Too Much To Declare

pretty standardly boring Sunday - until a moment ago, when I discovered £145 in notes between the drawers under my bed. Completely unexpected. Did I put them there to hide from someone - but who? Why? Or did I sleep-hide them? Could they have just grown?

Terrific. Symbolic, ete etc. They can go towards the £15,000 buikding charge I will - it was confirmed as the Residents' Meeting - have to pay next year.

Almost 1%. Still, musn't begrudge. A miracle is a miracle.

Wow! Can't wait. What I've been looking forward to for months - A RESIDENTS' MEETING.

Don't wait up for my report.

"Did you know," my sister tells me on the phone, "the place has an outside loo?"

We could easily get planninge permission, I enthuse, and raise the money.

But the line is bad. My mobile is complicated and my sister is in a phone box. Why can't we settle the details now? Finding Stuart's house is proving such a problem. The young Eurasian man is trying to be very helpful, although there seems to be no staircase, just a skylight below a trendy room.

After that, it took me a long time to wake..

When, like now, I get back from a long hard day away not only from home but also blogland, I almost invariably feel disappointed when I reconnect.

Sulky, pissed off even.

That's being stupid, and childish. Like a child I want to feel important and for things to have happened while I was away. Sure, I've had 60 (or 50 or 80 or 11) visitors in my twelve hours absence, but none of them left messages and 4 out of 5 of them will, if they are strangers and "average', have visited my site for less than 5 seconds.

My home as well as my screen feels empty, drained of love.

What self-indulgant bullshit! Do I really write here just for the sake of attention? What do you do?

I have just woken up from a dream.

We are all asking the wrong question.

What we should be wondering is -

How can we help the banks?

Filed Under: Leisure Author: Gary Hess, stolen from his blog.

This is definitely a very controversial subject, but was Jesus really the image of Satan?

The bible states that Satan can appear as the image of a man, a friend or even a serpent or reptile. Now, Jesus himself was not a bad person at all, but what has come after could certainly be considered Satanist. As well, from all the teachings, God pretty much wishes upon us for to believe in him without evidence. So why would God send ‘the son of God’ to convince the non-believers that he is real?

During Jesus’ lifetime, he was a humble, observant and magical being. He could change water to wine, walk on water and even cure leprosy with the touch of his palm. After his rise from the dead (which, in itself could be seen as Satanist), Jesus once again (and possibly even furthered) his status amongst the Israelites. His followers after would then create wars, rape and even commit murder in Christs name. Is this something God would want?

When you’re a child and you ask your mother or father ‘Is God real?’, they respond ‘Of course he is.’ if they are believers. If then asked, ‘How do you know?’, they respond ‘I just do.’ They don’t ramble on about Jesus (atleast for the most part) or even ponder the idea of Jesus returning and proving once and forall that Jesus is real (until the next generation that is). They just believe. Why would God want one generation and not another to believe in him without actually truly seeing the son of God, but a totally different generation will get to heaven although they have seen God and were pretty much forced into believing it by seeing first hand.

Even the ten commandments say ‘I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt not have strange gods before me.’ Why would God want his followers to pray to Jesus or Mary or even Joseph or any of the saints instead of himself. Is that not a form of strange gods before him?

For a long time I have been suspicious of the phrase "Magic Realism". Not that, over the years, I haven't enjoyed many Latin American novels, but the term seemed to imply whimsy and fairy tales, which is far from the stuff I have ever wanted to write.

But in a new biography of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Gerard Martin describes it as writing "through the worldview of the characters themselves without any indication from the author that this worldview is quaint, folkloric or superstitious" - and, suddenly I can imagine my father being the centre of a novel written in precisely these terms.

Despite all his learning and business acumen, he was somebody who believe, at some level, that there were angels dancing on a needle, fairies at the bottom of the garden

A wise person,

some Greek once said,

knows how foolish they are.

I am foolish.

Seriously - if anyone can read this Symbol typeface straight off here in my blog, without recourse to technology, please leave a Comment

Or does it read like gobbledy greek to everyone else?  I am feel slightly mad, as to me (in OSX and Firefox) it reads like a normal sentence.

[It has taken so long for me to come up with a title for this post that I have lost the will to write it.]

For the last few weeks, I have been waiting.

Although during this time I have acheived some important things I've put my life on hold a bit.

Maybe it dates back to my early career in journalism and TV, working to deadlines - but unless I'm busy I tend to get apathetic. All those tedious little tidying-up, paying-bills, writing-business-letter jobs only ever get done when I'm a bit fired up doing more interesting things.

I have been waiting to hear from a friend who is, effectively, publishing my book for me. He runs a small academic publishing house and knows all about printing, warehousing etc. But for the last weeks he has been busy (and uncommunicative) and then abroad.

Anyway, waiting over. We meet tomorrow to (lets use the jargon) take the Low Life Games project to a new level

No one has yet remarked on my new avatar, aka a photograph of part of my face. The angle it makes my nose bulbous and my eyes slightly crossed - but admire it while you can. I will revert to an abstract or bucolic rural scene before too long.

this post is dedicated to Pippin the Retrospective Hunchback

1. Today, on one of the many trains I travel, I would like to meet, enthrall and seduce an intelligent, sexy married woman.

