The attraction of a Vampire Yarn

Posted on por
Responder

What is it about a good vampire yarn that keeps a reader in thrall?  A whole genre of mushrooming series initially inspired by Dracula, then Anne Rice’s literate confessors, end up with Twilight and a Discovery of Witches as well as a vast number of throw away tomes aimed at under 20’s.  Of course, there is a host of television and movies as well: Being Human, Only Lovers Left Alive, True Blood, Underworld and Blade are only a highlight that reflects my preference for the generally broody, generally well educated and mostly well-dressed model types one never comes across in real life.  At least not in my life so far.  They all contain tales of magnificent suffering beyond human comprehension (ie: manic depression or fixation or loss of a loved one), tales of alienation (ie: exile or fish out of water), tales of being surrounded by people of limited experience or self-awareness (ie: the feelings of anyone who suffers company of limited intelligence or curiosity).  All of these are common threads that appeal to people who feel themselves to be on the outside. Personally I find the historical aspects of the novels to be the one of the best parts; but not all of these have that so it cannot be the main attraction. Of course, Keifer wasn’t bad to look at when he was young, so that didn’t hurt.

found on Reddit

But the vast popularity of the genre and its ever increasing fan base would seem to indicate that these are all themes that are so common the general public ought not to feel so alienated after all?  Or can people just not imagine suffering in their proximate companions if it isn’t spelled out for them in a confession? Or are people just not able to believe that the person living across the hall or street suffers as they do?  I suppose if they dress weirdly or cannot speak in the right accent, stuff them.  Or perhaps they are simply too dumpy and fat to imagine they have emotional depth.

The other common theme of vampire novels is the love story between the much older semi-god and a “unique” outstanding and attractive teenager.  Honestly; when the age difference is greater than 200 years I wonder if no other reader thinks such a relationship akin to paedophilia.  But the even more intriguing aspect is how controlling the older more powerful being is in these relationships; purportedly due to their ever so much greater accrued life experience and physical indestructability.  Isn’t it borderline sick for a teenager to fantasise about being controlled by someone more powerful than themselves?  In Midnight Sun Edward Cullen reveals just how meticulous his control was from start to finish; what would under new laws be considered coercive and punishable by prison time even if you put the stalking aside.  The Vampire Diaries aren’t much different.  The most implausible part of those being the idea that anyone more than 100 years old would bother with the pretence of going through high school an Nth time.

But I do understand the attraction of wanting to be with someone more interesting than the people around you.  Deep down I believe Doctor Who is basically a vampire. He’s millennia old, changes human companions as frequently as most people change their shoes or jacket, and never stays in one place too long lest outsiders recognise to what degree he’s not quite like them. 

But is it just that they’re more interesting than normal life, or is it also the lifestyle without perceived consequences or being free to be histrionic and just pick up and leave when you fancy?  Whatever it is, it is mesmerising from Adam and Eve to Lestat and Louis to Selene and Michael they are beautiful to watch.

film evolution graphic from https://www.facebook.com/unclefrankproductions

Calumniar es gratis en España y me desespero

Posted on por
Responder

Veo que el valenciano dice que el gobierno no paga, y el gobierno dice que el valenciano tiene el dinero, pero no lo usa. Sería fácil probar que el pago se hizo; pero los medios sólo exponen diez segundos de video con micrófono. Al valenciano no sólo le sale gratis; le blinda la posición frente al partido nacional que busca destrozar su oposición sin importarle el bienestar o el futuro de los votantes. Y eso que toda valencia ya sabía la historia del 2008 del soborno y los pagos de caja a Bernie Ecclestone; pero parece ser que son una región que asume que no hay otra sino un político corrupto, o bien quizás se creen que esa corrupción que a veces aporta brillantina es mejor que aguantar programas sociales y aceptar una ideología de igualdad. Y eso que todo el país ya sufrió un gallego que en el 2002 se atrevió a hablar de ¨pequeños hilitos¨ para encubrir la incompetencia de sus ministros y encargados; que no aprendieron en absoluto nada del ejemplo que dio el Exxon Valdez 13 años antes del Prestige. Pensarían que el petróleo español sería ‘diferente’, o simplemente que podrían echar balones fuera con que el capitán era extranjero.

Veo que el nuevo gallego dice que el gobierno es una mafia. Los medios dicen que hay una grabación que muestra de manera contundente el fango y las obras inconstitucionales. Sin embargo, no ponen la voz del presidente ni de ningún ministro. No sale ninguna prueba de esa conexión crucial como para decir que es un hecho. Al gallego nuevo le interesa lanzar sospechas fuera ya que no quisiera que le investiguen a él. Los medios le sirven para sembrar la desconfianza ya que calumniar sin pruebas no tiene ninguna corrección y los mismos medios le acompañan. Esto a pesar de que sí se probó que su partido obraba en B, y destruyeron en el 2013 los ordenadores antes de ser examinados por la justicia; pero por eso no tienen ninguna condena así que como si no hubiera sucedido.

