name? there was something significant in that she just knew.

    She was about to slither around to table 65 of the “Too Posh to Nosh” restaurant in Monte Carlo where rich people ordered expensive food they did not eat, in order to pick up her tip (all the customers loved they way she moved – she seemed to slither and slide – how did she do that?) when she heard a big huge BANG – she saw a huge crowd of people outside – she slithered and slid her way effortlessly thru this crowd to see what all the commotion was about – all the trillionaires were jostling for the best view of the most unique car they had ever seeen – they were actually bidding on it and fists were flying – these rich people sure were quick to try to get in on the stuff you couldn’t buy in normal shops- Rena looked more closely – “Scuse me sir, I was only looking for a friend of mine who I wanted to exchange autographs with, you haven’t seen her have you? She may have only one foot. You may remember her – she was a charlie’s angel (holds up glamorous pic) She may have a yippy accessory dog – sorry, I have only been picking up vague clues on my way down here – they were useless in Nice and Cannes – no help whatsoever- have you seen this woman sir? No, I cant’ sell this car for any amount of money (by this time they were also bidding on his coat) my missus would be very upset sir and ma’am, she loves this car and coat – 3katrillion? Is that dollars or pounds sterling sir? That sure would help pay off the car loan – let me call the missus”

    Rena was flabbergasted – how had he found her? WEll, he was a detective but geez, she didn’t even know how she had got here herself – she was definitely getting homesick for grey skies and packed sainsbury’s car parks. she missed cornflakes and tinned sardines, and she even missed wonky trollies. She wanted to cry. Why did she feel so emotional? The lizard part of her was hard as nails but the Rena part wanted to cry buckets for some reason – Columbo would know what to do!

  184. Then she rememberd – the lizard in the alter-universe – FinFang Foom!!!

    Dang!

  185. “Tridgean bastards” Blurted the big man. In a dark dank cavern overlooking a foggy moor on a chilly morning he sat on his rustic throne, heavy crown of pewter on his head, covered in bear fur, and surrounded by deer and elk horns. In front of him a sucking pig half eaten, face partially consumed, mouth comically agape with an apple wedged. “I’ll see them all back to their damned own dimension before I’m through!”
    Just then Ululea OOber entered with a Tridgeanite in tow.
    “Ahh! ‘Ubee baby’ let’s see that one beg a little before we send it back.”
    “First we’ll see it as it is” and with that Uleula dug her fingers into the poor Tridgeanite’s neck and with one jerk tore off the fake face to reveal the head of a lizardlike creature. Then she grabbed it by its neck and brought its head close in…”Your as ugly as the rest of em” with that she cast it though some sort of vortex and turned to the king. “Would it please your highness that I might share your table?”
    “Yes! Yes! by all means Ululea, feast on my largess. We have beans, brussel sprouts, mango, pig- of course, over there we’ve got some delicious guacamole, and five kinds of nuts, peanuts, almonds, pecans, macadamia, and filberts, we’ve got a gruel made from some kind of hippie flour, and oh yes some rhubarb crumble, eat, eat my child!”

  186. …”anyways, that’s when I saw them together for the first time. I know its alot to believe mr. Mason, but I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill him! Sob!”
    “So Mrs.Joergen, how did you end up with the gun in your hand?”
    “It was dark, Mr.Mason, the dogs were barking, his son had gone to Sainsbury for a fizzy. I thought it would be a good time to confront him with what I knew about him and that woman-Ululu.”
    “Had you met her, socially?”
    “Oh, yes. She had been at all the ‘gatherings’.”
    “Go on.”
    “Well the dogs seemed so agitated, and I wanted them to be quiet so Hans would be able to concentrate on what I was going to propose to him, our future, my plan. Anyway after I turned from the window, it was the first I noticed, I thought he was absorbed with his work at his desk. He.. he..sob Ohh Mr. Mason It was awful! Sob!
    Winnie Ramsdam ran into Perrys’ arms and began to sob uncontrollably, then Della walked in.
    “Perry, its Paul, I think he’s found something.”

  187. “What did you find Paul?”
    “NOt so much what as who, Perry, from his wallet it’s Lt.Columbo from the LosAngeles Police Department.”
    “Good Night! Paul not THE Lt.Columbo?”
    “I’m afraid so Perry, and that’s not all, look over here, pipe tobacco.”
    “Columbo only smoked cigars.”

  188. “Morning Perry, looks like we’ve got ourselves a little double homocide. Come along Mrs.Joergen”
    “Get your hands off me!”
    “Lt.Trag, aren’t you forgetting something?”
    “Right you are Perry, Mrs Joergen you have the right to remain silent…

  189. For everything you ever wish you had said but never did – http://www.iwishidsaid.com

  190. I wish I’d said something inspirational, something that would get me off my ass, something that I never said before- and that is why I try and I try, to come up with a word or a song or a phrase, nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s