Where is the 2nd Guitar???

(The answer is: There's no 2nd guitar!)

Once upon a long LONG long time ago, when I was 16-18 years old, I was learning acoustic (classical) guitar. I really enjoyed my lessons, which lasted for about 18 months, and I think the acoustic guitar is a beautiful instrument (I also like the electric guitar but I think acoustic - nylon or steel string - is more pretty). I may have played a little better had I practiced more - as gently suggested by my lovely guitar teacher - and, perhaps, I could've been more proactive in my guitar learning. Still, I had fun and I'm glad I had guitar lessons. I did, however, develop a wee crush on Mr Guitar Teacher, despite his being somewhat older than me and married - which leads me to the next, slightly difficult, paragraph.

Mr G T and I would chat during and after my lesson, mostly about music but other things as well. I can't really remember too much of what we actually talked about, I just know that I was beginning to enjoy his company in a way that even my addled teenage brain realized was becoming problematic and inappropriate and wildly unrealistic. I eventually stopped going to guitar lessons; partly this was because other things were distracting me and maybe I wasn't really going anywhere with my guitar playing, but I also stopped because I knew nothing was ever going to come of my feelings for Mr G T and I was too vulnerable and I felt it was better to be away.

 

Obviously, OBVIOUSLY, obviously, there is a textbook analysis/argument to be made here about a teenager falling for an older person and why it happens; blah blah seeking security, when you're young and insecure, from someone who seems to know stuff, blah blah feeling protected from the big scary world, blah blah he was nice and didn't treat me like the idiot child that I was, so of course I was going to like him. Blah, I don't care, my love was real! Blah!

But what the hell has this got to do with the missing 2nd guitar (as per the title of this blog post)? Let me explain, the title refers to three things:

Firstly, it is a metaphor for a long ago, but occasionally remembered, sadness at not being able to see my guitar teacher anymore (he was the 2nd guitar). 

Secondly, it is a comment about the most incredible Lindsay Buckingham acoustic guitar version of Fleetwood Mac's Big Love, to which I've listened for many years believing there was a 2nd guitar, until I watched the video clip (which I have conveniently placed below).

And Thirdly (if I can keep going a little longer with this kooky 2nd guitar metaphor - which I'm going to do), much like Lindsay Buckingham not requiring a 2nd guitar to play this song, I've become someone who doesn't require a "2nd guitar" (partner) to "play my song" (live my life) - not that my life is as good as acoustic Big Love, but it's pretty good nevertheless.

 

Thank you, Lindsay, that was freakin' awesome!

On the 1 Year Anniversary of Willow's Final Purr

It's been a year since my lovely Ms Willow Pussycat left this mortal coil and transformed into a spirit-feline (the true and most powerful form of kitty kats). I'm still finding fur and cat claws in my/our abode and, occasionally, I can hear a faint meow. So it is clear to me that Ms Willow is still lingering, which is comforting.

I will likely get another earth-bound cat one day, but for the moment I'm content just to have spirit-Willow. I can't take anymore photos of Ms Willow but that won't stop me uploading existing photos:

Vale Ms Willow Pussycat

1st December 1998 - 21st July 2020

(21 years 8 months)

You have been my furry buddy for the past twenty and a half years. It has been the most biggest joy to be your companion animal and your servant.You have brought me much comfort and solace over the years; during the ordinariness of each passing day and especially during my times of existential crises.

It was a privilege to be a crazy cat lady with you.

Rest in peace, my beautiful.

Merry Christmas from Richard Nixon

Here is a (ye olde) Christmas card given (with love) to members of the press gallery in Washington DC from President Nixon (and his missus):

A reminder of a time when American Presidents still had respect for journalists...even diligent, investigative journalists who bring about their downfall.

Fuck You, Grace!

[Special note to person's named Grace; I don't mean you...unless you are an asshole!]

