The Green Man

Midsummer rises... and cool green light filters between the trees. It drifts in dappled layers to a forest floor of ancient memories of those that have gone before. Silence envelopes me, holding me in arms of tranquility. My footfalls make no sound as I wander over centuries of dreams and dances. I am mesmerized, cocooned within the heart of the wildwood. A breeze trembles through the highest leaves, lingers with a whisper of voices long forgotten. I am drawn deeper. I sense myself leaving one world and entering another. World reality becomes obscure, recedes and pan pipes sing a haunting song. A hundred eyes watch me. Shadows skip and light glimmers. Gossamer feet pitter and patter. Wings flutter. I have entered the unknown, long-forgotten realm.A silver birch shivers, her green tresses rustle, wary – resentful - of the human presence.
My feet carry me forward and I advance towards the trunk of a venerable oak. Its craggy armour of grey is decorated with treebeard and lichen, elemental partners in the battle and dance of life.
This is my journey. My midsummer rising.
I wrap my arms around Old Man Oak, draw myself to his timeless bulk. Deep within, his heart beats, old as the stars, slow and steady. I sense him watching me, feeling me. I know I am an interloper, know I have to earn respect. All I have to give is love... I let it flow in waves from me – some small pittance to make up for things done by others to all his kind in so many places both near and far. The love pulsates from me into the heart of the tree – and he radiates it back, his energy connecting with mine. I rest my cheek against his side - close my eyes to sense him better.
Grandfather Oak, I have come home.
His voice, thick with age, rumbles within him.
Yes, child…home.
Yes.
All place is home. We are…home.
Yes.
Hard world your kind has created.
I’m sorry.
Humans advance without thought.
I know.
Sorrow.
Forgive us, we are unthinking.
I know. But we endure…always endure. Ancient wisdom knows.
A blackbird flutters and scuffles in the undergrowth. My eyes spring open.
Glossy creature, it watches me, head cocked to one side, bright eyes of obsidian glinting. It warbles - a syrupy note. It hops towards me, pauses, calls out, a clear, crystalline voice.
And then I sense him. He has been watching…peering through the trunks of his beloved trees. Edging ever closer, curious, unafraid…master of all he surveys.
I know you’re there. I am awed, my inner voice trembles.
He chuckles, remains unrevealed. But I feel his eyes upon me, appraising me.
Grandfather Oak speaks to him but I cannot catch the words. It is an ancient language that I and my kind of long since forgotten.
The blackbird chirrups. I have been asked a question.
Yes, I like it here. I find my peace here. I would remain forever…
I sense his smile. He is pleased I find rest and joy within his domain.
Midsummer is rising, the dryads are impatient, eager to weave and dance and play. He must go, so many to see, so much to do. Summer is in full glory. He is in his prime. I know this, feel it… I am remembering the primordial tongue…
Come again. Soon. I would speak with you, see more of you.
I will, and thank you.
I have been welcomed, embraced and now I must go. This is not my world, not now, not yet…
The blackbird twitters at me, his voice full of cheek and laughter. The way, the way, he sings, I will show you the way.
I pause, one lingering hand on the face of Grandfather Oak - my goodbye.
I turn as if in a dream but the spell is breaking. Reality beckons as voices shout in the distance. A jet rumbles overhead. They are poles apart these worlds, yet intrinsically interconnected.
Yes, I hear him say, remember that. We are always here, will always be here. Take that with you as our gift. And come again…
I hear him laugh, his voice echoing in the woods, drifting away, the merry glee of the dryads follows him - and midsummer rises
I know I have been blessed – or bewitched.

(Green Man image... courtesy of a Google image search.)

This is not the dream...

Night descends in swathes of velvet. Darkness wraps inky arms around trees and houses, and creeps into nooks and crannies. Silence falls.
I am alone. He is away. I should be safe. I am tucked away behind six foot walls and gates. The garden is studded with invisible beams to foil the unwary intruder. The security gates which guard all the doors are locked. The doors are bolted, the windows are shut their burglar bars protecting them. The LEDs on the security system gleam with eyes that are ever-vigilant. Yes, I should be safe.
I switch off the lights and am cocooned by a sea of black. I like the night. I feel safe in the dark – unseeing and unseen. Stillness washes over me and I sleep.
My subconscious awakens, taps into the collective unconscious. It weaves dreams of trouble and torment. My sleep becomes restless. I toss and turn. My shoulders tighten, ride up to my ears. My gut, the emotional heart of me, gurgles in trepidation. My body breaks out into the clammy sweat of a cold night.
I awaken, ears alert. Outside all is quiet. Something thuds in the roof. I jerk. I run through the security checklist in my mind, remind myself that my neighbours – near and far – patrol the streets every hour of the night. I sense my angels around me, protecting me – as they have always done.
I fall into an uneasy sleep and again my subconscious encounters the collective unconscious. We are all one. We are all afraid. It is how we live. Muggings, rapes, murders, armed robberies, beatings, knifings, road rage, drug and alcohol abuse, child abuse, animal abuse, corruption, deceit… This is a society that bubbles with aggression, violence and fear. It touches everyone in some way.

