It’s been a long while. Bit cliched, I know, restarting on New Year’s Day. But I need all the pushing I can get.
KSP did not work out. Maybe because I’m a b&%@#, maybe because of the autism. But basically I couldn’t communicate my needs or my ideas. The break up was a lot worse than I thought. I still cry uncontrollably when I go past that suburb. I’m fairly sure now hat I will never be able to work with people again unless they have a preexisting understanding of autism and or they are paid.
Autism Association didn’t work out. I didn’t like the new directions that management was taking, they didn’t like my threatening to leave. I’ve lost my Guardian angel Faye. She’s not dead but she’s still with the Association so we can’t work together.
I haven’t written much since it all fell apart at the KSP writer’s centre. Publishing the book series, the sit com and theatre scripts are all dead in the water now. I don’t know how good any of it was anyway. I never did get the hang of reading between the lines when people speak. Anyway if anything I wrote was that good I wouldn’t have been dumped on mass.
I had a car accident in July, I am pretty much physically recovered, the emotional scars are still problematic for me, Alex, Tabby and to a lesser extent Gavin and Cat. Cat wasn’t there. But she was at her first and now last craft class.
It is hard to believe that Natasha’s school can have deteriorated so far without government intervention. The Principal of the school and the Principal of Senior school left and the school is very rapidly descending into Hell, aided by the exodus of staff and good students. The two men and three women management was relaced by an all female team. If this school is examined closely it will be a major blow to feminism at least the modern version thereof.
In summary, all alive, nothing actually real has happened but our moods are at an all time low because we all feel…
Wait don’t run. The next one will at least try to be funny.
Okay so I have been working on…. Whoa this is a long story.
Okay I wanted to sell some books; Autistic Guides to High School. But I’ve been waiting for my illustrator, if you hire an Autistic, ADD, Dyslexic try to make sure they aren’t about to fall into a deep depression, alternately make sure they are not your youngest daughter so you can fire them without fear. It’s been a year. So no books yet.
So anyway they are going to cost money to print, and pay off the bandit illustrator so I needed to make some money preferably while advertising. Right.
I’m now working with a Disabled Arts group; DADAA, so the crazy woman there thought I could do my own shows. That is right I have decided I am a stand up Comedian. Yeah no of course I’m not, look at yeasterday’s video. Anywho, I’m trying to learn to be a comedy genius and it is really hard to I don’t know meet comedians and get on stage. And then we talk about maybe there are other clients of DADAA might want a shot too.
So I can’t find any help for this kind of stuff, workshops and chances to be on stage etc that aren’t terrifying. Try to shop the sitcom I wrote and can’t find a producer, aparrently most West Australians produce documentaries.
I, for some unknown reason, talk to DADAA about my dream for a comedy group. Group meetings weekly where disabled people and maybe even some non-disabled people gather and you know work together towards comedy; writers and comedians. And we get lists of others who can work with us. We bypass all the advice that is not relevent to talented disabled people and just find our own styles. Then we do YouTube videos and Live SHows together.
The DADAA lady wanted to add workshops with professionals, and started reaching out to consultants to help us do it. The first one we contacted took a meeting with us. OMG I don’t even know if I dare use her name here. She’s on the web, TV and is creative director of her own company. She’s interested but too busy and expensive to take us on for free. So she gives us lists of contacts and keeps in touch with advice and pep talks and I mean WOW. So I am getting encouragement from a real celebrity person.
I lost my head. I took a class with someone she recommended to help us form the group. Improv, I am studying Improv and Stand Up, I am going to study Stand Up. So covid, first his, then mine gets in the way of a meeting, but he seems interested, a working comedian and …. wait for it… WAAPA Western Australian Academy of the Performing Arts instructor knows me.
