I’d like to hear from all of you who have (or say you have) experienced some kind of near death experience. By that I don’t mean the time you almost ate a green potato chip. I’m talking about the time where you experienced floating out of your body – you know with the white light and deep baritone voice accompanied by harps and panpipe lift music.
While there is no real scientific proof that life after death does in fact exist, there are so many people with compelling stories of their near death experiences. One such story -although not a first-hand account of a near death experience- comes from a good family friend. She tells her story from a few years ago when she was undergoing chemotherapy sessions for cancer. It certainly is food for thought and makes you wonder what really lies beyond the unknown…
I have known Cathy* for almost 20 years and you couldn’t wish to meet a more down to earth, happy and full-of-life person. She is vivacious, positive and fun and when you are with her you can feel the contagious warmth of her personality.
While undergoing chemotherapy in hospital, she recalls waking up one day in her bed and seeing her brother sitting at her feet.
She recalls his beard had grown thick and full and he looked radiantly healthy sitting there at the end of the bed. He assured her she was going to be alright.
Her brother, an avid pilot, had died in an airplane crash years ago.
When asked whether it could not have been the affect of medication, she remains absolute. It was clear, lucid, and certainly not a figment of her drugged mind. And I believe her.
Today, monthly checkups and scans confirm she is cancer free.
What’s your story?
(* Name changed)
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Windows Of Opportunity
You know, we should all count our blessings. No matter what meandering path your life has led you down, there is always someone who has gone down a road with even more pot holes than yours. In some cases, they have veered off the straight and narrow and wandered into a bramble bush and in some severe cases, they have been flattened by passing traffic.
I was talking to someone last night about taking stock of what you have been blessed with in this world. It’s a worthwhile exercise, and once you start counting the good things in your life instead of always focusing on the bad, you will be astonished at how blessed you really are.
Imagine starting your life in a garbage bag.
Thousands of babies all over South Africa are literally thrown away with the garbage every year. This is because they are either unwanted, or the mothers cannot afford to keep them. Even worse, some babies are flushed down the toilet. Its part of the more gruesome reality of South Africa; a reality we don’t like to talk about. But, with a huge unemployment rate, and a huge chunk of the population living in squalid conditions, it’s a reality that many have to face everyday. And what a way to start your life: amongst the banana peels, maggots and rotting waste, under the hot African sun.
One organisation, ‘Hole in the Wall’, works tirelessly to help the many babies who are abandoned every year, left alone to die. The charity operates a ‘drop off’ spot – a hole in the wall – where mothers can leave their babies instead of throwing them away in the trash like an unwanted trinket. Its anonymous, it’s safe, and it’s a life saver.
Special sensors alert charity officials that a baby has been left at the hole in the wall. The baby is then collected and taken to safety and, where possible sent to a good foster home.
These babies are born again. They are reborn, passing through a second hole into a world with a brighter future and bluer sky.
They have been blessed.
You have been blessed.
I have been blessed.
Some
are
not
so
lucky.
I was talking to someone last night about taking stock of what you have been blessed with in this world. It’s a worthwhile exercise, and once you start counting the good things in your life instead of always focusing on the bad, you will be astonished at how blessed you really are.
Imagine starting your life in a garbage bag.
Thousands of babies all over South Africa are literally thrown away with the garbage every year. This is because they are either unwanted, or the mothers cannot afford to keep them. Even worse, some babies are flushed down the toilet. Its part of the more gruesome reality of South Africa; a reality we don’t like to talk about. But, with a huge unemployment rate, and a huge chunk of the population living in squalid conditions, it’s a reality that many have to face everyday. And what a way to start your life: amongst the banana peels, maggots and rotting waste, under the hot African sun.
One organisation, ‘Hole in the Wall’, works tirelessly to help the many babies who are abandoned every year, left alone to die. The charity operates a ‘drop off’ spot – a hole in the wall – where mothers can leave their babies instead of throwing them away in the trash like an unwanted trinket. Its anonymous, it’s safe, and it’s a life saver.
Special sensors alert charity officials that a baby has been left at the hole in the wall. The baby is then collected and taken to safety and, where possible sent to a good foster home.
These babies are born again. They are reborn, passing through a second hole into a world with a brighter future and bluer sky.
They have been blessed.
You have been blessed.
I have been blessed.
Some
are
not
so
lucky.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Racism? What garbage.
After a nice long holiday break, it feels good to be back in the blogging seat.
I thought I would begin the new blogging year with a post on racism.
(Always a good ice breaker I always say…)
A few days ago…
There I was, driving along the freeway the other day, behind a dilapidated old truck, complete with smoky exhaust pipe and cracked tail lights.
Singing along with the lighthouse family, I was pretty happy until, all of a sudden, the unspeakable happened.
The driver of the pickup (in this case a black middle aged man), in his infinite wisdom, decided to throw out an empty 2liter plastic cola bottle into the road.
The events of the next 2 seconds unfolded as follows:
1. I had to swerve to avoid the litter- now hurtling towards my windscreen
2. I passed a kidney stone
3. I completely forgot the lyrics of the song in my fit of rage
4. I passed numerous expletives befitting of littering black people.
Once my blood pressure normalized however, I started to think over the incident with a bit more circumspection and objectivity.
Initially, I had thought “yeah, typical”, although not because I am racist. I know some truly wonderful and brilliant black people.
Here in South Africa, black people – generally speaking, litter. Don’t believe me? Come and visit.
It is common to hear stories of black people throwing out entire packets of leftover Kentucky Fried Chicken as they drive along the road – bones, boxes and plastic being strewn everywhere. Black areas of town are so filthy with litter you can hardly walk along the pavement. So it’s no wonder that black people in this country have earned themselves this reputation. It has nothing to do with racism – and everything to do with mass social behavior.
Generally speaking any country with a white population majority is spotless, while a country that is populated with a black majority is strewn with litter. Compare New Zealand, Canada, Australia with Kenya, India, and yes, South Africa. It’s not racist, it’s the truth.
I understand that the latter countries are developing countries – the unemployment rates, economic prowess and poverty levels cannot be compared to those of first world countries. However, placing an empty coke bottle in a rubbish bin costs nothing. It’s a matter of self pride, and pride in your country and environment. And if you can afford Kentucky Fried Chicken, you are hardly on the breadline.
Of course, white people litter too. Had the driver of the truck been a white person – or any other color for that matter, I would have been equally disgusted.
So why is this kind of environmental and social degradation allowed to continue? Surely we all have a right to live in a clean place? And surely we all have a personal responsibility to conduct ourselves that shows pride in the country we live in and respect for the people with whom we live?