Dawn rises and the first robin starts to sing, his warble of pure honey flooding the beginning of a new day. The rose-tipped fingers of daybreak stretch into the blue of heaven and the touch the granite face of the mountain with kisses of pink radiance. The guinea fowl with their strident calls advance along the road. Outside my window a squirrel chatters.
I awake – stiff, aching and unsettled. I stretch and do what we all do – our only way of coping – I bury my head in the sand – try to pretend things are not what they seem. Try to believe everything is different. My subconscious together with the collective unconscious prays that maybe one day it will be.


This is not the dream for which the great Madiba fought. This is not the liberation for which thousands of freedom fighters struggled. As I listened to our great elder statesman, the father of a nation, Neslon Rolihlahla Mandela, speaking in London at the unveiling of his statue in Parliament Square, I wondered where it had all gone so horribly wrong. This is not the dream…

(Images used in this post... courtesy of Google image searches.)

New Forest Memories

Born Free

Treebeard and Moss

Tree Tales

Gracious Silver Birch

Oak Story

Mother and Child

Pine Sentries

Calshot

Meeting Mr Despicable Opinion

I’m often left pondering the nature of humanity and no more so when encountering conflict. What is it about some people that leads them to assume that they know you, understand your motives and are entitled for form an opinion on the basis of no knowledge whatsoever – and then attack you?

I recall being sent to a Stephen Covey course, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, many years ago. The one habit that struck me most was “Seek first to understand and then to be understood”. What is so remarkable about this habit is its ability to defuse conflict situations - would that more people put it into practice. But it strikes me this sort of approach is not in the nature of humans who would sooner shoot first and ask questions later.

So here’s the scene: a meeting in a breezy seminar room to discuss all things “trees”.

The matter is a contentious one. The trees are not indigenous. Yet they provide local communities, particularly impoverished ones, with much needed recreational shade. Others enjoy the plantations for walking, dog walking, horse riding, mountain biking, picnicking and barbequing. And, it should be said, that of the entire National Park that runs through the middle of the city, these pine plantations form only two percent. True, the indigenous vegetation is under threat and much of it has already been destroyed by urban development – along with the indigenous peoples who were wiped out by the original Dutch settlers way back in the 1600’s... But now, in an era of “biodiversity crisis” and after years of slumber, local botanists have finally decided to pop up and bellow loudly. I have no issue with this – but it’s the how of the matter that irks me.

My position is simply this: We live in a time of global warming in a city that already enjoys temperatures of plus 30 degrees Celsius in summer. It is a Mediterranean climate and the little shade there is, is much valued. Moreover, the plantations act as something of a green lung in a polluted environment – and of course, provide that valuable recreational shade. They have also come to form part of the city’s cultural landscape. The other critical point is that throughout my fight for the trees (accepting that plantations are a form of agriculture and the trees are regularly harvested) I have wanted to provide a voice for those who were given no voice – namely, those from “previously disadvantaged communities”. To this end I have, over several Sundays, conducted interviews amongst these people as they’ve picnicked in the shade of the pines. What struck and distressed me was the level of disempowerment voiced - the simmering resentment and hostility towards an authority who never consulted them – as in the bad old days and so now…

So in the meeting of all interested and affected parties yesterday I raised just that point and pointed out that the group of predominantly white faces sitting around the table was hardly representative of the majority of the city’s inhabitants, particularly those who live in dusty, treeless communities.

And so from stage right enters Mr Despicable Opinion.

I’ve been hearing about Old Despicable for the past few months, but having never met the man formed no opinion of my own. It is, I believe, a little unreasonable to accept others’ judgement without study of the subject oneself…

From the moment I closed my mouth, having made my plea, I felt something or someone’s energy directed at me - and it was not a well-meaning energy. It was resentful, bitter, angry… I ignored it, told myself I was imagining it…

The meeting over, I stood outside the seminar room in conversation with a friend. A man of about 60 with white grey hair stalked towards me. His body radiated contained aggression and he locked eyes with me as he began to speak. His the voice was measured - baiting a trap.

“Did you tell those picnickers the trees were going?” Despicable Opinion asked.

I knew where this was coming from. He was hoping I’d say yes – and nothing else.

So I said, “Yes, I did - but I also told them the picnic site would be moved and pointed out the proposed new picnic area.”

Foiled.

He tried again.

“Did you give a time frame?”

“No, I didn’t, I don’t know the time frame.”

My friend butted in. “It’s imminent – we’ve just been told that in the meeting.”

Despicable glowered at me. “I want you to know that what you’ve done is despicable!”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” I said.

“You had no right to speak to those people! I’ve been speaking to those people. I know what’s right for them! You had no right. Your actions are despicable. Despicable!”

He was frothing and plumes of blue smoke billowed from his ears.

“As I said, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Thank you for letting me be entitled to my opinion!” he snarled and spun on his heel in a huff.

“My pleasure,” I said to his retreating back, “it is after all only an opinion.”

And so it is - just an opinion – of a man who knows nothing about me or my motives. Who has no clue how I conducted my surveys or the spirit in which it was done. The opinion of a man used to bullying others so he can have his own way.