La de Madrid y su equipo esquivan el banquillo de todas las maneras posibles; escurriendo el bulto como una piedra caliente entre unos y otros. Han pasado cinco años para llegar al momento en que se esclarezca quién hizo qué y si cuando lo hizo comprendía cómo actuarían los demás en consecuencia. Porque a nadie en este panorama político se les ocurre que deberían haberlo pensado antes que actuar; hecho análisis del impacto de sus acciones en las vidas de los ciudadanos que dependían de ello. Pero para qué pensaría ella si no tiene otra cosa en la mente que la destrucción de la democracia que alega el gobierno esta llevando a cabo. No es la única en declarar eso ante cualquier que le quiera oír; sino el bigotes también va por el mundo predicando que España no es una democracia desde que su partido no lo gobierna.

Y con todo esto veo en las tertulias a la gente que dice cualquier cosa con tal de salir en pantalla; por supuesto sin ningún rigor ni deber de probar en absoluto nada.

Y pienso en todos esos que crecieron con pantallas en la mano; que no saben distinguir entre lo cierto y lo fabricado porque no tienen ningún filtro ni punto de referencia anterior al barullo constante desde la derecha que les inculca que sólo la derecha sabe gobernar una economía estable. Esos que crecieron con smartphones también crecieron sin conocer estabilidad laboral (gracias a los contratos basura del bigotes); y con un sistema de educación que cambiaba con cada gobierno. Creen más lo que ven en redes que lo que se puede decir en medios contrastados; así que casi ni importa ya que calumniar es gratis porque sólo los viejos estamos escuchando indignados a esos políticos sin vergüenza con tal de mantener el poder. No esperan que nadie haga nada en absoluto para mejorar sus vidas porque llevan veinte años escuchando y viendo el odio corrosivo que pone tener el poder por encima del país y su ciudadanía. Y los progresos que pueden haberse alcanzado en los últimos años no dejan huella en sus conciencias porque tardarán en surtir un efecto notable en sus vidas; demasiado tiempo para gente que no aguanta esperar para ver un video de unos minutos que si la descarga tarda cambia al siguiente. Y con eso no me sorprende que calumniar es gratis si nadie en el país es capaz de pensar más allá del último soundbite o video viral.

Pienso en todo lo que me costó desarrollar una vida escuálida en mi país y en como el país ha evolucionado en tantísimas cosas a peor. Si la gente no cree en la entereza de los que les gobiernan

Tears

Posted on por
Responder

Lourdes in 1999 was a font of energy as well as soul cleansing water.  Drawn by the reverence and the name; past the string of shops with souvenir bottles and chains, the space opened up to a great plaza in front of the Immaculate Conception Basilica. The entire place was enveloped in a pink and gold haze.  Having wandered through the grotto and interiors I stood with my arms wide looking up to the spire, closed my eyes and begged for the pain to be taken away; to not have to face the unyielding abyss anymore.

Pleading for mercy (but silently in my mind) was a frequent leisure activity then at a time when paying even 10 cents more for a candle might mean not having enough left to pay for food or a bus ticket.  I still have a ledger from those years when I couldn’t afford to make phone calls and had even less if I needed antibiotics or other medicines.  But the poverty wasn’t the reason for the abyss that had accompanied me my entire life. I remember clearly as a toddler sitting in the backseat of the car on the way home from church, looking through the window and thinking “well, I’ll just have to kill myself then because none of this will ever be worth it.” My entire life I’d been fed up with living on terms that weren’t mine; but mostly just despairing at the futility of a life so conditioned and restricted.

Lourdes erased that.  For nearly 10 years I fought and strove and moved from place to place, job to job, gaining weight from a cheap poor diet and inordinate hours mentally chained to desks doing unrewarding work for haughty, ignorant, manipulative people. But during those 10 years I focused on the promises made to me by the manipulators: if you do this I’ll do that.  I held up my end of the bargain over and over to be cheated every single time.  Not by the same person twice mind; rather by similar archetypes of the self-interested who use others thoughtlessly. The cycle got faster and faster as I saw ever more quickly the end result of each new job; and I ended up returning again to the thoughts of a toddler.  After having worked very extremely hard to pretend the conditions of this world aren’t what they are; tried variations on culture and country, the end results were always equally squalid. 

One night dry sobbing on the floor of my bathroom and overcome with a corporal desolation that seemed to intensify with every breath, I heard the downstairs neighbour complain “it just keeps getting worse.”  I looked back on photos in my albums and thought about what I had experienced in ten years, and realised I had not returned to Lourdes and my broken brain considered perhaps the return of darkness was a punishment for that.