I think one of the reasons there has been such a decline in these regards is that white people all over the globe are so scared to stand up for themselves in the fear of being called racists. Racism has become a comfortable scapegoat for unacceptable behavior. If S.A. truly was a rainbow nation, we as a people would be more demanding of each other – regardless of color.
I for one would love a clean, litter free country. But hey, call me a racist.
I thought I would begin the new blogging year with a post on racism.
(Always a good ice breaker I always say…)
A few days ago…
There I was, driving along the freeway the other day, behind a dilapidated old truck, complete with smoky exhaust pipe and cracked tail lights.
Singing along with the lighthouse family, I was pretty happy until, all of a sudden, the unspeakable happened.
The driver of the pickup (in this case a black middle aged man), in his infinite wisdom, decided to throw out an empty 2liter plastic cola bottle into the road.
The events of the next 2 seconds unfolded as follows:
1. I had to swerve to avoid the litter- now hurtling towards my windscreen
2. I passed a kidney stone
3. I completely forgot the lyrics of the song in my fit of rage
4. I passed numerous expletives befitting of littering black people.
Once my blood pressure normalized however, I started to think over the incident with a bit more circumspection and objectivity.
Initially, I had thought “yeah, typical”, although not because I am racist. I know some truly wonderful and brilliant black people.
Here in South Africa, black people – generally speaking, litter. Don’t believe me? Come and visit.
It is common to hear stories of black people throwing out entire packets of leftover Kentucky Fried Chicken as they drive along the road – bones, boxes and plastic being strewn everywhere. Black areas of town are so filthy with litter you can hardly walk along the pavement. So it’s no wonder that black people in this country have earned themselves this reputation. It has nothing to do with racism – and everything to do with mass social behavior.
Generally speaking any country with a white population majority is spotless, while a country that is populated with a black majority is strewn with litter. Compare New Zealand, Canada, Australia with Kenya, India, and yes, South Africa. It’s not racist, it’s the truth.
I understand that the latter countries are developing countries – the unemployment rates, economic prowess and poverty levels cannot be compared to those of first world countries. However, placing an empty coke bottle in a rubbish bin costs nothing. It’s a matter of self pride, and pride in your country and environment. And if you can afford Kentucky Fried Chicken, you are hardly on the breadline.
Of course, white people litter too. Had the driver of the truck been a white person – or any other color for that matter, I would have been equally disgusted.
So why is this kind of environmental and social degradation allowed to continue? Surely we all have a right to live in a clean place? And surely we all have a personal responsibility to conduct ourselves that shows pride in the country we live in and respect for the people with whom we live?
I think one of the reasons there has been such a decline in these regards is that white people all over the globe are so scared to stand up for themselves in the fear of being called racists. Racism has become a comfortable scapegoat for unacceptable behavior. If S.A. truly was a rainbow nation, we as a people would be more demanding of each other – regardless of color.
I for one would love a clean, litter free country. But hey, call me a racist.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Ornithology 101
My grandmother passed away a few years ago.
She was a sprightly, eccentric, eighty year old. In her hey day had been a consummate musician, playing first desk violin in symphony orchestras, and teaching music right into her old age. She was a grande olde dame - an actress – a drama queen and known by everyone in the little town she lived in
In her last years though, 60 years of smoking started to take its toll. She had taken up the habit as a young girl, when it was fashionable and trendy. In the end, she battled to breathe. She always had an asthma pump close by, and finally an oxygen tank towards the end.
She had also started to go senile, and started asking the same questions repeatedly until it drove us completely and utterly mental.
One question in particular comes to mind. She always asked it while she sat on a comfortable couch in our lounge, gazing out into the garden, sipping her wine (she always had to have a glass of wine) and eating her lunch.
“What is that” She would ask – a bony finger extended towards the glass door panes,
“– hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“No gran” one of us would reply, “that is an air plant.”
My mother had a bunch of wispy air plants which she liked to hang in a tree which stood directly in front of our glass doors. They looked like Gandalf’s flowing beard hanging there, grey and delicate swaying gently in the wind.
A few minutes would pass. Gran would sip her wine and gaze out at the garden. And then…
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?” Again with the finger.
Eyes would roll in our heads. “No gran, it’s an air plant.”
After the 5th time we were all restraining ourselves from screaming deliriously like possessed banshees.
This would carry on for half an hour until the wine glass needed refilling. And then the question would resume unabated.
Everyday would be the same. Lunch would be served, gran would get her glass of wine, and while we sat around her, she would repeatedly ask:
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
And every time, we would take it in turns to answer. It was not a bird’s nest, it is an air plant. We did it in relays, just for the sake of sanity. By the end of lunch we had bulging veins in our foreheads. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
One afternoon however, we sat as we always did. My gran was in her spot on the couch, with a glass of sweet white on the coffee table beside her. Her lunch was on a tray, complete with condiments and napkin and we all silently prepared ourselves for the inevitable. My mother took her Valium®, I took my Calmettes™.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the inevitable persistence began.
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“YES!” my father burst out like a popped balloon “YES! YES! YES!”
We all looked at other, stunned. We were all wide awake now, sitting wide eyed on the edge of our seats, waiting in anticipation of what would happen next. The room had gone suddenly silent.
“OH!” replied my gran unperturbed, taking another sip of wine. “Well it’s a very strange looking bird’s nest.” Another sip. “What kind of bird is it?”
“A red breasted coastal chook” my dad replied, with the calm of human kindness.
We all looked at each other.
“Oh,” muttered my gran “I’ve never heard of that one before.”
She never asked about the nest again.
Today, any anomalies we come across in our family are known as red breasted coastal chooks or sub species thereof.
She was a sprightly, eccentric, eighty year old. In her hey day had been a consummate musician, playing first desk violin in symphony orchestras, and teaching music right into her old age. She was a grande olde dame - an actress – a drama queen and known by everyone in the little town she lived in
In her last years though, 60 years of smoking started to take its toll. She had taken up the habit as a young girl, when it was fashionable and trendy. In the end, she battled to breathe. She always had an asthma pump close by, and finally an oxygen tank towards the end.
She had also started to go senile, and started asking the same questions repeatedly until it drove us completely and utterly mental.
One question in particular comes to mind. She always asked it while she sat on a comfortable couch in our lounge, gazing out into the garden, sipping her wine (she always had to have a glass of wine) and eating her lunch.
“What is that” She would ask – a bony finger extended towards the glass door panes,
“– hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“No gran” one of us would reply, “that is an air plant.”
My mother had a bunch of wispy air plants which she liked to hang in a tree which stood directly in front of our glass doors. They looked like Gandalf’s flowing beard hanging there, grey and delicate swaying gently in the wind.
A few minutes would pass. Gran would sip her wine and gaze out at the garden. And then…
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?” Again with the finger.
