Questions, questions, questions.
Why don’t people ask the question?
Or, why don’t the right people ask the question?
Is it just the way of the world that the people you want to ask never will, is it your wanting that prevents it?
Should you just be showing anyway, regardless of if the question has been asked. Should you give away the answer freely? But no, I’ve always believed you should ask for answers. The act of asking its self is part of the answer.
How much do you give before you stop and say ‘No, I’m keeping this for me.’ Is there a correct amount? If you’ve given to much can you ever take it back? And if you want something in return, and no hand is giving it to you, should you steal it? (Zarathustra says yes.)
I’m so confused at the moment, and I very much fear I’m destined to live in this sort of confusion for the rest of my mortal life.
When are the meanings going to crystalize? (Maybe the answer is never, and that’s why no one asks for it. Because it’s too depressing.)
I hate it when I say things that I only half mean to people. When I say what I want to say, and not what I feel. Why am I so ashamed of my own feelings? Is it because I have to conquer them?
What’s the reward for the conquerer? And what happens to the conquered?
Ah. Questions, questions, questions.
Can’t you let me be, for just one day?
The illusory nature of time.
Time. Everyone obeys it. But it’s quite difficult to wrap your head around when you sit back and consider it on a philosophical level.
I’m considering it at the moment for two reasons.
1. I just read Nietzsche’s little epistle ‘Of the land of culture’ in Thus Spoke Zarathustra where he says (and beautifully I might add) ‘I flew too far into the future: a horror assailed me. And when I looked around, behold! Time was my only contemporary.’
2. I’m watching the minutes tick by while a good friend of mine sleeps, you see, it’s 5:30am on Saturday morning where he is, and for me (to borrow from Heidegger) being-in-time, it’s 8:30pm on Saturday night.
So I’m kicking back in bed, I haven’t even got dressed today (real classy of me) with a copy of Nietzsche open next to me and my eyes glued to the clock and I’m trying to make sense of time.
Time is so tied up with everything we do, it’s a ‘universal’ law that we imposed on the universe. Yet we consider it something so reverent and immutable, something we all have to live by. And we do have to live by it, humanity has to live by the laws it creates until it creates new ones (Thus spoke Zarathustra, yeah I know. Thanks Nietzsche.)
But it baffles me, and this is why;
Because the slow procession of ages which wears down a mountain is nothing like the minutes which fly by dutifully and orderly to keep us aware of how many hours the sun shines for, and how many hours we spend in the moons domain. Did we impose this order on time? Does it resent us for it? Would it rather be thought of us a more primordial, chaotic force? (I’m well aware of the fact that time probably doesn’t think at all. Don’t worry, I’m not quite mad yet.)
I’m watching the sun set here, and the earth has rotated and the sun is rising where my dear friend is sleeping. Of course, that’s just the way it is, I can rationalize my confusion away with loads of empircal evidence. But on some level, I still can’t wrap my head around it. Maybe it’s because I spend my time communicating with people on the opposite side of the world, without really considering the huge gap which exists between our respective realities. Or maybe it’s because I’m just in the horrible habit of over-analyzing every aspect of life and I’m looking for some meaning of time which isn’t really there.
In my head, grappling with my current train of thought, I keep coming back to Heidegger and what he taught me about being-in-time for Dasein. My sense of time is mine, and I impose it onto others, even when I know that there sense of time has to be different because of their geographical location. But my sense of time is all I have to understand the world around me right? And even if I shifted myself (and I gladly would now, and will when the time comes) to where my friend lays asleep right now, my sense of time won’t change. I’ll have the same sense of time, I’ll exist in time the same way I do now.
“The existential and ontological constitution of the totality of Dasein is grounded in temporality… Is there a way leading from primordial time to the meaning of being? Does time itself reveal itself as the horizon of being?”
I don’t know Martin. You tell me! I’ll be right here pondering it when you reach your conclusion.
A promise, to myself.
Today I will avoid everything. All of it. After this moment I will not think of it. I will stop frowning.