So my agoraphobia meanwhile is out of control but I can go to DADAA, The Dice Club (Greatest D&D shop ever) and the Rosemont Hotel, where my lessons were held. I am extremely proud that when I was all alone I managed to pull back the curtain of my own back door to let a near to bursting dog out, and then the second time managed to dash 2 metres grab a fading rose’s petald and a handful of parsley then run panting back to the house. My own backyard and it took me an hour to stop shaking. The rabbit Whisper was not grateful, he was too angry I gave half the plunder to the rats. But if I really distract myself or close my eyes in the car I can go to these three places.
I grabbed the momentum. My Improv class gave 2 for one tickets to the show in the same venue The Big Hoo-Haa. I took some bigwigs from DADAA. I didn’t die. So I took my youngest daughter, bandit illustrator, P.A., P.R., social critic and all around manager. The steak special for members is big enough the two of rarely finish. It has the coolest drinks, I need my Jim and the Giant Peach, the staff is lovely and The Big Hoo-Haa is fantastic. We go every week, people actually remember me, and they make friendly gestures & don’t run away. I am finally acing being a people. Well my going to live theatre character Nickie is.
So the DADAA lady added taking nervous disabled people to live shows every week to the group idea.
And an Anthology. and a YouTube Channel, and Instagram and so much stuff. She contacted more industry people and they weren’t hostile.
And finally there is an Arts Grant for a Disabled Artist to do a Project for Inclusion. So I am sending in an Application, don’t worry I’m not that delusional there are several available. I wrote the Application, finished the almost 12000 words required, reread it and wrote the less than 12000 characters they actually wanted. Got 3 letters of support from actual professional people who seem to think I am brilliant. My head swelled to ten times its size.
So all gathered I started to try and attach everything. The video was too big to attach, panic, fear, crazy thoughts, husband asleep on couch, kids in bed, what to do. Anyway it has an option to send a URL. I don’t really understand but it has to do with my video already being on the Web. How do I put my video on the web. I checked this blog it worked its on the web. And wonder of wonders it prompts me to copy the URL without me even asking. Done.
Of course then I found out I needed an ABN Australian Business Number. So at midnight I’m filling in forms in the Australian Tax Office website. I have an ABN, I have a registered business name “The Divergent Comedy Project”, I am registered to pay taxes on immaginary future transactions and salaries for two imaginary future employees. In other words, the words of the genius ventriloquist Jeff Dunham, “Mmm, mmm, mmm (I am) a business.” And I have 30 days to get professional advice on whether I need to be rescued.
So Application was to get a video on the web so I could send it to the Arts Council to attempt to win a grant to create a business “The DIvergent Comedy Project” so that disabled people who don’t have the confidence or socisl skills to make it into Comedy could join with other disabled or supposedly non disabled comedians to break into show biz. While also providing some social groups for people who need a fun hobby.
I am not insane. As my 2nd eldest’s shirt says, “You can’t blame me. I was left unsupervised.”
I mean that is all you need to know to know how truly wonderous he is.
He is a real puppy.
And before you worry Charlie and Cherise are both okay.
Cherise is a terrier and therefore not really suited to being an emotional support.
Charlie is not in the best health, his heart is not the best, he’s night blind and deaf. He has short periods of dementia.
Both dogs are so happy to have a puppy to play with.
Charlie seems to recognise Johnnie…
That’s his name Johnnie, for his dad Jack and his mum Annabelle.
Anyway Charlie seems to know that Johnnie is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, he also understood that Johnnie was his apprentice. We expected a little jealousy but there has been none. Charlie is teaching him all his jobs, he’s protecting him and although he checks in and takes over if necessary, he is living his own life, with me sometimes, playing with the terriers, lying in more comfy spots.
Cherise, on the other hand, thinks she is a much better teacher than Charlie. She tries to take the puppy away for rough housing and barking lessons.
Echo wants to discipline him while he’s young to make sure he is properly cowed. Pixie is vaguely interested and surprisingly kind. Orion is being a jerk and deliberately teasing him.
