During a recent brow furrowing experience I got to wondering about the duck billed platypus. Now you know I’m nuts!
Anyway, front and centre students, how do you expect to qualify if you don’t pay attention?
Does the platypus know of it’s likening to a duck? Is it happy about such a reference? Does it find it insulting in any way?
For that matter how do the ducks feel about this? Will Teals and Mallards join forces and march on Government buildings the world over? Will there be protests, or even riots at such a blatant misinterpretation of their physical appearance?
Probably not; they will all just quietly swim along in their own ponds getting on with the daily chore of feeding themselves and their offspring.
So why can’t man be as sensible as the ducks, or for that matter the platypus? Have we not yet evolved to their dizzy heights?
Such questions indeed. Questions only the lunatic who resides in Room 48 of the East Wing has the ability to answer. Think I’ll ask him quietly before lights out tonight.
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
All around my hat
Being at peace once in a while it a wonderful experience. It doesn’t come naturally to me. In fact, it doesn’t come naturally to most people I know.
When you hear it said that everyone is searching for something or someone, I am now of the belief that’s not entirely accurate.
The essence of peace is an absolute. It is an acceptance of yourself and your lot warts and all. Society today offers that we have a fix for anything and everything. From children to grown ups everybody plays the game that all of life’s ills do not start at their doorstep. No sir, no one but the collective is at fault, every individual believes they are blameless. It is what we are conditioned to believe. It makes for a lot of huffing and puffing and defensive posturing from politicians, and any other body that thinks it has a right to a voice. What happened to the quiet man? is he not allowed a voice also?
Going placidly amidst noise and haste is quite an achievement in this day and age. It is won only on the battleground of broken dreams and denied expectations. It’s about time society accepted failure as it’s right and take it’s collective hat off to the individual who says ‘you know what, stuff the lot of you, I’m off for a trek round my head. By the time I return I hope you’ve sorted your own mess out because that’s what I intend to do’.
Am I the voice of one, maybe so but we’re growing. Come the revolution brother all the square pegs and round holes will link arms and laugh at how ludicrous it is to make everything so prescriptive that we are destroying the essence of life itself.
Is this a philosophical answer? Put me in a box, I don’t care, I’ll be in one soon enough anyway.
Make way for the meek, they shall inherit the earth. However who ever suggested that the meek will be human must be as mad as the mercurial hat I inhabit.
When you hear it said that everyone is searching for something or someone, I am now of the belief that’s not entirely accurate.
The essence of peace is an absolute. It is an acceptance of yourself and your lot warts and all. Society today offers that we have a fix for anything and everything. From children to grown ups everybody plays the game that all of life’s ills do not start at their doorstep. No sir, no one but the collective is at fault, every individual believes they are blameless. It is what we are conditioned to believe. It makes for a lot of huffing and puffing and defensive posturing from politicians, and any other body that thinks it has a right to a voice. What happened to the quiet man? is he not allowed a voice also?
Going placidly amidst noise and haste is quite an achievement in this day and age. It is won only on the battleground of broken dreams and denied expectations. It’s about time society accepted failure as it’s right and take it’s collective hat off to the individual who says ‘you know what, stuff the lot of you, I’m off for a trek round my head. By the time I return I hope you’ve sorted your own mess out because that’s what I intend to do’.
Am I the voice of one, maybe so but we’re growing. Come the revolution brother all the square pegs and round holes will link arms and laugh at how ludicrous it is to make everything so prescriptive that we are destroying the essence of life itself.
Is this a philosophical answer? Put me in a box, I don’t care, I’ll be in one soon enough anyway.
Make way for the meek, they shall inherit the earth. However who ever suggested that the meek will be human must be as mad as the mercurial hat I inhabit.
Monday, 5 May 2008
The return of the Messiah
Perception is a wonderful gift.
On a trip out from the NATO stronghold I worked in to see the little girl I was helping with her eyesight I was accompanied by a translator. In those days I did not speak Bosnian. I still don’t speak Bosnian. But with the arrogance of the western world spreading as is does everyone you met spoke English, or more correctly American. Or even more correctly American sit-comesse. Satellite dishes come before schools and hospitals when a country has been decimated. Or more correctly before food and chimneys and roads and well, everything you can think of really.
In the town there was one set of traffic lights. I think they were there simply as a guide to whether electricity was available or not. Guess what though, as we stopped to let the mafia take right of way as if by magic a gypsy appeared. Instead of a fiddle he had a ‘squeegee’ in his hand. This enterprising fellow was washing windshields. As I thought on how in Britain drivers complain at being harassed by such a noble form of begging I asked the translator on her views. She was delighted this guy was here. Her attitude was if the itinerants were hanging around then there was little likelihood that any serious gunfire would be nearby. Smart chaps these gypsy types, they bugger off at the first sign of trouble you see. Interesting theory, except it’s no theory.
