What does the word "Tarty" mean, exactly?
Does tarty perhaps mean "Funky"?
- Or something or someone that is grossly funny?
- Or perhaps refer to wording as being brilliant
- Or just someone acting with slightly drunken stupor?
- Or someone overweight from eating tart?
Tarty is not remotely related to the picture of a creamy delicacy or anything else that may cloud the disintegrating and polluted mind. Neither does the word “Tartly” spoil its meaning, as tartly could only sour the mind, speech, taste and the soul.
An indulgent word? Oh Yes! Seductive? That question needs not be answered!
There seem to be a connection with "F" words too:
Flirtatious, Fun, French, Foolish, Ferblungen (all over the place), Foolhardily, Fablesome, Fearsome, Fortunate, Frolicking, Friendly, Fop, Fricative, Funny, Freedom, Fame, Fearless, Flavorsome, Freckles, Foolish, Facilitating, Fortunes, Fortifying, Frivolous and Felicitations (gentility & kindness)...
If one choose, a bulging word could be brought into the simple small act of tardiness. Floccinaucinihilipilification. A big word for a small sparkling act.
Tarty can be a truly human thing as in being a bright spot in a circle of friends - just like that unusual bright spot on the sun's surface.
Tarty could be associated with “Facula” and “fain” as in feeling happy and pleased with the moment. It may rhyme with "Factious” as in being harmlessly seditious and medicine for the heart.
From a Wild point of view, tarty has a significant meaning too:
"Fructuary" meaning a person enjoying the fruits of anything, or frame of mind which makes one waltz to the sound of unusual tunes or making love on tables amongst sharpened knifes and pin-rollers... Taking a walk or "Frescade" amongst gulls and gales high on the edge of a precarious cliff with splendid views.
Tarty can be behaving with “Falcade” as in the motion of a horse throwing itself on its haunches and daring life itself. Anything from “Fanfaron” too, as in mischievously kicking dust in the eyes of sour creams. Playful and harmless boasting or blowing on a trumpet with grandiose, or simply “Fanfaronade”.
Being tarty can improve health and has empowering effects on fragile minds and souls. Gives little splashes of life to or hopes of far-away and distant shores and horizons.
I want to say to those acting tarty: Thanks for shining brightly or Fulgently! In a world which is filled so often with monotony and serious faces, it is a darn fine thing to be and do.
Long live Tardiness in our world...
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Blah-Blah-Blah
Does incessant chatter or noise ever bother you?
Noise that rises and falls. The clattering of notes too high or a notch too low for delicate ears to bear...
Sound that seems to ever grow and gradually becomes a blast of hysterical front stage music in an office environment, or a train compartment or queue in that multi-storey chain store. A vibration of the senses that eventually explodes like china clutter in one’s head and grows like an atomic bomb into an unbearable weight loaded with silent irritation that surpasses most other types of harassment on this planet.
I wonder if the animal kingdom experiences such vile little irritations? If insects or creepy-crawlies can get a nose-to-nose sniff with another creep of the same species or one who got lost or off-track and now sensor and breathes in the same space?
Office politics:
There seem to be souls in my office environment that have a disability to tone and frequency of their own voice and noise that they make.
We know there will always be someone odd with that long neck sticking out like a plucked ostrich. The weird one's who seem to be collectors of empty Indian take away boxes cluttering their desk and dustbin. The one that wears the same pair of socks each week, until it can virtually stick to anything... Just like the one who has to talk so loud that the business next door starts complaining.
Back to the animal kingdom again. Avian species have the benefit that they can pick themselves up and fly away with the option to emigrate. But what about our earth-bound friends, such as trumpeting elephants or marrula-drunk baboons having to share the same waterhole?
I like to think for each human there is an animal persona, whether bombastic, loud or hardly visible.
The pip-squeak mouse: Doesn’t seem to know it has vocal cords.
The duck – Ugly during adolescence, makes a monotonous soul-wrenching quacking sound when adult.
The bullfrog - Pervert at best of times with a French nasality
Crow – Bedraggled thieving droll creature to stay well clear off
Pig – A scumbag hiding behind a snorting and dirty appearance
Cricket – Can’t kill the bugger and an irritating nerd.
Cat – Unsocial allergic constantly sneezing type, a bit scary too
Snake – The freak who likes to hiss about everything
Chicken – Cackles self-importance to be heard above all the rest
Jack Russell – Fearsome bully and womanizer, once it slams its teeth in...
Peacock – Verbally abusive and pain in the butt
At work I am failing to cope with a loud-mouthed living entity that seems to suffer from an accursed love-my-own-voice-so-much virus for which the anti-body cure has yet to be found.
Colleague with loud voice enough to crack through the sound-barrier who;
- Doesn’t understand how to hold a telephone and mouth INTO it.
- Can’t talk on the office phone; but shout to be sure to be heard.