Eyes would roll in our heads. “No gran, it’s an air plant.”
After the 5th time we were all restraining ourselves from screaming deliriously like possessed banshees.
This would carry on for half an hour until the wine glass needed refilling. And then the question would resume unabated.
Everyday would be the same. Lunch would be served, gran would get her glass of wine, and while we sat around her, she would repeatedly ask:
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
And every time, we would take it in turns to answer. It was not a bird’s nest, it is an air plant. We did it in relays, just for the sake of sanity. By the end of lunch we had bulging veins in our foreheads. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
One afternoon however, we sat as we always did. My gran was in her spot on the couch, with a glass of sweet white on the coffee table beside her. Her lunch was on a tray, complete with condiments and napkin and we all silently prepared ourselves for the inevitable. My mother took her Valium®, I took my Calmettes™.
Sure enough, after a few minutes, the inevitable persistence began.
“What is that – hanging in the tree down there? Is it a bird’s nest?”
“YES!” my father burst out like a popped balloon “YES! YES! YES!”
We all looked at other, stunned. We were all wide awake now, sitting wide eyed on the edge of our seats, waiting in anticipation of what would happen next. The room had gone suddenly silent.
“OH!” replied my gran unperturbed, taking another sip of wine. “Well it’s a very strange looking bird’s nest.” Another sip. “What kind of bird is it?”
“A red breasted coastal chook” my dad replied, with the calm of human kindness.
We all looked at each other.
“Oh,” muttered my gran “I’ve never heard of that one before.”
She never asked about the nest again.
Today, any anomalies we come across in our family are known as red breasted coastal chooks or sub species thereof.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Go For Green
Life is the most complicated, intricate, cruel and beautiful creature I have ever met. It’s quite beguiling. It can hold you tenderly in its hand and nurture you. It can also squeeze you till your very last breath is all but spent and the fire has faded from your eyes.
There is no beast as cold and unforgiving. Yet there is nothing so fragile and vulnerable. There is nothing more robust, and full of hope and potential, yet nothing more fleeting.
Above all however, there is no taming this beast. No cage or whip exists that could bring this Flaming Tiger into submission. It’s utterly fascinating,
One story which has stayed with me since I first heard it is a perfect example of the Tiger Effect. It makes you realize that we are more than the sum of our parts, that what we do today – however ordinary we may think it may be - could change the face of the Earth tomorrow. It shows that we are all interconnected and that we are all a part of the Tiger.
SEPTEMBER 10 2001
A young woman shops in a downtown Manhattan department store. It is her husband’s birthday and she wants to buy him a new golfing shirt.
He always looks so good in them, she thinks to herself, running her hand down the rack. She narrows her choice to two final colors – green, and orange.
She pauses for a few seconds and holds the two shirts at arms length. She decides to go for green – it will complement his eyes.
He can always change it if he doesn’t like it, after all…
SEPTEMBER 11 2001A young man walks through the main entrance of a department store in downtown Manhattan. He walks straight to the inquiry desk. His pace is brisk – he is late for work already – but this should only take a few minutes.
Placing the plastic bag he is carrying with him on the counter, he explains to the assistant that he would like to exchange his green golfing shirt for an orange one.
Moments later, an explosion is heard as the first of two commercial jet liners slam into the World Trade Center, where he worked on one of the topmost floors.
* * *
Who could have guessed that in those few casual seconds, as she waived her hand from golf shirt to golf shirt, the woman was deciding whether her husband would live or die.
Orange, Green, Orange, Green. This is the TigerEffect.
There is no beast as cold and unforgiving. Yet there is nothing so fragile and vulnerable. There is nothing more robust, and full of hope and potential, yet nothing more fleeting.
Above all however, there is no taming this beast. No cage or whip exists that could bring this Flaming Tiger into submission. It’s utterly fascinating,
One story which has stayed with me since I first heard it is a perfect example of the Tiger Effect. It makes you realize that we are more than the sum of our parts, that what we do today – however ordinary we may think it may be - could change the face of the Earth tomorrow. It shows that we are all interconnected and that we are all a part of the Tiger.
SEPTEMBER 10 2001
A young woman shops in a downtown Manhattan department store. It is her husband’s birthday and she wants to buy him a new golfing shirt.
He always looks so good in them, she thinks to herself, running her hand down the rack. She narrows her choice to two final colors – green, and orange.
She pauses for a few seconds and holds the two shirts at arms length. She decides to go for green – it will complement his eyes.
He can always change it if he doesn’t like it, after all…
SEPTEMBER 11 2001A young man walks through the main entrance of a department store in downtown Manhattan. He walks straight to the inquiry desk. His pace is brisk – he is late for work already – but this should only take a few minutes.
Placing the plastic bag he is carrying with him on the counter, he explains to the assistant that he would like to exchange his green golfing shirt for an orange one.
Moments later, an explosion is heard as the first of two commercial jet liners slam into the World Trade Center, where he worked on one of the topmost floors.
* * *
Who could have guessed that in those few casual seconds, as she waived her hand from golf shirt to golf shirt, the woman was deciding whether her husband would live or die.
Orange, Green, Orange, Green. This is the TigerEffect.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday Nirvana
Friday Nirvana
“Lying straight facing upward
Limbs sore, stiff and cold
Soul flying towards heaven”
“Lying straight facing upward
Limbs sore, stiff and cold
Soul flying towards heaven”
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Wednesday Vista
Wednesday Vista
“Golden orb at twelve above
The climber’s summit
The view before the descent”
“Golden orb at twelve above
The climber’s summit
The view before the descent”
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Pass Me My Kimono
I just love haikus. They have a certain charm about them. They are so just so damn cute. They are like little bubbles of flavored words that are simply bursting with meaning and emotion. You can almost put one of these raspberry flavored tidbits into your mouth and feel it pop against your tongue.
Haiku tasty, berry tasty.
Traditionally, the Haiku originates from Japan, being written for thousands of years by long bearded Japanese sages as they sat under the magnificent flamingo canopies of peach blossoms, the dappled sun upon their silken Kimonos.
It’s no wonder that most portray images of the nature, perfection, emotion and beauty so evident in the incredible vistas and cultures of ancient Japan.
The Japanese with their bonsais have an incredible fascination with petite perfection – small reflections of a greater beauty. So it is with the Haiku.
Only three lines of 7, 5 and 7 syllables, Haikus are capsules of inspiration.
Words are chosen with utmost care and it’s not unusual for those three lines to leave an indelible impression on your mind, long after the last words are read.
These are some of the reasons why I love haiku and why I have decided to start a mini blogthology based on a ‘days of the week’ theme.