On the way back from doing our good deed for the day I saw the largest convoy of military hardware I have ever seen assembled on a public highway. There were transporters with tanks, personnel carriers, armory trucks, jeeps, hummers, you name it if it was khaki or camouflaged it was in this line up. If I were to guess this mobile militia was at least over a couple of kilometres long. It moved slowly, very, very slowly. And then I saw why. A Bosnian worthy with not a care in the world was heading the whole show on a donkey. The full might of the combined forces of the ‘free’ world held to ransom by a man on an ass.
It made me wonder if Jesus had come back amongst us without letting on. Judging by the haggard appearance there would have to be an awful lot of iconography binned across the Christian side of the planet if it was him. I took a photograph. I need to get it out. It’s time the sofa had a laugh.
On a trip out from the NATO stronghold I worked in to see the little girl I was helping with her eyesight I was accompanied by a translator. In those days I did not speak Bosnian. I still don’t speak Bosnian. But with the arrogance of the western world spreading as is does everyone you met spoke English, or more correctly American. Or even more correctly American sit-comesse. Satellite dishes come before schools and hospitals when a country has been decimated. Or more correctly before food and chimneys and roads and well, everything you can think of really.
In the town there was one set of traffic lights. I think they were there simply as a guide to whether electricity was available or not. Guess what though, as we stopped to let the mafia take right of way as if by magic a gypsy appeared. Instead of a fiddle he had a ‘squeegee’ in his hand. This enterprising fellow was washing windshields. As I thought on how in Britain drivers complain at being harassed by such a noble form of begging I asked the translator on her views. She was delighted this guy was here. Her attitude was if the itinerants were hanging around then there was little likelihood that any serious gunfire would be nearby. Smart chaps these gypsy types, they bugger off at the first sign of trouble you see. Interesting theory, except it’s no theory.
On the way back from doing our good deed for the day I saw the largest convoy of military hardware I have ever seen assembled on a public highway. There were transporters with tanks, personnel carriers, armory trucks, jeeps, hummers, you name it if it was khaki or camouflaged it was in this line up. If I were to guess this mobile militia was at least over a couple of kilometres long. It moved slowly, very, very slowly. And then I saw why. A Bosnian worthy with not a care in the world was heading the whole show on a donkey. The full might of the combined forces of the ‘free’ world held to ransom by a man on an ass.
It made me wonder if Jesus had come back amongst us without letting on. Judging by the haggard appearance there would have to be an awful lot of iconography binned across the Christian side of the planet if it was him. I took a photograph. I need to get it out. It’s time the sofa had a laugh.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Tales from the cryptic Coptic
Sretan Put!
This sign is everywhere in Bosnia. It means good journey. When I was there some years ago the war had just finished. The aftermath was a surreal event. A country without banks, financial infrastructure and any sense of normal living is quite a place to expand your mind.
I worked mostly on NATO peacekeeping camps. As a civilian employee I had the right to mingle with the populous. I could come and go to the camp whenever I pleased, within reason, of course. If an alert went up then tin hats and flak jackets were the fashion statement for the day, no matter how civil a civilian you were. Luckily this was not a regular occurrence.
I left camp one sunny day to play at crater dodging on the tarmac. The sad truth was that anywhere green could not be trusted underfoot due to a liberal sprinkling of uncharted mines. I was approached by an elderly gentleman who was begging in the politest of ways. He had a command of English grammar that is beyond most native English speakers these days. I offered him a small token for his efforts which he received with humble gratitude.
On return to my base within the camp I related this story. The person who was my boss listened intently then chastised me in more expletive terms than the elderly gentleman for encouraging him. As he saw it no one would get any peace now if for any reason they had to venture beyond the camp gates. I think he kind of missed the whole point of why we were there.
On the very next day bold fellow that I am I decided to wander into the land of Nod once more. Elderly gentleman and outstretched hand appeared once again. This time I said there would be nothing on offer without at least an introduction as to how and why he found himself posted on the wrong side of the barbed wired free world. He didn’t say much. With sadness in his eyes he showed me a tattoo on his forearm, a number from a bygone conflict. As if this was not enough merit for the price of a meal he then showed me a scar from head to toe and said one word. ‘Mengele’. Even today I cannot express how I felt. Hard to imagine that one human being could survive what he had to be left begging at the gates of insanity.