I did return to Lourdes then.  In a daze I walked the curved stone pathway up to the sanctuary and turned left to light candles.  As I stood there on the left side of a very large bank of lit votives and before being able to formulate thoughts, tears that I had been unable to cry for a decade streamed down my face. I started beseeching help again; but suddenly was pushed on the shoulder.  Thinking it was surely a mistake I ignored it and tried to return to my imploration, but then my arm was grabbed while a loud Asian in shorts shook me asking “why do people light candles here?” Then seeing my face stopped and murmured to her friend “there’s something wrong with her let’s ask someone else”.  Literally shaken I strained to regain composure but could not.  The lights were too bright and the noise of the masses too loud. I walked about and came back but could do no more than appreciate that the respite from feeling void was over.

Life Story in Six Words:

Posted on por
Responder

Want
Unappreciated Sacrifice
Wilderness
Exile
Bound

My one true god is Apollo: god of music, poetry, philosophy, truth, the sun, prophecy… of all that is good, has grace or is of any worth in this world. And yet it has been about fifteen years since I have properly revered his gifts; so overcome by grief and wretched was I when I made a bargain in a place of worship to arrest my voice if only I could be spared from my state of destitution and very palpable life of a slave.

The result of the bargain was not immediately grasped by my intellect, and its impact on my lifestyle was gradual. Slowly slowly I took steps to gain an economic freedom that had not been available before. Bit by bit my penury was eased; although I was still made to wander in different lands the pace of the required changes slowed. My heart was still broken but my precarious position was exchanged for the ability to sleep at night without wondering if I might afford the rent next month. My vocabulary receded from my mind as the source of my improved income and stability was wholly contrary to my nature and talents. The void in my soul frequently reverberated in moments of quietude ensuring I would not forget what I had lost. No, not lost. Given up in moments of vile anguish. A promise that cannot be taken back for all I wish I could erase that day or replace it with one where I kept walking into the sea without stopping.

My days are solitude though I am well fed.
My nights are unquiet though I live in a peaceful neighbourhood in a house with my name on the title.
My self-determination is not unrestricted given the bargain disallows me to employ my authentic faculties.

Where is my creativity? It did not abandon me. It is bound within by a promise that saved my life but destroyed my being. It is fettered and chafing. I would beg the god to release me but my shame is too great. I am undeserving for having forsaken his endowment. Like Cassandra what small scraps I produce are ignored. Desolate and despicable I still yearn for his favour. In my anxious dreams he may hear my pleas and have pity despite my lack of worth.

Cryos Crazy

Posted on por
Responder

At 45; for the first time ever, I had enough economic stability to not be kept up nightly by the thought of how I would pay rent if I lost my job. I had finally reached a level at which I believed my job was reliable, in a company that could see me through until retirement age. Now was finally the time to consider all the things that had been unthinkable when I was doing a daily balance sheet to see whether I could afford to go for a beer after work or buy the good meat at the supermarket. I bought myself the car I had wanted for many years, and it was satisfying. I loved the freedom and comfort of that car with all its frufy luxurious extras.

A few months later a report ran on the news about the rise in numbers of women using Cryos to circumvent the NHS artificial insemination restrictions. It was an interesting conundrum. The report was clearly conveying that foreign sperm were not desirable for the UK public because it eluded controls, but; the UK national sperm bank after two years of existence had only seven (yes 7) donors. Also, the few donors there were in the UK had apparently each fathered hundreds of kids. Danish sperm seemed a better option just on that basis. However; I would never have been considered at my age and suddenly it seemed like there was a loophole that I hadn’t been aware of. I could do it myself at home following instructions (something I am very good at) and for a third of the cost of using a clinic. On the website you can choose from an extensive catalogue same as when you customise shoes or configure a car: you choose height, eye colour, educational background, hair colour, etc. I suppose this isn’t surprising to someone of a younger generation that might be used to doing that on dating apps, but; for me it was like choosing candy from a shop that had all the variants on display behind the counter. I settled my mind on a John Taylor looking type that purported to have a PHD.

I made some calls; explained my circumstances and was given a green light to go ahead. I tried timing the optimum week of the month. Selections made and paid; a week later I received a dry ice container by express courier from a delivery guy that looked at me like I was a drug dealer or maybe terminally ill. Despite having lived alone for over 20 years I felt the need to draw the curtains and close the doors in the house as I hid in the bedroom to take the syringe out. Outside it was a sunny warm day. Opening the container that released a small cloud of vapour reminded me of high school science experiments where roses were shattered. The sensation of inserting the payload was a bit surreal but rolling into an inverted position was what made me feel a genuine idiot. Upside down on my bed feeling movement inside me I had the sense of covert shame that comes from transgressing the expected. Who was I to think I might make this work? But why not me? Loads of people with no education or prospects – or decidedly less desirable genes, -had children they mistreated or couldn’t properly care for, so why shouldn’t I have a chance? Not predictably for me; as I genuinely had my hopes up and thought I should have good chances given all the articles I consumed about women in menopause getting pregnant accidentally and fifty-year-old celebrities having babies, I did not get pregnant. I returned the dry ice container with remorse for having been so naïve as to hope I might achieve it on my own in a one off.