At work I will focus my energy on the job. I will smile at every single person. I will finish the rest of my work for the week.
After work I will go and buy myself a good bottle of Pinot Noir. The kind I usually only buy for special occasions.
Then, tonight I will go home, and cook a dinner, and sit on the chair outside and drink my pinot. I will laugh with my friends.
I will run a warm bath, I will let myself relax. Then I will try and let everything go with the water as it runs down the drain.
I will get an early night. I’ll let sleep take me, I won’t resist it. I won’t ask the empty air for answers.
And. Tomorrow morning, when I open my eyes, I’ll try again, to avoid everything.
Love of wisdom.
The last issue of Grok was sitting on the library counter this morning.
And due to lack of patrons to serve, I had a flip through and read it. I came across an article entitled “Life After Arts Degrees” by Jessica Craig Parker. Being an Arts Grad myself, it piqued my interest and I decided to read it.
When I reached the end, I found myself feeling inexplicably saddened by its content. Not because it was badly written, (quite the opposite, it was wonderfully written and thoroughly enjoyable to read!) but because it highlighted that prevailing ideology in the world today that an arts degree is useless.
I have long been used to the playful jibes from my friends,
“Oh. You know you could get your degree off the back of a cornflakes packet right?”
“Can you even do anything useful with philosophy anyway!?”
“Who cares about Literature! No one actually analyzes it anymore anyway!”
The comments were made in jest by budding psychologists and aspiring engineers. Jaded law students and cynical occupational therapists to be. The only meaning behind their words was a playful one, none of them seriously believed my degree was worth any more or less than theirs. As a good friend of mine studying Multimedia and Tourism said “Universities in Perth today are just places where you go to buy a degree. They’re not making us learn anything. We’re just going through the motions so we can come out with a piece of paper that says we’re worth something.”
Certainly, my partner, who studied broadcast and print journalism at university says the same thing. All through his degree he was harping on about how he didn’t feel as if he was learning anything in his core units. And the only classes he really enjoyed were his history electives.
So here I am. The arts grad. The one with the cereal box degree, and I seem to be the only one of my friends who doesn’t feel like my studies were a waste of time.
My Mother is never ashamed to tell people that her daughter studied an arts degree. She says it proudly. When people roll their eyes or suggest that I wasted my time and money, my Mama, she just laughs at them.
“Oh, I don’t know.” she says, “My daughter seems to know more about the world than most of us.”
It’s touching my Mum thinks that. But why is it that she thinks that way?
I certainly won’t pretend to know the answer. (One thing I learned whilst studying metaphysics and existentialism was that there’s no point pretending to understand the way another person thinks.) But what I will say is this…
In my first year of tertiary study my philosophy professor reminded us what the roots of the word philosophy really meant. phileîn, and sophía are the ancient Greek words which make up the modern word Philosophy, and they translate simply to “love of wisdom”. My Prof, who I will probably list as one of my hero’s for the rest of my life, went on to say that as long as one was always inquiring, always searching, always seeking, they would be honoring a proud tradition which has brought so much to our world.
What can you do with philosophy? An interesting question. What have the bright minds of our past done with it? The answer lies all around us. Science, Politics, Psychology, Sociology… and these are just a few disciplines I’ve pulled from the top of my head which have their roots in philosophy.
Who cares about literature? Every single one of us. We care about recording our ideas, our thoughts, we care about creating a testament to the time we live in, and trying to understand the times which have passed before.
Could I have got my degree off the back of a cornflakes packet? Certainly, I could probably have bought it from some website lurking in some corner of the cyber realm.