Anubis is his best cat friend. He is so gentle with him that Charlie is letting Anubis sleep on his special unicorn. If he gets over excited Anubis lifts his paw and Johnnie immediately sits. In two sessions Anubis taught him sit. He clawlessly swatted him once but that was enough. Johnnie is allowed at least two kisses for greeting and departure, more is Nubie is in the mood.
And best of all Johnnie is here to take over Charlie’s job as unofficial Emotional Support Animal. Except in preparation of my going out into the real world more often Johnny is training to become an official Assistance Animal. He totally blitzed his first lesson and the lady said he is very promising.
Anyway I can’t waste any more time writing I have a puppy to cuddle.
Since I have told you what is going on in my life lots of stuff has happened.
I am not, repeat NOT talking about it, well most of it.
Partially because it was horrible and I don’t wanna.
And partially because I am aware that many, if not all of you have been going through a lot worse.
Although at least you had your sensible, nice, likes you brains. I had my brain which made every awful and even some of the good things really really horrible.
But I am not going to talk about it.
I’m so sorry.
I knew I didn’t want to write this.
I’m having a nap.
Wait, I’ve been up for 4 hours today and I’ve already had an hour’s nap.
And I kinda promised to do this.
Okay, not talking about most of the stuff. But if you can remember eons ago I was persuaded to publish my two books for teens with autism.
You know I spent over a thousand dollars we didn’t really have to spare getting it ready.
And a dispute with a company that should not be named but it is a famous Australian authoress with the word’s writer’s centre appended, meant that my work would no longer be even vanity published.
Others gave me advice on how to print it, but it was all too hard. Especially since my editor who advised me to publish clearly had no idea what autism was and therefore may have not actually read the book, so I had no way to know if it was actually any good at all.
So good news. I have started going to DADAA an Australian organisation that helps disabled artists… You know… Art.
I am going to print my bookie wooks. I am I am I am. Unless the people they have been sent to hate them. But that is not positive.
If there is criticism I will just edit.
I’m not being precious. It’s not that I don’t think they could be improved. I am well aware they could be improved. Just not by me.
I hate editing.
I’m not good at editing.
And hungry. I need icecream.
Hurray, Gavin is getting me icecream.
Where was I?
Okay, so the plan is to try to con some poor unsuspecting publisher to publish my books. If that doesn’t work I’m going to put on a show.
No really, I am going to have a band, disabled of course, and do readings and explain my life and try to be funny on stage and stuff. And raise enough money to buy an IBPSMRCOW or whatever it’s called, little official codey thingy and print some bookie wooks.
But before either of those things can happen I have to practice trying to speak in front of an audience. There is a place in Bassendean called The Flying Camel and apparently I will be allowed to do open mic night stand up there.
So if any internet stalkers would like to assassinate me that would be a good time for both of us. The Flying Camel, Bassendean, Western Australia.
Ice cream’s here!
Oh and I am supposed to warn you.
My website is not professional looking. You need a very professional looking website either for self publishing or any publishing. Apparently when people look at my website they are supposed to be impressed with my professionalism and bleuh.
So we worked on my website.
It did not go well.
Which kinda proved it wasn’t my fault.
Hee hee hee!
But it is a work in progress, there will be changes. Major changes.
Not in the content. Gosh I hope the DADAA lady isn’t reading this. There will be no changes in content because if I try to present a professional and polished, and responsible and adultey profile I will get all uptight and I won’t write.
And if I don’t write there won’t be content.
And you will get really bored marvelling at all my new professionalism and will go and look at photos of cats.
I could put up photos of cats, I have cats.
Would you buy my books because I have interesting cats?
Are my cats interesting?
Is belligerant, stubborn and destructive interesting?
How do I get all that on camera?
Will that still convince people to buy my books, when you consider that there is nothing about cats at all in those books?
Should I write books about cats?
How would cats cope in the modern high school setting?
Am I getting off the track?
It’s okay I can fix this in editting.
Except I hate editing so I’m not going to.