Then came the Create clinic. I did my research and found the ostensibly best private clinic (the one reporting the highest success rate). I made many trips to this clinic in the lead up to putting myself in hock to credit card debts that I rationalised could be paid off over a year. Coincidentally the clinic was near St Pauls, so I also made many trips to the cathedral to light candles and contemplate before or after visits to the clinic. The first doctor I spoke with; a Greek expatriate, made me feel cozy about his competence and that he actually cared about my case. I explained I could afford to do this once only and he advised me to put myself in his hands, so I did. I understood that their success rate was substantially due to them not advising to proceed if the prospects of success were not good. I was made to do a psych evaluation with a person who didn’t really listen to my answers but charged for rubber stamping my green light. Then came weeks of injections, an extraction, the declaration that I had quality and prospects that were good, an embryo an implantation and a failure. An upsetting and disappointing failure.

Incidentally, the Greek doctor that convinced me it was a good idea didn’t appear again after the initial visits; or after the failure. Who I did get after the failure expressed to me that I should not have expected anything given my age; it had been a longshot, and I needed to get on with life. She seemed to think spending 3,700 GBP was an exercise to purge or release feelings rather than actually because I had thought I might get pregnant out of it. I couldn’t reconcile the earlier message that my prospects were good with the later message that I was a sucker for having spent money on this process. I was angry and frustrated but mostly miserable. Looking back, I know I was taken advantage of. Not by Cryos; that sell a product same as a mail order for any purchasable good, but by the clinic in the heart of London. I suppose the desperation of women pushed past their viable breeding age by economic constraint or other circumstance is simply a cash cow to a lot of interested professionals. I wonder how many of the other private clinics operate by the same profit driven rules. But mostly I curse an economic model that punishes women for seeking economic independence; where women have to work 20 to 30% of the year for free compared to their male counterparts and / or work hours so long for such an extended period of their lives that when they come up for air their chances for certain things in life are long gone (even if the people selling them services wont own up to that).

Cinco observaciones de mi agosto en Madrid en 2024: un ensayo

Posted on por
Responder

Mientras padecía las secuelas de los 42ºC diarios – que durante un periodo interminable no dieron tregua – y muchas otras cosas incontables por no reseñables, me di cuenta de que la sociedad madrileña ha desarrollado unas excentricidades que antes desconocía.

Los viejos van de uniforme: No sé si hay una sociedad secreta que los con menos de 60 desconocen, o si es que hay algún proyecto secreto que hipnotice a ese demográfico, pero todos los viejos llevan (1) zapatillas medio deportivas medio ortopédicas con (2) pantalones huérfanos del resto de un traje (3) una camisa de botones y mangas cortas bien a cuadros o a rayas, pero con fondo claro y (4) una gorra de béisbol con palabras bordadas. Luego las mujeres de esa edad visten lo que sea siempre que venga de la tienda china de ropa del barrio o bien del híper.  Que no parezca que le costó más 20 euros la prenda sino se arriesga a la condenación de sus conocidas cuando se crucen.   A lo mejor es que hay una pareja trendsetter que estableció esta moda pero para mí es un misterio que nadie desmarcara del estilo aparte de los turistas.

Quejarse del calor es de paletos: aunque la temperatura a las 22:00 siguiera sin bajar de los 35ºC cualquier comentario sobre lo incómodo que era recibía miradas de incredulidad. Gente se extrañaba cuando declaraba no soportar el calor, o no poder aguantar esperando al bus, o explicaba que pasear a los perros tenía que hacerlo a medianoche para evitar que sufrieran. 

Calumniar es Gratis (las opiniones gilipollescas también): Todas las cadenas de televisión mantienen tertulias ¨noticieras¨ diarias en las que sale un sinfín de tertulianos profesionales que a veces son periodistas o políticos o abogados y a veces es una incógnita si tienen formación alguna.  En estos programas el tema de conversación jamás impide que nadie de una opinión desinformada o francamente ignorante pues la cosa va de seguir la línea sesgada del público de la cadena, hacer ruido e interrumpirse hasta que salgan los anuncios. Este hábito de decir lo que sea, aunque no se tenga ni puta idea de lo que se habla ya permea toda las sociedad hasta el punto de que extraños te pueden propinar sus opiniones sobre tu vida por la calle sin ningún detonante aviso o razón.  Por ejemplo: un día cruzando la calle con mi perro me llamó la atención un hombre para decirme que claro los perros son un sustituto de niños pero no crecen así que yo no sé lo que es realmente ser una madre…  Perpleja me quedé de que uno que jamás en la vida había visto me dijera tal cosa sin conocerme en absoluto de nada hasta la próxima opinión gratuita y la próxima hasta saber que si los holandeses tienen fama de groseros por directos los habitantes de Madrid hoy por hoy no tienen nada que envidiarles a los de países bajos.

