I Should Learn Self-Discipline

Time to go to bed, no more fiddling the time away,
no more hiding from sleep, though I cannot see sleep
finding me tonight, I’m ready to return to colleagues
and have some fun, but reading glasses I have none,
to be collected next week, I shall still have to suffer and
weep for struggling with small writing, esoteric books
say we create a safe universe by thinking of security,
I wish I were secure about my own fallibility, I wish I
could predict how my mood swings will go and fasten
myself with a chain to a positive state of mind, a place
cast in stone, yet I know that by ten o’clock a blood
sugar low will demand I eat, afterwards a migraine
will follow, a delicate balance to be struck between
eating too little and having too much, starting with
adrenaline in seeing friends, then sagging spirits as
officialdom requires routine acts that irk so much
and I don’t even know why it should be so, John
Maxwell would have fired me without a scruple,
I should learn self-discipline, what a stentorian
leader he is, with him in charge, I would have
fired myself, I suffer from what my friend calls
an artistic temperament, hubby calls it self-
centered egotism, I must learn to do my duty,
I suspect only death will bring release…

No More Pictures - Why?

Blogspot has decided not to allow me posting
pictures no more, maybe because I'm not using
the spot correctly, just for personal archives
instead of interacting with all people alive,
such is the price to pay to learn "no man
or woman is an island"... and as I posted,
an advertisement came up - "Show off your
fans - show the world who reads you" - good
grief, bragging to your fans about your fans
being a fan and fanning and flaffing - um, I
can't, I hope to win the attendance of discar-
nate entities and angels and fairies and I
can't post pictures of them any more...

Icing Haunting Cake-Guzzling Crocodile

Illegal icing haunting the cake-guzzling crocodile,
relentlessly keeping the reptile awake, got into the
bathtub with the story of Cyril Bonhamy, the only
safe place as the kids took the laptop hostage, on
finishing the book the crocodile stormed out in self
-righteous indignation, determined to chronicle her
saurian sorrows electronically, chasing kids off

The crocodile has already read about a surprise
party featuring cake; a little boy playing detective,
in this story by Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy the whole
English police force is depicted wearing Father
Christmas camouflage to catch Christmas Crooks,
the image amazing the crocodile, making her wish
to join Cyril Bonhamy in his little world

Printed in nice, big letters, easy to read, time to move
on to the next book, leave the small printed book till
last, waiting for those reading glasses, between them
and wearing sunglasses, the crocodile will resemble
an owl on a 24-hour basis….

Jonathan Gathorne-Hardy “Cyril Bonhamy v Madam Big”
Jonathan Cape, 1981

Create To Taste & Dictates Of Necessity

On Akon’s planet Meton they're accomplished enough
to get rid of books, everything is taught by going on
field trips and observing the real object or event, all
history is conveyed by electromagnetic mirage re-
playing the event and each observer interpreting
what they see for themselves

Such is the message of Elizabeth Klarer; the incorrect
reinterpretation we face today could be solved by using
the same technique, each country presents the same
events in a different way, context and situation determine
what should be said, it is 1984 all over again; history books
were rewritten at a whim

The word is mightier than the event, Wyrd Sisters by
Pratchett also teaches that words create the world,
we don’t remember, we create according to taste
and the dictates of necessity…

Reworking It…

My latest protagonist is eighteen years old
and her beau is twenty-one, based on a story
read in a magazine when I was in primary
school, used the idea in an Afrikaans essay
when I was fourteen, still exploring the
ramifications of the situation depicted therein,
hopefully today I see more complexity and
derive more benefit from reworking it…

A Brooding Presence

Tiaan and I at home alone, treated
him at the Wimpy, a cheeseburger,
chicken with sweet chili sauce for
me, now I can’t sleep, asked Tiaan
about his dreams and his life, he
says playing rugby and studying
English

What an astonishing thing when
boys turn thirteen, braying for
laughter, face all unhappy, is life
that bad for a teen? Nothing seems
to satisfy him, we can’t hold a con-
versation, always banging something,
making strange noises

A brooding presence wherever he
goes, I feel guilty when I see him,
somehow we failed him, probably
by bringing him into this world
which does not cater for teens
except to suppress them,
he stalks about

I hope he settles at high school, make
some new friends, become human,
stop digging for things at all hours
of the night and looking like Heathcliff
after the loss of Catherine…

Radio Ga-Ga - Positive Mental Station

After following the suggestions in my positive book
I reach a state of happy anticipation, life is good right
here right now – until I eat allergy food, falling back
into the black part of my mind where life is the enemy,
yet staying on the straight and narrow is so boring, I
prefer the misery to grey neutrality, only wish I could
remain at a positive mental station when the allergy
kicks in, but no, the antenna in my head tunes to radio
ga-ga, blackest night and terrifying feelings of terrorizing
anxiety, my mind deconstructs and only feverish heat
smothered in cotton-balls remain in my head, I can’t
feel the positive things I’ve been thinking and no thought
rings true, except dark suspicions and strange flames
of self-hatred illuminating the seven dark nights of the
soul, time for drastic measures, rubbing Vicks all over
my neck and back, spoiling the sheets and ruining my
middle-class camouflage hair…