2. er...

3. Better weather?

4. Essentially, it's a wish list of one at the moment.

5. Yes, that's it. A passionate, illicit, encounter with a stranger on a train.

Michael Jackson has come to a last minute provisional deal with the Sheikh from Bahrein who was suing him for zillions of dollars, so the baby-dangler will not be giving evidence in the High Court in London this afternoon.

This will disappoint the fans, devastate the media, and deny dozens of lawyers of lucrative court fees. How selfish.

In fact, Jackson's fleeting visit to this country might have boosted the economy more than Alistair Darling's two and a half per cent reduction in VAT.

Lets hope the deal falls apart. I long to hear that a High Court judge has asked him some stupid put-down... I don't know "what are you famous for?"

Sunday seemed to go on for ever - but at last hooray this week gets started.

Only a tedious business trip to Godalming today, but it mean travelling, and meeting peope and feeling important. Plus the meeting should result in a deal, eventually me (and various family relations) getting some money.

Then tomorrow... Wednesday... lots of things to happen before another Sunday comes along.

"Oh, come on!"  As someone who can never wait, I am finding Buddhism hard work >>>

"Patience is a mind that is able to accept, fully and happily, whatever occurs. It is much more than just gritting our teeth and putting up with things. Being patient means to welcome whole heartedly whatever arises, having given up the idea that things should be other than what they are. It is always possible to be patient, there is no situation so bad that it cannot be accepted patiently, with a open, accomodating and peaceful heart.

Shock! Horror! from Politico, the USA's top political website:

President-elect Barack Obama has yet to attend church services since winning the White House earlier this month, a departure from the example of his two predecessors.

On the three Sundays since his election, Obama has instead used his free time to get in workouts at a Chicago gym.

Asked about the president-elect's decision to not attend church, a transition aide noted that the Obamas valued their faith experience in Chicago but were concerned about the impact their large retinue may have on other parishoners.

"Because they have a great deal of respect for places of worship they do not want to draw unwelcome or inappropriate attention to a church not used to the attention their attendance would draw," said the aide.

Both President-elect Bush and President-elect Clinton managed to attend church in the weeks after they were elected.

I was relaxing in bed, thinking up a story I could write about someone who had got away with murder - never even a suspect - and what it might feel like years afterwards...

And then I remembered, in vivid detail, my old recurring nightmare.

It gives me an excuse to re-blog it:

(a revised version of a post originally published in April 2006)

It has come back to me.

A Day to Worship the Sun.

The day of sun.

Ha, ha. Forget it. Start again.

A day to worship the Christian God in all Its (His, Her) trinitic complexity.

In my childhood, a day to worship the Anglican God, to differentiate me from worshipping the Catholic God, which my mum did, also principally on Sunday.

I worshipped the Anglican God at boarding school, on my own when staying with my mother - but most memorably, enjoyably, with my dad. It seems to have been when we were best together. Sundays meant Eucherist or Matins followed by reading the Observer. We talked about everything, including Transubstation and how long Macmillan would stay Prime Minister...

Time past. I got married. I got divorced. I knelt down by the bed one day (not a Sunday) and realised I didn't believe on Anyone or Anything to pray to.

Years, years later, when my father was too infirm to drive, I took him to Church on Sundays. Took him inside, made sure he was comfortable - and waited outside for the duration of the service.

Soon, he stopped wanting to go to Church. For my Lack of Faith, I don't think he ever forgave me.

Of course I know you are dozens, hundreds, thousands of different people. Potentially millions. And you don't all together and talk about me.

And you - that's each one of you - know that we don't all gang up against you. "We" don't exist -just a countless number of "I"s, with our own varying concerns, thoughts, prejudices. Even your Friends on this site don't have parties and neglect to send you an invitation.

Of course we all know this.  To believe the opposite would be big-time paranoia, for sure.

Yet, in a certain, defensive mood...

...and I'm sure I'm not the only one...

In a certain, defensive mood, I sometimes catch myself thinking of you all as - well, "you all". An undifferentiated mass of themness. Collective and generally hostile.

"They didn't like that". "They are ignoring me." "Did I say something to upset them?" "I'm not going to bother if they don't appreciate me more."

Crazy? We're all crazy sometimes. Aren't we?

1. My nickname at school was Pink Elephant, aka Pinkie.

2. I hate corriander

3. Long ago, when getting a visa on the Syrian frontier, I signed myself Elvis Presley.

4. I have never had a wet dream.

5. My parents almost called me Sebastian.

6. Or was it Basil?

7. I sleep better if I'm wearing socks.

Tomorrow, when I arrive in my mother's village, somehow I've got to warm up the car, then get my mother in it and drive her to the (specialist) doctor in Guildford. It's turning into a major expedition (did we bring the right rug? did I put the potatoes in the oven to bake so they're ready when we come back? Have we got the Disabled Parking Permit to park near the Hospital.