We are complete strangers yet he chose to go to war because he felt threatened. And he made an assumption. And you know what they say about the word “assume” – ass u me. Nobody wins.

But Mr Despicable Opinion is not alone in the position he takes – it is the position of many an insecure person feeling threatened. You see, Old Despicable hates the pines. He wants to preserve the indigenous vegetation – scrubby grey bush – at all costs. It’s a noble view but it is unbalanced because biodiversity is not just about plants, it’s about people too. Biodiversity is about ecosystems and, whether one likes it or not, us humans are very much an integral part of those systems. Perhaps the next thing for Mr Opinion to argue is the removal of all humans from this part of the world too. That is, after all, the logical conclusion of his position. Now, I wonder what the opinion of others would be on that…

(Image used in this post... courtesy of a Google image search.)

Angelic Encounters

It should be safe to take a walk. But not here. Not anymore. Not for a while…
I remember…

The greenbelt at the end of my road lies on the edge of the motorway linking the suburbs with the city. On one side of the motorway is a dairy farm with a small lake and an old Cape Dutch homestead. On the other side is a river, horse paddocks and the edge of pine plantations which go on to rise halfway up the mountain. The view from the hill looks out over rolling vineyards and towards the towering granite face of the side of Table Mountain. It’s beautiful. A picture of God’s grandeur and verdancy.
My two elderly Golden Retrievers and I liked to walk there.
We walked slowly, SJ with his arthritic bones couldn’t go very fast. B, the older dog, still thought he was three… We reached the top of the hill, paused to admire the view and sniff the scents. It was three in the afternoon. There were no other walkers. Not a good thing. It is wise to be wary when taking a stroll. It is not a time for reflection or meditation. This is South Africa…
I looked around - my eyes followed the path along the riverbank. Two men – about five hundred metres away from me. Black guys. This is not a statement of race. It is one of pragmatism. Most instances of crime are black on black and black on white. They looked up - saw me standing on the hill top. I watched them. They gazed back.
Turn around and go home now. The voice in my ear could not have been any clearer.
But the boys need a walk.
Not here. Not now.
Look, just because they’re black guys doesn’t mean they’re trouble. I don’t want to be another paranoid whitey.
You’re not being paranoid and your race is irrelevant.
I tell you what, I’ll go along a little way and if it doesn’t look good I’ll turn around.
No. Turn around now.
But…
I know you don’t want this to be race issue. But this about your safety. And you aren’t safe. Go back now. Put distance between yourself and them.
I was torn. I knew the voice was right. But I was so conscious of my paranoid whitey label. This is South Africa…
Contrary to every inner prompting I walked on.
As I descended the hill, one guy started to pee. Perhaps it was a call of nature. Perhaps it was a form of territorial behaviour. Perhaps it’s meant to cock a snook at the whitey. This is South Africa… He kept his eyes on me as he peed. Facing me. Defiant. His friend watched me too.
Shit.
Finished, he turned to his friend. The friend nodded, they shook hands and the friend started to run. Towards me. At me. Gaining pace. I should have known. This is South Africa…
“SJ,” I said, “we need to go home. I need you to run, baby, please. Try.” Fear snaked along the leads.
SJ look up at me. He understood.
We turned.
Don’t look back.
Up the hill. B bounding at my side, me dragging SJ. He couldn’t do it. I knew he couldn’t. He tried - so hard.
The guy was gaining on us. SJ was stumbling. My heart pounded. Fear throbbed in my ears.
I should have listened.
SJ tripped, fell onto the path.
The guy was close - maybe a hundred and fifty meters away.
I couldn’t leave my dog. Wouldn’t. I would take my chances.
I dropped to me knees. I stroked SJ’s head. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”
He gazed up at me, despair in his eyes.
The guy raced towards us… and stopped – as though he’d hit a wall.
A look of puzzlement flickered across his face.
He stared at me.
“He’s old,” I murmured, “old man, sore legs.”
He tried to take a step towards us – faltered... His eyes widened. He seemed held - kept back.
He glanced around. His friend was no where to be seen. He looked at us again, confusion flooding his eyes. He muttered something - and took off – dashing towards the freeway.

I have no doubt that my boys and I were protected by an angel. I have never stopped saying thank you. There are greater things in this universe than the criminality of some South Africans…


The telling of this story was prompted by a recent report that a woman narrowly escaped rape whilst walking on the greenbelt...

More hellish days in Mauritius - Part Two

Okay, I promise after this - no more. Clearly I have inadvertently raised some envy and as we know, this is bad. For me and for you. So I will leave you with these last few shots and then say no more.

Wolmar Beach - West Coast

Silheoutted palms - another balmy sunset

Vegetable section of the Quatre Bourne Market

Food Vendors - Quatre Bourne Market

La Bennitier et les Fonds Blancs - a tiny coral island in crystal clear waters

Here endeth the time in paradise.

Mauritius - Another hellish day in paradise... Part One

Chickens and other humans have been known to travel - particularly to places that delight the senses... Enjoy the scenes from a recent holiday. Personally, I'm hoping to go back soon - preferably yesterday.

View from the hotel lobby... It's hell, I know

Mauritian east coast - views over sugar cane plantations

Tree roots snaking along the Black River in the Black River Gorge

Mauritian Tortoise have a slow and languid snack...

