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…

Birdsong

Its 4.20am and a blackbird is singing loudly...not a Beatles "Blackbird, singing in the dead of night"  but chirping  loudly enough to disrupt sleep...am the only person awake while the rest of the world sleeps..maybe I'm just on a different time schedule? Anyone awake out there?

Power Pose

The Yoga Teacher  recommends the "Power Pose" which reduces  stress levels by 20% and increases competence levels by 20%...so.. in "wonderwoman" stance - power pose- hands on hips, legs apart, thinking positively...sorry, no, no magic feelings :(duh....

The path to enlightenment...

Aha...oh yes, we must  all forgive and forget...oh yes, absolutely.:) Oh yes, totally...oh yes...teeth grinding..oh yes all forgiven and forgotten..

Week 6...Swearing, Star Wars and stew

Week 6

F?$!!!^@*  Monday

Swearing is my new hobby. It’s a helluva lot cheaper than shopping. Unfortunately my new stress relief strategy doesn’t meet with the approval of my family. We grew up with parents who never swore, which considering they raised a very large family makes them truly heroic. Now when I’m innocently releasing my (understandable with all I have to put up with) stress and tension with some simple effing and blinding, some of my siblings appear shocked to the core and ready to keel over in a faint.  I had coffee with friends today who were also shocked by my language. Actually it was more mangluage. How come no one passes any remark at all the swearing that goes on everywhere on a daily basis including television programmes, but if I say a naughty word it’s practically a matter for the national news?  Anyway f*** that. I’ll keep swearing as long as I f***ing want to. So there. Or at least until the yoga, meditation, gym, long walks and camomile tea kick in. Which isn’t yet.

Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to Court we go…maybe…eventually…

The new legal document comes in the post. It’s the application for a divorcé. I’m the applicant, he’s the respondent. The accompanying letter explains the way it works; my solicitor posts it to me. I then read it and accept/amend it. I then sign it and post it back to my solicitor. My solicitor reviews it, and if all is ok forwards it to his solicitor. His solicitor reads it, determines that it’s ok, and posts it out to him (same home address as me). He then reads/accepts/amends it, signs it and posts it back to his solicitor. His solicitor then reviews it. If he’s happy with it he posts it back to my solicitor. My solicitor then lodges the application with the Court. This will be the procedure with settlement terms, affidavits of means, pension adjustment orders, notifications of court dates and the whole ball of wax.

We both consider this crazy. We are sharing the same house, don’t see why we need two legals playing ping-pong with documents; surely we could both sit down with one legal person and sign all the papers together? There’s no dispute regarding anything practical and there are no complications - like children.  This methodology seems bonkers. And of course neither of us has any clue as to how long each bout of ping-pong will take.

Jewelled Words Wednesday

 As recommended by Self Help Book #2, I purchased a notebook in which to record positive affirmations and ONLY positive affirmations.  Since it is intended to contain only beautiful thoughts, I bought the prettiest little handbag sized notebook I could find. A little gem with a printed cover of birds and flowers in reds and golds, a little red elastic band holding it closed and the front embellished with red, heart shaped glass decorations. Inside, the pages are overprinted with more flowers and birds. I love it. So; what’s going to be the first beautiful quotation… AH…”Everything is happening perfectly for my highest good”.  Off to a good start. I walk round the kitchen swiping at counters with a cloth and repeating today’s beautiful affirmation over and over again.  “Everything is happening perfectly for my highest good”. Pity I didn’t notice the stew was burning. But never mind. All is calm. And good. Perfectly good.

Star Wars Sunday

May the 4^{th be} with you… Yes! Star Wars hits town! Three of us head off to the Exhibition Centre at an ungodly hour.  I can’t wait! I’m a complete geek. I’ve been in love with Han Solo for many years now. Since 1977 in fact.

We’re outside, queuing to get in. I already bought our (expensive, very expensive) tickets online in the belief that places would be limited.  But we still have to queue. While we’re waiting I lose all morality and fraternise with an Imperial Storm Trooper. In fact, I have my photo taken with him.  Sorry, Leia.

The Exhibition is a bit disappointing. It’s not the artefacts, but - in a huge cavernous arena, the displays looks.. I don’t know. Non-magical. That’s me and my airy-fairy expectations again. Posing in Anakin’s Tatooine kitchen and under a Scoutwalker helps somewhat.  We do have a nice time and take lots of photos before we head to the Metro Café for brunch. As we tuck into scrambled eggs and toast, the third member of our expedition party just happens to mention that he thought he was going to a Star Trek convention…and I’m the one who gets accused of being on another planet half the time?