But if I did that, would I have learnt the patience to interpret Nietzsche, Hume and Descartes? Would I have discovered the joys of Kierkegaard and Husserl? Would I have delved into the post atomic bomb psyche of the Japanese? Would I have ever read A House for Mr. Biswas by V.S. Naipaul? Or Things Falling Apart By Achebe? Would I proudly quote Fanon when speaking passionately about the dangers of nationalism? (Because ‘National Consciousness which is not Nationalism is the only thing that will give us an International Dimension’ Thanks Frantz!) Would I care so deeply about social divide in the middle east, or the exploitation of people in South East Asia by Global conglomerates? (Perhaps, but would I look to philosophy and literature to try to gain an understanding of it!?) Would I still state proudly that Shakespeare taught me that past is prologue, that only by dwelling upon what has gone before us, can we write a new chapter for tomorrow?
Would I spend my time sitting here, typing up all these rambling words and projecting them out onto the internet for strangers to read?!
Probably not.
Without my ‘useless’ arts degree, I would probably never spend my time questioning the dangers of apathy, or wondering how C.G. Jung’s theories of archetypes can help us understand different cultures. I wouldn’t attempt to apply post colonial theory to Vietnamese and Soviet literature, to try and understand what the voices of those oppressed peoples were trying to explain.
I wouldn’t think about any of these things, because I would have never been exposed to them. But I was exposed to them. And rather than feeling like that exposure was a waste of time which just let me use (as Ms. Parker put it) Cunt and Voltaire in the same sentence. I graduated from my degree feeling emboldened by what I’d learned. And ready to keep searching for answers to the questions which we as human beings are eternally asking.
No time spent learning, is ever time wasted. Regardless of what it is you’ve learned.
There is at least one thing me and the author of that Grok article agree on. An arts degree really is what you make it. So make it into something. Don’t be afraid of it.
Close friends.
Death and I are very close friends.
Although she saddens me, with her abrupt ways. Angers me, with her stubborn sense of finality,
I still have in my heart, a profound reverence towards her.
Today was a beautiful windswept day. Perhaps the last of the winter rains fell last night, spring has arrived and although it’s days number only one, there was a sense of the freshness of spring apparent in the air today. The tulips and rhododendrons I had planted at the onset of winter showed their first sprouts to me today. They peeked above the dark soil, bright green globes of life against the cool black. I spied them on my way out the front door this afternoon, I set out with a troupe to the local store to buy ingredients for nachos. My two neighbors, two other friends, the boy, and myself. All six of us trotted down the shop, enjoying the soft sunlight, watching its brilliant afternoon glow. It wasn’t yet twilight when we set out, the sky was still a cornflower blue and the world was still lit up brightly, the smokey lilac of dusk only just seeping in at the edge of the horizon.
I was absorbed the entire walk, both to the shops and back. Whilst my male companions all became fixated on a piece of metal jutting out of the ground at the junction between the oval and the bin for red cross donations, I remained fixated on the flutter of a willy wag-tail. The mischievous little bird dancing about in front of our path, almost as if his flitter back and forth was an act of defiance towards us.
My friends set about the task of trying to pull out the metallic shaft. My prince charming leading the way by giving it a good kick with his foot and then wiggling it back and forth in the earth. I resolved to retrieve the nachos on my own. Sat my beer down on top of the Salvo’s bin and walked the last few hundred meters to the shop alone. Inside I managed to avoid an acquaintance that I didn’t wish to speak to and retrieve the required ingredients in good time. At the cashier I bought a lollipop as a treat for myself and was hurrying back to my beer and friends when I was suddenly struck with the memory of our last remaining rat, Jacques. Jacques was the last of four brothers, and we had given him some cabbage early this morning. I thought of left over baked potatoes in our fridge and resolved to give the little guy a treat when I got home, he deserved one too. He lived all alone in his large cage. A cage that had once housed his siblings. He rarely bothered to climb to the top level anymore. Preferring the dark bottom corner with all the torn up sheets and sawdust and bedding.
