Ra Black Dog!
Saturday 11:55 p.m.
After two pints from the barrel. Perhaps Onan could advise. (This fung thing won't accept links again!) There's two kilos of sugar in this brew. The tin says one kilo. How much, Onan, do you reckon? It's got to be well over 5%! Pretty squiffy already on two pints!
After half a pint, I was watching a show on the telly about re-creating Sargeant Pepper's. They were doing "I'm leaving home." I didn't cry very much at all for years and years and years. I think it was after starting meditating that I started to cry. I was thinking of the girl who wasn't getting on with her parents (no point in just jumping into this if you're a pervert landing on this bloggy looking for hotboys. Maybe this is just between you and me, Jack.) and the lyric seemed so apposite, and brilliantly encapsulating ... I'm a lot less hard skinned than I used to be. Oh, I cried, and cried, and cried!
Anyway, something like that is going to make you look crap at writing anything.
Drama requires conflict, I think. Last night I was supposed to be watching a movie called Babel. It was a very well made movie and it was nice to see Brad Pitt doing some acting instead of being Achilles in whatever awful crap that was. These joes don't get the jobs if they can't act. Sometimes the jobs don't require that much really good acting. So half way through Babel, which was an interesting enough movie, I stopped watching it. I don't want to have my face shoved into how upset the flatheids can be. I was once interested in seeing all that kitchen sink emotionalism, but now I can't be bothered. I accept that for performers it would be good to do that. It's acting.
I'd prefer watching The Importance of Being Earnest. The kind of drama I really like is the drama of the absurd. I can't spell the French boy's name anymore. Someone wrote a play about a dead body being off stage and the dead body got larger and larger till the legs were sticking onto the stage. Now, (Anoiulh? Anouilh ... how can you expect to be famous with a name no one can spell or remember even if they were sober?!) The Rhinoceros! What a great play that was!
The reason why one cannot treat this as a writing medium , apart from being able to do it when you're out your face, is because ... well, the typeface just changed there to what it was about a month ago. Give me a duck to chase so I get pull a feather out of it's bum and write with that!
Oh, to be perfect! How many things am I not very good at, apart from equanimity? Almost anything you care to mention.
This morning I couldn't take a proper vase breath because the after-effects would have blown me out the window. I could take wee ones. I thought of all the things I hadn't done, and couldn't do to get this far. It was fung dangerous again. But you couldn't breach it. You just knew it was a time to hang on and wait a wee bit.
Tonight when the Domestic Bliss went out, I sat in the lobby. Until about eleven o clock when I started on the barrel. And it's just like I just can't do it yet.
The Black Dog is a symbol for depression. I don't know why my sleep has been poor sometimes this week since I do not think I have been bevvying more than one day in two. But the third dream I had last night was about The Black Dog.
There were crowds of people in Raeburn Place, but The Black Dog saw me and loved me and wouldn't let me go, although it seemed like a stranger and not my dog. For you doggie people, it was a cross between a greyhound, and Irish Wolfhound, and a Great Dane, a big black dog. At no time did it scare me though sometimes it hugged me in a slightly pre-humping way, and from the back. I took it up the stairs, which were bigger in the dream and full of folk and their different breeds of dogs. The Black Dog loved me so much and was so happy to be with me that I had to kid it on and take it down to the door and fool it so that it was locked out. How it scrambled and lay on it's side in desperation to be with me, and clawed at the door. I was happy thoroughout.
Then I was outside on the street sometime later and The Black Dog found me again, and how amazingly happy it was! I was so happy to find this symbol of depression and delighted that it loved me so!
We don't do depression here in The Amazing Bloggy Church of the Bad Boy Blissheid. If anything, we do acting out. I was very happy that the dog liked me so much. What does that mean, Jack? Drink less beer, Hotboy. There is more than you suspect in this home brew barrel. But it's finished this weekend, Jack. And I loved the dog!
After two pints from the barrel. Perhaps Onan could advise. (This fung thing won't accept links again!) There's two kilos of sugar in this brew. The tin says one kilo. How much, Onan, do you reckon? It's got to be well over 5%! Pretty squiffy already on two pints!
After half a pint, I was watching a show on the telly about re-creating Sargeant Pepper's. They were doing "I'm leaving home." I didn't cry very much at all for years and years and years. I think it was after starting meditating that I started to cry. I was thinking of the girl who wasn't getting on with her parents (no point in just jumping into this if you're a pervert landing on this bloggy looking for hotboys. Maybe this is just between you and me, Jack.) and the lyric seemed so apposite, and brilliantly encapsulating ... I'm a lot less hard skinned than I used to be. Oh, I cried, and cried, and cried!
