this blog wishes to apologise to its readers.
to one reader in particular.
and to witches in general.
i realise it’s a pollution of the term; that witches are benign strivers for wisdom. apologies.
and to ‘the witch’ (she knows who she is) nothing but respect, mum.
we apologise that by using the term we may have given the impression that these people are even the same species as the late baroness you know who. (as someone once said ‘even sharing a planet is more related than i want to be’) don’t want her name on here more than i have to.
love to you all.
for a long time i thought i would be elated today. when the witch was finally gone i would celebrate for and with all my people. and yet…
how can you celebrate the release of a baffled old woman from dementia? punishment enough for most sins. if that wasn’t enough, perhaps it was fitting that she was punished by becoming an irrelevance and knowing it.
i hope that what i felt as hatred has now changed. but this post isn’t about her; i will try to keep this space free of all that nonsense a little longer. this is about compassion.
gone are the days when i stood on the picket line. that all feels a long time ago. i haven’t been to a march or demonstration since the invasion of iraq. these days i can try and fight for my clients but i wonder if the bigger picture tends to escape me.
but on a day when the minister for persecuting the disabled introduces changes that makes one woman say ”genuine people with genuine disabilities are terrified’ (and i assume she wasn’t sitting in that wheelchair just to amuse herself) if there is one thing that can save us it’s compassion. active and powerful, a real feeling for and with the needs and lives of those around us – the opposite of everything the cult of the now late thatcher glorified. a simple human feeling that joins us all. if anything can dance – maybe not on her grave, but at least on her legacy of despair – it’s compassion.
i hope i can find in myself some of that compassion for her and the human suffering of her demise. i hope that love and care for my fellow humans will keep driving me forward now that my hatred has fizzled out. and i hope that if enough of us realise that compassion is power not weakness we can fight for fairness and make changes that will erase her legacy as completely as if she had never existed.
great thing, hope.
some tory blogger has decided to post an e-petition to bring back capital punishment, a few of the usual twat tory mps are supporting it and … ya know?…
ah no feckit…
just can’t waste the seconds of my life it takes to say why the death penalty is like a kinda bad thing. nope; can’t be bothered. just doing other stuff like breathing in and out and not making arguments that should be blindingly obvious to all semi-intelligent-and-up human beings. (yes, since you ask, priti patel is one of the tories who has come out (or remained out, i guess) as being in favour of the death penalty.)
for fuller details visit tory home, or the isle of wight’s mp’s website (hell yeah – if we care, he ‘ lists his interests as reading, walking [that’s an ‘l’ just for clarity], old movies and avoiding gardening!’ oh the dangerous old radical. and note the jauntily placed exclamation mark. he seems unaccountably to have missed ‘killing the mentally ill’ off that riveting list. it is perhaps the one thing that makes you imagine for a moment he is actually still breathing.) or even read the daily male if you want to see why europe, feminists or the blacks (if not black european feminists) are to blame for … oh, you know … stuff.
i wonder what me ole chum dom raab thinks about all of this… no actually i don’t. i couldn’t give a buggering stuff. valuable seconds of my life have already been expended hearing what these vacuous tossers think about this and that when i know it will only inflame me further.
i shall resort to beating myself repeatedly over the head with an old kipper until the blood and the will to live are leaving my body/spirit at about the same rate.
don’t suppose there’s a portobello riot i can join. better stick the clash on loud and watch the images of burning buildings from croydon to haringey. that can’t be anything to do with the government can it?
is my favourite piece of graffiti ever. i saw it 20-some years ago on the side of a bus shelter at four lane ends. it was accompanied by a diagram notable only for its anatomical inaccuracy.
it involved triangles. a faux-naif proto-banksy perhaps?
anyway that was just the usual laughable attempt to drive traffic towards double figures and amuse or embarass those kind or foolish enough to have bogrolled me. on a greener note it should provide some perv searches for me to blog about and help this to remain the sustainable source of low quality reading matter you both love – the online equivalent of recycled toilet paper. or at least that is my lofty aspiration. to that end, a minimum of 97% of the words you are reading have previously been used by me or someone else.
so if this post wasn’t about that, what is it about? (pauses and hopes to remember…)
it was in fact about a major moment of epiphany that came to me today – the latest step, if you will, on my zen road to enlightenment/endarkenment. i have learned that a household bin, fill it though you may with bleach, washing up liquid or other cleaning products will fail to do the decent thing and clean itself. only when the delicate alchemical balance is achieved between cleaning product and modicum of effort do you get a sparkly, clean-smelling bin.
glad you came? ah well.
maybe you are none the worse for the time spent here. and at least you have learned more about the great big donkey cock you sought.
i had almost forgotten summer. the last of the broad beans were gathered this weekend and already they have been replaced with late potatoes. who knows if or when they will come up, but i shall enjoy the wait. i have remembered what it is to sit in the garden and stare at the vegetables in the vague belief it affects how they grow. the earwigs enjoy my company, though they do not say as much. i like the earwigs; they eat the bean leaves and leave the beans. they are good sharers.
so much has happened already this year and yet i have my boys’ birthdays to come and the start of a new year at college – a course so expensive it could be made from iridium personally crafted by bill gates. i am fortunate that a rich body has seen fit to assist me with a rather large scholarship and yet more fortunate that in these credit crunch days i can thoughtlessly extend my borrowing from the bank secure in the knowledge that i have as yet no particular way of paying it back. still; you gotta gamble (or gambol…).
i walked to the stream with firstborn son today and we played pointlessly with some stones that blocked what flow there was. when he was done, the dam was broken and the stream streamed along no less happily than before. and he was as alive as only a five-year-old who has just mucked about in a small body of water can be. me too. two five-year-olds in a stream, one grey, watched by sheep who probably wondered why. i am not the only simple wonderer in the village.
past lughnasa and still the wheel turns and the year provides – beans … scholarships… and i know gratitude, surprise and ignorance. and the greatest of these is ignorance. i found a bottle of wine last night from my parents’ stock and we drank it and thought of them drinking wine in that undiscovered country. it is a time of gifts. fidel – i wish i could write you a melody so plain that would hold you dear friend from going sane; ehj – i wish you all the joy of your new love and that she shares that space at the foot of the tree with bodhi. let’s meet for a drink in the boathouse soon.
time, it seems is still working, unlike me.