As we walked down Love St I was captivated by the deciduous trees in the area. They hold a strange beauty, with there bare limbs silhouetted against the sky. Staring up at the branches, exposed and barren I foolishly loosened my grip on my beer and it fell to the ground. Smashing the neck and spilling the last few mouthfuls. I felt a bit silly having dropped it as It was only the second drink I’d partaken in the whole day. With the jeers of my compatriots in my ears I picked up the glass and deposited it in the nearest bin. I spent the rest of the walk back relatively silent. I consoled myself about the beer with my lollipop and only made a few throw away comments, hardly following the conversation.
As soon as we walked through the door I headed for the fridge, pulling out a baked potato and slicing it in half. Jacques slept under the awning by the back door, right next to the parsley and basil. When I opened the door to his cage to give him his well deserved potato, I found him lying still upon his bed.
You always know when the life has left something. The absence of spirit is painfully obvious. His breakfast was barely touched. Only a few meager bite marks littered the edges. I felt my throat tighten as I moved my hand to touch him, there was no warmth left in his tiny black and white body, and a trail of tiny black ants were moving in an orderly procession to and from the corner of the cage.
I sat there for a moment, my hand resting on his tiny frame, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. Because he had always been a resourceful little man, and to some people he might have been a plague bearer, but to me he was a hero, a survivor. The last of his tribe.
I went back inside to ask my neighbor to borrow a shovel and dug a hole by the lavender bush. I put him to rest there, with his brother and his cousin, our cat Enki. I committed him into the earth for it to do with as it wishes. Then I sat there, my hands on his resting place, and I talked to death again.
She frequents my life, she seems to visit me quite often. I remember our first encounter, the day after my 7th Birthday, when Reginald my Grandfather dropped to the floor, it was a hemorrhage in his brain.
I was sad, that first meeting, and it wasn’t my Mother’s promise that I’d see Grandad again that stemmed my tears. It was something else, a strange feeling of clarity. Like a softly whispered epiphany. Something that made my mind turn my eyes to the sky and see the sun, feel the wind, hear the gentle heartbeat of existence which every created thing possesses. Then, when I was seven, I thought that sweet realization was my Grandfathers soul ascending to heaven. When I was 15 and I held the cold, still hand of my Father I knew it was death. Her presence laden with melancholy, but offering a bitter-sweet comfort. For even though her presence only manifests when a life is taken, she always leaves the living with gentle memories. Each of them etched deeply in the heart because of her arrival.
I shed a few tears at this meeting. Not as many as our first, but still, they wet the soil, and I asked death if she was swift. But she couldn’t answer, she never can. She just stood there, stoic, silent, evanescent by my side. A heavy hand on my shoulder, helping me say my goodbyes, as she always does. Then, when I knew my heart had nothing left to say, I almost felt her hands softly touch my face, and I almost heard her sentimental reassuarance that we will meet again.
The sun’s gone to hell.
Six years without eyes and feet…
Of course it isn’t literal, but it is the truth. He has no eyes, he has no feet. He has no oppurtunity to see the sun or the sky, to walk through the grass. To experience the simple pleasures of walking beneath the moon and glancing up at the starlight.
I’m probably a bit behind the times, but I stumbled upon this article for the first time today.
What an ego we have here in the western world, sitting in our ivory tower, patting ourselves on the back and talking about how we are “champions” of human rights. Whose rights are we championing again?
There are hot tears of anger pricking at the back of my eyes as I type this. I’m so infuriated, so livid, after reading this article, and a slew of others which cover the topic. So a boy of 15 is taken in to captivity, he’s put in a cage and over the next six years subjected to various forms of torture… Oh I’m sorry, we call it “enhanced interrogation” now don’t we? I wonder if that helps the interrogators sleep at night.
Lets have a good look at that word. Interrogator. Now I know not everyone sees the world in terms of semiotics but what is that I see there? Wait, it’s only missing one letter. Do you see what I see?
How can a nation, how can nations for that matter, supposedly engaged in a “War on terror” justify their detainment of individuals in a place like Gitmo and not appear hypocritical? It is impossible. Didn’t we fight a war, a World War, to protect the rights of every individual. Didn’t we see the error, the injustice, of separating an individual from the wider world, of wiping them from the map? I thought that was why we had Tokyo and Nuremberg. I thought that was why we put Tojo and Goering on a stand, I thought that was why we vehemently condemned the actions of Lenin, Stalin and Mao. I thought we’d learnt something from history. Am I misled? Is my line of thought really just naive idealism?