"Grace" - from the (Australian Concise Oxford, 4th edition, 2004) dictionary -

• attractiveness, especially in elegance of proportion or manner or movement
• courteous good will (had the grace to apologize)
• an attractive feature; an accomplishment (social graces)
• in Christian belief - the unmerited favour of God/the state of receiving this
• goodwill
• delay granted as a favour (a year's grace)
• a short thanksgiving before or after a meal
• (Grace) (in Greek mythology) each of three beautiful sister goddesses, bestowers of beauty and charm
• (Grace) (preceded by His, Her, Your) forms of description or address for a duke, duchess, or archbishop

[For the purpose of the rest of this blog, I'm pretty much using grace to mean 'being nice to people' or 'not being a jackass'.]

Once upon a time, I believed that to strive for grace in all my actions and attitudes was a proper and noble endeavour, that being gracious (kindhearted, benevolent, civil, obliging, considerate, merciful, magnanimous, charitable) was the pinnacle of human humanity. Indecorousness; this is a word that never rolled off the tongues of my well-meaning mentors when I was growing up, as they tried to instill a sense of proper conduct into my existence. Well, the times they are a changing, and, quite frankly, I've had it with grace (though, not really) and I wonder if incorporating some elements of gracelessness (uncouth, coarse, crude, boorish, ill-mannered, unsophisticated, shameless, tactless) into my persona would be a sensible, if not liberating, path.

Can too much graciousness be stultifying? Unhealthy? Would a little more obnoxiousness pave the way to enlightenment? A socially inappropriate, expletive ridden, tantrum-fuelled rant might exorcise even the most tightly imbedded of demons; either those of a personal nature or the ones that emanate directly from Hell. If only such outbursts didn't upset proximate people; but there might be a way around this unpleasant side effect. Perhaps all people could have a screaming rant at exactly the same time, then no-one would have to listen other people's offensive diatribes but, instead, everyone would be able to simultaneously get things off their collective chests. A Universal Unburdening. We, as a society, could schedule regular therapeutic yelling - just like the people did in that wacky Orwellian novel...although it wasn't framed as therapeutic yelling so much as it was framed as The Two Minutes Hate:

"The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretense was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledge hammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp."

[Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, pg 17]

If an organized 'hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness' can contribute to a productive and accommodating society in a (so-called) dystopian novel, surely it can work in real life. After all, the novel does end on a happy note:

"But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother."

[Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, pg 256]

And surely to love is the greatest state to which humans can aspire, so to love Big Brother surely must be super-duper. And if we can achieve this state (of grace)(see what I did), then we can know that War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength. And why has my seeming aversion to Grace led me to George Orwell? Maybe Grace is Vulgar. Or Grace is Obscene. Or Grace is Evil Incarnate. Or This Blog Post is Making Me Crazy...

"I'm Not Your Mary"

[This post was going to be some photos of Pyramid Head, James and Maria but it seems to have morphed into a (highly intellectual) dissertation of Silent Hill 2]

In the 2001 psychological horror video game, Silent Hill 2, gamers were introduced to the enigmatic creature named Pyramid Head. His name is somewhat self explanatory:

Pyramid Head has become something of an icon among horror gamers of Earth. Much wordage has been devoted to the deconstruction of "that red triangle thing" and especially to exploring his connection to the tormented psyche of the protagonist of the game, James Sunderland. Here is James, displaying his tormented psyche:

Many analyzes see Pyramid Head (as well as most of the monsters, certainly the 'bubble-head' nurses and 'legs' mannequins) as representing James' unsatisfied sexual desires and the resulting frustration he feels. The reason for his sexual unfulfillment being that he hasn't been getting any lovin' as his wife had been very sick and he wouldn't be unfaithful to her, and even after she died - apparently 3 years earlier - he hasn't been able to move on. Pyramid Head's seminal (albeit without any semen or, indeed, a penis) first cutscene appearance has certainly influenced this theory:

This scene is often referred to as the "Pyramid Head Rape Scene", though I question if 'rape' is the correct descriptor. If this scene does depict rape (or a representation of rape), does this imply that James has raped? Or contemplated or fantasized about rape? Given that the received wisdom - and specifically, James' statement before his final battle with Pyramid Head - is that Pyramid Head exists to punish James (for his weakness and transgressions), then it would be reasonable to link Pyramid Head's actions in this scene directly to James. But it may not be explicitly about rape.

