My Crazy Life

Luck..or the Lack of it

Sunday here it is .. properly after a short sleep.. a sleep that was infused with reality and fragments of the past: hallucinations …a soul that ventures into the unknown or the suppressed known.. who knows.

The sun invading the room through the blinds.. forcing me to shake the cobwebs of the night from the brain…the water splashing on my face,a natural wake up call .. what shall I do today?? It is Sunday.. The sabbath.. shall I roam the streets like an ancient mariner .. or peak into empty stores..

Breakfast…just a cup of strong Irish Breakfast with some toast.

Clothes.. anything from the semi- clean heap on the floor.. not the corner one

The newspaper stuck in the mail slot.. death scattered across the page..famine..fires..and floods. The usual Hollywood gossip in the A&E section, no more mention of books, music or decent movies. A horoscope column with a picture of some Hollywood star who turns 12 today…
My horoscope for this Sunday; one of the 365 different ‘tips’ they have

mind is on bigger issues and long-range plans. You are optimistic and enthusiastic about your ideas, but disinclined to read the fine print or study all the facts, which can result in an error in judgment. Try not to be lax about important details. Don’t help any stranger today, even if you feel like a good Samaritan.

No mention of love, sex or money.. where is the fun or the cliche of it all?? *an inner sad face*

“Old age isn’t a battle: old age is a massacre.”

— Philip Roth -Everyone

The Present

Here in the industrial world the ocean is grey.. the tap water is chlorinated… food is microwaved…love is cyber…sex is cyber too..and stalkers are never men who stalk you in the middle of the night and follow you in the dark streets under a moonless night, but a bitter friend who knows your life through social media…

“The printing presses of the state treasuries cranked out reams of paper currency- showing wise kinds and blissful martyrs- while bankers wept and peasants starved.”

— Alan Furst - Night Soldiers

Her voice sounded like a scattered strand of pearl.

“Phil was probably passed out somewhere, enjoying his dead father’s legacy. I found myself wishing I had a loved one who would die and leave me their barbiturates, but I couldn’t think of anyone who’d ever loved me that much. My uncle had already promised his to the mail lady.”
—Donald Ray Pollock, “Bactine”

“

“Archbishop. Why do I never read the lesson?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“In church. Everybody else gets to read and one never does. It’s not laid down, is it? It’s not off-limits?”

“Not that I’m aware, ma’am.”

“Good. Well in that case I’m going to start. Leviticus, here I come. Goodnight.”

The archbishop shook his head and went back to Strictly Come Dancing.

”

— The Uncommon Reader- Alan Bennett

“

“I’m just kicking the tyres on this one, ma’am, but it would help if we were able to put out a press release saying that, apart from English literature, Your Majesty was also reading ethnic classics.”

“Which ethnic classics did you have in mind, Sir Kevin? The Kama Sutra?”

Sir Kevin sighed.

”

— The Uncommon Reader- Alan Bennett

“Once I start a book I finish it. That was the way one was brought up. Books, bread and butter, mashed potato—one finishes what’s on one’s plate.”

— The Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett

“

“I’m the same. Though now that one is here I suppose one ought to borrow a book.”

Mr Hutchings smiled helpfully.

“Is there anything you would recommend?”

“What does Your Majesty like?”

The Queen hesitated, because to tell the truth she wasn’t sure. She’d never taken much interest in reading. She read, of course, as one did, but liking books was something she left to other people. It was a hobby and it was in the nature of her job that she didn’t have hobbies. Jogging, growing roses, chess or rock-climbing, cake decoration, model aeroplanes. No. Hobbies involved preferences and preferences had to be avoided; preferences excluded people. One had no preferences. Her job was to take an interest, not to be interested herself. And besides, reading wasn’t doing. She was a doer. So she gazed round the book-lined van and played for time. “Is one allowed to borrow a book? One doesn’t have a ticket?”

“No problem,” said Mr Hutchings.

“One is a pensioner,” said the Queen, not that she was sure that made any difference.

“Ma’am can borrow up to six books.”

“Six? Heavens!”

”

— The Uncommon Reader - Alan Bennett