Anyway, something like that is going to make you look crap at writing anything.
Drama requires conflict, I think. Last night I was supposed to be watching a movie called Babel. It was a very well made movie and it was nice to see Brad Pitt doing some acting instead of being Achilles in whatever awful crap that was. These joes don't get the jobs if they can't act. Sometimes the jobs don't require that much really good acting. So half way through Babel, which was an interesting enough movie, I stopped watching it. I don't want to have my face shoved into how upset the flatheids can be. I was once interested in seeing all that kitchen sink emotionalism, but now I can't be bothered. I accept that for performers it would be good to do that. It's acting.
I'd prefer watching The Importance of Being Earnest. The kind of drama I really like is the drama of the absurd. I can't spell the French boy's name anymore. Someone wrote a play about a dead body being off stage and the dead body got larger and larger till the legs were sticking onto the stage. Now, (Anoiulh? Anouilh ... how can you expect to be famous with a name no one can spell or remember even if they were sober?!) The Rhinoceros! What a great play that was!
The reason why one cannot treat this as a writing medium , apart from being able to do it when you're out your face, is because ... well, the typeface just changed there to what it was about a month ago. Give me a duck to chase so I get pull a feather out of it's bum and write with that!
Oh, to be perfect! How many things am I not very good at, apart from equanimity? Almost anything you care to mention.
This morning I couldn't take a proper vase breath because the after-effects would have blown me out the window. I could take wee ones. I thought of all the things I hadn't done, and couldn't do to get this far. It was fung dangerous again. But you couldn't breach it. You just knew it was a time to hang on and wait a wee bit.
Tonight when the Domestic Bliss went out, I sat in the lobby. Until about eleven o clock when I started on the barrel. And it's just like I just can't do it yet.
The Black Dog is a symbol for depression. I don't know why my sleep has been poor sometimes this week since I do not think I have been bevvying more than one day in two. But the third dream I had last night was about The Black Dog.
There were crowds of people in Raeburn Place, but The Black Dog saw me and loved me and wouldn't let me go, although it seemed like a stranger and not my dog. For you doggie people, it was a cross between a greyhound, and Irish Wolfhound, and a Great Dane, a big black dog. At no time did it scare me though sometimes it hugged me in a slightly pre-humping way, and from the back. I took it up the stairs, which were bigger in the dream and full of folk and their different breeds of dogs. The Black Dog loved me so much and was so happy to be with me that I had to kid it on and take it down to the door and fool it so that it was locked out. How it scrambled and lay on it's side in desperation to be with me, and clawed at the door. I was happy thoroughout.
Then I was outside on the street sometime later and The Black Dog found me again, and how amazingly happy it was! I was so happy to find this symbol of depression and delighted that it loved me so!
We don't do depression here in The Amazing Bloggy Church of the Bad Boy Blissheid. If anything, we do acting out. I was very happy that the dog liked me so much. What does that mean, Jack? Drink less beer, Hotboy. There is more than you suspect in this home brew barrel. But it's finished this weekend, Jack. And I loved the dog!
posted by Hotboy at 11:55 PM
17 Comments:
I take one weekend off, and there's 3 more posts here, it's no wonder I can't get on with my life.
I'd be squiffy on 2 pints of water. Somewhere I have a conversion chart but can I find it when I need it? I seem to recall that every extra kilo of sugar gives you another 2.5%, so you'd be on 7.5% already.
But there's probably no point in saying anything here if you've switched your comments to autodestruct again.
I asked Doctor Robert for an opinion. He says it's just unexpressed grief re your wean shoving off. If you had done the grope therapy like me when you had the chance, you wouldn't be having these problems. When our boy left home I sang He's Leaving Home as he walked out the door. I was being ironic, since I was sure he'd last a week before running back here. That was 6 months ago and he's never returned. What a fortunate creature one is!
Reading between the lines, the career opportunity involved you bestowing sexual favours. I know how hard it can be.
"I took it up the stairs" - brilliant!
Doctor Robert also reckoned the black dog symbolises the happy, well-adjusted bourgeoisie, offering you unconditional acceptance and career advancement, and you keep shutting it out. Have you got access to a good stockbroker?
Doctor Robert? Is it you? I found these two comments in the bulk folder, but there were bulked down, or halved. Dearie me! Somebody is trying to tell me something about this bloggy! The kiddo leaving home never occurred to me. The one who left and didn't see her parents for 4 months did.