When the Bolshevik’s and Dzerzhinsky were rounding up the whites they put them into dungeons and kept them like animals, deprived them of sleep, then made them dig their own graves. And what did the Bolshevik’s have to say about these techniques? They were necessary to glean the infomation needed to protect the state. Can we really hide behind an excuse like “national security” and use it as justification to torture people?
Oh sure, no one at Gitmo is being made to Dig their own grave, no bamboo stakes are being driven underneath their fingernails. But does the percieved severity really matter? Simulated drowning, sleep deprivation, prolonged constraint, exposure to severe degrees of hot and cold… can we really pretend these aren’t forms of torture? These are the methods used by the CCP in the Korean War against American soldiers to illicit false confessions. Psychological studies have proven that these methods of “interrogation” have caused individuals to abandon reality as they understand it. Furthermore, in the 1950’s, when these techniques were used against American soldiers, the U.S. Government deemed them acts of torture.
He was a kid, now he’s 21. It’s alleged he threw a Grenade and killed a soldier, if he did or didn’t is irrelevant. He deserves his day in court, a fair trial, like every other citizen of a modern democracy.
He deserves a chance to speak with his Mother, to see her, to hear her tell him that she loves him, that she’s suffering with him.
Yet he’s been deprived of those basic rights for six years.
Barack Obama says he’ll close the doors of Guantanamo. I certainly hope he does. Because as long as a place like that still exists we’ll never have any hope of living in a world without hate and fear. How can we ever expect others to abandon their violent and inhumane actions when we have yet to abandon our own?
The golden girl and the steel umbrella : Part One.
It was a blustery afternoon. A smaze of grey clouds hung over the city skyline like a wet towel slung over the shower door. I was running late by 8 minutes, having missed my first bus, and so I’d scarecely heeded the weather man’s forecast as I rushed out of my apartment door. Judging by the sky above me however, I was predicting a storm.
Even on such a miserable day, the city was still full of people. Most of them much like myself, absorbed by the world of work, coming each day to the temple of the city to pay homage to concrete gods. I could feel a frown tugging at the corners of my lips, a gust of wind whistled down the tunnel like terrace, its streets lined with steel, glass and cement golliaths. I felt the cold most of all on my chest, I mentally scolded myself for not wearing a scarf. I had a box full of scarves, all different colours and sizes, and yet I still managed to traverse my way through the whole of winter without a swath of wool or silk about my neck. Perhaps I was getting forgetful in my old age. Though that excuse only stands if twenty-something-but-not-quite-thirty can be considered “old”.
