Scots Ban the English (1)

Venturing into dark dungeons, a British friend opened up interesting discussion.

Tourist attraction bans English visitors in revenge for 1298 battle
A popular Scottish tourist attraction provoked outrage by banning English visitors and destroying 'English' items such as bone china and the works of Shakespeare...

Provocative or not?

Pondering over the subject I run the risk of being banished to a rodent infested Dungeon, either side of Hadrian's Wall, but I am puzzled more than ever before.

Could it be The English have an identity crisis due to their roots bearing a title such as Anglo-Saxon Inheritance? Add to that a nation suffering from the onslaught of perpetrators previously called crusaders, now calling themselves proudly British, when in fact they are nothing less but a mixed bunch of Asian-African-Caribbean-mites.

Sure it must be intolerably hard to be told off by the Scots. Imagine, a thistle telling a rose to back off out of its territory or precious dungeon! Insufferable brutes shouting "Freedom!!!!!" ever since Wallace who now boast over a Dungeon of no value, deciding who may and may NOT visit.

What is it with barbaric Picts to still lust for revenge 700 years later?

Don’t the world and its Scots understand that being of Hemi-, Halve- and Semi-Norman-Anglo-Saxon-Jude-Germanic origins is a curse and cross that nobody else has to bear? Did they forget how The English used to rule and axe (these days sack) ANYONE who dared to breathe or whisper a word or rebellion? What has this world come to be...

Concerning the very latest allure for Dungeons, I will consider buying a murky one north of the borders as it may just become the next Balmoral and Scottish Monument. Something that may bring about an interesting diversion from the usual politics between our modern day Picts and GerManics.

G8 Summary

Once again we were forced to watch on telly how a bunch of the world's biggest idiots, or leaders gathered around a table. Whether one could call it loitering or brainstorming, I found it pretty hard to remember why they were there. Looking pretty relaxed and cosy in their snug G8 chairs to me. Exactly who would be enriched by suspending words in the air and spending a couple of days a year jibbering in labyrinth circles? Supposively discussing "important" matters such as global warming...To me it seemed to be somewhat of a germ-breeding process to confuse the world even more.

And do these self-made little men and women gods really believe that flashing a dim torch in the eyes of the world, will blind it into oblivion?

I very much doubt that.

Truth is that they will all be gone when the proverbial Paw-Paw strikes the Greenhouse Gas and let all locked up screaming fury loose...

I think it would be much more entertaining to watch how they get stirred up, lifted unceremoniously out of their thrones with certain members at the forefront. Such as Bush and Mbeki gobbling once more a little something, in need of strength. Or twiddling a finger at the world such as Mugabe before leaping over the edge.

So, who is the fool?

The Knight, The Fair-haired one and The Goat

The story starts so: How long must one wait for love?

As a young shoot I acquainted myself with little friends and the best ones were not the Belinda’s, but brave Regarts, nerdy Leslies and show-off Calvins (at that time I wasn’t worried about not knowing anyone called “Klein”).

I learned to wait to see my crazy, smart, interesting, funny, weird sometimes, ingenious and everything else that’s good, friends almost every afternoon.

Turning from a sprouting shoot into a willowy leaf, I became aware of men. Along a country and city roads it became a washing line bending from the weight of acquaintances, friends and of course eventually, lovers. Some wore masks and others portrayed themselves as heroes or warriors and protective guardians, earths-men and farmers, intellectuals slipping over their own words and such. I’m skipping the “angelic” ones as it will take a day and half getting to the bottom of that slimey well. Some faded into the background and fragments of memory but became figurative outlines forever etched into parts of my dreams. Some strayed far too far for me to remember them, but a lot of them are forever etched in my sometimes breakable heart.

All these comings and goings...I left one or was left to watch him go. These gods ruling in my life and heart, as I would think: "Why does all good things have to end?”

Apart from becoming slightly synical, I'm quite naive, apparently. Believing in genuine love. The True Love that exists above all other things, going against the odds and bells that shouts from rooftops that no such thing exists.


Love.

Must be the music of the heart – can’t be possessed and neither consumed. It can be a danger and safety bound together, something ultimately fragile, yet strong and so passionate. It could resonate like an oracle in the chambers of the heart, more so when life can be bleak at times, or not so neat...And it makes the waiting worth every mile.

So, I waited a little bit more impatient this time, for that elusive person to venture or accidentally stumble into my life. And I fell in love again.

Into my life came another three and remembered by their remarkable arrivals they appeared in the following order:
The Knight
The Fair-haired one
The Goat.

A dark and honourable Knight on his white horse appeared on the horizon and sadly he passed by...

So I waited a little more.

Along came the dreamy Fair-haired one with the golden walking stick and gumboots and no good either...

And it happened again.

