Myers-Briggs

I think my MBTI had me as a INTJ. Perhaps it was one of those days. I'm damned sure that I was originally extroverted; the favourite family story was of me walking into a crowded restaurant at the age of 5 or so and singing '76 Trombones' at the top of my voice. (It's probably wise that at this point you mutter 'Singing what?')

I used to act; every school play, amateur dramatics, support, bit parts, walk-ons, even lead. My piece de resistance was the lead in a three-act thing based on the David Bowie song--I was Major Tom. The roar of the greasepaint! The smell of the crowd!

And then?

Not as if there was a single point in time. I have always been vaguely resentful of those folk at church who had a Damascene conversion--it seemed so easy; you're driving to the Pick 'n Pay and WALLOP! No more sex, no more drugs, no more rock 'n roll, just praisin' the Lord. Simple. I was disinclined to believe most of the stories; they sounded too much like infomercials to me. 'But wait! There's more! Not only did I get eternal life, but forgiveness too! Why don't you confess TODAY!' Nope, it always seemed more noble to fight one's way to belief--to grapple the demons of doubt. The Voice of God or Visitation is for slackers.

No, it was a process. I could never find anything. It drove my father crazy-mad. He would send me to the kitchen or garage or shops to find 'x' and it was never there. I promise, it was never there, if it had ever existed. Of course he would walk in a find the sodding left-handed thrunge-bracket-extender first time, and reward my effort with either a whack on the head or a few well-chosen words. It became a lot easier to disappear. In the alternative, be deaf. So I took up fishing. Wonderful; sunrise to sunset with a rod, a box of maggots and very occasionally--Oh Happy Day--a new float. I very rarely caught anything, but it didn't matter. Okay, winters were a bastard, but so be it. A small price.
And cycling. Miles and miles of the open road, the hum of the tyres, the rasping breath. New places, alone. Bliss.

I was in the Air Cadets for four or five years. Having been fairly studious, I passed all of the exams and was promoted quickly. Rank! The chance to shout at people, to bend them to my iron will. I was The Lance-Corporal from Hell. Pity that the Will was somewhat, er, malleable.
One fine day I did something that displeased Pater again. Seconds later, a well-aimed thump dislodged my glasses and I had my arm half-way down the kitchen drain trying vainly to save them. Not the most elegant of positions, I'm sure you'll agree. Still, my brother told me recently it was that very picture in his mind when he had Pater by the throat one bright, shining afternoon. Brother Mark was patience-deprived after being in a little-known war for a number of years. All things work together for good, correct? (but, no I didn't believe much) Pater didn't beat anyone after that.

Be that as it may.

So what now? I work in human resources. I should have been a truck driver. I spend my days persuading people to do 'y' or 'z'. Or not, as the case may be. It's exhausting. A colleague of mine whispered to me yesterday that 'Q' was highly pissed-off with me; that I had written an email that was arrogant and presumptious. I do remember using the phrase 'unwise in the extreme'. I did the 'Oh, well. That's just too bad.' thing. Meantime it wrecked my entire day. I made highly indiscreet quip about a posse of female vigilantes which also offended. I thought it was amusing. It seemed not. I was mortified. I find the piece of grafitto, 'Jesus Saves! But Beckham scores off the rebound!' more funny than offensive. Sorry, but I do. It's a brutal world, isn' t it? I find humour helps. I'll try not to be flip in future. Will you still love me tomorrow?

There's nothing I like less than crowds, small talk, and noise. Give me a bottle of Fat Bastard, or any good red, (even a Merlot) something to look at--a mountain, a drawbridge--my pipe, and a few hours of decent conversation, the odd laugh and I'm as happy as a pig in shit.
My love gave me the enormous gift of encouragement to write. It suits the introversion.
So I think I'll go and write something else now. Promise you wan't laugh?

Send my Friend to School

Please visit 'Send My Friend to School'
Thanks in advance everyone--much appreciated!

Rush Hour--Lilongwe, Malawi

The Village

I see a lot of movies these days. More so these days since Ster Kinekor have finally done their arithmetic and dropped their prices by half. It's something to do with economics, apparently. If you flash enough cards at the right people you can get to see a movie for R6. ($1)
A mere week ago I was railing at the shite that is currently on circuit here. I'm sure Vin Diesel is terribly sexy and all that, but when they do a remake of Triple X (or whatever) I tend to lose patience. I'm really tired of movies that are built around say, Haile Berry in leather, (or PVC or whatever the hell she was sweating in) or Hopkins getting some tongue. As it were. Or movies about boxing. Or cars. Ben Stiller gives me the heebies. So does Ben Affleck.
Give me actors! Show me William H Macy. Give me John Cusack. Yay for small indy movies. Movies with a plot. With cinematography.
Down with Industrial Light and Magic! Down with Titanic! A pox on Spielberg! Down with Pixar! (OK, I thought 'Nemo' was terrific, but that's the exception that proves the rule.)
So, up with M. Night Shyamalan. More power to his focus-puller. Or best boy.