- Can’t talk on a mobile phone; but makes a cacophony of noise
- Puts mobile phone on speaker phone to hear the other person
- Puts mobile on speaker phone for the caller to be able to hear too
- Doesn’t belief in a one-to-one discussion; must includes whole office
- Is in undying love with own voice; must be heard above all and everybody else
I would probably put this person in a category of a disorderly self-important parrot. Don’t try to assume that this refers to a certain gender either. I m in fact not sure at all of how I should put it...
Noise that rises and falls. The clattering of notes too high or a notch too low for delicate ears to bear...
Sound that seems to ever grow and gradually becomes a blast of hysterical front stage music in an office environment, or a train compartment or queue in that multi-storey chain store. A vibration of the senses that eventually explodes like china clutter in one’s head and grows like an atomic bomb into an unbearable weight loaded with silent irritation that surpasses most other types of harassment on this planet.
I wonder if the animal kingdom experiences such vile little irritations? If insects or creepy-crawlies can get a nose-to-nose sniff with another creep of the same species or one who got lost or off-track and now sensor and breathes in the same space?
Office politics:
There seem to be souls in my office environment that have a disability to tone and frequency of their own voice and noise that they make.
We know there will always be someone odd with that long neck sticking out like a plucked ostrich. The weird one's who seem to be collectors of empty Indian take away boxes cluttering their desk and dustbin. The one that wears the same pair of socks each week, until it can virtually stick to anything... Just like the one who has to talk so loud that the business next door starts complaining.
Back to the animal kingdom again. Avian species have the benefit that they can pick themselves up and fly away with the option to emigrate. But what about our earth-bound friends, such as trumpeting elephants or marrula-drunk baboons having to share the same waterhole?
I like to think for each human there is an animal persona, whether bombastic, loud or hardly visible.
The pip-squeak mouse: Doesn’t seem to know it has vocal cords.
The duck – Ugly during adolescence, makes a monotonous soul-wrenching quacking sound when adult.
The bullfrog - Pervert at best of times with a French nasality
Crow – Bedraggled thieving droll creature to stay well clear off
Pig – A scumbag hiding behind a snorting and dirty appearance
Cricket – Can’t kill the bugger and an irritating nerd.
Cat – Unsocial allergic constantly sneezing type, a bit scary too
Snake – The freak who likes to hiss about everything
Chicken – Cackles self-importance to be heard above all the rest
Jack Russell – Fearsome bully and womanizer, once it slams its teeth in...
Peacock – Verbally abusive and pain in the butt
At work I am failing to cope with a loud-mouthed living entity that seems to suffer from an accursed love-my-own-voice-so-much virus for which the anti-body cure has yet to be found.
Colleague with loud voice enough to crack through the sound-barrier who;
- Doesn’t understand how to hold a telephone and mouth INTO it.
- Can’t talk on the office phone; but shout to be sure to be heard.
- Can’t talk on a mobile phone; but makes a cacophony of noise
- Puts mobile phone on speaker phone to hear the other person
- Puts mobile on speaker phone for the caller to be able to hear too
- Doesn’t belief in a one-to-one discussion; must includes whole office
- Is in undying love with own voice; must be heard above all and everybody else
I would probably put this person in a category of a disorderly self-important parrot. Don’t try to assume that this refers to a certain gender either. I m in fact not sure at all of how I should put it...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Fundamental Issues
Colonialists used to be a mix of foolhardy French, Dutch and wot-nots believing in destiny.
Destiny came to the most southern tip of Africa and thus began the stormy history of invading, enslaving and inter-breeding with who-ever happened to be around. One consequence of this behaviour is a coffee colored green-eyed type famously known for the saying "Your mother’s ***" and proudly referring to themselves as "Hotnots".
There are a couple of names for white South Africans: Colonialists, Boer, Kafferboeties, Dutchmen, etc. An altogether strange sound had been added and in recent years became the known chant “Kill the farmer, Kill the Boer”.
Since I am in a fragile frame of mind, following a weekend of screwing the cork, it may be a good idea steering away from sounds of war-cry. But I recently discovered an old saying which originated in Kenya. Surely older folks will know about the "Rock-spider”?
Ever the innocent, I learned its meaning when as usual, it was too late. A close friend laughed her head off when I recited an episode of being called a Rock-spider and asking if she thought there was a sinister meaning behind the word. I received an elaborate description of the real meaning, between gulps and sniggers. When she finally looked at me expectantly, I felt deeply miffed. Insulted, deprived and robbed of something called 'my pride'.
A tit of a Redneck had called me a Rock-spider. Sly beast had cast bate into my neck of the woods and this former Dutchman-Colonialist had gone straight for it, having no inkling nor any idea...