Then the agile Goat with centuries of noble blood, but unreliable... Tap-tap-tap-

And the gnomes, trolls, selkies and water-horses marched passed me, but not worth mentioning today.

I waited and waited again...

and...Tap-Tap-TAP!!!

Now I don’t wait anymore, but live life in a fairy garden of tilting dewy leafs, rainbow-colour mushrooms and flower petals strewn accross my lawn.

And one day the elusive mustang will appear, I know that. Free-roaming, wild and utterly untamable. He will stop by and acquaint himself with an object of interest who I presume will be me. As for me, I’ll pretend to be unaware of this unannounced arrival, uninterested in his showing-off manner, pretend to be oblivious to such a pure existence and appear to not be glancing from under shadowy eyelashes into his direction.

See, there is something so very exciting about the falling-through-the-sky kind of living and waiting...

Troubles in the "House"

I could easily have titled this "free ticket to trouble” but out of respect for certain members, I will refrain from doing just that.

My parents have never been people to sit and plot trouble at the expense of others. Well, that is what they would like to think... but we know better.

I guess blackmailing their grownup children has nothing to do with having the time to tell us how they are getting old and close to the day that their bodies will be carried off to the Long Tees. Imagine that! Where did they get that from, we ask? The picture popping into my mind strangely resembles a lively Tuscan villa complete with a plaza, burning candles and shady corners with lots and lots of long trees. I guess the similarity lies in the peaceful picture both images create...

If not for the trees, they are in the midst of a full-blown raging war against the “oh so godless, turkey & filthy” pig farming boozing, apparently bigamist neighbor who himself does seem to live an odd existence. Lucky for them he now decided to go in search of another neighborhood. I expect the hedge between him and my parents will soon be undergoing some sort of exorcism and the spraying of some kind of cleansing, Holy Water.

Over the past couple of weeks, months actually our parents started up a feud with their church. That's right, against their very own herd of sheep, or congregation. The minister apparently did not notify church members that they were going to build a “mothers-room” at exactly the same spot where my parents sit every Sunday... According to my parents the church is an old monument, but I wonder if their plight had more than one edge to it? Have you ever tried shooing a blathering rebellious lamb into a camp? would not even try that, without getting away all bruised and pitiful.

When I phoned them last night, I believed they were held at gunpoint - mom whispered into the phone and finally I realized the deacons had come to them, trying to talk out matters. The next morning the minister followed in their shoes and before my father could pull out yet another long list of grievances; it was decided to call it a day.

The minister admitted that he would have resigned anyway, but as an answer to his prayers was called up by another congregation. There was one thing he and my parents agreed on however: more than mere love, belief or hope will be needed for this small-town church.

I will happily suggest that three long trees be planted at the front gate of this impressive old church: in memory of a rather young & daft minister and two well-rooted residents who never failed to keep their children, neighbours and an old fashioned church on their toes and knees...

Does all parents have this ability to install in their children feelings of inferiority, amusement, incapability of living independently, being ashamed of them sometimes, angry at their ways, frustrated with their stubborn thinking and proud altogether for who they are and what they believe in...

I wonder if we will ever manage to walk in and follow their legacy? I can only guess the answer will be found one day following the little path that leads to their restful long trees...

This Life

Bare feet treading on shiny, frosted glass
- Green and hard just like chalk and
Heading over square patches and land
But soft to the touch of lime-stones
- comes the call of the buzzard and the red-kite
sharp and distinct the echoes of their flight
traveling far and high in the light;
- a duet reaches deep blue agate & granite...

Scattered purple petals falling free
- into the Great River and Ravine
Trickling into the constant rhythm of life,
- Who will hear the murmur of little streams?
Wings beating against the constant rush of air
the shadow touching distant blue hills
- swerving ever higher into the air...

Small lives, big lives
Who is such as an oyster who lives
- below the cave and above the sea-current?
Caught between Oronsey and Galtrigal
a life of tides and spring
Will it be watched over by Maidens of the isles
- Alone or gathered up in the arms of kelp?

Not far from the Talisker's Watch
- A rock alive in the waves
The human mind begins to grip the simple truth
- Of Understanding
Fragments of what we are meant to see
- visited by the truth, but frequently unseen
And we remember once again, to let go of some
- hold on to some
And forget why and which way
we were inclined to go...

In This Life.

Thoughts of White

On a misty, dark rainy day,
I sat down and started painting
on a paper blank and white as snow
And there, in middle May
the scene became alive with summer seas
shaping land of rivers and pontoons
and something strange happened then...

We took a walk and stopped by the marshlands
with the burning-red match-stick poplar
Rooted in a vast and barren landscape,
touching white winter grass,
its dark brown bark defrosted
from the harsh winter sun...