Readers are welcome to submit their own little bursts of joy.
Here is the first of the series:
Friday
“Smile inside a cubicle
Sparkle in the eye
The face of liberation”
Haiku tasty, berry tasty.
Traditionally, the Haiku originates from Japan, being written for thousands of years by long bearded Japanese sages as they sat under the magnificent flamingo canopies of peach blossoms, the dappled sun upon their silken Kimonos.
It’s no wonder that most portray images of the nature, perfection, emotion and beauty so evident in the incredible vistas and cultures of ancient Japan.
The Japanese with their bonsais have an incredible fascination with petite perfection – small reflections of a greater beauty. So it is with the Haiku.
Only three lines of 7, 5 and 7 syllables, Haikus are capsules of inspiration.
Words are chosen with utmost care and it’s not unusual for those three lines to leave an indelible impression on your mind, long after the last words are read.
These are some of the reasons why I love haiku and why I have decided to start a mini blogthology based on a ‘days of the week’ theme.
Readers are welcome to submit their own little bursts of joy.
Here is the first of the series:
Friday
“Smile inside a cubicle
Sparkle in the eye
The face of liberation”
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
All Things Bright and Beautiful
“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all…”
Snigger. It’s this thing I have started doing lately…I just can’t help myself.
Every time someone starts talking to me, my mind automatically begins assessing which animal they most closely resemble. And let me tell you, sometimes the likenesses are uncanny.
I wish I could stop but I just cant, and its severely impeding my focusing skills.
How am I supposed to concentrate on a conversation when it’s coming from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?
So far today, I’ve had close encounters with a hippopotamus, a lemur, a skunk, and a dingo. And its only 11am. Where are the FENCES?
I can just imagine some of these people, ferreting about, eating berries and nuts. Gathering nuts. Licking their nuts.
And, just like their animal counterparts, some people are furry, some are poisonous, some are highly strung and some people are completely slimy and loathsome.
Like Big Toad sitting over there near the photocopier machine. Ribbit.
Yes ladies and gentlemen we certainly live in a menagerie of creatures great and small.
And what matters is not so much that we should tolerate and embrace the fact that everyone is different and unique. It’s not that we need to learn to respect the incredible variety of our species, which reflects the amazing diversity of our cultures, our heritage, and our history.
What matters today is where you sit on the food chain. What drives the world is money, greed and power.
What a sad indictment for a creature that has more possibility in a fingertip than all the animals in the world.
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all…”
Snigger. It’s this thing I have started doing lately…I just can’t help myself.
Every time someone starts talking to me, my mind automatically begins assessing which animal they most closely resemble. And let me tell you, sometimes the likenesses are uncanny.
I wish I could stop but I just cant, and its severely impeding my focusing skills.
How am I supposed to concentrate on a conversation when it’s coming from the horse’s mouth, so to speak?
So far today, I’ve had close encounters with a hippopotamus, a lemur, a skunk, and a dingo. And its only 11am. Where are the FENCES?
I can just imagine some of these people, ferreting about, eating berries and nuts. Gathering nuts. Licking their nuts.
And, just like their animal counterparts, some people are furry, some are poisonous, some are highly strung and some people are completely slimy and loathsome.
Like Big Toad sitting over there near the photocopier machine. Ribbit.
Yes ladies and gentlemen we certainly live in a menagerie of creatures great and small.
And what matters is not so much that we should tolerate and embrace the fact that everyone is different and unique. It’s not that we need to learn to respect the incredible variety of our species, which reflects the amazing diversity of our cultures, our heritage, and our history.
What matters today is where you sit on the food chain. What drives the world is money, greed and power.
What a sad indictment for a creature that has more possibility in a fingertip than all the animals in the world.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Calling all Kooks
My mother. She’s as kooky as ever she could be. I sometimes just stand there, mouth agog at some of the hair brained schemes she comes up with – all with complete conviction. Every plan she hatches is to her a stroke of pure genius, such that would bring a tear to her eye should it ever make the shift from the conceptual to 3D reality.
Truth be told however, the vast majority of these schemes leave most people a little pale or at the least, feeling slightly uneasy. Stomach cramps and the like.
The latest plan she gleefully shared with us the other day was another sparkling gem of insanity. And it weighed about 82 carats.
“Lets make a huge aviary out of that great chasm !!!”
She points ecstatically over the lawn to a huge fissure on our farm carved out of the ground from millions of years of erosion.
An uneasy silence hangs in the room as we all look at each other nervously. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. Time passes.
The site of this proposed aviary is probably big enough to engulf a whaling boat, a double decker school bus and the British Armed Forces with a few spaces to spare. Its bottom is filled with water, which in turn is inhabited by crawly things and legavaans [sic] (which are huge komodo type dragon reptiles with forked tongues and an appetite for little fluffy creatures. And birds. And bird eggs.)
The fact that you would need about 5 kilometers of netting, 300 tons of pre-stressed steel, 3000 pine trees in decking, a rifle (for the dragons) and a Masters degree in engineering to get the job done doesn’t seem to enter her mind at this point.
My father looks vaguely stressed. I would imagine he’s feeling pretty much the same as an Egyptian slave whose just been shown a copy of the blueprints for the pyramids of Giza.
At the end of the day however, these golden nuggets are what make her the person she is – they are her idiosyncratic fingerprints which no one else (God willing) could ever come close to replicating. To think of her as completely sane and practical would be stripping away the gloss from her personality. And trust me; we need glossy people in this world of ours.
If it weren’t for these people we would probably not have half the amazing inventions we take for granted today, that in the beginning were greeted with animosity and cries of “preposterous!”
Things like the telephone, flight, and wonderbras™
So to all you kooky people out there: I thank you.
Truth be told however, the vast majority of these schemes leave most people a little pale or at the least, feeling slightly uneasy. Stomach cramps and the like.
The latest plan she gleefully shared with us the other day was another sparkling gem of insanity. And it weighed about 82 carats.
“Lets make a huge aviary out of that great chasm !!!”
She points ecstatically over the lawn to a huge fissure on our farm carved out of the ground from millions of years of erosion.
An uneasy silence hangs in the room as we all look at each other nervously. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks. Time passes.
The site of this proposed aviary is probably big enough to engulf a whaling boat, a double decker school bus and the British Armed Forces with a few spaces to spare. Its bottom is filled with water, which in turn is inhabited by crawly things and legavaans [sic] (which are huge komodo type dragon reptiles with forked tongues and an appetite for little fluffy creatures. And birds. And bird eggs.)
The fact that you would need about 5 kilometers of netting, 300 tons of pre-stressed steel, 3000 pine trees in decking, a rifle (for the dragons) and a Masters degree in engineering to get the job done doesn’t seem to enter her mind at this point.