Ah, sigh, sunset over the west coast and Wolmar Beach... So endeth a hellish day in paradise.

More tomorrow...

Comedy writing contest

There's a writing contest over at Small-town Big-shot, for anyone interested in writing some comedy.

The brief is as follows:

Deadline:
September 1st, 2007 (May be extended)
Voting will begin 1 day after deadline.

Challenge:
Write a comedy story involving at least 2 out of the following:
exorcism
mermaid
angry mob
black box
banjo

Rules:
Story must be at least 750 words (no maximum)
Stories must be your own original work
You must actively use at least 2 of the items listed
Try to keep it somewhat appropriate for the site
It will be judged only on humor and creativity
You may submit as many entries as you like.

Sounds like it could be fun - only if you're anything like me you'll find it easier to write comedy when you're not trying - and impossible to write it when you are trying. Bugger.

(Image used in this post... courtesy of the internet.)

Dancing with David

He’s been watching me for months. I know he’s there, just beyond the edge of my vision, standing on a vast open plain, poised, immobile. It is hard to see him, the sky is dark, low and he rises into it. Each day as I weaken he comes a little closer. His eyes on me. Waiting. The silent observer. I grow used to him, I call him David. Yet his constant presence unnerves me.

I know why he is there but I don’t know why he waits. I am uneasy and fear and foreboding shiver in ever widening tingles up my spine, clamp to my head, bend me. I am afraid of what he is, of what he brings - of where he wants to take me. I am paralysed by my fear. I don’t like it - and I resent being afraid.

I remember what I’ve always told myself. Face your fear – it will shrink, become insignificant.

So I turn to him. Take him by surprise.

“I know you’re there. We both know why you’re here. Come on then, get on with it.”

He faces me. He is beautiful - unexpectedly so. And gentle. His face is still and serene. Dark eyelashes curve above black eyes, a fringe of lustrous hair flops over his brow. He is ageless. Always has been. Tall, broad-shouldered, collected, at ease. He smiles. A slow smile and behind him the plain lights up.

This is not what I expected.

I move towards him, curious. He takes my hand.

“Shall we go now?” I ask.

He smiles. He never speaks. He doesn’t need words. He is beyond them. I know this.

Instead his thoughts filter into my mind.

“Not now.”

“Then why are you here?”

“You intrigue me. Not many watch me as you do. Few reach out to me as you have done. Most are afraid of me.”

Yes, most are... But he isn’t frightening. Whatever he brings… it isn’t fear. He comes with peace – and tranquility.

“Can I go with you?” I ask unable to wrest my eyes from his. Deep, languid pools in which I am drowning…

He smiles. “No.”

He holds me to him. It is the very embrace I thought I would always fear, the one I should run from. But I am not afraid. I have no desire to run. Instead I want to stay enfolded in his arms forever. I am falling in love with him. I am dancing with him...comforted and easy in his embrace… I want it to last forever - want to stay with him. I crave this peaceful end, which he will not let come. Not now. Not tonight.

He turns away, his eyes soft and smiling still. He steps back from me, walks away, receding into the vastness of the plain until he is there yet not there. I stand and watch him, my heart torn. I should be glad but instead, I am sad. But I know… He will always be watching me and one day I will dance with David for eternity.

English, that verbally insane language

A while ago I did a post on Engrish as she are spoked and we all had a good chuckle about how non-English speakers manage to muddle the language. Frankly, it shouldn't be of any great surprise to us given the erm... complexities of English - as this little piece, sent to me by a friend, shows...

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes,
But the plural of ox becomes oxen, not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,
Yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?
If I speak of my foot and show you my feet,
And I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,
Yet hat in the plural would never be hose,
And the plural of cat is cats, not cose.
We speak of a brother and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.
Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,
But imagine the feminine: she, shis and shim!

Let's face it - English is a crazy language. There is no egg in
eggplant nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren't invented in England .
We take English for granted, but if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square, and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.

And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing, grocers don't
groce and hammers don't ham. Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make
amends but not one amend. If you have a bunch of odds and ends and
get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught? If a vegetarian
eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? Sometimes I think all
the folks who grew up speaking English should be committed to an
asylum for the verbally insane.

In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a
recital? We ship by truck but send cargo by ship. We have noses that
run and feet that smell. And how can a slim chance and a fat chance
be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?

You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your
house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by
filling it out, and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

So if Father is Pop, how come Mother isn't Mop?

And that is just the beginning--even though this is the end.

Yes, well I rest my case, my luggage, my gear, my cog, my prong, my spike, my point, my tip, my rubbish heap, my trash, my refuse, my refusal, my no, my negative, my nay, my blackball, my snub, my frost, my chill, my bite, my zip, my button, my trousers, my shirt, my clothing, my packing, my luggage, my case...

(Image used in this post... duly nicked off the internet!)

Total Annihilation by Chocolate

(Image nicked off the internet, as created by some amazing chef!)

