Songfest ‘13

Just back from Sweden, all worn out
Foot aching from tapping
Just noticed an ache in my hand
And realised it’s from all the clapping

Lightshows and lyrics and music galore
With no cheap sets-a-flapping
As wind machines blow, and fog machines fog
Highlighting dancers, who are, well, strapping… ahem.

It’s Eurovision time. The Eurosongfest. The Eurovision Song Contest.

A competition that has been running for the last million or so years, sporting winners such as Celine Dion, Katrina and the Waves, Abba, the Brotherhood of Man, Dana and Dana International.

The Mansion transported me, very kindly I must add, to a front row seat in the Malmö Opera House, somewhere in Sweden, and I watched, transfixed.

I’ve pressed a special stone in the Mansion wall to keep the gateway open, so I can see the second semi-final on Thursday… and the actual event on Saturday.

Some say one night is too long for this event.

Not me though. I’m not ‘some’. I’m different. I’m me.

I’d watch it every night if I could.

Remember Bonnie ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ Tyler? She’s representing the United Kingdom / Royaume-Uni on Saturday. I always support the locals, so good luck Bonnie… and Ireland… and Iceland… and the Netherlands… and… who else? Denmark! Good luck Denmark!

Who will win? Europe will decide. Possibly politically, fashionably, predictably or dreadfully. I won’t help though, as I won’t be voting. I’ll be sat in my front row seat, far too busy for such things.

Loving it, and feeling good.

Well… why not?

Inconsistency as an old art form

I like to think I’m quite good at a lot of things. I actually like to think that I’m extremely good at a lot of things. But, in reality, and if I’m being one hundred per cent honest, I know that I’m not.

Sometimes I’m better than others, sometimes worse. Sometimes I’m so terrible I wonder why I even bothered to start in the first place. And sometimes I wonder if it was me that had actually done what I’d done (for better or for worse, it works either way).

But what, I hear you ask in frustration, are these ‘things’ I’m rabbiting on about? Well, I shall tell you, in a roundabout* way.

Anything I do.

Everything I do.

Writing. Reading. Creating unique pieces of computer art. Communicating. Listening. Remembering. Sleeping. Dreaming. Sneezing.

Everything I do, I’ll do it differently the next time.

I write a good piece… I then write a terrible one (complete with speling errors!).
I read the first so many fabulous chapters of an un-put-downable book, and then forget that I’d even started it.
I flourish and embellish and exaggerate and colour-in some work of art which wouldn’t look out of place in trendy art galleries anywhere around the world, and when I next look at it, it’s as though, well, a strange computer virus has attacked my art software and distorted whatever I have done.
I’ve never been a great communicator, verbally, but sometimes I’m magnificent. I really, truly, deeply am.
I have one good ear and one not so good one (just the two!), so I miss a lot of what I’m being told… and sometimes make up my own words to try to catch up, thus getting other things wrong. Sometimes hilariously so (especially when I’m singing along to a song. Enya’s Orinoco Flow will always contain the line Save the Whale, Save the Whale, Save the Whale, as that is how I first heard it many centuries ago).
I remember that line as it was oh so wrong, but can I remember any others? Nope! The tune, yes… well, most of it. I even forget people who I sit next to at work occasionally. Sigh.
Sometimes, I sleep soundly. Other times, I wake about fifty times during the night. Sometimes, I sleep too heavily and feel dreadful, and other times I love waking and sleeping on and off all night long.
I love my dreams. I remember some, but not all. Sometimes I dream regularly, sometimes I don’t. Currently, I’m somewhat in the middle…
And sneezing… sometimes, I break the sound barrier as I sneeze that loudly… other times, I stifle a little achoo in a corner somewhere.

Completely inconsistent. But always me.

It’s the core that matters anyway, not the inconsistencies. Well, that’s how I feel about it. Most of the time.

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This post has been written in response to Sideview’s Weekend Theme, which this week is Inconsistency… *I didn’t participate in last week’s theme, Swings and Roundabouts, so I added a little sideways mention at the beginning there. If you’d like to participate in Sideview’s weekly challenge pop along to her site, and have a look at some other posts written by other bloggers who may not be as inconsistent as me. I.