I re-entered the camp and punched the primordial sludge that oversaw my work.
This sign is everywhere in Bosnia. It means good journey. When I was there some years ago the war had just finished. The aftermath was a surreal event. A country without banks, financial infrastructure and any sense of normal living is quite a place to expand your mind.
I worked mostly on NATO peacekeeping camps. As a civilian employee I had the right to mingle with the populous. I could come and go to the camp whenever I pleased, within reason, of course. If an alert went up then tin hats and flak jackets were the fashion statement for the day, no matter how civil a civilian you were. Luckily this was not a regular occurrence.
I left camp one sunny day to play at crater dodging on the tarmac. The sad truth was that anywhere green could not be trusted underfoot due to a liberal sprinkling of uncharted mines. I was approached by an elderly gentleman who was begging in the politest of ways. He had a command of English grammar that is beyond most native English speakers these days. I offered him a small token for his efforts which he received with humble gratitude.
On return to my base within the camp I related this story. The person who was my boss listened intently then chastised me in more expletive terms than the elderly gentleman for encouraging him. As he saw it no one would get any peace now if for any reason they had to venture beyond the camp gates. I think he kind of missed the whole point of why we were there.
On the very next day bold fellow that I am I decided to wander into the land of Nod once more. Elderly gentleman and outstretched hand appeared once again. This time I said there would be nothing on offer without at least an introduction as to how and why he found himself posted on the wrong side of the barbed wired free world. He didn’t say much. With sadness in his eyes he showed me a tattoo on his forearm, a number from a bygone conflict. As if this was not enough merit for the price of a meal he then showed me a scar from head to toe and said one word. ‘Mengele’. Even today I cannot express how I felt. Hard to imagine that one human being could survive what he had to be left begging at the gates of insanity.
I re-entered the camp and punched the primordial sludge that oversaw my work.
Saturday, 3 May 2008
Celibacy
Is this enforced I hear you ask? Am I licking my wounds? If I were a dog I could lick everywhere you know. Some may even hint that I am a dog. They may be right.
Given the disaster I can be in relationships I have two courses of action. Both are celibacy.
I can give my poor sofa a hard time, tossing and turning, feeling dejected, rejected and resentful or I can still in quite peace with myself and debate the fortitude of the Universe.
Having a lunatic around to talk to at times comes in handy. Who else would be interested in my universe? Anyway on my planet there is only room for me and the asylum.
The asylum, a wondrous place, I can even chose the lunatic I wish to converse with. I am after all ‘the doctor’. I decide on the treatment plan you know. As I start my rounds I call on the locked wards first. Here only the most case hardened ‘nuts’ can be found. But where did they come from? The circus may have left town a long time ago but they left behind a couple of clowns and an endangered species or two for me to play with. I put them in the East Wing until Mr. Chipperwhatsit returns. Squirreled away in my asylum I only visit when I need to medicate them. I only let them out once they have been sedated. It’s dangerous to be abroad on such a foul night with this kind of company lurking behind every tree, particularly if they have not been ‘attended’ to first.
Now there is a thought. I could attend to them with some cheese wire and a pair of pliers. Take the knackers away. I think I might even have met one or two in the past who would volunteer to make this dubious pleasure a reality, saving me the bother.
Alternatively I could purchase some more Kleenex and ‘make out’ with the fantasy girls of the internet.
I think it may be prudent for a while to down the grooming brush and leave Crufts along for a while. Maybe even retire.
Who knows? The sofa owns many of my secrets.
Given the disaster I can be in relationships I have two courses of action. Both are celibacy.
I can give my poor sofa a hard time, tossing and turning, feeling dejected, rejected and resentful or I can still in quite peace with myself and debate the fortitude of the Universe.
Having a lunatic around to talk to at times comes in handy. Who else would be interested in my universe? Anyway on my planet there is only room for me and the asylum.
The asylum, a wondrous place, I can even chose the lunatic I wish to converse with. I am after all ‘the doctor’. I decide on the treatment plan you know. As I start my rounds I call on the locked wards first. Here only the most case hardened ‘nuts’ can be found. But where did they come from? The circus may have left town a long time ago but they left behind a couple of clowns and an endangered species or two for me to play with. I put them in the East Wing until Mr. Chipperwhatsit returns. Squirreled away in my asylum I only visit when I need to medicate them. I only let them out once they have been sedated. It’s dangerous to be abroad on such a foul night with this kind of company lurking behind every tree, particularly if they have not been ‘attended’ to first.