The one thing I can't be is late. But, after yesterday's unscheduled bus trip on the way to Bexhill, today I was an hour late for a business meeting at Gatwick because the train was diverted following a track suicide. I'm getting paranoid and plan to leave here at 7.30

forceps

a handheld, hinged instrument used for grasping and holding objects. Forceps are used when fingers are too large to grasp small objects or when many objects need to be held at one time while the hands are used to perform a task. The term forceps is used almost exclusively within the medical field. Outside medicine, people usually refer to forceps as tweezers, tongs, pliers, clips or clamps.

The singular and plural form of forceps is always forceps, never 'forcep.' Nor is it referred to as a "pair of" as one refers to a pair of scissors. Etymologically, the word derives from the Latin 'Forca,' meaning a snare or trap.

Bexhill-on-Sea. A place to retire to, especially after service to the British Empire. The saying goes "Dover for the Continent, Bexhill for the Incontinent."

Yesterday I decided to go to Bexhill to see an art exhibition. On the train Bexhill is a hop and a skip round the corner - three stops, 50 minutes and a nice view of the sea and the Downs.

But when we got to Eastbourne, the train guard cheerily announced there were cattle on the track ahead of us at a place called Norman Bay - not on the railway map but endlessly repeated as if we should know.

After a lot of confusion, a bus arrived an hour later with a grumpy driver and instructions to seeek out and visit all the minor stations that my train had been scheduled to zoom through.

The driver appeared to be annoyed when, arriving by a winding road at the first station, no one wanted to get out. More annoyed at the second station when the same thing happened. At last, the dim driver's brain wheeled into action. "Anyone want (the third station)?" Somebody did. Another, middle aged, palintive voice said they wanted Bexhill. The driver, who I was begiining to realise was a woman, snapped like a hopeless teacher facing bad discipline in class: "You can jolly well wait your turn."

A man got off at the third station, and driver asked about the fourth. Yes, someone at the back wanted it, and soon he moves forward to get off. But madam driver doesn't drive past station four, arrives at Bexhill (it's taken over an hour, instead of less than 20 minutes on the train) snaps at the unfortunate man whose staion has been missed ("why didn't you speak up?") and - for nor driving reason - slams on the brakes hard, so that several elderly passengers, readying to get out almost fall over in the aisle.

At last one long suffering member of the southern British Middle Class has had enough and tells the driver not to take it out on us. All the time I've been keeping my grumbling sotto voce, but say something in agreement.

Then, as we file out the bus, one man turns to the driver and says something like: "you've done a marvellous job. Never in my life have I come across a group of people so aggressive and disagreeable as the passengers on this bus."

Is this guy mad? Where was the jeering, the rotten apples and eggs - or even the singing of a mildly rebellious song?

I can't resist. As I pass the driver I tell her, softly, that she is a creep. And outside say something about her to the Southern Railways guy in charge. Later I'm told someone else had made an official complaint.

...And Bexhill-on-Sea? The art exhibition? Perhaps I'll tell you another time.

Michael Jackson, with his doctors' consent, is giving evidence in the Old Bailey on Monday, to convince a British judge he doesn't have to pay several million $s back to an Arab Sheikh.

In other words, an American singer can be sued by a Gulf State millionaire in an English Court, although the UK has nothing to do with the case.

The City and Banks may be collapsing, industry finished, the Church of England a laughing stock, the Empire long gone but London is still the Litigation Capital of the World!

Is there a Facebook equivalent for intelligent grown up people?

I lost my Password shortly after I joined last year, probably for Freudian reasons, but though I had better reconnect because I am going to publish Low Life Games in my own name, despite the temptation to stay with Alec Weston.

I much prefer being here.

Facebook is so jolly, on the edge of being hysterical. A list of messages often from people I don't know without dates on them, so, for example I'm not sure if a friend of a friend had a car accident last week or in June last year...

Maybe I don't get the point of it. Does everyone else here belong? Please someone explain

"
The mind has the power to create all pleasant and unpleasant objects," this Buddhist book tells me. "The world is the result of the kharma, or actions, of the beings who inhabit it. A pure world is the result of pure actions and an impure world the result of impure actions. Since all actions are created by mind, ultimately everything - including the world itself - is created by mind. There is no creator other than the mind.
"

Hmmm.

When I'm with my mother, most Saturdays, I cook a chicken lunch, do the washing up, the week's shopping, and then her paperwork - bills, filing. And I do alll this with energy if not with a permanent smile.

At about 5 o'clock she tells me (always a bit different every week) "(your sister) says you must bring me some soup at a quarter pst six and I'd like a slice of that lemon meringe pie". And - instead of saying "Would you mind if I bring it ten minutes early so I can catch the 6.20 bus" (otherwise I'm dealyed for an extra hour) - I go into an angry sulk, back into childhoo.

[I meant "childhood" but my first version gets my moood better]

I am reading a late and wonderful Graham Greene novel, Monsignor Quixote, which I bought 2nd hand at the Amnesty bookshop nearly Pelham Square. And I keep wondering

whatever's happened to 10loves10?

Thank you for asking. My dieting seems to be going well. Much to my surprise not have late night ice cream and cake isn't proving that difficult, after the first 34 hours. Not having all the other things isn't too difficult either.

I'm on a health kick high. Self indulgant eating is suddenly so Yesterwes