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Incidentally, the words Inconsistent and Inconsistency were first used in a decade very close to my heart. Yes, that’s right. Between 1640 and 1650 the word came into existence.

Is it just by chance that I’m as inconsistent as I am, looking at that rather random coincidence of timing? Synchronicities are never far away… and I have found another link to my 1642 Quest… although its meaning is as allusive as with all of the other links I have found. Answers will be along soon, I’m sure of it. I just have to ask the right questions first of all!

I still feel good though, even with all the questions, answers and inconsistencies. And that, as a good core, is all that matters…

One Minute Ramble: Reach for the skies!

• A journey can take many different paths from its beginning to its destination, as can an idea from conception to realisation.
• A dream may start in one place, and end in a completely different one.
• There is more than one way to get from point A to point B.

Those three statements came to me when I first saw this tree. I imagined the trunk representing the foundation of an idea or a dream, and all of the branches and twigs to be the various ways of reaching the realisation / destination. No way was the wrong way, but they all ventured outwards and upwards in their own way.

Eventually, whichever route is taken, the destination will be reached.

It doesn’t matter how long the journey takes, how thin the branch may get, the destination is right there at the end, just waiting to be reached.

The destination is the goal. The realisation. The manifestation of the idea.

With so many different avenues being available to go down to bring about our dreams, what is stopping us from actually reaching them? Is it because we give up too soon?

If we have an idea, we should reach for the skies, follow our journey and live our dream… we may find that we get there sooner than we thought…! And if we feel good along the way… even better!

Look into my eyes…

“Is he looking at me?” Shadowcat ponders, before he meanders and wanders arind the Grinds, stopping to wonder, under skies that thunder, should he dash for cover or wait for food?

He returns for a while, sits, stares with his cat ‘smile’ and hypnotic eyes, looking and thoughtfully thinking, purposely purring, yet waiting in style… until the first raindrop makes him run a mile.

“I’ll be back!” I sense him think, as all I can see is a tail, long and black, vanish out back. But I wonder… did his stare put me under … or did I hear him think?

Five Different Ways to Resign

There’s a news story doing the rounds at the moment about a worker who wrote his resignation letter on the icing on a cake that he’d baked, which he handed to his management on his 31st birthday. He handed them a normal letter as well, but there’s nothing like making a statement when you decide to walk out!

Here are five other ways, if you have the time to organise them, or money to spend on them, to make your resignation really hit the mark:

I Resign! I:
Take out a double page advertisement in a competitor company’s newsletter, and scatter a few copies around the office, open at the page. It would be advisable to only use this method if you were certain you were going to resign, with no intention of ever trying to go back. Probably best used after a humungous Lottery win.

I Resign! II:

Hire one of those sky-writing companies, who write messages in the sky using a plane as a pen. On the day you choose to resign, and at the time you have booked the sky-writing session, set off the fire alarm, and evacuate the building so everyone can see the letter being written from the fire assembly point.

I Resign! III:
Whilst volunteering to work in the staff canteen, open all of the tins of Alphabet Spaghetti, and spread your message all across the management’s table… or the table next to theirs, if you think you may want to ask for your old job back one day (it would also be advisable to clear up afterwards in this case)

I Resign! IV:
Ask NASA to get the Mars Explorer to write out your resignation in letters formed by stones gathered from the Martian surface, and photograph it afterwards so the text looks like the opening sequence of Star Wars. Maybe adding the Star Wars theme may add to the atmosphere a little with this resignation.

I Resign! V:
Travel back in time to when the Pyramids were being built, and write your resignation in hieroglyphics on one of the walls of a Pyramid that will be opened in the nineteenth century. Use a different style of hieroglyphics, so that your letter will not be uncovered, or deciphered, until the very day you resign. You will, of course, have also arranged for this discovery to be broadcast on every news network around the globe so the message gets across. Mentioning your company’s name in the ancient message may mean that your job will remain open for you, should you choose to return.

Once you’ve resigned, you need to ask yourself what’s next? Perhaps the first thing you could do is come up with a list of five things you could do after resigning… but remember… feel good every step of the way!