The "rape" that's being witnessed in the cutscene may be more akin to a weird, and unsettling, sex dream. Are Pyramid Head's motions/gyrations during the scene actually violent or are they somewhat rough or 'violently' passionate or overtly dominating???? The distorted moaning noises heard during the scene evoke a sexual context, with a suggestion of pain - maybe James associates sex or sexual intimacy with pain (physical and/or emotional). But if this scene is sexual, it's not clear to me if the mannequins are consenting or not; Pyramid Head grabs their legs, which are flailing around, but that doesn't inherently mean that the mannequin's legs are pushing him away; maybe they're just kicking around with reckless abandon, without a specific purpose. When the scene ends, the mannequins are motionless on the ground; seemingly they are now dead. Did Pyramid Head rape them to death or (consensually) shag them to death? Either conclusion is pretty messed up. But are the mannequins even dead? The mannequins don't attack James once Pyramid Head is finished with them but I don't know if this is proof that they are dead, maybe they just lie on the floor once James/Pyramid Head has finished his crazy sex dream.

A subsequent cutscene involving Pyramid Head and another monster (officially known as a Lying Figure, though I call it a Puker) is further amped up, with the moaning noises sounding extremely orgasm and pain but with more ambiguity - to me at least - as to what the hell Pyramid Head is doing:

I think that a definitive interpretation of Pyramid Head in these scenes is not entirely possible and any analysis is greatly reliant on the subjectivity of the analyzer. But in terms of James' response - in both cutscenes, upon witnessing Pyramid Head's actions, James is visibly distressed and attempts to flee the situation - it is clear that the part of James' psyche from which these scenes have been extracted and distorted is very frightening to James and he would prefer to run away, or hide in a closet:

Then there is The Maroon Menace, or as she is actually named, Maria. James keeps mistaking Maria for his dead wife (named Mary). It happens, we've all been there. Maria looks like Mary, sounds like Mary, but in James' mind, she couldn't possibly be Mary because Mary behaved and dressed like a nun, whereas Maria is a total skank. And, for good measure, Maria is a dancer (though not a reggae skank dancer) at Heaven's Night, Silent Hill's very own nudie bar. Here is Maria, explaining to James that she's not his Mary:

The whole Mary/Maria thing is a bit too virgin/whore, in my opinion. I would prefer that a doppelganger of my dead spouse (if I had one, either dead or alive) be more nuanced (though I wouldn't mind him being sexually available to me whenever I wanted! as Maria seems to be implying she is to James). Maria is another manifestation of James' (somewhat sex-obsessed) psyche but she also exists to punish him. [Spoiler Alert: It is eventually revealed that James actually smothered his Mary with a pillow after years of watching her deteriorate, both physically and mentally, and being subjected to verbal vitriol from her]. Many releases of Silent Hill 2 contain a sub-game titled Born From a Wish, where the protagonist is Maria. Maria has been created purely for James to interact with, and her manifesto is to be totally for James. Here she is, following James around with total devotion (and possibly checking out his butt):

Of course, such single minded devotion to another is not healthy and it takes a toll on both James and Maria. James (and when I say 'James', I mean me when I'm playing as James) starts to get a little creeped out by Maria's over familiarity with him and unnerved by her constant hovering. Maria, meanwhile, is doing what James' psyche created her to do, ie clinging to him, yet he keeps pushing her away and mistaking her for Mary. Fuck you, James! What a cunt. Don't you realize Maria is the embodiment of "Be careful what you wish for"? Maria, quite understandably, starts to lose her shit at this impossible and unfair situation and lashes out at James:

And lashing out at James is exactly what Mary used to do, though presumably only when she was dying and she was angry about dying and maybe the disease physically affected her brain (I'm not completely clear on this last point). James became torn between loving Mary and resenting, even hating, her. As James' journey through Silent Hill draws to an end, and after dodging or killing or maiming many manic monster manifestations (!), James eventually finds a video tape which reveals to him that he killed Mary (up until this point in the game he had been in a disassociated state believing Mary had died from her illness, three years earlier). It is also worth noting that at various points during the game, Pyramid Head 'kills' Maria (Maria keeps reappearing, though, 'cos Fuck You, James!), hinting to James the ultimate shocking truth. James, quite understandably, freaks out after finding out how Mary really died:

James finally has a conversation/confrontation/battle with a Silent Hill version of either Maria or Mary (depending on the player's actions during the game), which is then followed by one of three possible endings (on a first play through): Leave, Maria, In Water.

