Words tattooed on the body are curious, more so to me than pictures or images which are so much busier. But what would you decide on? Latest ones I’ve clocked were:
Torres (male upper arm down to elbow, Cream (woman band around arm above elbow), and another that was something to do with Philip Larkin but has gone away on the wind.
I was just thinking on the way home, what if that frustrated man from yesterday actually went home and did himself in, and how the human voice can sometimes not find sufficient or precise language to be persuasive. Then I had a gasp of a thought that those words I said, which flew out of me like heat from the oven, could have been the last thing he heard and how mum-ish they were … and then I calmed down and remembered that he was surrounded by other people, all of whom ignored him and let him rave away to himself and that possibly weak words may not be as disregarding as no words whatsoever.
And then I disagreed with myself on that.
And decided humans should be capable of better words in the midst of raging rowers.
At the last reckoning it’s still a bit of a toss up.
But I am still coming down on the side of doing a practical rowing intervention next time. Take man to the rowing machine, request person on rowing machine get off and then run away without further explanation. I think the situation was solve able, it would require initiative in the art of de-fusing.
Yesterday evening a man was very frustrated on a bicycle beside me about a rowing machine. I attempted to calm his agitation since he was effin and blinding in my sweaty ear. He replied to my mild suggestion that he consult staff about his agitation that he might as well go home and commit suicide. He took off a toute vitesse and my trail of “don’t say such a thing” uttered, tripping at 5.7 miles an hour was lost and ineffectual.
It was a very extreme reaction to an impediment with rowing. But somehow I wasn’t quite ready and able to respond to it.
The worst of it was there was a woman working in the facility who is the most helpful person on the planet, but she was round the corner and didn’t witness his outburst.
Is it my imagination but are the most helpful women in the world regularly called Mary?
I’ve been watching the transformation of the new swimming pool at Main & 33rd with great interest since I am regularly in the vicinity of it and take a peek.
I took a bit of an inhale when I noted that the lockers/changing rooms are right beside the front window.
All further developments will be reported anon.
Staff came out of it recently: they told me they were undergoing an induction. Technically it should open in early August.
Why do readers/viewers insist on repositioning a work in relation to themselves as a starting point? Why not reposition yourself in relation to the work and engage within its four corners, rather than your own? Then by all means return to your own.
I am currently reading a work that if I didn’t reposition myself I would be unable to read it and there are so far two very vital things within it, in addition to an overwhelming pile of sexist drivel. But the consideration of these two other things should not be lost, nor should the matter be overlooked that sexist windbags very much exist and have existed in the world. If anything such documentation enlightens as to how reductive they are and it’s a honest portrait.
I’ve also noticed how Twitter is increasingly a process by which the world is repositioned according to the I. The Moi. A kind of hark this is how the world sees me, (RT) pay heed and smudge budge this is how I want to be seen, take note. And in between it’s not-stop alignment. I went to Twitter to exchange on ideas and garner reading suggestions. I certainly have done that with some individuals, but the mud bath of alignment and political calculation and popularity vox pops is tedious.
I love summer. I love our community garden. Today I was thinking that if a child grew at the rate a zuccini (courgette) plant does each day, you’d have a stroke saying good morning to your son/daughter each day. Another gardener gave me two ton of advice today. My garden is looking tremendous! This year I wanted to have a good year in it and thanks to my friends Helen and Earl who came and helped me dig it (when my hip was banjaxed from falling over), the small plot is flourishing.
I am blessed to have and enjoy lovely summer days with my son, who is a dote. Today we embarked on a home reno project together of making shelves from scraps of wood. Unfortunately our hammer is missing in action. How do you lose a hammer in 600 square feet? And who ate two of the drill bits, and the chuck key?
God save me from audacious male galoots. Make that Galoots. Indeed make that GALOOTS. You’d get more sense out of a pod of potato seeds. In fact you’d get more sense from a conversation with an acid tab sitting on the shelf of a fridge untouched by human tongue.
I’d like to say I’ve encountered enough of the above, therefore if you are one, do not make yourself known to me. Find a milk float and join the bottles, they’ll make a remarkably similiar clank, clank, clank noise.
If you are a female audacious galoot: ditto.
My son says I should get a GMC Canyon. I was confessing in reply that I am getting 70’s Datsun desires. He replies that when it comes to cars we have the opposite dreams. We reached a sudden consensus on the Fargo, which I was calling a Chevy. So I say x fella has one of those and he says yeah, but I want an older one than that. I point out that I think that man’s Fargo is a 1942.