When characters call

Caitlin.
Clancy Farquhar.
Lady Emeralda Smart.
Cirencester Bloom.
Walpole E. Epstein.
Lycralad.
Reg the Vampire.
Gerald.
Wendy Windways.
Agnes Ontario.
And others…

Ten different characters, each with a totally different story. Some crossover, and appear in another’s story; some appear only once, never to be seen again. And some simply provide their name, never to return…

But, when I write about these characters, I have to wonder who it is that is steering their tale.

I have a feeling that it’s the characters themselves. They come to life when I write about them, and stop me in my tracks if I want them to do something they don’t want to do, or simply just wouldn’t do.

“I’m not like that”, they’d say, or something similar.

I’d like them to walk down a hill – they end up racing along a river in a speedboat.

I want them to silently watch on – they don’t – I think, can’t – stay silent.

I have an idea for a story… they have other ideas.

Characters.

Should they be free, or simply be puppets?

I’d prefer freedom myself.

If I was a character.

Oh, Wednesday!

I’ve had an unusual experience this morning.

Not a brand new one, but a new one all the same. I sound like I’m talking writing in riddles, but I’m not.

This morning I burned my belly.

Sorry, I should have told you to put your drink down before you read that.

Now, I can hear the questions whirling around in your mind… He burned his belly? On what? He’s done it before? On what?

I’ll explain. The explanation is very simple really, but before I explain about today’s singeing episode, I’ll write about my previous one, to provide some background drama.

I very often write about my having the physique of a Greek God, which I do. All Adonis-like, toned, tanned and muscular; the envy of many. That goes without saying. The thing is, it’s slightly hidden beneath a little excess.

If I stand at a certain angle, I can just about make out the rippling six pack abs when I look in the mirror, with the light at a certain brightness behind me, and I close one eye. And I don’t look too long at the reflection.

Several years ago, I bought myself a set of those electrocution pads, as I call them. The rubber pads that you stick to various parts of your body, and plug them into a power pack that is attached to your waist. You are then to go about your normal day, whilst regularly experiencing strong spasms surge through whichever muscle you have said pad strapped to. The electric current is meant to tone the muscles gently, and build up their shape nicely. Or, in my case, make you look as though you are dancing in the middle of a frozen lake with arms and legs shooting out at all kinds of angles more often than not.

Those kind of movements don’t help with bad hair either. Anyway, I digress.

One night, I’d somehow managed to forget that I had these electrocution pads on (I was very tired!), so they did their surging best to me as I slept. Unfortunately, as I slept, I didn’t feel them burning me, and when I awoke the next morning, I had a few red ‘burn’ rings across my rather relaxed belly.

The marks cleared up within a month, and I never used the electrocution pads since that night.

And the rings weren’t actually burns either… they were bruises, I would say, in the skin, where the pads had pinched the skin together as they caused the belly muscles to contract.

This morning, I told you I’d tell you, was a different burn completely.

I was ironing, as usual, getting ready for work. I was ironing the shirt that I wanted to wear. As I was ironing the shirt that I wanted to wear, at that time, I wasn’t wearing a shirt. I ironed the cuff, brought the iron up the sleeve, which was by the edge of the ironing board, and momentarily touched my belly with the hot plate of the iron. I didn’t think I was so close to the board, the rest of me wasn’t, but my relaxed belly definitely was.

I soared up to the ceiling without leaving the floor. My back straightened as I dropped the iron, hot-side-down onto the sleeve. Luckily. I wasn’t wearing any shoes, and I didn’t need it to land on my foot, so it was a good catch by the ironing board. Quickly, I removed the iron from the sleeve, no harm done. I then rubbed my belly, which apart from being a little tender wasn’t marked in any way.

Well, not that I could see, anyway. I didn’t have the time to check further in the mirror.

The belly’s fine now, though, I’m pleased to report.

I do have to bring it under control once again, however. Get the old abs back into shape, naturally, without any electrical influence, so that I no longer touch the ironing board when I iron, whilst, at the same time standing away from it.

Lame Adventures recently wrote a post, entitled ‘Feel the Burn’ as it happens, about those new fangled six minutes a week work outs that are supposed to really work. I’m starting to wonder if doing them for six minutes a day would bring in the results quicker. I can gather six minutes a day together no problem.

I shall let you know how I get on…