Las sandalias son para putas y viejas que se creen veinteañeros: Vamos, que con el calor que hacía era llamativísimo que las únicas mujeres que llevaran sandalias bien eran de cincuenta para arriba, o bien eran féminas andando por la calle en poco más que un sujetador y mostrando las nalgas y acaso bragas a la vez.  A lo mejor la gente no tiene dinero para comprar calzado que solo les valga la mitad del año. A lo mejor el rechazo al calzado abierto es por el peligro que se corre al andar sobre los adoquines cada vez más comunes en el centro de Madrid. Supongo que la tasa de un centro más atractivo para el turismo es poner calles inseguros para gente que vaya sin una suela segura, y también que siempre habrá mujeres que sacrificarían su bienestar e integridad física para vestir lo que creen es moda.

Limpiar tu propia basura es de palurdos:  Porque todos los días todas las calles están llenas de botellas rotas, vómitos, envoltorios de comida rápida y multitud de otras basuras que permanecen a veces una semana entera hasta que pase la limpieza del ayuntamiento. En la puerta del edificio un tampón usado y un condón roto, en el Madrid rio cristales rotos y ropa suelta, en la casa de campo papel higiénico, etc. etc. etc.  Sin duda el ayuntamiento tendrá sus razones para quitar fondos de limpieza, pero los puercos que dejan atrás esa suciedad pensando que otra persona debería limpiar tras ellos no tienen perdón.  Me encontré añorando los años en que se lavaban las calles cada noche…  Menos mal se ha gastado tantísimo en poner esos adoquines en todas partes ya que su superficie irregular facilita el encrustamiento de porquerías para que los trabajadores tengan algo que hacer el día que les toque pasar.

Perro de Acero, Perro Zamorano, Perro de Mi Corazón, Mi Perro Bestia, My Hell Hound, Mi Perriño, Mi Cachorrín, Mi Nani

Posted on por
Responder

Nanuk era el nombre que le puso la mujer quien le encontró abandonado en la cuneta de una carretera.  Vi un post en Facebook el 8 de julio de 2016 y en el momento de verlo pensé <<ése es mi perro>>.

Nabu fue el nombre que yo había pensado; por ser el dios mesopotámico de la escritura, filosofía y sabiduría, pero que nunca pegó porque mi madre quiso Nani para el registro. 

Nani: A saber por qué mi madre eligió eso, pero la mayoría de gente entendía Nanny y eso valía.  El perro era quien se aseguraba de que me levantara de la cama por la mañana (por supuesto para sacarle y darle de comer), y también quien se ocupaba de que saliera a andar y el quien me motivaba a canturrear por casa después de años de guardar silencio.  Jamás antes había conocido un perro tan vocal.  Hacía saber con la voz si tenía una queja, si tenía hambre, si se aburría o se impacientaba; no ladrando sino usando el murmullo típico de husky.  Cuando comencé con el piano se subía a escuchar mis ejercicios y después cantaba conmigo el trocito del día.  Le encantaba cantar y si escuchaba algo venia corriendo para no perderse la serenata. Si veía una opera en la tele cantaba su parte en cuanto saliera la soprano.  También aullaba de dolor cuando pasaban coches patrulla u ambulancias, y cada primer lunes del mes en Holanda cuando comprueban el sistema de sirenas.

Le hice un test de ADN y resultó ser Husky, Pastor Alemán, Pointer Inglés y Galgo Español todo a la vez.  Un verdadero cazador con un corazón indomable y a la vez cariñoso y alegre.  Verle era apreciar la alegría que experimentaba por estar vivo, corriendo, olfateando, explorando, cuidando de mí y de Goku y también persiguiendo patos, conejos, liebres, faisanes, gansos, muntjac, etc.  Era el entrenador de las aves acuáticas pues le encantaba correr por la orilla para verlas entrar en masa al agua.  Conocía bien el río Manzanares, el Támesis, el Lea y el Lek; las costas y bosques de casi toda Inglaterra y los bosques y parques de toda Francia. Viajó por el distrito de los lagos, las llanuras del sur, por Wildeshauser Geest en Alemania y Sønderborg y Rømø en Dinamarca y por supuesto España.  Recuerdo en nuestro primer puente me entró pánico porque se escapó en una zona desconocida y hubo que atraerle de vuelta con una pata de pollo obsequiado por el dueño de la casa rural (quien se sintió culpable debido a la verja abierta). Recuerdo también la primera vez que corrió a sus anchas en Ashridge estate y cuando vino de vuelta la plena satisfacción y júbilo de estar en el bosque.