My father looks vaguely stressed. I would imagine he’s feeling pretty much the same as an Egyptian slave whose just been shown a copy of the blueprints for the pyramids of Giza.
At the end of the day however, these golden nuggets are what make her the person she is – they are her idiosyncratic fingerprints which no one else (God willing) could ever come close to replicating. To think of her as completely sane and practical would be stripping away the gloss from her personality. And trust me; we need glossy people in this world of ours.
If it weren’t for these people we would probably not have half the amazing inventions we take for granted today, that in the beginning were greeted with animosity and cries of “preposterous!”
Things like the telephone, flight, and wonderbras™
So to all you kooky people out there: I thank you.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Traffic of Life
Everyone does it every now and again. The house is quiet and empty. Perhaps you are going through an album of old photographs. You find an old letter you wrote years ago, or you hear a song on the radio that ignites that hazy sense of nostalgia. Whatever it is, we all get these poignant moments of introspection. We find ourselves staring back at our reflection in the mirror of life past, thinking: “Whoa - what the hell happened to you”.
Your only tan comes from the glare of a PC monitor, and your only exercise involves trying to scratch that pesky itch between your shoulder blades.
And so there you are. Just look at you. Are those crow’s feet?
You are a little bewildered as to why you never ended up being that bronze gazillionaire Adonis you had originally planned to be. I mean where did it all go wrong? At what point did you suddenly veer of the path of greatness? One minute you’re walking a road of golden pavers, and the next you’re simply just another average pedestrian beside the highway.
Traffic passes regardless of whether you walk, run or highland fling yourself along the oft potholed pavement – it’s a constant flow of go.
It’s the traffic of life - a great slithering eel of multi-colored scales working its way through the streets, lanes, highways and byways of this world. No heed for a lonely traveler.
Look at you. There you are. Those are crows feet.
Your only tan comes from the glare of a PC monitor, and your only exercise involves trying to scratch that pesky itch between your shoulder blades.
And so there you are. Just look at you. Are those crow’s feet?
You are a little bewildered as to why you never ended up being that bronze gazillionaire Adonis you had originally planned to be. I mean where did it all go wrong? At what point did you suddenly veer of the path of greatness? One minute you’re walking a road of golden pavers, and the next you’re simply just another average pedestrian beside the highway.
Traffic passes regardless of whether you walk, run or highland fling yourself along the oft potholed pavement – it’s a constant flow of go.
It’s the traffic of life - a great slithering eel of multi-colored scales working its way through the streets, lanes, highways and byways of this world. No heed for a lonely traveler.
Look at you. There you are. Those are crows feet.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
The Great Bungle
At last, my life has calmed down to the point where I can blog again.
Blogging has become a new measure of my spare time these days.
If I have time to blog, it means the ol’ Crap-o-Meter™ has dropped down to “Medium Turd”. That, or I am simply just ignoring all the things I need to get done today – cheating the Crap-o-Meter™ so to speak.
Cheating the Crap-o-Meter™ however, is not always a good idea, because in the end, you are just cheating yourself. When you look again, the dial has suddenly jumped from “Medium Turd” to full throttle “Cistern Cracker” – which is never a good thing.
Pass the blog roll please.
Onto today’s blog:
While driving into work the other morning, I heard on the radio that NASA has inadvertently LOST the original audio tape of mans first lunar walk.
Needless to say, I swerved off the road, narrowly missed a fire hydrant and squashed a couple of pedestrians who looked like they needed the rest anyway.
Once I had eventually lost the pursuing police, my mind wandered back to the tapes.
Please can someone explain how the worlds most powerful, respected and influential space agency loses such an irreplaceable piece of history – a piece of history that marks perhaps the greatest moment in the history of mankind no less.
Hmmmmmm
Maybe they used it to copy a BeeGees album.
I mean they are pretty important too. Being the BeeGees and all.
Maybe they left it in the sun, and it melted and warped. Who knows. Whatever happened though I sure would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when it all happened:
*BeeGees Music Fills the NASA Offices*
BigCheese: “I thought you said this was the tape?”
NerdiGum: “Er, well the label says ‘Greatest Day in the History of Mankind.Ever.
Amen – DO NOT TAPE OVER THIS YOU DUMBASSES’ – so er…it
simply MUST be it…”
BigCheese: “NerdiGum, this is the BEEGEES. THE BEEGEES NERDIGUM!!!!”
NerdiGum: “Well Done Sir! Very Impressive! And the title?”
I’m going to cling to the faint hope that some NASA filing clerk out there is turning on his car radio right now and finding Neil Armstrong’s famous words filling the interior, instead of the BEEGEES medley of greatest hits. This would be the equivalent of his day starting out at ‘Cistern Cracker’ on the Crap-o-Meter™
Blogging has become a new measure of my spare time these days.
If I have time to blog, it means the ol’ Crap-o-Meter™ has dropped down to “Medium Turd”. That, or I am simply just ignoring all the things I need to get done today – cheating the Crap-o-Meter™ so to speak.
Cheating the Crap-o-Meter™ however, is not always a good idea, because in the end, you are just cheating yourself. When you look again, the dial has suddenly jumped from “Medium Turd” to full throttle “Cistern Cracker” – which is never a good thing.
Pass the blog roll please.
Onto today’s blog:
While driving into work the other morning, I heard on the radio that NASA has inadvertently LOST the original audio tape of mans first lunar walk.
Needless to say, I swerved off the road, narrowly missed a fire hydrant and squashed a couple of pedestrians who looked like they needed the rest anyway.
Once I had eventually lost the pursuing police, my mind wandered back to the tapes.
Please can someone explain how the worlds most powerful, respected and influential space agency loses such an irreplaceable piece of history – a piece of history that marks perhaps the greatest moment in the history of mankind no less.
Hmmmmmm
Maybe they used it to copy a BeeGees album.
I mean they are pretty important too. Being the BeeGees and all.
Maybe they left it in the sun, and it melted and warped. Who knows. Whatever happened though I sure would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when it all happened:
*BeeGees Music Fills the NASA Offices*
BigCheese: “I thought you said this was the tape?”
NerdiGum: “Er, well the label says ‘Greatest Day in the History of Mankind.Ever.
Amen – DO NOT TAPE OVER THIS YOU DUMBASSES’ – so er…it
simply MUST be it…”
BigCheese: “NerdiGum, this is the BEEGEES. THE BEEGEES NERDIGUM!!!!”
NerdiGum: “Well Done Sir! Very Impressive! And the title?”