Anyway I think that people are going to have to settle on a professional looking Home Page and maybe some other serious pages that someone sensible might even do for me.
Maybe I can pretend to be reasonable long enough for some gullible person to write a page describing me that didn’t include swearing.
Then important people who do not have time to read will be impressed with my professional looking website. And I can keep writing weird stuff.
And we will have fun.
And as a tantalising tease, I have another piece of good news coming.
I may have written a blog post, that taken out of context, you know, if someone was picky, might be just a teeny tiny bit not complimentary about the youngest of my spawn.
Ah, but you point out, she’s not likely to read it.
True. And that is why I did such a foolhardy and dangerous thing.
But I forgot two important things:
All the professionals in our lives have been nagging me to restart blogging and the family has caught on and are echoing those sentiments. Even if they suggest I mess around with my stupid blog, they are encouraging me in their own way.
I have a problem with honesty.
Not a sensible approach to honesty, like
Saving others feelings and my hide with white lies,
But an insane version of honesty where:
I lie for fun all the time, always making sure people know, after the joke, that I was lying.
I mangle the truth so it is the truth from the perspective of the listener, making sure not to lie. For example for new age people who reject Autism as a thing I might reference Indigo child. Or if fainting will cause a hysterical over reaction ‘he is very tired’. Or they have agreed not to scream and cover their ears when I ask what they want to do that day and I describe them as making progress in their search for employment, not a lie.
I tell everybody and anybody that even looks at me damaging truths that get me treated for stuff I probably need treatment for but I don’t wanna. I have to be completely honest with people about any symptoms or things like that or I start to hide and isolate and you know become the real me; a feral hermit crab with a sociopathic need to hide everything.
Plus something I have been told is acceptable in the writing world; exaggerating certain characteristics to make a character out of people I know.
That may be acceptable to writers but it is not always acceptable to my two youngest kids, or my MOTHER. I mean the two youngest love the idea of it, they love it when I do it to their sisters but…
I am supposed to be blogging and I wrote a blog post, so that is a good thing the family want to know about. But the very next question is what was it about. So I could lie, but I couldn’t actually let an outright lie stand because well the insanity I have previously written about.
So every time I see Tasha I feel a terrible need to blurt out what I have written.
I even broke down and showed Tash the scorpio picture. She hated it, but then she was really nice and gave me art tips and I feel really, really guilty.
So I could probably write a blog post about how wonderful Tasha can be. The interesting talks we have, how talented she is, how proud I am her.
But that’s not funny, and it gets old and boring fast.
So I shouldn’t write about my kids, says MOTHER.
But, well, yes, but…
They shouldn’t annoy when I am near a computer.
Anyway how else am I supposed to deal with the fact that I am living with my MOTHER, 4 adultish daughters and my husband who’s disability makes it difficult for him to remember or communicate. And we are all at home all the time. And they still want to sleep in my bed if they get upset over night, not Mum, not yet, oh my God, Mum could want to sleep, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Stop making me think things like this, you are bad people.
And sitting on my lap and asking for cuddles, again not Mum, she doesn’t like people cuddling people, that is what dogs are for, “honestly Lisa, you were not brought up like this!”
And having millions of therapists and confusing reality and U tube and refusing to obey the government, actually that last one is just Mum, she does not like being told what to do, she doesn’t care who you are; doctor, politician, police officer, she knows her own mind. Except she doesn’t and sometimes she just fights because… I don’t know, because she can.
Did I mention that they are at home all the time? Tasha now goes out to college 6 hours a week 8 with travelling bringing her total leaving the house per week to an average of 10 hours. Beating Cat at 7, Tab at 8 and Alex at 6, Tash and Cat’s absences cost me half that time in Gavin absences, and 4 of Tab and Alex’s out of the house is with me. I go out 5. And this is a week, although we are all trying to go out more, although we have been trying for the last ten years so…
Okay, right here I have to draw your attention to the fact that each of my daughters is locked into this unremitting chaos with her insane family too. Four, young geniuses (its been tested) with incredible talents, and the weirdest quirks and problems, not to mention the hormones of young women are stuck together. And despite all the wonderful things I have said about autism, the variation and idiosyncratic nature of the effects of this disability make cohabitation, well difficult. Probably not as much as living with a neurotypical person, or is that just my MOTHER.