Equally familiar were islands of Dragon kings
Ghosts from the books of fairy folk mystery
Resting beneath crystal blue-bells
And the ghostly white garments of hawthorns,
embraced by wild willowy mulberry vines
Colors flirting amongst autumn leafs
on a canvas spookily white and alive

Blue, green and bold fluorescent stripes
Of mountains, crayon white clouds and;
Acrylic flaming skies and who am I
Merely a painter of words and worlds
That does not seem to meet, but
for the thin white line seperating them?

And am I to know it, see it all?”
all these colours in my vision and veins
and to know such things as that;
Without grasping or deeply knowing
why I am so strangely alive.
-

Silly Poem

Dogs & Roses

My cat is in love with me...
I’m in love with a bee that's in love with a fermented cherry
William Wallace the Warrior Fly refused to die tonight
Sticky sweet silly stuff...
What would Einstein say of that?

The dog’s nose sniffed the Port,
Waffling excitedly, cross-eyed breed
Brian Ferry singing of French love,
OBS and a jeera-roasted bird
A very jolly trio of winter blues...

Colourful display of paper blankets
Never seen the cat play piano too
And oh, singing and purring nearly snoring…
So loudly it woke the ugly merry herring
And Mulberry fermented cheese with rocket…
Who would have believed that was it...

Eisbein?

Not a Muffin Girl, BUT...Recipe!

I’m NOT a muffin girl, but this one is great:

2 cups self-raising flower
2 eggs
Fresh or dried herbs, such as chopped rosemary or basil
+- 1 cup of shredded spinach or leeks
Half a packet of brown onion soup or other...
3 cups of grated cheese
Milk
Half or whole 250ml tub cream (double or single is optional regardless the consequences)
Salt & Pepper

Gently mix all together to form a sloppy mixture (keep the focus on food)
Scoop mixture into muffin baking tray, smeared with butter so it doesn't stick.

Keep in oven +-30 minutes or less; test with fork checkin if doughy; no tasting yet!!
That's still a surprise in the waiting...

Take out of oven (switch off oven) and taste: should be moist and licky delicious.

Optional:
Before I put it in oven at 180 centre grade, I sprinkle more cheese and sesame seeds over it.
Diced tit-bits of Bacon go really well
Half finely chopped red or white onion
One tablespoon Pesto
Two blobs of Cream cheese of any flavor

Enjoy!

Friends from afar

I made an email friend at work; someone who could be virtually ANYONE.

Between Steinhagen and South Africa, we share some friendly banter, sometimes somewhate confusing and on other days a bit more fired up. Which now makes me contemplate all those battle-lines that took place between my great-great GREAT grandfathers and some Nazi hugging rioting frying friends under the African sun...

Let's not dwell on the heroic and sad past of some...Those are days bygone, and boy are we glad they have gone by!

Mr W, is the reserved type. So typical of most Germans. I gather he is fitness-mad like all other Germans, already going bald (guess work) and a grandfather of 10 little Nazis...u-rm...little German angels.

The only facts I have about Mr. W is that he once served in the army near New Castle, near York,near Scotland...

I'll share a line or two with you today, ringing like this:

ME: ARe you saying I'm a hell fire??? (gnawing my desk at work)
MR W: Yes, and... I AM A HELL FIRE!!!! (off on a rant, no stopping)


ME: Did you see the email about the boys getting baptised? (cute)
MR W: And there are more ways getting BAPISSED, such as with wine... (crude idiot)


That's correspondence with Germans for you. A great way of improving vocal-bollie-reasoning... I wonder if another Nationality could improve on that?

Chau-chau

Sabatical

Today I learned about something in my life.

I have been sharing my life with a ghost of some sorts. Impossible to give this thing a name, I have named it Ghost. I never realized until now, at the ripe age of thirty two just how the existence of this nameless ghost has crippled me and the pattern of my life. Over the past months, maybe years even it has become a real menace. It constantly follows me. It hovers and peeps over my shoulder. Dictates what I should and should not do. Make me feel unworthy and helpless and worst of all it, I feel imprisoned with it in a very lonely thoroughly sealed vacuum.

I’ve had it with Ghost’s constant nagging and tugging at my sleeves and yapping at me heels. I don’t want its frittering presence in my life anymore. No more breaking and entering into my life, hopes, emotions, and sleep when I turn and toss in restless dream-dilapidated limbo.

Ghost was officially retrenched today. It was “fired” and will be going on permanent vacation, leave or whatever suits it best.

I am also going on something... called a Sabitical of the Emotion & Intellect. Going to pull myself together and get priorities sorted. I am going to try and live my life as it was originally intended to be. Follow my destiny.

No more Ghost to blame – at least the weight of that piece of old baggage is gone now. If not hearing from me too often, my friends won't feel insulted - they surely will understand.

I am going to turn this hermit life into something with a wee bit more flair, color and tranquility.

And Bugger Any Adversities…