Wine and Rhyme (Should really be called Wine and Roses...)

The personal becomes the political and the political becomes the personal... Poetry has the ability to express what is otherwise not easily expressible...(I need an espresso to figure this out)...Philosophically the quality of something is expressed in  itself...e.g. "The quality of a stick is "stickness"".
? Hello?

 Is the quality of me then "me-ness?"

I'm giving up seeking a  philosophical approach to the D question and going to lie down in a darkened room.

Poetry - that's a different kettle of fish. I dug out an old, worn poetry anthology and re-read some old favourites. Trouble is, I'm reading through a different lens now;

"The red rose is a falcon
and the white rose is a dove.
The red rose speaks of passion
and the white rose speaks of love.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
with a flush on its petal tips
for the kiss that is purest and sweetest
leaves a flush of desire on the lips".
Anon. Irish c.9th Century.

That's it - off again down the poor-me trail. So I held a pity party to which I invited myself,  a bottle of wine and a six-pack of cheese and onion potato crisps... Very difficult to have an erudite conversation with a cheese and onion crisp. They don't seem to read much poetry.

Age and Algorithms...

Week 8

Straight talkin’ Saturday

Early for the creative writing class, I was sitting peaceably in Reception when a new member of the class came in and sat beside me.  She loved writing, she said, and wanted to write a book.  She was a widow. What was the story with me? Going through a divorce, I said. Why was I in the class? Don’t know if the writing is creative or therapy. Probably both. Would I have a coffee after the class with her? Oh certainly, I’d love to.

Coffee time. Or rather coffee-and-interrogation-time. Where was I from? Where did I live? What did I work at? What was the story about the divorce? What age was I? (Two year older than her it seems).

She then very kindly told me what I needed to do. She was widowed two months, was understandably very lonely (wear that t-shirt myself) and wanted to find a new partner. There were very specific requirements attached to her search. Monetary and property specifications. Nothing about love, affection…? She was using online dating and had been out with several men. One had rocked up in a 2012 reg. Mercedes and had an apartment in an upmarket area…Why didn’t I do that? Well I’m not divorced yet, I said, I don’t know ….and I don’t care what men earn or have, what about love, affec-

At your age, she said (!) you’d better get a move on… Men always go for younger women. And the older they get, the younger the women they go for. I know an eighteen year old girl who has just had a baby for an eighty year old man.

 I think to myself; that’s not a May-December romance, that’s December and pre-foetal!  I do a quick calculation based on her 18-80 premise. If what she said holds true, I should be inundated with 167 year old men any day now. If I was feeling down before I met her, I’m probably clinically depressed now.

 The vista of hordes of 167 year old men trying to break my front door down with their Zimmer frames whilst crazed with lust very nearly unhinges me… 57 would be better. Yes. Prince Charming’s older brother would be fine.

I say goodbye and go home... A new relationship? Em...I have stuff to go through first. This is my gut feeling. The right man will come at the right time. Or maybe several of them. But… putting yourself on Internet dating sites? They could be full of axe murderers... My very private self baulks at this. Later that night I receive an email from my new friend. It’s a list of online dating sites, with ratings; e.g.

XXX.com – You have to pay, but good.

YYY.com – Free. Lots of men.

ZZZ.com-    For widowed people only – you can always say you’re widowed.

???  
Or to put it another way;   %$!>*&!!!

Rice Paddies, Leprechauns and Letters...

Week 7

Monsoon Monday

The Rainy Season seems to be upon us.   If the economy was half as productive as my lachrymose glands, the Exchequer would be rolling in money. As it is, I’m amazed the country isn’t three feet underwater, and that the farmers haven’t taken to wearing conical hats and planting rice. The rest of the world could call us “Rice Paddies” then.   How can you have so much liquid in your body? Just as well I’m keeping my fluid intake up with wine, chai de nuit, camomile and café lattes. All at the one time, just to make sure I keep myself hydrated. It’s very important to keep hydrated. Which reminds me; St. Patrick’s Day is coming up and I’m going to the Parade with the Coven.

Green Paddy Saturday

Off to the Parade; Green jeans and sweater. Check. Knitted shamrock in my hair. Check. A rainbow, leprechaun and pot of gold painted on my hand. Check. A decoration on my face that says “Kiss me I’m Irish”. Check. Well, if I’m going to start branching out and challenging myself, this is a good place to start. I actually managed to enjoy the Parade, especially since a nice Japanese man gave me a plastic thingy to stand on, whereby I could actually see over the heads of the crowd.  Whatever the advantages or disadvantages of being six feet tall, it gives you a mean view of parades. Afterwards the Coven had drinks and dinner. That night, Irish music in the pub. Overall, the day went better than I expected and all was peaceful as I fell into bed. One small caveat; the rainbow, pot of gold, leprechaun and admonishment to kiss-me-I’m-Irish decorations don’t wash off…apparently they “wear away gradually…”  I’m going to look VERY dignified at the Management Meeting on Monday…

Snail Mail Day

The divorce application form I’d signed and sent back weeks ago now returns to the house addressed to the Respondent, via 2 x solicitors and possibly a carrier pigeon as well. Now it’s his turn to review, swap apostrophes and colour in all the letter “O”s in the document or whatever the hell else he’s supposed to do…