Me sentí mal por los perros al venir a los Países Bajos porque no hay gran cosa en este país en cuanto a parques naturales ni bosques de envergadura como en otros lugares.  Todas las zonas donde se pueden soltar a perros o bien son pequeños o se comparten con bicis, canales, ovejas o energúmenos que gritan que no le sueltes – a pesar de ser una zona dedicada – porque no comprenden que un perro pueda ser bueno educado y amigable si es negro y de 30 kg. Francamente lo pasé mal debido a tanto gilipollas y también por la gente que soltaba sus perros agresivos sin remordimiento (claramente cosas enlazadas, pero ninguna de las dos era culpa de mi Nani).  Sin embargo; él nunca se acordaba de la gente mala y seguía contento por estar al aire libre y disfrutando de cualquier tiempo que hubiera.  Por muy pequeña que fuera el lugar lo gozaba.

Y siendo un perro tan energético y alegre y tan fuerte y vigoroso; cuando comenzó a apaciguarse pensé que era porque con la edad estaría suavizando su carácter, pero nunca pensé que estuviera enfermo.  Tan pronto como me di cuenta de que padecía algo me decían que tenía un cáncer extendido e inoperable.  Tenía que haberme dado cuenta antes de que algo le pasaba pues había dejado de subir para saludar por las mañanas. Tenía que haber notado que estaba muy calmado por las tardes.  Pensaba que era solo que se hizo mas mayor.

Han pasado dos meses y sigo sintiendo el derribo de mi alma.  Durante semanas tuve que evitar contactos con gente porque me encontré llorando el la clase de yoga o incapaz de hablar en las conferencias del trabajo.  Me despertaba pensando en si sería mejor sumergir mi cuchillo de cocina en mi estomago o tirarme de un puente.  Claro que no puedo hacerlo porque Goku sigue aquí.  Aun después de dos meses me siguen entrando ganas de llorar cuando pienso que mi pobre perriño solo tuvo ocho años, y que padecía dolor sin que me diera cuenta. Yo pensaba 12-15 años dado su ADN pero no ha sido así.  Pensaba que era tan fuertísimo que una enfermedad semejante no podría pasarle.  Recuerdo con tristeza la confusión de sus últimos momentos; la confianza plena al estar a mi lado de que nada malo le pasaría a pesar de estar en un veterinario extraño y sin Goku. 

Sigo llorando cuando pienso en él.  No está acaparando espacio en la cama, no viene a saludar y distraer cuando estoy con el ordenador, no ladra a los que andan delante de mi casa ni exige que le entretenga. El perro que me iba a salvaguardar del abismo de la esperada perdida de mi perro mayor (cinco años mayor que Nani) murió primero; dejándome sumergida en una tristeza sin fondo cayendo cada vez más profundamente.

Goku – el perro mayor – también está triste.  Come menos y – a pesar de darle chuches de alto contenido calorífico a conciencia – ha perdido peso. Y no me malinterpretéis por favor; que a todo esto Goku me ha salvado la vida de manera absolutamente literal en más de una ocasión (mucha responsabilidad para los hombros de un Parsons). Goku es tan parte de mi como mi brazo pero es también tan perro mío que me deja tranquila si me levanto tarde y a menudo pasa de pasear. Pobrecillo Goku tiene 13 años, cataratas y artrosis; y el año pasado hubo que extraerle varios dientes que le causaban daño. 

De manera muy egoísta pienso que he de rellenar el hueco que tengo.  Ningún perro jamás será ni de lejos como mi NaniNanukNabu.  Pero no sobreviviré sin quien me exija y me causa preocupación como lo hacía mi querido Nani. Mi Nani que ahora está en el alféizar interior de la ventana del dormitorio; al lado del gato Apolo. Aunque sé que después de esta vida no hay nada me gusta pensar que si lo hubiera Nani estaría corriendo y cazando a sus anchas por bellos prados y bosques.

New Year’s Cards

Posted on por
Responder

I used to enjoy reading tarot cards for friends and acquaintances but stopped some years ago; exhausted by people taking it for granted.  It is a double-edged blade admitting you know how to read tarot.  Either people categorise you as looney and credulous – making no bones they think you probably believe you are a witch – or they immediately manifest as needy and demanding of having the cards read.  The latter are often worse.  Over the years many tried to figure out what trick I was playing or catch me out or blame me when they didn’t like what the reading said.  All this for taking the time to do a favour to someone who purported friendship or was a friend of a friend.  I have never charged for it; although invariably when I do a reading I am told by the beneficiary they pay significant sums to others for such readings.  The needy disdain of demanding ungrateful people I read for tainted my enjoyment of something that I used to consider myself pretty good at.

A lot of reading cards has to do with introspection; self-knowledge; awareness of human nature; and knowing how to weave the connections between loose threads of ideas.  It is telling a story from a few indicators.  After time away from it I figured now is as good a time as any to see if it can help me out of a philosophical impasse I have been stuck in for quite some time.  For over a decade before I stopped I would often get cards indicating my life would turn around through the influence of the King of Pentacles (whoever or wherever the King may be).  And while my cards for the year 2023 seem to tell me clearly to leave drudgery behind and write write write; I should be done with long days of worker ant like repetitive tasks and move to greater expression; the bloody King of Pentacles popped out again just to muddy the water and say if I win I lose.  If I advance I fall. 