Leave sees James accepting what happened and moving on with his life and away from Silent Hill.

In the Maria ending, James decides he wants to be with Maria (I take this to mean he'll be continuing to live in some kind of delusional state of mind) and the two of them appear to be walking away from Silent Hill when Maria starts coughing, just as Mary had at the beginning of her illness. I had initially felt this to be a creepy ending, but upon reflection, I decided it could act as a form of therapy for James, still in a very fractured state, whereby he explores his demons with Maria, maybe eventually overcoming them and moving on. It could form the beginning of a healing process, though it could also send him insane.

For the In Water ending, James takes a wild, and presumably suicidal, ride, driving his car into Toluca Lake to 'be with Mary' (a commonly held belief among Silent Hill 2 enthusiasts is that Mary's body is in the back seat of James' car - so, by driving the car into the lake, with Mary's body in the car, he can be with her both on earth and in the afterlife...unless they're not going to the same place...).

Silent Hill 2 is a very narrative driven game (maybe 'game' isn't quite the right word...perhaps 'experience' is more apt). It poses some tough moral questions and has provoked much discussion and theorizing about James' actions, the imagery and noise of the monsters and of the environment, and the themes the game explores. Its underlying story is very real and very human. James' real world ordeal and trauma is not outlandish fiction. Near the end of the game the player is shown a note from Mary which states that despite James' apparent surly demeanour, he is actually very sweet. I suspect this is true. I imagine that James, being a man, especially a young man, would have been subject to notions of tough guy masculinity, and so could likely have believed that he was expected to cope with whatever the world threw at him and not admit his distress or pain or seek help or counsel. And even if he did admit that he wasn't coping and tried to seek help, where would he go for help? I wonder if James had been older, with a bit more life wisdom, he might have found the reserves to endure his "long three years" (it is revealed, in the 'Maria' ending, that Mary was actually sick for three years), but if he had endured, then we wouldn't have this beautifully disturbing image:

🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻🔺🔻


Special End Note: For a maximum high level psychological horror experience, Silent Hill 2 should be played on a pink PlayStation 2 console (with bonus pink memory card):

When You Turn 50, Stranger Things Will Happen

Barely a month ago, my chronological age became 50. I was coping with this (somewhat confronting) reality reasonably well, until a series of alarming occurrences occurred:

Puzzling Talk to Text message:
"My name is Jim Taylor and I wanted to inquire about doing some cut and paste work in the Nile River. Thank you. Bye."

Toys on the clothesline:

Government poo collection:
(aka: National Bowel Cancer Screening Program)
First the government wanted to collect our metadata, now they want to collect our poo! (Surely the last vestige of privacy is a person's bodily waste).

Of course, these things could simply be coincidences; co-relation rather than causation (ie turning 50 didn't trigger the weird, the weird just sometimes happens). And, so far, there have been 3 occurrences, and superstitious wisdom dictates that happenings happen in threes. So, it may be that my apparent 50th birthday 'stranger things' has finished and was merely a whimsical randomness of the universe. I guess only time will tell, but in the meantime, I will be keeping myself alert in case there are more oddities.

The Hideous Tentacled Slime Beast

A recent, and mercifully short-lived, bout of existential loneliness seems to have been effectively curtailed. The soothing salves included port, marshmallows, tea, video games (Tomb Raider 3 and Silent Hill), sleep (replete with freaky dreams), and watching Slow TV (The Ghan: Australia's Greatest Train Journey).

Obviously, being afflicted with the malaise known as 'the human condition' - a condition which affects an overwhelming number of people - means that there is always the threat of existential loneliness (aka The Hideous Tentacled Slime Beast) brewing somewhere below the nebulous place known as 'the surface'. However, I find that as the years move inextricably by, and the sands of time slowly swallow and digest me (with their gritty grains that frequently get caught in painful and hard to reach places), it becomes easier to subdue (and, possibly, vanquish) The Hideous Tentacled Slime Beast.