Destiny came to the most southern tip of Africa and thus began the stormy history of invading, enslaving and inter-breeding with who-ever happened to be around. One consequence of this behaviour is a coffee colored green-eyed type famously known for the saying "Your mother’s ***" and proudly referring to themselves as "Hotnots".
There are a couple of names for white South Africans: Colonialists, Boer, Kafferboeties, Dutchmen, etc. An altogether strange sound had been added and in recent years became the known chant “Kill the farmer, Kill the Boer”.
Since I am in a fragile frame of mind, following a weekend of screwing the cork, it may be a good idea steering away from sounds of war-cry. But I recently discovered an old saying which originated in Kenya. Surely older folks will know about the "Rock-spider”?
Ever the innocent, I learned its meaning when as usual, it was too late. A close friend laughed her head off when I recited an episode of being called a Rock-spider and asking if she thought there was a sinister meaning behind the word. I received an elaborate description of the real meaning, between gulps and sniggers. When she finally looked at me expectantly, I felt deeply miffed. Insulted, deprived and robbed of something called 'my pride'.
A tit of a Redneck had called me a Rock-spider. Sly beast had cast bate into my neck of the woods and this former Dutchman-Colonialist had gone straight for it, having no inkling nor any idea...
Monday, August 4, 2008
To sell one's soul
Some wee midgie obviously needs to be informed...
MF friend, "Greywolf" waspishly decided to comment as follows:
"A Scot will sell his own people to earn ownership of a bottle of Vodka without blinking an eye."
Instead of:
"A Scot will sell his own people (or soul) for Vodka or methylated spirits when freezing off more than just knobby bits, with no whisky at hand."
Ending his lame lament by calling me “ya wee timorous beastie!" and a "Ba'-heid!"
What on earth is a bahead? Perhaps he mean't be-head.
Aye, we know. It is a rather loosing battle to understand why our friends from nether parts (down south) seem to feel a bit Xenophobic towards beasties and heilen-moo’s. Also impossible to resist when they become utterly charming and call the "objects of their infliction - I mean affection, alluring names such as Rockspiders and such...
Obviously though, using such Gaelic and waspy stings (bites) tells me our Graywolf may just not realise yet, the naked truth of his dominant gene after all.
And so MF friend graciously landed himself in more than a wee piggy mud-bath - known lately as Natural Health-spas and Respites. Heaven knows why people must pay these days to get a layer of thick pulp stinking mud of uncertain origins slapped onto body parts...
I would think it could be very dangerous.
MF friend took the nosedive into troubled waters resembling a whirlpool like the treacherous "Corryvreckan", the 3rd biggest whirlpool in the world between the islands Jura and Scarba. Well, apart from enduring the unbearably beautiful Argyllshire scenery, Graywolf will just have to do more than tread or trod for the Olympics. He needs perhaps to take a deep breathe...
Next time we will discuss the matter of healing serums for Rockspider & Wasp bites...
MF friend, "Greywolf" waspishly decided to comment as follows:
"A Scot will sell his own people to earn ownership of a bottle of Vodka without blinking an eye."
Instead of:
"A Scot will sell his own people (or soul) for Vodka or methylated spirits when freezing off more than just knobby bits, with no whisky at hand."
Ending his lame lament by calling me “ya wee timorous beastie!" and a "Ba'-heid!"
What on earth is a bahead? Perhaps he mean't be-head.
Aye, we know. It is a rather loosing battle to understand why our friends from nether parts (down south) seem to feel a bit Xenophobic towards beasties and heilen-moo’s. Also impossible to resist when they become utterly charming and call the "objects of their infliction - I mean affection, alluring names such as Rockspiders and such...
Obviously though, using such Gaelic and waspy stings (bites) tells me our Graywolf may just not realise yet, the naked truth of his dominant gene after all.
And so MF friend graciously landed himself in more than a wee piggy mud-bath - known lately as Natural Health-spas and Respites. Heaven knows why people must pay these days to get a layer of thick pulp stinking mud of uncertain origins slapped onto body parts...
I would think it could be very dangerous.
MF friend took the nosedive into troubled waters resembling a whirlpool like the treacherous "Corryvreckan", the 3rd biggest whirlpool in the world between the islands Jura and Scarba. Well, apart from enduring the unbearably beautiful Argyllshire scenery, Graywolf will just have to do more than tread or trod for the Olympics. He needs perhaps to take a deep breathe...
Next time we will discuss the matter of healing serums for Rockspider & Wasp bites...
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Nose & Inglish Brambles (3)
While in the throws of Inglish and Scottish contemplation I feel compelled to draw a grand finale to topics discussed previously:
The Dungeon and Hadrian's Wall:
A quick ramble of "The Nose" and "English Brambles”...
So The English goes all pettish and snooty at the mention of haggis, but seem to throw all caution in the wind pretending they have a "nose" for the Scottish Water of Life. Both delicacies have a mighty kick like a mule, and doesn't look like frog legs on the table.