I let my eyes skim over the bustling crowds, sliding over the familiar profiles of suited men and women, clutching briefcases, nursing manila folders close to their chests. Like so many ants, gathering what their queens needed and dutifully bringing it back to her. My bored gaze skipped from one person to the next, barely taking the time to notice any details of face or figure, I was so absorbed in my own hurried, frenetic thoughts I almost didn’t notice her. But then, it’s rare to see a figure so striking, so my pace slowed to an amble and I allowed my head to pivot upon my neck to properly take in the stunning visage of a young woman. She stood at the edge of a patch of grass on the opposite side of the road. At first it was her dress which caught my eye. It was a vibrant gold, cinched tight at the waist, but with long, elegant sleeves much like one would see on a kimono. The fabric almost seemed to ripple in the wind, as if the woman was wearing the surface of a lake, tinged golden by the rays of the sun. But the sky above me was bleak, and the weak beams of light which did break through the clouds were pale and colourless. Almost at a stand still I regarded the woman with a sense of awe. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, straight and smooth and the colour of flax, like a sheath of silk suspended over her skull. The strangest thing of all about this enchanting young creature was the object which she clasped in her slender hand. It was an umbrella, and there was nothing unusual about that, in weather like this most people carried an umbrella to keep their hair dry, but there was something distinctly odd about this umbrella. It shone, even in the limited light offered by the sky, a spangle of silver, as if it were made not from waterproofed fabric, but from some thin sheet of metal. It’s folds were so precise, their symmetry was so perfect, so exact, it put the skyscrapers surrounding it to shame. And the way she held it, not like some simple device created to keep heads and faces dry. No, she brandished the umbrellla, as if it were a sword, and she a strange samurai who would use it to slice through the rain clouds over head and banish the droplets of condensation from the sky completely. She noticed me watching her, and seemed to bow her head to me, as if to confirm my fanciful thoughts. My shoulders stiffened and I quickly looked away from her, focusing my eyes ahead on the pedestrian crossing. How embarassing that she should catch me staring. I looked about to see if any of the others walking along the sidewalk had noticed her, but they all seemed to busy, to wrapt up in their own heads to pay her any mind. I didn’t dare look back at her over my shoulder. I had wasted enough time gawking. Now I was sixteen minutes late. I picked up the pace. Power walking is an important skill, even for a marketing consultant like me.
As I was about to turn the corner and make my last mad dash toward the man made Zenith which housed my humble office my memory decided to kick-start its engines. I had an afternoon tea business meeting with some potential clients. Of course, I’d had it penciled in my diary for a month, and yet I still hadn’t prepared anything. Cursing my forgetfulness I hurried on past my turn and towards the central shopping mall, there was a supermarket there, I’d grab something quickly and then jog back to the office building. It wouldn’t take me long, five, ten minutes, maximum.
The store floor was packed with people, each manevouring there silver shopping carts, or swinging their bright red and green baskets as they perused the aisles, searching for whatever goods they felt they “needed” in their fridge and pantry. I made a beeline for the biscut aisle. Hoping that there, amongst the chocolate chip cookies and vanilla wafers I could find a suitable offering for my afternoon tea. The shelves stretched out before me, a horizon of colourful packages. I pursed my lips, taking little notice of nutritional value, searching instead for something tasty and at least a little impressive. Finally I found a pack of chocolate and almond Italian biscoti. Rushing, always rushing I grabbed it from the shelf and spun swiftly on my heel.
There, blocking my path, like some metallic spectre she stood. I felt a shiver run up my spine, the golden woman, had she followed me? She still clutched her umbrella, holding it to one side as if she were ready to parry an attack. Her eyes were two bright yellow jewels, the iris of each flecked with fragments of sapphire. Involuntarily I bit my tongue and stepped back. The smallest of smiles crossed her lips, she reached her free hand forward, its flawless, ivory flesh reaching toward me. I opened my mouth, my mind already forming a protest, but to my surprise she reached above my head. Plucking from the shelf a box of plain crackers. She brought it towards her with a fluid grace, it was as if it were some delicate piece of china and she was gingerly fetching it to carry it to its place at the table. I closed my mouth again, feeling stupid, what on earth had made me so paranoid? I was worrying too much about being late for work. The golden woman gave a gentle bow of her head and moved away, gliding across the supermarket floor like it was ice. I stood for a moment, watching her move, the box of crackers in one hand, and weilding the steel coloured umbrella in the other.
For a moment, I forgot about my meeting, the time, the brisk jog back to my office building, and I lost myself in the curvature of her spine, the elegance of each tiny step made by the enigmatic woman garbed in gold. As suddenly as she had appeared before me, she melded into the crowd of shoppers and I lost sight of her. With a soft shake of my head I spurred my legs and feet to action and wound my way through the throng towards the checkouts, half-hoping I would catch another glimpse of the elusive golden beauty.
This is the beginning of a parable like short story that slipped into my brain on the bus today. I intend to dedicate the next few days to working on, and I may post up each part as they are completed.