Got friends coming round for dinner tonight. He says, "I love all things chocolate..." Cool, I think, I'll make some kind of chocolate dessert... I scrounge through my recipe books and come up with "Chocolate Nemesis" from the River Cafe blue cookbook... Of course before I start making it I do a quick hoof around the internet to see if anyone else has tried to make it... Of course they have - and most, it seems, have failed. I love a challenge. Perhaps you will too...

River Cafe Chocolate Nemesis
"The best chocolate cake ever"...

Serves 10 - 12

675 g (1.1 /2 lb) bitter-sweet chocolate broken into pieces
10 whole eggs
575 g (1 lb, 5 oz) caster sugar
450 g (1 lb) unsalted butter, softened

Preheat the oven to 160 degrees C/325 degrees F/Gas 3. Line a 20 x 5 cm (12 x 2 in) cake tin with greaseproof paper, then grease and flour it.

Beat the eggs with a third of the sugar until the volume quadruples - this will take at least 10 minutes in an electric mixer.

Heat the remaining sugar in a small pan with 250 ml (8 fl oz) water until the sugar has completely dissolved to a syrup.

Place the chocolate and butter in the hot syrup and stir to combine. Remove from the heat and allow to cool slightly.

Add the warm syrup to the eggs and continue to beat, rather more gently, until completely combined - about 20 seconds, no more. Pour into cake tin and place in a bain-marie of hot water. It is essential, if the cake is to cook evenly, that the water comes up to the rim of the tin. Bake in the oven for 30 minutes or until set. Test by placing the flat of your hand gently on the surface.

Leave to cool in the tin before turning out.

My tips:

• The cake (which is fundamentally a baked chocolate mousse) wasn't anywhere near cooked after 30 minutes. I left mine in for approximately 55 minutes - checking every five minutes to see how it was doing. Frankly, it could probably have done with longer because I suspect it is less of a cake and still more of a gloopy pudding - but it's sitting proud in its plate and at least hasn't slushed all over the place - though the goddess knows what will happen when I finally cut into it...
• Don't use a spring form tin - it will take on water from the bain-marie!
• Do not lick out the mixing bowls. You will feel thoroughly ill.
• Don't eat this if you have a liver problem. I have had one tiny morsel to try... and have been annihilated by chocolate!

Finally, I understand what death by chocolate is all about! Honestly, this cake is luscious but should come with a health warning: "Eat too much and die!" And now I've still got to make a pot roast chicken and prepare some bruschetta...
Don't tell anyone, but I will be passing on both starters and dessert...

Food glorious food, oh for a bit of pasta...

(Images nicked off the internet, collage created by yours truly.)

Hmph and double hmph! What, I want to know is it with people who say: "Oh I don't eat this and I don't eat that."
For those of us with genuine and multiple food intolerances who would love to eat all sorts of things, those who are just plain picky are right pains in the proverbial situpons. For those of us who have always loved food, luxuriated in eating, delighted in concocting delicious meals, and relished trying a bit of everything, watching those who can genuinely eat anything but won't, makes us incline to murderous intentions.
Went out for dinner a while ago... friend perused menu... "Ooh no," she clucked, "I don't eat tomatoes... or asparagus. Yuck. As for polenta - gross."
Significant Other glanced over, "Yes," he said, the treacherous creature, "I don't like asparagus either. Nor do I care for funny things wot live in the sea. Don't like smelly cheese either."
Oh to be able to be so wantonly fussy.
The Mother is the worst. Doesn't eat mushrooms unless they've been peeled. Doesn't like vegetables, doesn't see the point of pasta, risotto or spices, refuses to eat anything porcine, caprine or avian (yes, well a certain chicken of my acquaintance thinks this is no bad thing... even if it has nothing to do with being kind to animals). And the list goes on. Finding a restaurant to which to take The Mother is downright difficult.
"Do you do plain grilled fish or steak?" I have to ask. "No? Okay. Reservation? No, thanks all the same."
I wish I could afford to be so fussy. But I can't. Besides, I had a father who could best have been described as an adventurous eater. My dad loved his grub and was willing to try almost anything once. His daughter grew up to be still more adventurous and has been known to try pretty much everything. I won't tell you all the things I've eaten as the animal and creature rights activists amongst you will be deeply offended. For those of you who were of the mistaken view that I am a vegetarian, I am not. Much to a certain Chicken's disgust. I was once. But it made me manic. For someone often nicknamed Tigger, trust me, I don't need more bounce. For two years my mother had to tolerate me bounding off the walls and ceilings. Eventually I resumed eating meat to slow myself down. It's true.
Today, ten thousand food tolerances later, I eat meat because I can't digest lentils, soya beans and such like legumes filled with protein. Nor can I wash it down with products that come from a cow or a goat. (Besides, I'm of the view that milk was meant for baby cows - not big humans...) And as much as I'd love a huge bowl of pasta or a dish of polenta, it's just not a happening thing.
But back to my present hissy fit.
"Oooh," said Significant Other, last night, "you're making what?!"
"I'm making a seafood soup," I muttered.
"Urgh! Disgusting!" he bleated.
I turned on him with a beady eye (I was borrowing a look I learned from Atyllah). "Disgusting is it?" I snapped. "Nice to be able to be so picky. Nice to be able to choose. Fun to be so squeamish about things wot have tentacles. What are you? A man or a mouse? Eeep, eeeep."
"Ah," he said, "I can see you're better. Back to your usual acerbic self."
"Mouse!" I snapped.
"Mouthe," he retorted, grinning
"Squeak!" I snapped. "Then shut your gob before I pop a squiggly squid in it!"
But see, here's the thing: I'm picky about what I eat because I have no choice. I would love to snarf down a bowl of fettucine con funghi, or a dish of Tuscan bean stew - and finish it off with a slice of chocolate cake and a dollop of ice cream or a nice plate of assorted cheese and biscuits. But I can't. So I get really pissed off when those who can eat whatever they choose, witter on about "ooh, I don't like this and I don't like that." Wish I had room to be so fussy. I'm sure all the millions starving across the world think the same way too.

