I want to have a breakdown too, damn it!

So I'm off to the charming village of Stanford to care for my mom after her operation. Poor mum. She's phoned me almost every day with 'contingency plans': 'If I die, do such and such. If I'm slow to heal, this and that must happen. Here's money for my funeral in case you need it.' Its more than bit depressing although I appreciate that she feels more comfortable knowing that there are plans in place.

Work, after two weeks of late nights and two disrupted weekends, should take care of itself. Like mom, I've been making plans and contingency plans. I might or might not get online while I'm away. I hope I will, I want to keep up with my blog and my blogging friends.

In the mean time, my number 1 'find', a part-time lady to temp in the office, has had a 'bit of a wobbly' to quote her own words, and won't be be back for work. The fact that she got her dad to phone in for her, along with the fact that she's supposed to be a friend of mine and could have spoken to me herself (I'm personnel officer - hardly a terrifying prospect) rankles slightly, but although her workload is zilch, she doesn't have to support herself, her own health is good and her parents aren't even thinking of dying, I'll take her word for it that her stress is extreme.

Sigh. I suppose I should be glad I don't have her problems (whatever those may be). Will ensure that she gets tons of sympathy even though I could use some myself.

I'll be seeing you all as and how I can.

Today's pic: a dam wall. Seems appropriate, somehow. I may not break! I must not break!

Millennium hand and shrimp!

I always liked the idea of being a mutterer. Terry Pratchett uses the word to describe a beggar called 'foul old Ron' who follows his targets while muttering sheer nonsense: 'Millennium hand and shrimp.. I told them, I told them...' until they pay him to go away.

Well, so far no-one's paying me to shut up and inflicting bad art and worse poetry haven't achieved my end, so I suppose I'll just have to come to terms with not being a proper mutterer after all.

It was always going to be a long shot though, because I don't smell bad enough. I don't think I'll work on that aspect of being a mutterer, because I have a nice bath with hot water on tap. I might have given it a shot at my old place, except that buckets of cold water seemed preferable at the time.

So if I really wanted to be a mutterer, I'd have been in a good position to do so, but maybe I don't want it after all which leads me to a song as follows: Ahem... twiddles guitar.. looks self-conscious... chunders forth a shaky riff...

Refrain:

I could get what I want

If I knew what I want

Wish I could find a way

To find out what I want!

Verse 1:

Met a guru so old

And he made very bold

He said do just what I say

You know I've found the way

So I gave him my cash

Guess it was kind of rash

I was trying to buy a way

To find out what I want

Verse2

Met a man with a pill

That could give you a thrill

He said: 'Try this little thing'

'The answer Lies within!'

Now I'm feeling so strange

And my mind's rearranged

And I still don't know a way

To find out what I want.

Verse 3

So I went up a hill

And I sat very still

And suddenly I knew

Exactly what I want

Now there's no hit and miss

And the answer is this

I really want

To know what I want

Bows out to thunderous applause and increased notoriety. Mutters 'Millennium hand and shrimp'

Today's pic. A hill on which enlightenment may or may not be found.

Poetry

Its time for something a little lighter, so I'm thinking of a poem I wrote when I was in my teens. I'm awful at poetry, so I really should inflict some on you. Brace yourself: barf bags at the ready! Here goes!

Filbert was a carpenter,

A man of some renown

He had a little corner shop

On the quiet side of town

One day, a block of solid teak

Sprouted legs and grew beak

Down it jumped from the storage shelf

Did a dance and shook itself

Imagine Filbert's great surprise

When it appeared before his eyes!

Then: 'Filbert!' it cried with a voice like a lash

'I want to know where you keep your cash!'

It grabbed up the safe and snaffled the key

And was off down the road just as fast as could be

The teak block ran as fast as it could

And soon you could smell the burning of wood

Filbert could see how before it got far

The teak was just a smear of ash on the tar.

And there is a moral in all this my sons:

If you're a blockhead, don't pull any fast ones!

***

Voila! Ridculosity rules!

More flowers - I haven't had time to do any non-work-related photography what with seven day work and suchlike.

Godliness and Lies

I really hate telling lies. It causes a lot of heart-searching at times. I like keeping my conscience clear, but there are times when the truth will have terrible consequences to the recipient.

I was in just such a quandary yesterday when my mother who is a very ‘on fire’ Pentecostal confronted me about my assertion on Facebook (Which it never occurred to me she might see) that I am agnostic.

To her, this is ‘rejecting Christ’ and a repentant murderer is more likely to see the pearly gates than I am. She finds it personally hurtful and I could sense her withdrawal from me. In her faith, you don’t even eat at the same table with filth such as I. I know this because the same issues tore our family apart when I was in my teens and I began to openly question matters of faith.