Now there is a thought. I could attend to them with some cheese wire and a pair of pliers. Take the knackers away. I think I might even have met one or two in the past who would volunteer to make this dubious pleasure a reality, saving me the bother.
Alternatively I could purchase some more Kleenex and ‘make out’ with the fantasy girls of the internet.
I think it may be prudent for a while to down the grooming brush and leave Crufts along for a while. Maybe even retire.
Who knows? The sofa owns many of my secrets.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Mature Secretary seeks w/e male
As Nelson Mandela once said ‘stuff this, I’m off to the pub!’ Do you doubt me? Go ahead ask him. I’m pretty sure he didn’t dream and scheme some of the things he got up to without a quaff or two of John Barleycorn’s finest for company.
Escape. Release from mental turmoil. I found it you know, all alone, unaided, on my sofa.
Is it so hard to imagine that imagination can fire the engine of desire, delusion and misrepresentation? Surely not! The goodly folk that drive the wheels of the internet have taken this specialty to a new level. They know where to strike.
A computer is not an extension to enhance life skills. Don’t be silly, whoever told you that! It is the means to an end to communicate with that which is not real. It’s fascinating to think that the ‘civilized’ world supports this. Of course they do. Keeps the masses at bay, doesn’t it. It’s cheaper than alcohol or fags. If you literate your offspring, keep them indoors and away from street corners, you can drive down the crime rate and make sure the local bobby has time for his tea break. Let’s politicians feel proud of their achievements, and what’s more they will tell you so, in great percentage details. You know it must be fact because the other family member, the television told you so.
As a master of Illusion I know of such folly. Let me explain.
Not so far in the distant past I made an effort to contact earth via the internet. I was looking for a female member of the species to tarry with a while. I was bored and lonely. This is the first step to destruction.
I answered an advertisement to meet a ‘Mature’ secretary. Said ‘Mature’ secretary only visited the area every two or three months. She sounded delightful. Just what the doctor ordered. We arranged to meet at a hotel many weeks down the line.
I must now confess to being somewhat naive. I did not understand the shorthand of the gutter. I thought W/E meant well educated. Hard to believe I know but there you are. I had no idea it was a reference to personal gymnastic equipment. Fairly obvious dear reader well educated I am not. The other aspect concerning my anatomical possession has been very specifically documented elsewhere, much to my chagrin and necessary downfall.
Although when I made the arrangements I had no one else in my life something about this whole episode did not sit well with me. Firstly I was out of my territory and secondly I have a conscience.
A whole series of events made me stop and think. I’m glad I did.
On the appointed day I received an e-mail from the ‘mature’ secretary offering a mobile contact. There was also an instruction that when I reached the hotel I should call said mobile and she would furnish me with a room number. Simply somewhere away from prying eyes where we could become better acquainted you realize.
First rule in any situation concerning the internet, don’t believe a bloody word.
My ‘mature’ secretary had a name. The hotel had a register. The two did not tie up. I did not attend. I had no intention anyway, but I wanted to find out to satisfy my curiosity.
The hotel receptionist however could tell me that three’ burly’ men with accents James Bond would have been suspicious of occasioned their premises from time to time, every two or three months to be precise.
Fascinating animal the pig you know. Very singular vision and it’s only got that when it takes its nose from the trough.
Escape. Release from mental turmoil. I found it you know, all alone, unaided, on my sofa.
Is it so hard to imagine that imagination can fire the engine of desire, delusion and misrepresentation? Surely not! The goodly folk that drive the wheels of the internet have taken this specialty to a new level. They know where to strike.
A computer is not an extension to enhance life skills. Don’t be silly, whoever told you that! It is the means to an end to communicate with that which is not real. It’s fascinating to think that the ‘civilized’ world supports this. Of course they do. Keeps the masses at bay, doesn’t it. It’s cheaper than alcohol or fags. If you literate your offspring, keep them indoors and away from street corners, you can drive down the crime rate and make sure the local bobby has time for his tea break. Let’s politicians feel proud of their achievements, and what’s more they will tell you so, in great percentage details. You know it must be fact because the other family member, the television told you so.
As a master of Illusion I know of such folly. Let me explain.
Not so far in the distant past I made an effort to contact earth via the internet. I was looking for a female member of the species to tarry with a while. I was bored and lonely. This is the first step to destruction.
I answered an advertisement to meet a ‘Mature’ secretary. Said ‘Mature’ secretary only visited the area every two or three months. She sounded delightful. Just what the doctor ordered. We arranged to meet at a hotel many weeks down the line.