Hissy fit over. Ranting complete. For now... besides, it's time for a mug of cocoa made with rice milk. How the mighty adventurous eaters have fallen.
Sigh.

Book Character Meme

(Multiple images nicked off the interet, collage created by yours truly.)

Found this over at Marie's recently... A book character meme.

Name up to 3 characters:

1. You wish were real so you could meet them.

Albus Dumbledore (Harry Potter series)
Granny Weatherwax (Discworld series)
Gandalf (Hobbit and Lord of the Rings)


2. You would like to be.

Terry Pratchett's Luggage from the Discworld series, with its hundreds of dear little legs and the capacity to see off (usually by eating) all sorts of nasty people...
Granny Weatherwax - also from the Discworld - because she's one smart Wyrd Sister.
Eion Colfer's Artemis Fowl or Anthony Horowitz's Alex Rider - 'cos they just get to have so much darned fun!


3. That scare you.

Granny Weatherwax
Bram Stoker's Dracula
Lord Voldemort

Erm... you can tell I far prefer fantasy to real life, can't you...

In Praise of colds, flu and nightmares...

I've been struck down by the dreaded lurgy - urgh, blah, sneeze, cough, sniffle, hack, whinge, whine, complain, wheeze, grumble.
Funny thing is, each time I'm struck down by said lurgy, I always find myself humming a singular little tune and croakily reciting the words of said tune, which I learned when I was knee-high to the proverbial grasshopper...
Now you may not approve of Gilbert and Sullivan but as a kid I loved their operettas - they just cracked me up - presumably this is why this particular ditty has stayed with me all these years...
Enjoy. Or sneeze. Or cough all over your partner. Or whatever it is you do....

Lord Chancellor’s Nightmare Song
from Iolanthe - by Gilbert and Sullivan

When youre lying awake with a dismal headache and
Repose is tabood by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to
Indulge in, without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire, the bed-clothes conspire of
Usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counter-pane goes, and uncovers your toes,
And your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles, you feel like mixed
Pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And youre hot and youre cross, and you tumble and
Toss til there's nothing twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bed-clothes all creep to the ground in a heap
And you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to
Remain at its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a dose, with
Hot eye-balls and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams
That you'd very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the channel, and
Tossing about in a steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing machine and
A very small second class carriage,
And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to
A party of friends and relations,
They're a ravenous horde, and they all come on board
At Sloane Square and South Kensington stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney
(who started this morning from Devon);
He's a bit undersized and you don't feel surprised
When he tells you he's only eleven.
Well you're driving like mad with this singular lad
(by the bye the ships now a four wheeler),
And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad
Names when you tell him that ties pay the dealer;
But this you cant stand so you throw up your hand,
And you find you're as cold as an icicle;
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold
Clocks) crossing Salisbury plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too, which they've
Somehow or other invested in,
And he's telling the tars all the particulars of a
Company he's interested in;
It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all
Goods from cough mixtures to cables
(which tickled the sailors), by treating retailers as
Though they were all vegetables;
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman
(first take off his boots with a boot tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will
Shoot, and theyll blossom and bud like a fruit
Tree;
From the green grocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower,
pine apple and cranberries,
While the pastry cook plant cherry brandy will grant,
Apple puffs, three corners, and banburys;
The shares are a penny and ever so many are taken by
Rothschild and Baring,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake
with a shudder, despairing.
You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and
No wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor
And you've needles and pins from your soles to your shins,
and your flesh is acreep, for your left leg's asleep,
And you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose,
And some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue,
And a thirst that's intense,
And a general sense that you havent been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has passd, and its daylight at
Last, and the night has been long, ditto, ditto my song,
And thank goodness they're both of them over!

(Image courtesy of a google image search and the good old internet.)

I've been nominated for Schmooze Award!

That ubercool and sweet PJ over at The Urban Recluse has nominated me for a Shmooze Award! Oooooh! Thank you PJ!


As it goes, schmoozing is the natural ability “to converse casually, especially in order to gain an advantage or make a social connection.” Good schmoozers effortlessly weave their way in and out of the blogosphere, leaving friendly trails and smiles, happily making new friends along the way. They don’t limit their visits to only the rich and successful, but spend some time to say hello to new blogs as well. They are the ones who engage others in meaningful conversations, refusing to let it end at a mere hello - all the while fostering a sense of closeness and friendship.”