To sum up:
My kids are not as bad as I make them out to be.
My kids are under pressure by our situation too and should be given some slack.
My Mother is mean.
So, I presume you are expecting me to pick on my family less. Wrong! I am going to continue to make fun of my entire family, mwa ha ha ha.
Because I am under a lot of pressure and it leaks out, nobody in this family wants me to be upset I get scarily self destructive,
NOBODY wants me to get angry I get scary, so I have to laugh.
Oh and because I am evil, I almost forgot.
The main reason is because I am evil; Mwa ha ha ha.
I think that if you completely ignore your parents’ yelling at you, you can’t hold a grudge about being yelled at. Either they made a polite suggestion that you are free to ignore and thus no hard feelings, they expressed their feelings as fellow housemates and you successfully dissuaded them from continuing the discussion making you the winner so being gracious would be appropriate, or they are your parents, they clothe and feed you and have just spent a fortune on a course for you and maybe you could at least listen to their politely couched complaints before shooting them down with a onslaught of vitriol before silencing them with an implicit threat to be too upset to attend class or if not at least not punish us for the rest of the day for daring to question your aggressive outburst of the previous evening.
Okay so that was as clear as mud. I mean I actually pride myself on my ability to rack up the word count without getting anything said but this time I want an opinion.
So, the situation: 17 year old female with Autism Spectrum Disorder, Dyslexia, Attention Deficit Disorder, Hyperflexion and a temper that rivals a volcano. She is a Scorpio, I mean if you read about Scorpios; sting in the tail, flaring temper, epic ability to carry a grudge, can kill with a single fiery flash from their eyes, deadly poison… I need to stop; she is my child.
I am a Piscean raised by an Aquarian and a Leo, a good quiet little depressive who wouldn’t say ‘boo’. My husband is a Piscean and in some ways wishier and washier than even me. Older daughters; Pisces, Aries and Virgo. They have issues with violent or aggressive outbursts but only when semi conscious under the pressure of autistic overload. Deliberately yelling down their parents while in their right mind, very, very unlikely.
So my youngest may not be too bad compared to regular humans. But in my experience; Oh My Goodness, she stands up for herself, I can’t cope. So crazed, poison spitting cobra compared to our family. What a polite young woman compared to her peers.
Okay disclaimer done. I came home last night after an evening playing Dungeons and Dragons with Alex, Tab and strangers. It was a lovely evening, we were very sucessful in our quests, everybody was friendly etcetera but we were amongst strangers; so Tabby couldn’t speak for 45 mins and later paced where I couldn’t see her but people came and told me about, Alex stuttered and then hid under the table and I shook, stuttered and dug my fingernails into parts of me. We had had a bad week and we were not alone at home, that is how we, well I think you can call it cope.
So we were in a good mood but edged with anxiety. Gavin drives, we don’t, so he had been out of the house for 35 minutes. Madame had gone to bed, early, without taking her medication. She was asked to come out and take her pills, she was not asleep anyway. She screamed at everyone. She ranted at being roused, she raged at her sister’s incompetence at not providing her with milk in a timely manner, she spat venom at the suggestion she may reduce her volume. And then she went to bed. Collective sigh of relief and nervous laughter.
I promised myself I was going to wait until after her class this afternoon to point out to her that her tone and manner of the evening before had been disproportionately aggressive given the complete lack of opposition. She started her course Wednesday. She has a class each on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, so Friday afternoon would give her 5 days to hate me after my completely unjustifiable complaint.
But, well, you know…
She came out this morning prickly and already irate. She started a tirade about her sister’s incompetence at providing milk, this time the milk tasted funny. So I bit.
