Blogbuddies – listen up
PLEASE! Please, pretty please…. take off all forms of comment moderation. Or you won’t get comments. Or if you do they will require you getting RSI in your clicking finger. Easy to do. Go to your dashboard (yes, that’s the one you get when you log in). Click on Options. First click on General Options and uncheck the box requiring email and name for comments. Good? Now pass your eyes over the next little row, darker background. It says “Discussion”. Remove all reference/options to moderate anything. Then we are all back to a happy, if somewhat dysfunctional, little blog family. Please….
K Chasu: Almost a burning effigy
I love sleeping pills. Yet I can’t seem to do them with any degree of grace. Last night, for instance, I nearly set the entire house on fire.
Once in while I take these incredible little blue pills called Dormicum. I get them from my dealer-doctor in 15mg form. I am a chronic insomniac and generally get by on about four hours a night. But if my head is busy it gets to the point where I am doing two hours and that just isn’t viable. I am then a more cantankerous cow than usual and everybody hates me. I can see them plotting murder…
The dose is one tablet at night. When I started taking them dealer-doctor told me to make sure everything was locked up and I was in bed before taking it. He was right. Anyway, in typical alcoholic style, last night I took two. This is on the premise that I am special and need more. I do this with every medicine. I am working on stopping that. I know it is deeply bad thinking.
So there I was reading Roald Dahl’s Uncle Oswald, artist snoring so I sneaked a cigarette in bed. I woke up this morning, with scorch marks in the egyptian cotton sheets, a cigarette butt ground into my shoulder and an irritated artist. Not terribly dignified or graceful…
Blogbuddies – I could have died. I could have gone up in a small inferno in the middle of the night…
And it doesn’t end there. Earlier in the evening I took a long soak in the girls bathroom. They have the best bath. It is HUGE. Built like they used to in the 30s. We have to use candles because the room is still being worked on and the light fittings have been removed. I put the candles on top of the loo (was concerned about setting hair on fire if they were next to the bath) just under the little built in wooden medicine cabinet (also from the 30s). I elected not to blow them out cos they looked so pretty.
Little wooden medicine cabinet is now scorched. Paint blistering off.
So, is the problem KC and fire or KC and sleeping pills?
Camping: No thanks
Artist, with romantic glaze in his eyes: “Why don’t we go camping this weekend?”
KC: “Have you lost your mind entirely?”
He has been working with glue and stuff, so being stoned could be the reason for this highly dubious suggestion.
Artist: “No, it will be great, just the two of us, in nature.”
KC: “Nature is messy and dirty. I don’t camp.”
Debate ensues.
I hate camping. I don’t feel close to nature, I feel dirty and plagued by insects. Anyone seen those spiders in Namibia? Why can’t we stay in a nice little bed and breakfast and do day trips “into nature” – an altogether more tolerable state of affairs?
I can’t cope with the creaks, tent bits flapping, weird noises that could easily be a lion or a very large spider or something altogether worse. Like a cannibal in them there hills. An inbred cannibal.
And the camping with ablution blocks is even worse. I feel like I want to wear my whole wetsuit and booties just to take a shower, which somewhat negates the purpose of the whole thing. There is always black mold on the floor and god-alone-knows-what horrible infectious diseases left by other campers.
Then there are the horrible cooking utensils. Which all need to be washed and by that stage generally have congealed gunk of unknown origin on them.
No – camping is a disgusting pastime. I will not do it.
Violence and Vincent
It was quiet in the M&G offices. All Vincent could hear was the steady beat of his keyboard as he slouched over the screen. He did not, nay, could not hear the clickety-clicking of high heels heading down the passage towards his desk. The blogmark chicks had decided to Take-Him-In-Hand.
KC, Arb, Marijayn, Morticia, Dolce and Dolorez – oh it had been easy enough to track him down. They knew his cellphone number even. This was not the time for electronic communication, however. This would take a personal touch. A very firm, cold, silvery touch…
“Vincent?”
“Tired grunt.”
The four in unison said sweetly: “We are here about our blog.”
Vincent cowered as he saw the nail files, sharp ones…
“Matt!” he shrieked.
“Oh, we already had a word with Matt,” said Arbchick, smiling as she reached out and firmly grasped his hair.
“Now, let’s talk about fixing things up around here,” said KC wiping her blood stained fingers on her Levis.
Notes from a BM refugee: Elvis induced spiritual experience
Blogbuddies, I ended up in tears this morning. No, not because my beloved blogmark looks like a WWII bomb-site and I am forced to take up refugee status over on 24.com. Because I was listening to Elvis’ song In the Ghetto.
It made me realise how selfish and hardline I can be on crime. This is a social problem and I think it will take a while to fix. Doesn’t mean I don’t think crims should be reintroduced to the death penalty – I do. But we surely must be able to do something about the new babies being born. Makes me want to rush out and adopt five unwanted kids from a township. My critters would complain a lot, but seriously, what do we do?
The lyrics are here for anyone interested:
As the snow flies
On a cold and gray chicago mornin
A poor little baby child is born
In the ghetto
And his mama cries
cause if theres one thing that she dont need
Its another hungry mouth to feed
In the ghetto
People, dont you understand
The child needs a helping hand
Or hell grow to be an angry young man some day
Take a look at you and me,
Are we too blind to see,
Do we simply turn our heads
And look the other way
Well the world turns
And a hungry little boy with a runny nose
Plays in the street as the cold wind blows
In the ghetto
And his hunger burns
So he starts to roam the streets at night
And he learns how to steal
And he learns how to fight
In the ghetto
Then one night in desperation
A young man breaks away
He buys a gun, steals a car,
Tries to run, but he dont get far
And his mama cries
As a crowd gathers round an angry young man
Face down on the street with a gun in his hand
In the ghetto
As her young man dies,
On a cold and gray chicago mornin,
Another little baby child is born
In the ghetto
Oh – and I am still not recovered from shock of this blogsite. There I am busily trying to convert people from 24 to come here because there is more input and dialogue and LOOK!