I could explain that uncertainty is not the same as rejection, but to her, the uncertain are as bound for hell as the evil. She’s just confided in me that she might have terminal cancer, and I’m to go and support her for two weeks during an operation later this month.

She has enough to worry about without having to worry about my immortal soul, and if she spends the entire two weeks attempting my conversion, we will both become frustrated and upset. She needs to trust me now. I’m her support in this difficult time.

So I lied. I spun an enormous and almost unbelievable yarn (Which I’m ashamed to even mention) and managed to convince her that I’m born again enough to be trustworthy. I hated it.

It made me feel sick telling such lies, though I’m not doing it for my comfort but for hers. It would be pointless to debate this with her, and now is the worst possible time to embark on a course that will end in alienation unless I give in – which means a lie sooner or later – as I doubt she’ll convince me of anything I’m not convinced of yet.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I feel awful, even though I’ve rationalized as follows: If a lie is told in order to ensure positive and unselfish ends – if it builds another person up in some way – then its ok to lie. The truth should be told, but only if its constructive.

So why do I still hate myself?

Today’s pic: I’m starting to get to know the camera…

Aaarghhharrrghhaaaarrgh!

Yesterday, while I was working diligently at performing minor miracles as is my habit, and as is herewith depicted, I was startled by a dreadful cry of 'Argharghargharrrrghhh'. Issuing from the direction of the boss' house.

'He's hurt himself! Something terrible is happening! Disaster! Flood! Fire!' thought I, and I was up in a flash and dashing to avert, alleviate or admire (whichever would be appropriate) the carnage.

On reaching a suitable vantage, I was more horrified than ever. 'He's finally lost it! Executive stress has never been this bad! We're going to need elephant tranquilizer'! There was my boss, running around the garden roaring and waving a long stick with which he hit the roof of the house with great energy. Bang! Thump! Aaarggggh! While chipped paint rained down from the gutters like dandruff.

An audience gathered, poised to flee lest his insanity should extend to hitting people with the long stick. He tore around the side of the house yelling and emerged again, grinning.

'Baboons! They were in the kitchen eating fruit.' He explained as soon as he had got his breath back.

The whole performance had been in the nature of declaring his supremacy over his territory in a way these primates would understand, and sure enough, there they were, loping towards the garden wall and disappearing over it with alacrity.

He says he scared them by persuading them that he was the alpha baboon, but maybe they, like us, had merely thought him crazy. Whatever it was, they haven't been back despite the lure of the fruit bowl.

What to do when people cry at you

I never know what to do when people begin to cry. I feel helpless. I hold them a little and say 'I'm sorry', though its not my fault, because its all I can think of. I murmur endearments and offer glasses of water. To be honest with you, though I hope I am being some comfort, I wish I was elsewhere.

One day, everyone in the office was crying. I can't remember why. I was the only one who wasn't crying, and I felt insensitive as well as useless, helpless etc. I felt, not to put too fine a point on it, embarrassed and I was ashamed of myself for feeling that way. I don't know why I find emotions 'messy', and sometimes I think I've kept a lid on mine so hard that I've forgotten how to 'feel' properly.

I told a friend about my uselessness in tearful situations once:

'I don't know what to do when people cry at me!' and he said...

Wait for it....

'Give them a tissue.'

Today's pic: getting the hang of the new camera, but still have to read the manual properly.

Today's status: bushed. 13 hour work day.

Acknowledgement: Grant. Sorry, still no bunnies.

Who are you?

Karl Bakla often makes me think. He was talking about how we define ourselves, and in particular how some people define themselves by their jobs. There are other things I've noticed people see as defining: looks, music, clothes - its rather sad. These things have nothing to do with who one is.

Have you ever read pen friend ads? Many of them will say something like 'I'm a normal person with a good sense of humor. I am nice and I like to have fun. I am x years old.' Somehow, I find this kind of thing rather sad too. The problem with self-definition, though, is that its not easy to do.

Here's my attempt:

I am a bit of everything, but some things more than others.

I try very hard not to be normal because there are enough people already trying to be normal even though 'normal' is a theoretical state that no-one actually attains.

I am definitely NOT average. I'm either awful or brilliant. Do not contradict this, or I will be cross.

I have a talent for happiness, but I do like a good mope now and then.

I seldom lose my temper, but rare individuals have a knack for setting it off. It is better that I avoid them.

I have difficulty in making decisions, but when I do, I become extremely stubborn.

I am scatter-brained and I adore being called 'eccentric' even though the same people probably call me 'mad' behind my back.

Sometimes, I am a silly sausage.

Whew. I think that's as good as its going to get. I doubt you know me any better than you did before, though. Anyone else care to try?

Today's pic: on the farm after the rain. I like the farm, but it doesn't define me.