Not that The Hideous Tentacled Slime Beast serves no purpose, and thus needs to be entirely obliterated from the human world. The presence of The Hideous Beast in the human psyche, with its seeping slime and its terrifying tentacles, seems to provide some kind of motivation; though the configurations this motivation takes can be myriad and obscure, and often with a tendency for destruction rather than construction.

Unreliable Narrator

There is a small cafe, located along a dark alleyway, which itself is located off a one-way laneway. The laneway can only be reached by pedestrian access due to an enormous crater - the result of an enormous meteorite - located in the middle of the adjoining main road. Inside the small cafe is a barista of indeterminate species who serves never-ending lattes and plates of cherry coconut slice. Also inside this cafe is a shape-shifting dangerous goods storage cabinet where I keep most of my truths. I rarely visit this cafe, despite my fondness for never-ending lattes and cherry coconut slice. And when I do visit, I tend to sit not entirely in one of the chairs closest to the door. I steer well clear of the shape-shifting dangerous goods storage cabinet and only ever look at it with peripheral vision; I'm not sure how wise it is to get too close to truths kept in shape-shifting cabinets.

It has taken many years for me to mutate into a being with whom I can be comfortable spending time. It's a mostly amicable relationship, and we have a lot in common; we have the same values, we like the same food, we write the same blog, we have the same relatives, we share the same body. But, occasionally, I wouldn't mind some time apart. I don't want to cut ties completely, but a little more space, and maybe a little less intimacy and co-dependency, might be beneficial.

Sometimes I like to believe that I am flawless or that I have superpowers or that I don't exist.

Some years ago, during a break in transmission, I stopped breathing and became a suspended animation. I thought this would kill me but, conversely, it made me more alive. Due to this transition, I am now able to slow time.

Fragments of Conversations as Spoken by 2 Obnoxious People in a Bad Relationship

[Sub-Heading: Listening to the couple next door yelling at each other - extended edition]

Sometimes their conversations are mundane. Sometimes their conversations are abusive. Sometimes their conversations betray painful truths about the fragile vulnerability of human interactions. Frequently their conversations are loud (such that I can often hear them through the shared wall). Occasionally their conversations take place in our shared driveway (making it even easier for me to eavesdrop on them). One time it sounded like things were escalating to a dangerous place and I considered ringing the police. They are both in their early 30s and there are some difficult decisions ahead for them. In the meantime, they continue shouting at each other:

(NB: the order of fragments is mostly random; some fragments are from the same conversation; some fragments are direct quotes, some fragments are paraphrased; I've grouped fragments into sections of five, with each section being either her or him only; I've tried to balance more toxic fragments with less toxic ones; capital letters indicate screaming rather than yelling)

her: you're acting like a 5 year old
her: it's never going to happen!
her: watch yourself!
her: I'M NOT ACTING LIKE A BABY!!!
her: what about the future?

him: you're fucking nuts!
him: I don't know what I want
him: you say you have revealing dreams about me
him: FUCK OFF!!!
him: I love you

her: unfuckingbelievable!
her: this is as good as it gets!
her: when are we having a baby???
her: I'm your chauffeur
her: GET AWAY FROM ME!!!

him: you keep talking about your biological clock
him: I would never cheat on a woman
him: YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!
him: I want to have a baby
him: how many cigarettes have you had?

her: I love you
her: this isn't 5 years ago
her: I wouldn't not want you to be happy
her: you're following 900 women on instagram
her: FUCK OFF!!!

him: I'm happy in this job
him: SHUT UP!!!
him: I want the mother of my baby to be healthy
him: how many steps have you done today?
him: it was just for fun, it doesn't mean anything

her: why are we still fighting about this?
her: there better not be any teenagers
her: stop touching me!
her: I'm just trying to make suggestions to help you
her: I'm going to talk about this

him: today, I'm not your boyfriend
him: I know how to wash dishes!
him: I will kill your cat
him: what about my happiness?
him: I don't want to talk about this

The Happy Hermit

Once upon a time, there was a happy hermit. Though, given that there was not total isolation from other human beings, a happy part-hermit might be more correct. She (yes, hermits can be female) was not a sociopath, as some might believe of a hermit, though she would be lying if she claimed to never have experienced anti-social thoughts (but, I suspect, this would also apply to many non-hermits). Her social skills, however, were frequently in need of a makeover.