Now, I understand I'm supposed, in turn, to nominate five other bloggers for schmoozing... So here they are:

Wanderlust Scarlett
Jon M
Verilion over at A Wanderer in Paris
Minx
Rambler over at Virtual Ramblings

Schmooze away, guys! :-)

Death by Chocolate

And while we're on the subject of chocolate - let's face it, one can never get enough of a good thing....

What kind of chocolate are you?

Seems I am MILK CHOCOLATE....

You are Milk Chocolate

A total dreamer, you spend most of your time with your head in the clouds. You often think of the future, and you are always working toward your ideal life. Also nostalgic, you rarely forget a meaningful moment... even those from long ago.

What Kind of Chocolate Are You?

Right, and now I'm off to slurp down my cocoa...

In Praise of Chocolate - The Immaculate Confection

"Know your Chocolate....Know your dreams....Surrender to Chocolate....Realise your dreams!"

I don't know how it happened, I never used to like chocolate... now I'm irascible without my morning mug of cocoa and my chocolate raisins for a mid afternoon snack and Green & Blacks' Organic Maya Gold before bed. I think I may finally have developed an addiction. As Miss Piggy says: "Love is grand, but all I need is chocolate."

"The 12-step chocoholics program: NEVER BE MORE THAN 12 STEPS AWAY FROM CHOCOLATE!" Terry Moore

"If it ain't chocolate, it ain't breakfast!"

"Forget love-- I'd rather fall in chocolate!!!"

"Nobody knows the truffles I've seen!"

"Man cannot live on chocolate alone; but woman sure can."

"There are four basic food groups: milk chocolate, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and chocolate truffles."

"Be irresistable to the opposite sex, cover yourself in chocolate."

All about Chocolate

Health Benefits of Chocolate

Chocolate.Org

Chocolate 'has health benefits'

Chocolate's Potential Health Benefits – and its Effect on Chronic Fatigue Syndrome Patients

Ahhhh! Better Than Red Wine Or Green Tea, Cocoa Froths With Cancer-preventing Compounds, Cornell Food Scientists Say

"Exercise is a dirty word... Every time I hear it, I wash my mouth out with chocolate."

Chocolate History

History of Chocolate

Chocolate History Timeline

"It's not that chocolates are a substitute for love. Love is a substitute for chocolate. Chocolate is, let's face it, far more reliable than a man". Miranda Ingram

Chocolate Challenge
Take the Chocolate Challenge

"I never met a chocolate I didn't like." Deanna Troi in Star Trek: The Next Generation
Books and Films

Books and Films about Chocolate

"There's nothing better than a good friend, except a good friend with CHOCOLATE" Linda Grayson, "The Pickwick Papers"

Chocolate Recipes

Chocolate Recipes from Chocoholic.com

Epicurious's Chocolate Recipes

"I have this theory that chocolate slows down the aging process.... It may not be true, but do I dare take the chance?"

Chocolate entertainment with a difference...

Chocolate painting

"Life is like a box of chocolates - you never know what you're going to get." Forrest Gump in "Forrest Gump" (1994)

Monty Python - The Whizzo Chocolate Factory

In the beginning The Lord created Chocolate And it was good Then he separated Light from Dark And it was better!"

Now I'm off to raid the cupboard for some choccie... and dig out that famous chocolate cake recipe I grew up with... yummy, scrummy, drooly, dreamy... Slurp!

(Images duly nicked off the internet... Quotes and links found courtesy of Google searches)

John the Revelator

Marie did a great post about 80's music with some cool links to clips on youtube. Of course the trouble with youtube is once you're there you start to play...
And then I found this... courtesy of Depeche Mode. Yeah.

Elderly gents and old farts

I don't know what I did to deserve it but in the past few months (I blame the trees entirely) I have found myself conversing with more elderly gentleman that I would have cared to do. What strikes me is the remarkable difference in types of male elder. Some of them are indeed true elders - statesmanlike figures, emeritus professors, one's even a Fellow of the Royal Society - hey, what can say, sometimes I keep intellectual company. Of these elders some are also real gentlemen - kind, considerate, considered, temperate and wise - men you can admire and wish there were more of - and in positions of power unlike some other pratts who got there god alone knows how (but don't get me started on him...). These are men who though inordinately intelligent don't claim to know it all - which is refreshing given their vast brain power.

Then of course there is the other type of old gent. This type of old gent is pure old fart material - hold your nose, put your fingers in your ears and protect your eyes so you don't see the crunchy stuff that collects around their hairy ears. There are two or three of these old geezers that particularly spring to mind. And I have developed a very particular hostility towards them. This says something; I'm normally a fairly cheerful, even-handed soul with a bright voice and sparkling eyes. But I'm afraid when I encounter these old buzzards my voice goes dangerously low and quiet and my eyes turn to flint. The trouble with this type of old codger is that it thinks it knows everything - whereas I know I know very little. The worst part about these old gits is that they fail to listen, seem incapable of reading and despite that still insist on knowing best.