What happened to the prosyletising. or however it's spelt? I had to use spell-checker for that one. Was the proselytising a dream?
As for the black dog dream, it tells how you've made friends with suffering. I sleep like a top after a drink- it's just stopping that brings on the dreams.
Ion: This morning, feeling somewhat dazed, I couldn't be bothered working out how to spell that prosyletising, and cut the section. I don't usually do that.. in the spirit of in vino veritas, but even I object to writing that's that bad! Hotboy
I say!
Casper is a black dog. Quite a large black dog, with a big bark, which is good because it deters the criminals. But he's really a softy. Farley is the more aggressive. He won't let people in the garden.
MM III
I've always cried easy, but as a female, I haven't had to deal with all the cultural baggage men do about the need to suppress tears. Then again, it's strange, what makes me cry. I don't cry so much at sad things as I do things I find to be beautiful and/or uplifting... I cry watching nature documentaries or listening to Mozart's Requiem, things like that. And people being kind to each other. I cry a lot at movies, which makes me feel a bit embarrassed when it happens, even though I enjoy it. In medieval Christianity there was this idea of "the gift of tears," that to weep easily was a spiritual gift. It certainly feels that way to me. Crying is a lovely thing! Although I'll say that I've also gotten so angry I've cried, and that's something different... that's just the complete failure of equanimity. Getting indignant about "me"!
And in my experience of depression, it very much is like a gentle, innocent dog that needs the person it's adopted to take care of it. It's all that aggressing against one's state of mind that gets in the way of ra bliss, not things like depression! You can feel blissful and depressed at the same time. It's a kind of tender-hearted feeling. Makes you cry even more easily! I find that depression can be quite conducive to compassion and emotional healing, as long as one doesn't give in too much to the aspect of it that invites self-pity.
Somebody: I don't remember ever crying because of a song before! I might be getting more sensitive. I used to write drama and was interested in watching it on the telly, etc., but then I started disliking the display of raw emotion. I kind of upset me watching people being upset, and I thought why am I putting myself through this?! Of course, there's depression and depression. I've a friend who has clinical depression and I'd rather bite my hand off! Hotboy
Somebody: I heard at least bits of Mozart's requiem (such things are why the Nazi Papa is right to let them say the Tridentine Mass!) in Nice cathedral one day. You'd have cried then. There must have been three hundred folk doing it! Hotboy
Hotboy--You must know more about Catholicism than I do. What's the Tridentine Mass?
Somebody! I was brought up a tim (Catholic!). The Tridentine Rite is the latin Mass. When I was a teenager, you could go anywhere in the world and the mass would be the same. In the late sixties, it was changed and banned from use. Hotboy p.s. A lot of the great composers wrote music for it!
What did they change and why was it banned?
I don't know too much about Catholicism, but I find it fascinating. It seems that most, if not all, the ideas and people to come out of the Christian tradition that are interesting to me come from the Catholic tradition.
Were you a catholic? This blog needs more religion.
Can anyone explain the three teeth part? Surely tims have dentists too!
So you never cried over Wishbone Ash music? Dearie me!
Somebody! The Second Vatican Council was supposed to modernise the church (and allow contraception!), but all they did was screw it up. Anyway, they wanted folk in chapels to be involved in the mass and so the priest started facing the congregation and getting responses. Before that, you sat getting bored for an hour! They banned the latin mass because the conservatives wanted it kept. (The Nazi Papa is a conservative and that's why he's allowing it back!). Anyway, they told me when I was a kid I'd go to hell if I missed a mass on a Sunday, then they changed it into some awful rubbish liturgy... just about then I was on the way out. In retrospect the worse thing they did was try to get the nuns and monks out of closed orders, etc., and gettting them among folk. Definitely flatheids! I've read stuff by St Teresa of Avila (particularly The Interior Castle) and these nuns were going guru yoga though not calling it that. The tims have a huge mystical tradition, but they don't seem to write it down as much as the Tibetans. The Tibetans are really like catholics cubed (as in X and X to the power of 3). (my comment alert isn't working properly, so I came upon this comment by chance again!)Hotboy.
Albert? Is that you? I'm sure if I put Wishbone Ash on, I would probably cry! (Oh, no! he cried!) What teeth are you talking about? Have you got any real ones left?
Have you forgotten your Latin? Tri dens = 3 teeth.
Funnily enough, I'm having a falsie fitted the very morrow! If you have a few hundred spare to invest in my dental bills ... that would help me snd probably improve your karma. How about it?
Albert? You've probably got more houses in Bavaria than teeth!Try selling one of them, or get yourself a proper job! Hotboy
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