Her hermit lifestyle was a self-created one (ie not imposed by external circumstances, such as being marooned on a desert island or being in solitary confinement). It was a existence that fit her like a glove, or perhaps, like the shell of a hermit crab (see what I did there - a little hermit humour).

But why was she a happy hermit? It's important to make the point that despite being a hermit, and thus being cast with an expectation of experiencing sadness, likely induced by loneliness, she was generally quite content. And she did not feel particularly lonely - other than the usual, pervasive, all embracing, existential lonely experienced by all sentient lifeforms.

So how did she achieve a state of 'happy'? What she did was to have an active imaginary life. She existed entwined in a joyous, fantasy world. An invented society. One that frequently provided her with connection and solace. Sure, it was all fake, but it still made her feel good.

And what could be wrong with that? Should this be considered insanity? Or could it be considered a sensible, and even clever, coping strategy? I mean, in Real Life World, people obtain connection and solace from all kinds of multitudinous interactions, many that are wildly insincere, and some that are actually completely fabricated. And sometimes, Real Life People either aren't aware, or won't admit, that these interactions are not genuine. They immerse into their delusion, believing in its veracity, while ignoring its facade of happiness. (Or am I being too cynical? Or not cynical enough?!? I mean, love is a human construct, right? Not that a person should have to be unhappy just because nobody loves them - which is kind of the theme of this post). At least the happy hermit was quite lucid in regard to her delusional life. She was vividly cognizant that the world in her head only existed in her head. And she maintained an otherwise healthy lifestyle. She ate a (mostly) balanced diet, she exercised (mostly), and she made use of companion animals, like cats and fuzzy microbes, as well as imbibing a lot of tea - tea being an essential facet of both a hermit life and a happy life. And, on the rare occasion, she would emerge from her seclusion and interact in Real Life World, which was (mostly) not too traumatizing.

The Fevered Creativity of Phone Scammers

A couple of days ago, my answering machine recorded this:

“Message from the ATO. My name is Jason O’Connell calling you from the Australian Taxation Office, and the nature and the purpose of this call is just to inform you that there has been a lawsuit filed against your name concerning tax evasion, and this case is about to get executed into the common delt(?) code house(?) of your territory. So, before things go wrong against you but before the police officer from the local police department will approach you at your doorstep and issue a warrant for your arrest, kindly call me back on the call back number, which is (02) 61528629. I repeat my number again, which is (02) 61528629. Again, this is Jason O’Connell from the Australian Taxation Office, the ATO. Thank you and ….” (call abruptly cuts off)

I think what I love most about this message from the "Australian Taxation Office" is that while they seem quite confident filing a lawsuit against me, they don't appear to know who I am - at no stage does "Jason" state my actual name. And, since my income has been below the tax-free threshold for the last few years - meaning that I haven't had to pay any tax in the last few years - I suspect it would be highly unlikely, if not impossible, for me to have committed tax evasion on tax which I didn't have to pay. Also, the phone number given by Mr O'Connell (which I didn't ring) bears no resemblance at all to the phone numbers of the actual Australian Taxation Office. So I have concluded, in my infinite wisdom, that this phone message is actually an enormous pile of horsecrap.

Still, a part of me hopes that I am wrong and that the police officer from my local police department does 'approach [me] at [my] doorstep' (actually, doorsteps - there are 3 steps to my door) with a warrant for my arrest (because arresting someone is the very first thing the Tax Office does when trying to recoup unpaid taxes) as being arrested is an exciting experience I've never tried and, as a bonus, my arrest might freak out my annoying neighbour.