Would it be seen as an insult to wonder if the Anglo-Saxonized nation suffers possibly from a disorder born from a decrepitating jealousy towards their friends north of Hadrian's Wall? Finding themselves on the "less fortunate" side of The Wall apart from Dover's White Cliffs?
That brings us back to the question in the beginning: Why so often feel they're hard done and fully obliged to complain more than any other nation? Changing with the blink of an eye from gloomy murderers into pristine saints smiling down on all things alive when life seems favorable all of a sudden. Transformed sulky beasties becomes boasting beasties (idiots) - quite extraordinary.
Perhaps the Scottish Dungeon carries a magnetic attraction for The English: Something similar to do with a stray dog or feral cat marking someone elses' territory. Too primitive for me though, doing all that marking of my presence all standing up, holding onto something cold, wet and slippery in the dark.
So alas: Did St Columbus leave a legacy of Pictish AND Germanic seed sprouting once more on both sides of Hadrian's Wall?
Awww...
The Dungeon and Hadrian's Wall:
A quick ramble of "The Nose" and "English Brambles”...
So The English goes all pettish and snooty at the mention of haggis, but seem to throw all caution in the wind pretending they have a "nose" for the Scottish Water of Life. Both delicacies have a mighty kick like a mule, and doesn't look like frog legs on the table.
Would it be seen as an insult to wonder if the Anglo-Saxonized nation suffers possibly from a disorder born from a decrepitating jealousy towards their friends north of Hadrian's Wall? Finding themselves on the "less fortunate" side of The Wall apart from Dover's White Cliffs?
That brings us back to the question in the beginning: Why so often feel they're hard done and fully obliged to complain more than any other nation? Changing with the blink of an eye from gloomy murderers into pristine saints smiling down on all things alive when life seems favorable all of a sudden. Transformed sulky beasties becomes boasting beasties (idiots) - quite extraordinary.
Perhaps the Scottish Dungeon carries a magnetic attraction for The English: Something similar to do with a stray dog or feral cat marking someone elses' territory. Too primitive for me though, doing all that marking of my presence all standing up, holding onto something cold, wet and slippery in the dark.
So alas: Did St Columbus leave a legacy of Pictish AND Germanic seed sprouting once more on both sides of Hadrian's Wall?
Awww...
Dungeons & Hadrian's Wall (2)
Further contemplation prompted me to add a wee bit more twiddeling to the Scots banning the English from visiting a dungeon.
I would like to move onto the subject of:
Hadrian's Wall-
Could this famous wall possibly have been build mainly because a Germanic nation felt compelled to be completely seperated (divorced is a more amicable term these days) from their too-close-for-comfort neighbours? Were the English perhaps threatened by a small and terrifying clan called the Pictish? Tribes that acted simplistic and equally barbaric in many ways.
I prefer to think The Wall resulted from a silly feud of tartan Willies who refused submitting to the greed of sock-stocking-cladding Fannies from the south. Maybe the Anglo Kings who bathed in dog-rose-willow-bay had nothing better to do than tempting and pestering Pictish Clans that stubbornly clang to their rightfully claimed rambling rose territory? Who would have guessed a simple Romanian Wall would bear so many thorns?
But, let’s not stray too far and ponder the English fragility.
Must say I don't blame some English for treating golf as the latest biological threat. Would it be the sport itself or the inventor behind it that makes more than some English folk boiling red-hot and refer to it as the most idiotic boring sport ever invented? I can see that one might need a certain pre-disposition of gene pools to understand the ideology and synchrony of pitching a ball into a hole. To find joy in only that...
I would like to move onto the subject of:
Hadrian's Wall-
Could this famous wall possibly have been build mainly because a Germanic nation felt compelled to be completely seperated (divorced is a more amicable term these days) from their too-close-for-comfort neighbours? Were the English perhaps threatened by a small and terrifying clan called the Pictish? Tribes that acted simplistic and equally barbaric in many ways.
I prefer to think The Wall resulted from a silly feud of tartan Willies who refused submitting to the greed of sock-stocking-cladding Fannies from the south. Maybe the Anglo Kings who bathed in dog-rose-willow-bay had nothing better to do than tempting and pestering Pictish Clans that stubbornly clang to their rightfully claimed rambling rose territory? Who would have guessed a simple Romanian Wall would bear so many thorns?
But, let’s not stray too far and ponder the English fragility.
Must say I don't blame some English for treating golf as the latest biological threat. Would it be the sport itself or the inventor behind it that makes more than some English folk boiling red-hot and refer to it as the most idiotic boring sport ever invented? I can see that one might need a certain pre-disposition of gene pools to understand the ideology and synchrony of pitching a ball into a hole. To find joy in only that...
Monday, July 28, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
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...
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...
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
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...
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...
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