“Sweetheart, last night you were a bit aggressive.”
This elicited a tirade of why I was wrong; she had not raised her voice, she had been woken up because I had taken Dad away at the wrong time, her sisters were too thoughtless they had not left enough milk in the cup, they put the refilled cup in the wrong place, Tabby had fetched the milk when she had specifically ordered Cat to do it, they had dared to try and give excuses instead of grovelled apologies, she Tasha had been inconvenienced and disobeyed.
With her imminent class on my mind I dropped it.
Later I asked my husband why Tasha was well being aggressive and avoiding me.
“She hasn’t forgiven you for telling her off.”
“That was telling her off, she shouted me down.”
“That was enough for Tasha.”
She won, I lost, why am I being punished?
I know children have rights. But…
Well I’ll fix her. Next month I’ll be 50 and then it will be senior abuse.
Not that that will stop her but I will have the moral high ground. I know I already have the moral high ground, but next month my high ground will be higher. And then I can look down from my high ground and say in a calm and assured voice…
“Yes Tash, sorry Natasha, I mean Madam, I apologise most profusely for not jumping high or far enough when you commanded.”
And I am safe to complain online as she finds everything I write boring unless Cat is in the room and denigrates my writing first in which case she pretends she wants to listen. But neither of them will actually seek out anything I have written.
Shhhhhhhhhhh. I did not write any inflammatory garbage about my youngest daughter on my stupid blog. I promise.
The feminists have gone too far, again. Honestly if our ancestresses could have seen the women of today they would go back home and discipline their daughters to be more what men wanted.
Stop taking over the world with your one image woman warrior rubbish. I am not sassy, I don’t have grit or attitude. I married a non abusive male, because there are some. I have not forced my daughters into gender stereotyped roles. But I have also not forced them into a super woman ‘I can have what I want because I want it’ role either. I want my daughters to be nice people. The reason I don’t mention my sons is not because I have forgotten the lesser gender safe in the knowledge that as males they were bound to get along anyway. I don’t mention them because I was not blessed with sons, and before you get too incensed I was blessed with daughters.
Now, they are driving good writers out of Dungeons and Dragons. Guys (People, members of the current homonid planet custodians, what do we call us now)? with degrees and or knowledge are getting out of writing because they are being forced to write all women characters as strong and in charge and all males as wet. Historic fact is out the window, nuances are lost. Characters and players are being forced to follow the most extreme of political correctness. Everything else is thrown out the window, including any chance at a consistent, collective background (for individual groups) that the players can rely on. We can’t get into character because we can’t know what the world is like.
You can’t ask if the character you are looking at is male/female/other, fine but too many players don’t tell you anything else either. It is a verbal role playing game I just want to know what my character is looking at, if he/she can’t tell I don’t care but give me some details please. What do I address the sentient blob as before I try to seduce/behead it? My characters are usually reluctant to kill so are searching for clues to danger and evil. I like the role play aspect, all the social, political correctness is why I got out of the real world.
Why don’t the feminists and non binary genderists do what I do and use fantasy to explore themselves? Creating a role for yourself in an unashamedly chauvinist world would help you deal with the challenges of this real one. Or make separate worlds for traditionalists and modernists, it’s fantasy, there is scope. But no, no one is allowed to even admit that sometime, somewhere women were not considered men’s superior. Blasphemy, evil, burn them.
I was by the way born a female. I live ostensibly as a woman and I am in a (bleck, bleck polite term for slavery contract) married to someone, who was born and continues to pretend to be, male. I am a traitor. Therefore my opinion means nothing.
Okay so what we need to do is have stereotypical men rewrite Rom Coms. Lets do to their favourites what they persist in doing to our genre movies (Marvel, Fantasy etc). So let’s see, none of that mooning about for years not getting into a relationship, and none of that depressing wearing down of the man’s self esteem until he breaks and does stupid stuff the woman wants and gushes about his feelings. More car chase scenes. No romantic triangles, pick the nice guy you stupid woman, at least stop dithering. More paranormal powers and alien invasions. Less goopy, goopy love drivel. Less pretending that women are infallible geniuses that support each other. That’d show them.