Note: I did check the ATO website and, surprise surprise, this is actually a scam - if I had rung the phone number, the scammers would've instructed me to send them a money order for some amount of money (which would presumably pay off my "tax debt") and if I didn't send them this money, the POLICE OFFICER would come and arrest me, straight away, right on my doorstep!

And The Mark of The Library Catalogue Code Shall Be Upon Her Forehead

The librarians from my local library have been very cunning in their placement of the item catalogue code on this dvd:

And it's very fitting, given that the markings are on the forehead of the governess from Henry James' The Turn of The Screw; a character who is either subject to an evil haunting or is suffering from evil insanity (there are probably other interpretations but these are the two most common/obvious ones).

NB: Of course, there aren't many other options for placing the item code, as most of the dvd is dark. Perhaps across the children (who are wearing light coloured clothing) or across the governess' face (though this seems a little disrespectful, even if she may be a bit of a psychopath).

Manizer (fictional)

Manizer is, of course, the accepted term for the female version of womanizer. Yes? No. Obviously, having 'manizer' as part of everyday vocabulary would give too much moral elevation to the concept. Instead, the accepted iniquity and malignancy of a woman slutting from man to man is encapsulated in terms such as harlot, floozy, strumpet - all of which are kinda cute words, despite the massive double standard they embody (emwordy?).

But I digress.

I think I may be a manizer. At least of imaginary men. A fictional manizer. I just can't settle on one (made up) man. I usually last a few months in love (lust) with one of my figments of my imagination, but then another one forms in my mind and I forget all about the previous one. It's like I have ADHD of the invented love (lust).

I worry about the trail of imaginary broken hearts left in my wake. I struggle with the notion that I've transformed into some kind of Dr Frankenstein of the mind, creating thought-lovers to satisfy my own nefarious desires, then tossing them aside when I've finished with them, leaving them to roam - alone and untethered, innocent and childlike - in the brain fiction realm. It's terribly immoral, but as I'm evil - being a woman and all - it's inherent in my nature to do naughty things. So don't ask me to stop, because I can't (won't).

Unfortunately though, brain creating is potentially quite dangerous, given that, under the right circumstances, brain creations have been known to take corporeal form. It's possible one of my creations may become flesh, hunt me down and seek vengeance upon me for my transgressions. Though, it's also possible one of my creations may become flesh, hunt me down and seek to explore new transgressions with me. Or previous transgressions. Or both previous and new transgressions. Or no transgressions, and instead we'll have a cup of tea and a chat. Maybe some cake. (All my brain creations like cake).

Haunted Rocking Chair

After a lifetime (so far) of viewing horror movies and reading horror stories, I have come to believe that rocking chairs have an inherent metaphysical tendency. As such, rocking chairs are extremely susceptible to being both possessed, and sat upon, by ghostly entities and other spectral beings.

I think there are 3 main reasons rocking chairs lend themselves to such eerie paranormality:
1. They have a propensity to rock unaided
2. They have a ye olde aura
3. They were invented by demons (not verified)

Given all this, it would seem a reasonable thing for a person who didn't want to be haunted to not keep a rocking chair in her home. Not me! Behold my rocking chair (with spooky apparition sitting upon it):

Mostly my rocking chair is quite dormant and will only rock when an obvious force is acting upon it, e.g. my sitting on it. But lately, and after having watched quite a few spooky movies and TV shows in the last couple of months, it appears to me that my rocking chair may, in fact, be sentient. Sometimes, when my back is turned, I can sense that the chair is rocking - or even creeping towards me - but when I look over my shoulder, it is still and in its original position. So I cannot be positive that my rocking chair is actually haunted, unless the chair does something overtly supernatural or I get a psychic to come over and evaluate the chair.

In situations as dire as this, I feel it is best to err on the side of caution. Hence, I have decided to assume that my rocking chair is, indeed, haunted, and so I have taken necessary action to prevent the occurrence of any otherworldly rocking chair shenanigans:

Willow in Red

Not to be confused with the Lady in Red (the one dancing cheek-to-cheek with the highlights in her hair that catch her eyes...not that the highlights in Willow's fur don't also catch her eyes):

Up close:

Willow prefers to be naked rather than wearing constrictive clothing (of any colour), and she finds dancing to be undignified, especially when it's cheek-to-cheek, which is a little unhygienic.