The cards really are very pretty though.  Don’t you think?

Shadowscapes Deck – Barbara Moore’s Wrap Up Spread
cards that pop out of the deck any time I shuffle

Dutch people seem to be broken inside

Posted on por
Responder

For starters; if any Dutch person whatsoever were to read the above statement, I would soon be inundated with shouts to go back where I came from as even the slightest criticism of Dutch culture or society elicits a defensive and seemingly autonomic response from deep in the Dutch psyche.  Even criticisms from within Dutch society are often discounted as anti-Dutch pandering to non-Dutch interests; like the complaints about black-Piet that only after decades of protests have led to a reduction in the amount of black face worn seasonally but not an elimination as ¨true¨ Dutchies refuse to see any ties to their country´s slave trading past or colonialism and insist it is important for children to experience the belief that Saint Nick has a black manservant as opposed to an elf.  The lack of empathy for the people that have been protesting and the refusal to listen to why blackface is racist is truly typically Dutch.  Is it exclusively Dutch though? I don’t think so.  There was a very marked lack of empathy for Black Lives Matter when I lived in the UK – and I remember quite a few LBC morning shows where Kaepernick´s knee taking was vociferously denounced as anti-patriotic by slavering British people with zero empathy for USA Black history or understanding of current USA social structures.

But there are many examples of the broken Dutch soul in Christmas advertising:

  1. Jumbo: a supermarket chain locks dad outside in the garden and the family has a peaceful dinner as no one thinks to look where he´s got to;
  2. BOL: a girl spends a year pretending a soccer ball is a doll because her parents didn’t get her the doll she wanted; then when they do give her a doll, she trashes the ball without any remorse.  Aside from feeling overtly sexist, I find the advert disturbing.  Either it was a year long psychotic manipulation of her parents, or she truly has zero feelings of attachment to the thing she visibly played with yearlong.  Either way what to Dutch people apparently must be amusing is truly disturbing in the portrayal of heartless detachment the child exhibits.; and this year
  3. HEMA: a kid loses her toy dog at the beach (the irresponsible baggage handlers of a foreign country didn’t load her bag on the plane) so to get back to her the toy dog has to swim the Mediterranean then run past angry guards in what looks like an eastern European border control to drag itself back to holland; where luckily the girl is buying a replacement dog and can pick it out at the shop.  This one is disturbing on so many levels.  An off the cuff down the nose look at the countries where Dutchies spend their luxury cash; then a journey reminiscent of Syrian or African refugees followed by the thoughtless replaceability of items left behind… and despite the fact that the bloody toy dog had a hell of a struggle to get to the town where he was looking for his owner, she´s out shopping for a new one.  Lucky toy dog that she buys him back.

Well; that´s a highlight of Christmas advertising, that in other cultures is meant to pull at heartstrings and inspire a longing for togetherness.  The closest I saw on Dutch TV was an over-the-top number where a 20-year-old boy living with his mother is put out that his mother is dating; but breaks into tears when mom´s new boyfriend repairs a framed picture of the 20-year-old and his dad.  Really…  It takes a critical mass of advertisers and consumers to reach a point where all of this is considered normal for the purportedly most emotionally or religiously important holiday of the year. I don’t think even most atheists would think portraying the plight of refugees in toy dog form is particularly relevant to Christmas or positive in any way; unless the aim is to fictionalise such experiences so that Dutch children don’t think to hard about real life in other parts of the world?  But it is probably fair to say that it isn’t too far off from some of the crass right-wing comedy on USA television networks; where charity is ridiculed and people in need are blamed for their situation (Last Man Standing).  And of course; there was the incident where seasonal Dutch culture themed porcelain sold at the AH supermarket chain featured a carefree smiley Anne Frank.  There was an apology for that; but I suppose this again falls under fictionalising the past so people don’t have to think hard about the role of the Dutch in Anne´s plight?  People all over Europe were responsible for the plight of millions like Anne through omission or silence; but the key to it never happening again is making sure the truth is remembered not glossed over.  Don’t you think?

There was also the other advert for the world cup football that featured happy construction workers doing a conga despite the reports of slavery conditions for the world cup construction workers over the past years and in the months leading up to the period when the Jumbo advert was launched.  So, is all of this just a crass nature? Is it representative of a people that just don’t want to have to think too hard about the part they play in the hardship of others?  Or is it just a bunch of stupid Douglas Adams worthy marketeers that are oblivious to the world around them?  To be fair; most of the world glossed over the world cup construction workers and chose to put it to one side in their minds so they could enjoy the footie.  Or maybe no one in the world who really loves football cares about anything but the game…