Notes from a Blogmark Refugee
I actually don’t know how to use this site. I can’t click through from management to the main page. I just posted something and it didn’t appear on the front page. This is a total mess. I am now a refugee. Huddling in blankets over on 24.com. I don’t like the natives over there very much, but there is no option. A girl has to take what she can get. Now I just need to figure out how to link Amatomu to 24.
I have like three windows open just to put up a post and then view it.
Aaargh. Anyway, back to the refugee camp….
Gays, drunks and the Catholic Church
My beloved church says that homosexuality is fine, just not the act. There are various biblical reasons for this, but basically it seems that sex is for procreation so everything else is deviant. This includes oral and anal sex and very definitely gay sex. Seeing that most of my male friends are screaming fags you would think I would have a problem with what the church teaches. I don’t.
See, I always look at the KC perspective, how can I have someone else’s? So, I am an alcoholic. Fact. It’s either genetic or conditioning, but there it is, regardless of cause. Does that mean I have to drink? No. So, does being born gay mean you have to act on it? No.
Doesn’t mean I am drifting around like a judgmental preacher. The many gay people I know and am close to, often feel ostracized by their church. Yet, I know one who was in a Catholic seminary studying to be a priest he has been in a long and loving relationship for about 15 years with a Buddhist. Yet he still goes to Mass and has none of the issues others do with his faith.
As an alcoholic, I also face extreme censure from the church. We don’t do divorce, but discovering your husband or wife is an alcoholic is grounds for annulment. The church believes you have the seeds from childhood and treats like a mental illness/evil.
I think peace needs to be made with whoever you are and the God of your understanding. Many people turn from their church when they find something in themselves that is not compatible. Yet if you were brought up in it good luck finding another God that works for you. Haha. Not easy. I have watched enough people try. The church teachings may be hardcore, but the structure of the church is of forgiveness and tolerance. Some parishioners are not. My alcoholism or someone else’s gayness is not, in my mind, a good enough reason to turf the whole thing. Does that mean that gay people define themselves only by their sexuality? Shame.
I chose Catholicism, after an atheist upbringing. I chose it, despite who I am, what I am and what I have done in my life. I have broken all bar one of the ten commandments and I have been guilty of every one of the seven deadly sins. Yet, I chose this thing and in it, I have found something very beautiful and ugly at the same time.
Yeti
Artist (plaintively): “Are you ever going to shave your legs again?”
KC (astonished): ‘Maybe?’
Yes, folks, when you are actually sharing a bed with someone you can’t do the usual chick thing and go into yeti mode for the winter. Well, I guess you could, but then kiss any sex goodbye and endearing nicknames like ‘Svetlana’ hello.
So, yesterday I bought new blades and today was shaving day. Feels better, but I resist in winter. Who wants to stand in a shower, with various bits freezing off so you can spend the time shaving your legs and pits? It sucks. And shaving in the tub is uncool little hairs can get trapped in places you really don’t want them.
So, I have clean shaven legs again. For now. It may change again, the next icy cold snap we have. Then I may not care and just drag out the thermal jammies. Who needs sex anyway?
My artist never complains I can change hair colour, length whatever. This was a first. Hence rapid action on my part.
Spent the day playing volleyball at Emmarentia. It was hot, so thank god I could roll up my jeans without worrying about stabbing my team-mates to death with stubble if I bumped into them.
Why I blog
Sorry FGB, but your question pops up a lot, so I have been thinking and this is too long for a comment. i blog mostly because i seem to have the continual burning desire for mental stimulation. like ADD. telly has not and never will do it for me. first obsessive thing: reading. second: booze and ciggies. then i had to shut off the brain-numbing stuff and i am left with this beast of a head that just consumes information and action faster than it can come.
before blogging there was IRC, for a bit, and gaming. Don’t for a second think this is all i do. the whole day is a stream of people, things, action, newsfeeds… i just have to be fed.
this is worrying. why can’t my head be still? what still lurks in there that i have a constant need for distraction from?
let’s see, i do AA meetings, work, catechism, Mass – I dive, i travel, i read, i hang with my kids, i play with my artist, i write (when blogging isn’t eating that part of me). I have friends.
a lot of what i do as distraction is solo. i like my own company and other people are not really always that cool. i have about all i can take of them between work and meetings.
i love this because it is at arms length. i am comfortable here, in front of my screen, with words and you lot at the other end. maybe.
i have three people in my life that i don’t feel are like other people – three that can be in my space all the time without making me feel claustrophobic: my two girls and my artist.
i think i am a hermit. or would be given half a chance.
so, i am an addict, but it ain’t substances. it’s distraction. brain-busy-ness.
i love to scuba dive. passionately. because there i am, alone. the other people are just scenery. i also dig sailing. for some reason with those two activities this brain turns off to anything other than the task at hand. otherwise, here i sit, in my restlessness.
i need something. maybe it’s sickness. maybe i will wake up one day and decide to engage with the human race properly. who knows?
so, i am not justifying, i am trying to figure out what it is in my head that might come out, like Pennywise the clown, if i am quiet for long enough without distraction. i don’t think i will like what i find. i have exorcised so many demons, but i think there are some still left.
meanwhile, blogbuddies, there you are. and i love you for it.