Special blog post note: Most of this blog entry only makes sense if one has both listened to, and been creeped out by, the song Lady in Red by Chris de Burgh. However, in defence of Chris de Burgh, his other song, Don't Pay the Ferryman (don't even fix a price...until he gets you to the other side!...aaah aaaah, ah aaaaah...), is awesome.

PS: Yes, I know Chris de Burgh has more than 2 songs, but since I don't know any of his other songs, they don't count.

TARDIS as TEAPOT

The TARDIS (as seen in Dr Who) possesses many extraordinary capabilities - time travel, space travel, sentience, telepathy, babel fish like language translation, wacky dimensional manipulations and distortions. But one of its lesser known (though tremendously important) capabilities, is its capacity to manifest as a teapot:

I wonder if the TARDIS teapot brews vastly greater quantities of tea than its exterior size would suggest.

A strange, feline induced, time-space-teapot-TARDIS paradox occurred:

I REFUSE TO GO OUTSIDE!

Willow is taking a foetal position against going outside (not that anyone was forcing her go outside - cat logic is a unique logic). She will be blocking the door until cats everywhere are free to stay inside! (Even if they want to go outside). Also, doormats will be folded at one corner to symbolize feline oppression. (I'm assuming either Willow or the house-poltergeist folded the mat, as it wasn't me).

Worm Butthole

Worm Butthole. These haunting words have been haunting my mind for the past haunting weeks. Their confounding portentousness have bedevilled my very soul. I am awash with flabbergast.

The words came to me in a vision. An electronic vision. As I was attending to my duty of worshipping the Great Television Overlord (praise thee!), the images on the screen formed a 'vision' (which they frequently do), and the vision spoke to/at me. Amongst the snowy whirr of cluttered chattering, one of the characters mumbled something seemingly incoherent, but in the interstices of this ranting drivel, my ears did elucidate a wondrous revelation: worm butthole.

It is, of course, possible that 'worm butthole' is actually what the character was meant to say, and thus not a message from another dimension (or even from the beyond!). But it was quite random and completely unrelated to anything else going on with the narrative at the time, AND it was worm butthole! And it wasn't one of those wibbly-wobbly, avant garde type productions where kooky-ass randomness is often par for the course. Nor was it a nature documentary (a place where the words 'worm butthole' might not be entirely out of place).

Also, I thoroughly reject any suggestion that I might have imagined these words. The notion that I have a silly and puerile mind which, of its own volition, conjured the aural worm butthole, is completely abhorrent to me.

So now I face the daunting task of discerning and deconstructing these powerful words. Are they an urgent environmental sustainability call to planet earth to make more use of worms for composting? Or is there a deeper, metaphysical message contained within - are these words, perhaps, referencing the time-space continuum, signalling the existence of multidimensional worm-holes, which connect to each other via 'butts'?

I also face the existential question: was I the only one? Were these words meant only for me? Or did they travel haphazardly into the ears of anyone who happened to be in front of the television at the time. There may be other worm butthole ponderers. Maybe I am not alone! I shall make it my life's work to seek out these (possible) others and we can ponder together. And there will be cake. And we may even become a cult.

Harden the Fuck Up, INFJ!

Whenever I take the Myers-Briggs secret identity test (a.k.a personality test), I always 'come out' as an INFJ.
[I=introvert, N=intuition, F=feeling, J=judging]
[Whatever all that means]

Apparently, this personality type is the least represented personality amongst the people of Earth, and sometimes, other personality types think that we're crazy (sometimes we are). We can be quite aloof at times (though we do care). We like to understand and ascribe meaning to things/situations/people. We can only have a proper conversation with one other human/animal/object at a time. We shun conversations that aren't proper. We are terrified of gatherings where we're expected to conversation with more than one person. We love interacting with books/movies/television 'cos we can be alone with them or close/stop them when our brains start to go fuzzy. But the thing that an INFJ most likes to do, the thing that makes it all worthwhile, is wallowing in puddles of maudlin reverie. Oh yeah!