I’m going to cling to the faint hope that some NASA filing clerk out there is turning on his car radio right now and finding Neil Armstrong’s famous words filling the interior, instead of the BEEGEES medley of greatest hits. This would be the equivalent of his day starting out at ‘Cistern Cracker’ on the Crap-o-Meter™
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Divine Gag
It’s been a crazy few weeks for me. At the exact time I was moving house, someone upstairs decided it was about time to run a bath. My money’s on Jesus.
The sky above turned ominously black, the clouds moved in, and the rain came down. Actually it would be more accurate to say that a violent monsoon sat on my head.
There I was, carting boxes et al, while around me, people were being carried away to Australia. Well not quite. But trees did fall over. And I was carrying boxes. Which is probably what prompted the torrent in the first place. But that’s a blog for another day.
I seriously believe that there is such a thing as Murphy’s Law. At least in some cosmic form or another.
God - whoever she is - has a sense of humor.
I mean why else would we have a month of near perfect weather, and then, catastrophic flooding the day I move house? It’s Murphy’s Law, a little Divine Gag on me.
And I get them all the time.
- The right key is always the last one on the bunch
- My toast always lands butter side down
- My cell phone will die the moment I actually need it in an emergency.
Etcetera.
In return for a lifetime of enduring these DivineGags, I am planning my own little gag for when I cross over. I can see it now:
“Hey St. Pete, how’s it hangin’”
“Ahem. Welcome to heaven. Please do not touch the Pearly Gates. You are required to wear your halo at all times, wings are compulsory, but you get to choose between a harp and a flute. Dinner’s at 7. I hope you like honey”
“Cool with me Petey. Listen is God around?”
“God is busy. S/He is always busy.”
“Well could ya give Him/Her a message?”
“A message? You insolent little blighter.”
“Yeah, could you tell Him I’m actually not dead. I’m just lying reeeaaaaaaaallllllly still.”
“Actually you little stink bug, you are severely inebriated. Furthermore, according to Murphy’s Law, one out of every 2 million people* who become severely intoxicated die as a result. O look: jokes on you.”
“Ill take the Harp.”
Moral for today: Never, NEVER mess with God. Or Murphy. Whoever strikes first.
* For illustrative purposes only
The sky above turned ominously black, the clouds moved in, and the rain came down. Actually it would be more accurate to say that a violent monsoon sat on my head.
There I was, carting boxes et al, while around me, people were being carried away to Australia. Well not quite. But trees did fall over. And I was carrying boxes. Which is probably what prompted the torrent in the first place. But that’s a blog for another day.
I seriously believe that there is such a thing as Murphy’s Law. At least in some cosmic form or another.
God - whoever she is - has a sense of humor.
I mean why else would we have a month of near perfect weather, and then, catastrophic flooding the day I move house? It’s Murphy’s Law, a little Divine Gag on me.
And I get them all the time.
- The right key is always the last one on the bunch
- My toast always lands butter side down
- My cell phone will die the moment I actually need it in an emergency.
Etcetera.
In return for a lifetime of enduring these DivineGags, I am planning my own little gag for when I cross over. I can see it now:
“Hey St. Pete, how’s it hangin’”
“Ahem. Welcome to heaven. Please do not touch the Pearly Gates. You are required to wear your halo at all times, wings are compulsory, but you get to choose between a harp and a flute. Dinner’s at 7. I hope you like honey”
“Cool with me Petey. Listen is God around?”
“God is busy. S/He is always busy.”
“Well could ya give Him/Her a message?”
“A message? You insolent little blighter.”
“Yeah, could you tell Him I’m actually not dead. I’m just lying reeeaaaaaaaallllllly still.”
“Actually you little stink bug, you are severely inebriated. Furthermore, according to Murphy’s Law, one out of every 2 million people* who become severely intoxicated die as a result. O look: jokes on you.”
“Ill take the Harp.”
Moral for today: Never, NEVER mess with God. Or Murphy. Whoever strikes first.
* For illustrative purposes only
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Morning Wombats: TYPE 3
One astute reader has dutifully informed me of yet another morning-person type, which I seem to have glibly forgotten to draw your attention to, in my last post. Highly unlikely, I know, but sometimes things do slip between the cracks.
But before I go into the details of this third type of morning wombat, let’s recap on the first two.
Quick Summary:
TYPE1:
- Early risers
- Happy to be up at some ungodly hour
- Wants everyone around them to feel the same way – even if by force.
- Highly endangered
TYPE2:
- Normal People.
Ok. That pretty much sums it up.
Now, Type 3:
TYPE3:
Type three, I am told, are hardcore type 2’s.
These people can weather any badass TYPE1 that may be lurking in the darkness.
Getting these people out of bed is like waking the dead. These people have a black-belt in staying put. In fact the only time I have ever seen a type three is on route to the kitchen. Or bathroom. Depending on which one was visited last. Both times were scary.
Their eyes are kind of slitty, and their hair looks like hedgehog. Do NOT feed the hedgehog. No, not even if it begs you directly.
However, more than this, TYPE3’s are prone to acute aggression. I know this because my sister is a chronic TYPE3.
One would think that with all that sleep, these TYPE3’s would be all docile. Like a fuzzy bunny. Think Bambi and Thumper.
Not TYPE3’s. Nooooooooo sireee. TYPE3’s are NASTY. Try waking them up and prepare for the wrath of the gods.
Some deploy different defense strategies. Some lash out at you with claws. Some actually leave their sanctum for a few seconds to pulverize you and hide the body. Whatever they do, its swift and violent.
Sometimes it’s best to just let these sleeping dogs lie.
Some characteristics to look out for when identifying TYPE3’s:
- The hedgehog
- Violent, moody, temper, rage, weaponry
- Untidy people. Room looks like crack den. Socks all over the place. The hedgehog.
- Wake at 11am and above. Make way.
I am confident that Morning Wombats have now been properly identified. If I have missed a type out, I urge you: tell me. For the sake of mankind and Hedghogs around the world.
Happy sleeping. . .
(image placeholder)
But before I go into the details of this third type of morning wombat, let’s recap on the first two.
Quick Summary:
TYPE1:
- Early risers
- Happy to be up at some ungodly hour
- Wants everyone around them to feel the same way – even if by force.
- Highly endangered
TYPE2:
- Normal People.
Ok. That pretty much sums it up.
Now, Type 3:
TYPE3:
Type three, I am told, are hardcore type 2’s.
These people can weather any badass TYPE1 that may be lurking in the darkness.
Getting these people out of bed is like waking the dead. These people have a black-belt in staying put. In fact the only time I have ever seen a type three is on route to the kitchen. Or bathroom. Depending on which one was visited last. Both times were scary.
Their eyes are kind of slitty, and their hair looks like hedgehog. Do NOT feed the hedgehog. No, not even if it begs you directly.