Margaret and David gave the Dark Knight 4 starts tonight on The Movie Show, it’s not often those two give a film such a high score. Of course, I sort of expected it. Nolan has a real flair for the Batman franchise and I’m very much looking forward to watching the film. Hopefully I’ll catch on the weekend.
So. Here we are.
So.
Here we are.
I could go to the effort of typing up a lengthy introduction, telling you a mountain of boring facts and figures that “sum” me up, but that sort of thing isn’t really my style, it’s a bit to stifling, in my humble opinion, to try and record the details of your life like some sort of report.
After several years of studying literary theory I like to think I have become a bit of a “post-modern enigma”, that I’ve surrendered my identity to the simulacrum of the internet and the facets of my personality are left to others to re-construct, however they see fit.
However that doesn’t mean I intend to fill this here “blog” with nothing but existential questions and lengthy philosophical diatribes. They will crop up from time to time, when the menagerie in my mind makes an interesting suggestion, or when I come across an issue or idea and I feel the need to over-analyse it. There will be just as many posts on the mundane and mediocre aspects of my existence, trust me. I will tell you about myself, but in dribs and drabs. Little packets of information, much like the packets of data traveling from my desktop PC here at my work, to whatever technological medium you’re viewing this on.
Now, for the first data packet.
I have a thin, but still rather nasty cut running from the middle of the cupids bow on my top lip, all the way through to my plump bottom lip. It was inflicted upon me by my precious little chimera, Cat Benatar. (Yes, like Pat Benatar. But she’s a cat. Thus, Cat Benatar.) We were indulging in one of our favorite pass times, playing with a ball of wool, or for any readers in the northern hemisphere, a ball of yarn. She is quite protective of her little ball of wool. My Mother, who adamantly insists she hates cats, made her the tiny little ball of pink thread to bat around to her heart’s content, and to keep her claws away from the lounge. (I don’t usually stay with my Mother, but I am there at the moment, with my Partner and our kitten until our new living arrangements are finalized. It has been two weeks, and although I love my Mother, and her Husband, it has not been the easiest two weeks. Mother’s are notoriously difficult creatures to please.)
Ever since Mum presented little Benatar with this new toy a week ago she has hardly been seen without it. She picks it up in her mouth and trots about with it, from room to room, dropping it at the feet of whoever is present and then staring up with her amber eyes and making a plaintiff little “mew” sound until they resign to play with her. Well, last night, shortly after arriving home I was made subject to this adorable performance and decided to give in to the calico cat and sprawled myself on the lounge room floor and picked up the ball of wall and begin to indulge my beloved pet in a game of tug-o-war. Well the game got progressively more ebullient, and little Benatar got progressively more frenetic, until finally, one tug led to another and I had a tiny paw, needle like claws extended, rake across my lips.
Well there was swearing, and blood, and needless to say, the tug-o-war ended with Benatar the clear victor. While I, the wounded loser, slinked off to the bathroom to procure some toilet tissue to dab at the incision. When I was satisfied that the bleeding had well and truly stopped, (I’ve never been a fan of blood.) I decided to nurse my lip back to health by getting a beer. I’m a strong believer in adding a slice of lemon to beer. Even if it isn’t a corona. (Lime works well too!) So after I’d stuffed the lemon down the neck of the bottle I proceeded to take a swig.
Instead of enjoying the refreshing tang of citrus and lager, my lips were set ablaze with a stinging sensation. Alcohol does not mix well with open wounds, even if they are only sliver thin.
Today, the cut on my lip is raised, and my usually pale pink pout is red and puffy. I’ve attempted to refrain from touching it, but there is something about running your finger over a raised wound that is strangely appealing to my sense of touch… is this just me? Or does everyone subconsciously enjoy the feeling?
1:15pm. Fifteen minutes till my lunch date. Outlook express has just kindly reminded me with it’s chiming pop-up. So here is as good-a-place as any to end this first post. The weekend starts at 4pm. I’m hoping for adventure, we’ll have to see what the storm clouds bring!