I must now confess to being somewhat naive. I did not understand the shorthand of the gutter. I thought W/E meant well educated. Hard to believe I know but there you are. I had no idea it was a reference to personal gymnastic equipment. Fairly obvious dear reader well educated I am not. The other aspect concerning my anatomical possession has been very specifically documented elsewhere, much to my chagrin and necessary downfall.
Although when I made the arrangements I had no one else in my life something about this whole episode did not sit well with me. Firstly I was out of my territory and secondly I have a conscience.
A whole series of events made me stop and think. I’m glad I did.
On the appointed day I received an e-mail from the ‘mature’ secretary offering a mobile contact. There was also an instruction that when I reached the hotel I should call said mobile and she would furnish me with a room number. Simply somewhere away from prying eyes where we could become better acquainted you realize.
First rule in any situation concerning the internet, don’t believe a bloody word.
My ‘mature’ secretary had a name. The hotel had a register. The two did not tie up. I did not attend. I had no intention anyway, but I wanted to find out to satisfy my curiosity.
The hotel receptionist however could tell me that three’ burly’ men with accents James Bond would have been suspicious of occasioned their premises from time to time, every two or three months to be precise.
Fascinating animal the pig you know. Very singular vision and it’s only got that when it takes its nose from the trough.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
The White Knight Rides Again
Something happened today to remind me of what use I have on this earth. It's about time I brought it all back into being.
After helping young Brana I reckoned being greedily excessive in everything I do if I could feel good helping one little girl and her family then if I could multiply the ‘odds’ I’d be in seventh heaven.
I heard of a home for children and adolescents with soma mental disorders almost utterly destroyed during the Balkan conflict. I decided that my ego and I could do a job for them.
Armed with a delusional misrepresentation of my abilities and a saddlebag full of dreams I mounted my charger and galloped to their rescue. What I met beggared belief.
If you have an imagination take five, let it run riot, times it by ten and that’s approximately half the destruction I was witnessing. But within this utter carnage a clamour of smiling faces with nothing to smile about made everything alright. Strange as it may sound I felt at home.
Week after week I made a journey on God’s designated day of rest to visit my new friends.
Without trying to draw attention to myself I was drawing attention to myself. Pretty soon to increase my ‘posse’ some ‘soldiers’ who were in need of moral guidance were volunteered by those who inhabit the land of epaulets and pips.
Momentum takes time, unless you’re an army. Pretty soon every child had their own personal visitor. Over the ensuing two years a whole heap of wonderful times were had. For your consumption I may in future revisit these tales.
While the unknowing were quick to misunderstand the powers that drive the decency of human spirit were quietly beavering away in the background. Suffice to say that the home is now rebuilt at a cost of a million units in any financial denomination worthy of mentioning. In this even the albatross had her uses.
This is the stuff of myth and legend, and it’s nice to feel part of, honest.
I'm going to head back there in a week or so to say hello. I might even get a touch of the humility and gratitude I heard displayed today. Best reality check I've had for a while.
Goodnight pussycats.
After helping young Brana I reckoned being greedily excessive in everything I do if I could feel good helping one little girl and her family then if I could multiply the ‘odds’ I’d be in seventh heaven.
I heard of a home for children and adolescents with soma mental disorders almost utterly destroyed during the Balkan conflict. I decided that my ego and I could do a job for them.
Armed with a delusional misrepresentation of my abilities and a saddlebag full of dreams I mounted my charger and galloped to their rescue. What I met beggared belief.
If you have an imagination take five, let it run riot, times it by ten and that’s approximately half the destruction I was witnessing. But within this utter carnage a clamour of smiling faces with nothing to smile about made everything alright. Strange as it may sound I felt at home.
Week after week I made a journey on God’s designated day of rest to visit my new friends.
Without trying to draw attention to myself I was drawing attention to myself. Pretty soon to increase my ‘posse’ some ‘soldiers’ who were in need of moral guidance were volunteered by those who inhabit the land of epaulets and pips.
Momentum takes time, unless you’re an army. Pretty soon every child had their own personal visitor. Over the ensuing two years a whole heap of wonderful times were had. For your consumption I may in future revisit these tales.
While the unknowing were quick to misunderstand the powers that drive the decency of human spirit were quietly beavering away in the background. Suffice to say that the home is now rebuilt at a cost of a million units in any financial denomination worthy of mentioning. In this even the albatross had her uses.
This is the stuff of myth and legend, and it’s nice to feel part of, honest.
I'm going to head back there in a week or so to say hello. I might even get a touch of the humility and gratitude I heard displayed today. Best reality check I've had for a while.
Goodnight pussycats.
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