Have you ever heard the claptrap about how wonderful life would be if women were in charge? Don’t look up famous female rulers in history. The reigns of most female leaders prior to the 19th century, she says generously letting certain people off the hook, were bloodier and crueler than the most of the males. Cleopatra, Elizabeth the 1st, several female rulers of Bysantium, the Dowager Empress of China, I can‘t recall the many, many others. And they hated and oppressed other women, usually far more than their male predecessors.
But still the modern movement chooses to ignore anything that they think might question the new agenda. Is this why we don’t ask questions? When all arguments are reduced to sound bytes and slogans I guess there is not a lot of room for analysis. I suppose refusing to allow discussion, variation or truth into the ‘National Debate’ does make it easier. This is why sheep dogs don’t try and reason with the sheep. Both sides think we are too stupid to follow an argument. Those in power rely on it.
But I can’t cope with the cost. I am sick of a homogenous world. And now the social correctness brigade is destroying my alternate realities. I just want somewhere I can go, in my mind, where I can be free of the unremitting bias in favour of the socially aware, somewhere where we are not all judged on our social aptitude, somewhere where I can pretend for a moment that I am not wrong.
Write a piece using at least one word starting with each letter of the alphabet. The challenge must not be visible, the words must be used in such a way that the casual reader does not notice they are reading a challenge piece.
Clear water stretching out, as far as I could see in every direction.
Aurora Moon was a great little boat.
Yar as my more experienced yachting neighbours would say. Couldn’t really get into all the fancy parties and elitist chat myself. I like words, yar was a particularly good one, sleek and quick to the helm to quote the screen siren Grace Kelly in that movie, can’t think of the name but it was a remake of the Philadelphia Story. But words are for communicating, I don’t like using words to show off. To quote another actress “Pretenscious? Moi.” Yachting language is so nuvo riche, a great joke, but they probably wouldn’t get it. But I just don’t want to get into that kind of ridiculous war.
They remind me of the horsey set. Awful accents, cliques and a complete lack of interest in the beauty of the sport they are only involved with because it is expensive.
When I ride I want to feel the freedom, commune with nature, communicate with a being of another species.
I don’t want to prattle endlessly about inconsequential nothings, like how unique your ‘mount’ is, because he has a spot one fifteenth of an inch from his tail, now if you want to talk about where he always seems to want to veer off or any unusual quirk of personality I’m listening. You want spots get a marker.
A jovial chat with another horse lover, especially one who can feel the right time for silence, a particularly beautiful vista, a chance to gallop for instance. That is my ideal companion.
But I don’t care how much your horse cost. My god how gauche, next you’ll be telling me how much your kid cost. Oh home bred, they are practically free I purchased mine from Romania $188000 USD, but … What’s his name is so worth it.
The waves are getting more boisterous as the breeze becomes a zephyr. I need time, time to think, no time to not think. To not think about yesterday’s xray and what it means. I need time to feel the wind in my hair, to hear the gentle lapping of the water , to smell the brine, to taste the salt water spray to see nature at its zenith without civilizations omnipresence.
The jangling cacophony of our world, like a toy xylophone in the hands of a hyperactive toddler, constant discordant and painful. The constant light pollution and jumble of colours and patterns, zig zagging, moving an assault to the eyes.
The artificial stench of chemicals, the stultifying sweetness of processed food. The air palpable with toxins.
Why did we let this happen?
And if I don’t have the surgery, if I don’t take that risk, that is all I will have. No freedom on horseback, no sailing alone. Not an invalid but…
That’s it, Give me liberty or give me death. I won’t cancel the surgery tomorrow. Now since this may be the last time I am out here alone it is time to clear my mind… and drift with the tide.