GOP taking the piss

You empty-headed animal food-trough wipers! We FART in your general direction! Your father was a democrat and your mother smelled of BLUEBERRIES!
We burst our pimples at you!

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Cabora Bassa dam, Mozambique, from 37 000 feet

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Storm sky over Tete, Mozambique

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Habemus Popem

Watching a doccie on the new pope last night;

Jenna; (the daughter) 'Imagine having that on your resume; Previous position--Pope'
Chris; (the son) 'Yeah, where do you go from there?'
Jenna; 'The only way is down.'
Chris; 'Shuah, it's a dead-end job.'

Father rolls eyes, offspring laugh uncontrollably.
I blame my wife.

What takes you back?

What takes you back?

Frying onions; to that grimy roadhouse in ’83?

‘Another Brick in the Wall’?

Cold feet? Walking to work in the winter?

Chanel No.5? Old Spice?

The crunch of gravel underfoot takes me back to the late ‘60s. My mum was a maid for the family of a retired Rear-Admiral. They had a proper gravel avenue up to The Manor; your actual avenue—with lines of poplar trees. Landed gentry, don’t you know? I was too young to resent inherited wealth then, but I remember trudging up that damned drive in late February, after getting off that cold, draughty bus. What really pissed me off was that there were discarded Christmas presents; one of the three public-school boys had a Revell model of ‘The Spirit of St Louis’, still in the box. Bastard.

‘When the World was Mine’ by Ronan Keating has me flat on my back in a sweltering hotbox of a hotel room in the Namib desert watching multi-coloured lizards getting frisky.

The smell of cut grass takes me straight back to playing cricket at school in Wales. Straight back. I was pretty good, you know? If I hadn’t worn glasses, I might have been something. Then again, if pigs had wings, they’d fly.

Josh Groban’s ‘Gira Con Me’ puts me back to a time not long ago when, whilst perhaps not quite perfect, then things were as close to that as they’ll ever be.

And you?

Read Writing Mom

Small town, slice-of-life, everyday stuff. Great.

however...

If some of the 'Philosopher' links don't work, sorry for that. It's Sasha's mother's fault.

Roger that, Bravo Tango 

All together now.....

My people tell me that faster results can be achieved by a rhythmic approach involving the Pointer Sisters or, as a last resort, Van Halen.
Move AWAY from the trampoline!
www.worldjumpday.org

Lunch Anyone?

...a healthy chunk of Gruyere, one ripe avocado--with herb salt, and a mug of finest Abyssinian coffee.
My cup indeed runneth over.

Hellas

Here's a thought. Let's all follow in the footsteps of David Sedaris and get our collective asses to Greece.
If only for the light; and not merely the electromagnetic-wave kind either.
Also; let's all follow in the footsteps of Sasha/Wheeze and not equivocate.
If you want to say mattress or, or, genitalia...

Dammitdammitdammit....

I am one that zealouly guards those hours of sweet release otherwise known as 'sleeping'.
There are elements of Linus here. I am rather partial to my own particular pillow, a rapid descent into REM is aided by white noise, and I have been known to make a huge fuss about neighbours ducking fogs.
So, what do our travel agents do?
Tonight, and Friday and Saturday...book me on overnight flights. And so the arms of Orpheus shall remain tantalisingly out of reach.
Sympathise.

The Cosmos of Koster

Now--late autumn--is a beautiful time of the year here on the highveld. Not that we really have four seasons; there’s no real sense of the trees for example, taking on different hues—no real ‘fall’. Things just get drier, colder and dustier.
The unmistakeable signal for the impending winter is the cosmos. Strictly speaking, cosmos is a weed. The legend is that the first seeds were brought here in the horse feed of the British during the Second Boer War—1899-1902.
It infests all the bare ground alongside the roads, the patches in the now-dead corn fields, any spot of earth where it can get a foothold. As a single plant, it’s unremarkable; a little like a tall, spindly fern, but topped with a bloom about half the size of your palm. In a mass, as you drive across the countryside, it is astonishing—in places a mist of colour, most commonly a mauve, with plenty of white mixed in and just occasionally a deep, luxurious red-purple.
A few years ago, I would have to drive 8-10 hours every other weekend and it was always a joy to watch these fields of innocent colour. Perhaps I’m a van Gogh at heart; these are my sunflowers of Arles.
I’m pretty much confined to Jo’burg these days, or trips to the north—tomorrow to Athens, then Albania. So it’s goodbye to all that.

Goodbye to summer.

John-Paul, George...but not Ringo

Call me seriously deluded, but I feel a (tiny) bit sorry for GW. He's just so out of it, it's pathetic.
Why, oh why couldn't he just express his 'sorrow' on the death of Pope John Paul--like Queen Elizabeth--instead of waffling on about the 'culture of life'? MUST he try and score irrelevant points to two-thirds of America regarding the Shiavo debacle on the basis of the death of a man held in high esteem by a billion people around the world?

Stood up by Godot

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Anyone? Anyone at all?

...like to pull the plug on the Pope, now?
No?