However, more than this, TYPE3’s are prone to acute aggression. I know this because my sister is a chronic TYPE3.
One would think that with all that sleep, these TYPE3’s would be all docile. Like a fuzzy bunny. Think Bambi and Thumper.
Not TYPE3’s. Nooooooooo sireee. TYPE3’s are NASTY. Try waking them up and prepare for the wrath of the gods.
Some deploy different defense strategies. Some lash out at you with claws. Some actually leave their sanctum for a few seconds to pulverize you and hide the body. Whatever they do, its swift and violent.
Sometimes it’s best to just let these sleeping dogs lie.
Some characteristics to look out for when identifying TYPE3’s:
- The hedgehog
- Violent, moody, temper, rage, weaponry
- Untidy people. Room looks like crack den. Socks all over the place. The hedgehog.
- Wake at 11am and above. Make way.
I am confident that Morning Wombats have now been properly identified. If I have missed a type out, I urge you: tell me. For the sake of mankind and Hedghogs around the world.
Happy sleeping. . .
(image placeholder)
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
O What a Beautiful Morning
I hate getting up in the dark every morning. It’s the one thing I dread with the coming of every winter - my pet hate of the season. I feel like I am being robbed of precious sleep hours, taken advantage of. Violated.
The thing I despise even more than waking in the dark though, is being woken by the blinding ceiling light, which some concerned soul decides to use to “help you wake up”. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours:
TYPE 1: These are the people that can wake up at the crack of sparrow fart, alert, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and kompis mentis (sic) , looking like they have just had a fabulous nights rest, and full body massage. They are able to hold a full conversation. None of their clothes are on inside out. Their socks even match. These are the people who look all perky at breakfast. These people were smurfs in their former lives. Possibly Possums.
TYPE 2: The rest of human civilization. We need a cup of coffee and some quiet time until we can speak intelligently. TYPE 2’s secretly despise TYPE 1’s. Leave us alone until 11am, unless you are holding coffee or chocolate. Or both.
Its when TYPE 1’s take it upon themselves to help you with your morning waking that relationships really take strain. They use various techniques to help you up in the morning, ranging from barely tolerable to homicide.
One the barely tolerable side of the scale, there is breakfast in bed. Chocolate and coffee. Perhaps a gentle nudge to let you know it’s arrived. Perhaps some soothing music.
On the homicidal side, there is the light switch, which is flicked on with what I can only describe as TYPE 1 glee.
The switch not only floods your cozy dark room with the light of 1000 football stadium spotlights, but also initiates the rage of a nuclear bomb. It is accompanied with slitty eyes and the feeling of being born into the world for the first time. Only this time you are wearing pajamas and you have stubble. It’s not a pretty sight.
TYPE 2 reactions can vary.
Some TYPE 2’s stagger all over the place like inebriated hobos, desperately groping at the wall where they think the light switch was yesterday. Others scream in profane rage, albeit from under a blanket. Great quilted, profane humps.
Some have the fortune of having some blunt object nearby which they can throw. The object NEVER makes contact with the TYPE 1, who by this stage is whistling a little ditty from the Sound of Music down the passage. It usually deflects off a wall and occasionally hits a wayward pet or worse, you.
These my friends, are the trials and tribulations of us fellow TYPE 2’s. Which one are you? How have you dealt with your TYPE 1’s? Pesticides? Fungicides? They just keep coming. HELP!
The thing I despise even more than waking in the dark though, is being woken by the blinding ceiling light, which some concerned soul decides to use to “help you wake up”. You see, there are two kinds of people in this world of ours:
TYPE 1: These are the people that can wake up at the crack of sparrow fart, alert, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and kompis mentis (sic) , looking like they have just had a fabulous nights rest, and full body massage. They are able to hold a full conversation. None of their clothes are on inside out. Their socks even match. These are the people who look all perky at breakfast. These people were smurfs in their former lives. Possibly Possums.
TYPE 2: The rest of human civilization. We need a cup of coffee and some quiet time until we can speak intelligently. TYPE 2’s secretly despise TYPE 1’s. Leave us alone until 11am, unless you are holding coffee or chocolate. Or both.
Its when TYPE 1’s take it upon themselves to help you with your morning waking that relationships really take strain. They use various techniques to help you up in the morning, ranging from barely tolerable to homicide.
One the barely tolerable side of the scale, there is breakfast in bed. Chocolate and coffee. Perhaps a gentle nudge to let you know it’s arrived. Perhaps some soothing music.
On the homicidal side, there is the light switch, which is flicked on with what I can only describe as TYPE 1 glee.
The switch not only floods your cozy dark room with the light of 1000 football stadium spotlights, but also initiates the rage of a nuclear bomb. It is accompanied with slitty eyes and the feeling of being born into the world for the first time. Only this time you are wearing pajamas and you have stubble. It’s not a pretty sight.
TYPE 2 reactions can vary.
Some TYPE 2’s stagger all over the place like inebriated hobos, desperately groping at the wall where they think the light switch was yesterday. Others scream in profane rage, albeit from under a blanket. Great quilted, profane humps.
Some have the fortune of having some blunt object nearby which they can throw. The object NEVER makes contact with the TYPE 1, who by this stage is whistling a little ditty from the Sound of Music down the passage. It usually deflects off a wall and occasionally hits a wayward pet or worse, you.
These my friends, are the trials and tribulations of us fellow TYPE 2’s. Which one are you? How have you dealt with your TYPE 1’s? Pesticides? Fungicides? They just keep coming. HELP!
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Childhoodlum
Have you ever played a prank phone-call on someone? When I was younger, a friend of mine used to have a telephone joke that we would play on unsuspecting victims, when we had no other pressing trouble to make. Ah yes, those were the days. No worries – and plenty of time to cause havoc in the ‘hood.
We would pick a number from the telephone directory – preferably one that listed a first name, surname and a decent address.
When the person picked up the ‘phone, we would start the joke as such:
[In a really perky happy voice] “Good Morning Mr Perkins, this is Tom from Exclusive Leather Lounge Suites Limited”
A hesitant Mr Perkins on the other side would normally respond with a vague “Y-yes?” – unable to decide how we knew his name, and unable to decide if he should know who we were. I could just imagine him squinting his eyes, as he tried to fathom who these people were on the line.
“Yes, Mr Perkins, this is just a courtesy call to let you know your leather suite has arrived. From Italy. Would you like us to deliver, or would you prefer to collect?”
Stunned silence. At this stage he knew something was amiss. He needed more information:
“Im sorry…a leather lounge suite….ITALY?” (The Italy part always touched a nerve)
“Yes, Mr Perkins, your couches have arrived.”