So this morning we had a relaxing exercise at Tuesday Writer’s Club. Tony is joining us by telephone. You are not going to believe this; Tony does not have a computer. At all, by choice.
So here is my attempt at the challenging task.
The Easter Bunny has finished his work…
“Never again,” He sighed.
The bartender sniggered.
“Never again,” chorused the other rabbits in the Egg and Bonnet. “Never again will I eat all the eggs that break. I think I hate chocolate.”
“Never again will I eat all…” said the Easter Bunny. “Hey!”
The rabbits all laughed, the Bartender, Bester Bunny’s sniggers turning to deep throaty guffaws.
“Well I suppose it’s only-“ Easter Bunny started.
“Once a year!” the Bar flies shouted then doubled over with giggles.
“Thank you very much for all your support, Friends.” The way he said friends made a few of the rabbits stop laughing.
“We were only joshing Easter mate,” said a portly young grey rabbit.
“No you were trying to make me feel small and insignificant,” Easter Bunny started to sob. “Well you should feel good, you have succeeded. I’m sorry I don’t meet your ex..pec…tat…” Easter Bunny was crying too hard to finish.
All the laughter stopped, as the rabbits stared at their feet and shuffled. An older white Bunny put a comforting paw on the Easter Bunny’s shoulder.
“We’re sorry Eastie,” said the old gent.
“We were just teasing, I’m sorry we went too far,” added Bester putting a glass of best elderflower wine in front of the Easter Bunny.
The Easter Bunny couldn’t contain his giggle anymore. He grinned and said, “I might think about forgiving you. Except I just got you all. Revenge is better than forgiveness.”
“Is that the new motto of the season?” A wiry young brown Rabbit generally known as Rapid spoke with almost palpable sarcasm.
“Wouldn’t surprise me!” came a voice from the door.
“Hi Dad!” said Easter Bunny quickly finishing his glass before his father could see it.
Bester quickly but surreptitiously filled the glass with carrot juice.
The retired Easter Bunny hobbled in, leaning heavily on a cane of carrotwood (rare and very precious), he picked up Easer Bunny’s glass sniffing the contents. He raised his eyebrow at his son, his hooded eyelids said it all; there was no fooling the old rabbit.
“In my day” The old rabbit turned so he could see more of the Bar flies,” it was eggs, plain eggs, not even chocolate and each child was lucky to get three and they were grateful, damn grateful and…” Easter Bunny mouthed along with his father’s speech.
Unfortunately when the retired Easter Bunny saw a young Calico smirking he turned suddenly mid-sentence and caught his son.
“You are not too old to go over my knee, young man!” he shouted.
“Actually, Dad,” Easter Bunny was too tired and fed up to indulge his old man. “I am half again your height and I could bench press 3 of you without breaking a sweat.”
“You young whippersnapper, how dare you?” the Bunny family patriarch sputtered with rage.
“Sorry Dad, improved diet, improved life.” Easter Bunny shrugged. “Anyway its not the kids fault. Media has manipulated their expectations, fortunately wise investments including in our own manufacturing plant has made it easy to keep up with demand without having to reduce quality.”
“Gobbledy Gook! Are you an Easter Bunny or the CEO of an international pomegranate.”
Easter Bunny thought about correcting him but couldn’t be bothered. He sighed, “And the fact that children in your day were that grateful for basic nutrition is not a great recommendation for the Good Old Days.”
Old roofs and frontages under a cloudy blue sky in Brighton UK.
“They were the Good Old Days, children knew their place, if they were not appropriately grateful they got a whippi-“ the retired Easter Bunny stopped, he shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m saying.” He laughed.
The rest of the bar laughed, softly and gentlemanly, no one wanted to set the old crackpot off again.
“Give us a drink Bester,” Easter Bunny’s dad sounded happier. “Touch that carrot bottle and I’ll punch you. Cowslip wine for me and my Boy!”