But there are the occasional beacons of light that can make you think there is intelligence in the Netherlands – it just hasn’t reached critical mass yet to pull the rest of the Dutchies along.  Example NYE fireworks: every year a vast number of people are maimed; quite a lot of them children, or otherwise injured by the use of uncontrolled massive fireworks displays on every town corner.  It starts in late november with nightly bangs; leading up to a warzone like frenzy on December 31st. The first year I was here for NYE – after a night worrying my dogs literally might die from their fright as the noise was continual for over ten hours and myself, I was afraid to go outside lest I be targeted – when I opened my front door in the morning there was a wake in a two-inch-high blanket of ash.  My back garden was actually carpeted in spent cartridges despite the fact that I had not set off a single firework.  Every year since then has been worse than the last.  Despite what the authorities say about bans during corona – where I live the ban inspired larger and larger fireworks brought in from abroad.  Putting a sign in the window that I had animals who are afraid of fireworks made the house a target for more. A national charity that cares for abandoned animals published photos of animals harmed by fireworks and reported children had shoved them up cats’ bums before lighting.  Is that particularly Dutch?  Psychopaths exist in all nations I am sure; but in other countries such behaviour is criminal or would at least lead to a ban on owning animals. 

Last year the house actually shook on its foundations and then the neighbourhood electricity was cut for several hours after something was blown up. Blowing up bins, post boxes, bus stops, and anything else blow-uppable is part of their fun. So this year I spent NYE in another country as is apparently a common custom for many.  And this despite calls from emergency services and hospitals to control the fireworks; despite police arresting people who bring in ¨banned¨ too large charges.  Maybe the critical mass will be achieved in coming years; but in the meantime, children continue to lose their eyes, fingers, hands…  I suppose at least this isn’t the USA – I mean at least this isn’t an argument about banning deadly firearms or in some way controlling the use of them.  The entire globe knows that the USA is a lost cause when it comes to common sense about guns.  But in the Netherlands there is at least a possibility that at some point fireworks may be controlled.  Exhibit A for the initiation of the move toward building the required critical mass:

I resolve not to overeat again. No really; no more ever.

Posted on por
Responder

In immense physical pain from blisters in my brain, throat, ear and nose. Headache, tired, stretched stomach from pouring things down my throat to try and numb the pain as paracetamols aren’t doing anything…  I´ve just rifled through a load of old idea notes and realised that the most important ones from this last year have gone missing.  There was one about the expulsion of three massive spiders from the back garden; that could have been a short story, and several other brilliant woken in the middle of the night from a deep sleep quality ideas that are apparently now lost to eternity or the ether or swallowed back by the muse that must resent my having ignored them for such a long time before getting around to doing anything about them.

Is it my fault I have to work to pay bills? If I could afford to just drop everything and write for the sake of writing, I wouldn’t have a day job at all.  It is immensely disappointing to live in a world where even professional working adults don’t seem to grasp that not everyone has the luxury to do what they want in life.  My boss thinks if I don’t move home, it is because I choose one country or culture over another; whereas, in reality I am simply proactively grifting to stay employed (and thus able to pay for my living space month to month).  Grifting because I swindle my own soul working in environments where no one seems to grasp sarcasm or care to discuss philosophy or cinema or art or literature or even common societal issues or current events.  My cousins think I don’t love my country anymore; but don’t seem to listen when I say in over ten years of applying for jobs there I have not had one single offer while I get spontaneous calls and offers in a foreign country whose language I can barely speak that pay me three times what anyone back home would make doing the same.  My frustrated life goals and ambitions mean that watching Oprah Master Classes just depresses me because all those other people´s stories turned around after they hit a bottom but mine seems to be snagged on the jagged edge of a below bottom crevice and won´t ever come lose no matter how many times its swept over, scraped, brushed or pulled at.

I was trying to think what would I wish for if I could wish one thing and it come true.  World peace, ecological recovery and educated discussions in politics are obviously all impossibilities even for fairies to grant as they would involve the cooperation of masses of truculent humans.  Reshaping humanity in the blink of an eye seems a bit much to ask.  I mean we´ve been talking about the environmental impact of fossil fuels at least since the 1970´s and we´re all still putting petrol in our motors…  So, thinking in the most purely selfish of terms… I am still stuck.  Ideally it would be to make a living from writing; but I tried that and was on the brink of starvation until I gave in and took a full-time job with responsibilities.  I tried doing it as a side-line and ended up having a stroke from working 60 to 80 hour weeks.  So, my dreams are no longer my dreams as those died a long time ago.  Wishing a publisher will take you seriously only gets a person so far.  It actually is more likely to make you the target of small-time frauds that sell promotion to nowhere or contacts to no one or inclusion in inexistant respected circulars.

I said wish.  At this time of year, I should be talking about new year´s resolutions but; they are really just wishes, aren’t they?  Whether they come true or not depends on your own impetus because fairies don’t actually exist but if they did, they would not care what happens to humans.  They´d sit and eat popcorn watching the psyches of people taught to aspire to more ripped apart by nepotism, glass ceilings, sexism, circumstance and exhaustion. In my case exhaustion is starting to have quite a bit to do with old age; but it is also the intellectual exhaustion of speaking into the void knowing that no one listens.