By this stage Mr Perkins knows that this company has made a terrible blunder as he had certainly not imported any furniture - from Italy no less!
So, as any good Samaritan would, he tries now to explain that we have inadvertently phoned the wrong client:
“But I have not ordered any couches from you…you have the wrong person/number!”
Now this is where our telephone directory came in very handy.
“Is this Mr Perkins? Mr Harold Perkins”
A moments silence.
“Yes”
“Do you reside at 11 Helmsford Crescent, East End, Winchester?”
“Er..yes but -”
“Well then Mr Perkins your furniture has arrived”
Poor Mr Perkins!
Thinking back, if I caught one of my own kids (if I actually had any of the blighters) doing that I would be forced to ship them off to some remote island occupied only by the waves crashing on the rocky beach and puffins. I would send the occasional food drop, just to keep them going though.
This is where I would also send Possum Woman.
Caused havoc as a child? – lets hear your fondest memories of childhoodlum!
We would pick a number from the telephone directory – preferably one that listed a first name, surname and a decent address.
When the person picked up the ‘phone, we would start the joke as such:
[In a really perky happy voice] “Good Morning Mr Perkins, this is Tom from Exclusive Leather Lounge Suites Limited”
A hesitant Mr Perkins on the other side would normally respond with a vague “Y-yes?” – unable to decide how we knew his name, and unable to decide if he should know who we were. I could just imagine him squinting his eyes, as he tried to fathom who these people were on the line.
“Yes, Mr Perkins, this is just a courtesy call to let you know your leather suite has arrived. From Italy. Would you like us to deliver, or would you prefer to collect?”
Stunned silence. At this stage he knew something was amiss. He needed more information:
“Im sorry…a leather lounge suite….ITALY?” (The Italy part always touched a nerve)
“Yes, Mr Perkins, your couches have arrived.”
By this stage Mr Perkins knows that this company has made a terrible blunder as he had certainly not imported any furniture - from Italy no less!
So, as any good Samaritan would, he tries now to explain that we have inadvertently phoned the wrong client:
“But I have not ordered any couches from you…you have the wrong person/number!”
Now this is where our telephone directory came in very handy.
“Is this Mr Perkins? Mr Harold Perkins”
A moments silence.
“Yes”
“Do you reside at 11 Helmsford Crescent, East End, Winchester?”
“Er..yes but -”
“Well then Mr Perkins your furniture has arrived”
Poor Mr Perkins!
Thinking back, if I caught one of my own kids (if I actually had any of the blighters) doing that I would be forced to ship them off to some remote island occupied only by the waves crashing on the rocky beach and puffins. I would send the occasional food drop, just to keep them going though.
This is where I would also send Possum Woman.
Caused havoc as a child? – lets hear your fondest memories of childhoodlum!
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Dictionary Denial
Have you ever noticed that when you learn a new word – a word you had no idea even existed before – it suddenly appears in every text you read, every billboard you drive past, every sweet wrapper, novel, manuscript, movie, – everywhere! It’s uncanny.
Even the most far flung, way-out words, you would NEVER normally have used in your lifetime, suddenly appear in a commercial after you have learned its meaning.
I think the reason we don’t notice these enigmatic words is largely because we exhibit a certain level of Dictionary Denial. Things we don’t understand, we largely ignore. So when we come across some big adverb, we just gloss over it glibly and pretend it just never happened – at least subconsciously. You feel you have grasped the gist of the sentence, with the help of the surrounding words of course, and carry on without a care in the world.
This works as long as some little upstart doesn’t ask you what the word means, in which case I find it quite effective to suddenly feign death. Once you learn the meaning of the word, you no longer have to subconsciously pretend its not there (or pretend you just had a major coronary), because if some twit asks you for an explanation, you are adequately equipped to enlighten them, and so free another minion from his or her blinkered existence.
The reason I am even bringing up the subject of Dictionary Denial, is because this is what has occurred with Possum Woman. Those of you who have followed the Saga of the Spoon, will know that Possum Woman is the human equivalent of the She Devil. (But I digress).
The thing is, before she robbed me, I never even knew she existed. Now however, she turns up everywhere – like a bad penny. A very bad penny. Like a half-cent. Or monopoly money.
For example, we seem to arrive at work at the same time – this has happened on more than one occasion. Or we will end up being next to each other in the queue to leave the building after work. Everywhere I look, I see possum.
My dictionary denial has been obliterated because I now know what and who she is, so I can no longer linger in the ignorant bliss I was so accustomed to. So, I am now exercising the only option I have left – lifting the blinkers from your eyes, so you too can recognize a possum when you see one:
I found this description on the net:
POSSUM (Pos-im) noun: America’s only marsupial, like a large rat but almost white fur, almost blind, generally disliked, and heard scuffling around outside in the wee hours.
How apt. Now you know.
Know any possums? Tell me about your close encounters. . .
Even the most far flung, way-out words, you would NEVER normally have used in your lifetime, suddenly appear in a commercial after you have learned its meaning.
I think the reason we don’t notice these enigmatic words is largely because we exhibit a certain level of Dictionary Denial. Things we don’t understand, we largely ignore. So when we come across some big adverb, we just gloss over it glibly and pretend it just never happened – at least subconsciously. You feel you have grasped the gist of the sentence, with the help of the surrounding words of course, and carry on without a care in the world.
This works as long as some little upstart doesn’t ask you what the word means, in which case I find it quite effective to suddenly feign death. Once you learn the meaning of the word, you no longer have to subconsciously pretend its not there (or pretend you just had a major coronary), because if some twit asks you for an explanation, you are adequately equipped to enlighten them, and so free another minion from his or her blinkered existence.
The reason I am even bringing up the subject of Dictionary Denial, is because this is what has occurred with Possum Woman. Those of you who have followed the Saga of the Spoon, will know that Possum Woman is the human equivalent of the She Devil. (But I digress).
The thing is, before she robbed me, I never even knew she existed. Now however, she turns up everywhere – like a bad penny. A very bad penny. Like a half-cent. Or monopoly money.
For example, we seem to arrive at work at the same time – this has happened on more than one occasion. Or we will end up being next to each other in the queue to leave the building after work. Everywhere I look, I see possum.
My dictionary denial has been obliterated because I now know what and who she is, so I can no longer linger in the ignorant bliss I was so accustomed to. So, I am now exercising the only option I have left – lifting the blinkers from your eyes, so you too can recognize a possum when you see one:
I found this description on the net:
POSSUM (Pos-im) noun: America’s only marsupial, like a large rat but almost white fur, almost blind, generally disliked, and heard scuffling around outside in the wee hours.
How apt. Now you know.
Know any possums? Tell me about your close encounters. . .
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