I had a call from one of them this morning. Oh joy. And I hadn't even had my first mug of cocoa of the day. Nothing like taking on an old fart when one hasn't even been fortified. He must have realised he was, as ever, on dangerous ground - of course last time he hadn't had the insight to back down... Thusly, it can only be said that this time my tone was rigourously "professional". As I'd said to a friend, I'd sooner have nits than have to attempt a halfway intelligent conversation with said geriatric. I will, however - she said patting herself on the back - say this in my defense - despite using the low, quiet and very dangerous voice - I still managed to be civil. No, I won't go so far as to say "charming" - that I reserve for the genuine tribal elders.

What I found ironic was during the last conversation the old goat had assured me I didn't have my facts straight, hadn't a clue what I was talking about and had my knickers in a knot over nothing (unlike the view taken by those other elderly gentlemen). The tone has been patronising and pompous, the attitude bellicose. Hmmm - well as we know chickens come home to roost - well at least Atyllah always does... This time the silly old pratt wanted to be sure that I was attending a tree meeting to be held this Friday (oh yes, that should certainly provide plenty of satirical entertainment) since he can't make it and he wanted "to be sure that someone with all the facts and a strong voice would be there". Yours truly, no less, and if you don't mind. Hmmm... Perhaps my resignation from all things trees, my previous pointing to 100 meter high letters of doom in the sky finally made the old twit realise he wasn't the last word and the final authority on the state of arboreal destruction. I have, however, learned that in certain instances one should not live in hope.

As for the other silly ass, well a few choice words of description should suffice: parochial, belligerent, bombastic, pompous, self-opinionated, arrogant - oh you get the general picture. No doubt after Friday I should be able to manage a suitably acerbic post on this particular subject. Watch this space.

(Images in this post duly nicked off the internet -thank you to the creators/providers!)

YEEEHAAAA! It's done!

(Image nicked off the internet.)

It's done. The first edit is complete! Whooohooo!!!

A friend said to me it sounded like I was experiencing childbirth with this edit. Well, all I can say if this was childbirth - and it was pretty damn painful - then the original writing process was sublime sex.

I don't know about the rest of you but for me, the first write of a new story is one magnificent adventure - it's passionate, intense, exhausting but entirely wonderful. Erm... just like good sex...

This story, like everything I've written (other than articles) just flowed from me - I wrote it one in a month, last year. I'm not a plotting, planning kind of writer, I'm what I call a "just writer" - I just write - any shaping or smoothing comes later.

So... when I get to the editing process... well, that's a whole other matter. It's when I edit that I have to think and consider. I have to hunt out extraneous words, pulverise any adverbs that might have snuck in, check my characterisation, my plotting, structure and voice. After the thrill of "just writing", this, let me assure, is a massive pain in the butt.

Fortunately, I'm getting better about it - and I hope - better at it.

But at least the first draft is now done. I'll send a copy off to my critique and writing partner (waves to Penny), and meanwhile start thinking about the next manuscript, which has been composting away for the past few months... I don't know about the rest of you writing sorts, but I find ideas and stories chase me down - I hope, frankly, that they never stop!

Very Brief Time Out

(Image from Anne Rice's Interview with a Vampire, duly nicked off the internet!)

Just to say, posting and visits and comments might be a bit scarce for the next day or so - I'm drawing to the end of the first edit of my present manuscript and things are a bit intense. Got the bit between my teeth, so to speak, and am galloping towards the finish. Please bear with me - I'll be back just as soon as I've sorted out these damned vampires! As if there isn't enough vampirism going on over at Facebook right now - all that biting, really! Anyone would think we'd nothing better to do other than going around nibbling each other's necks. Kinky, that's what it is. Tsk.

The chicken says she'll lend me her Granny - but I don't think I need a werechicken to come along and complicate things - there's no knowing what Granny Were might do - frankly, I shudder to think!

Thank you, Jon

Ooh... *tremble*... *quiver*... *blush* - I've been given an award by JonM - thank you Jon!


I now, in accordance with the rules, award the following with "thoughtful blogger"...

Verilion 'cos she's a thoughtful sort
Debi Alper; because she cares so much
Wanderlust Scarlett 'cos she's so generous with her comments
Minx because she's always there
Canterbury Soul 'cos he's just so special.
I was going to give one to Marie, but I see someone's beaten me to it!

You can read all about the award and collect it here - to put on your blog.

And today's post follows below.

Passing through

I know this place... I've been here before. These thick dark walls... the chill that reaches out with damp fingers to constrict my heart.
I know this cavern of no light... where I grope like a blind man trying to touch... but unable to feel.
Yes... I've been here before...
Frightened, at first, of the bleak darkness... Later finding solace in it. Letting it wrap wraithlike arms around me.
Sleep comes easily in this place. Lulled... numbed... It's a balm, an escape - a no life.
Yes... A no life. There is something safe and cocooning.
Yes... safe now... tucked away in this dungeon of emptiness...

And in the emptiness there is nothing; a nothingness that stretches beyond everything, bypassing time and space.
In the darkness - going beyond the nothing - I return to the void of non-being.
I walk into it. And I know it too.

Finally... finally there is the peace and tranquility that can only be found in no-life... nothing... in the vast stillness of ultimate being, which arises within the interminable expanse of the infinite void.