Favorite Book or Film

I admit it.

I’m a book junky.

I read them in all places, at all times of the day or night.

Tea and books were made for each other.

They almost make up for all the junk you have to do till you get to that point in your day.

And as for books, bathtubs, and an apple:

pure heaven.

Then there are the “working books”

I have a book for each doctor, and one for my dentist, and only read it there.

That way you at least have something to look forward to.

Books to learn something that takes you to new facets of your life.

Books, like murder mysteries, that can remind you of the second most important thing you have to learn in life:

“You’re not dead. Now get up and get moving.”

And as for films.

Double guilty.

As long as it is:

good,

funny,

not full of death and blood and violence.

Or supernatural rampaging dolls.

Or constant car chases.

Or aliens.

So what is my favorite  film?

Sleuth.

A writer, and his writing, take on real life.

Written by Peter Schaffer.

Of Amadeus and The Royal Hunt of the Sun fame.

Horrendous, brilliant, and incredibly funny.

And requires some time to think about afterwards.

Then there is Noises Off.

Michael Frayn at his best.

A rehearsal drama,

with a marvelous cast, including Carol Burnett and John Ritter,

who, with the help of disappearing and reappearing contact lenses, and plates of herrings that just aren’t where they ought to be,

trace the comic decline of a play in three marvelous acts,

from “love you all, glad we’re all playing together,” to “she’s pregnant, and just where is the fire axe now?”

And then, of course, there is Alan Ayckbourn,

writer of the third most read English language literature,

after the Bible,

and Shakespeare.

A Chorus of Disapproval says it all:

about life in the choral,  chorus with orchestra, and opera biz(es)

A sort of funnier A Chorus Line for musicians:

A new widower joins a theater group,

for therapy,

where he:

ends up as the lead of The Beggar’s Opera,

beds all the women,

infuriates all the men,

gets the best show in town out of the music,

falls in love with the music- only-

and gets run out of town on a rail. Until time for the next show.

This is just so absolutely true, a group of conductor/singer friends and I almost got tossed out of a notoriously correct theatre (stage version) for laughing in what was considered the wrong places.

If only they knew.

And finally,  as everyone who has ever read my blog knows, I am mad for Dr. Who, especially the ones where he meets Agatha Christie and Shakespeare, and lands in the world of Charles Dickens.

Well, actually, Donna Noble is pure brassy joy also.

A truly gutsy lady, who takes on everyone from Queen Elizabeth to the doctor himself.

And wins.

Maybe I identify with her.

Don’t I wish.

And as for books:

I’ll make it short:

A Lantern in Her Hand-

has always fascinated me.

From grade school days.

Then there are the all-time greatest murder mysteries.

There is a top hundred list.

I try to stay up with the list, as I have written a couple myself.

For philosophical days, or years, I suggest Huff’s The Tao Of Pooh,

full of real wisdom, so Winnified even I can understand it.

And speaking of simple wisdom (and self-help books):

I recently ran into a very funny, and actually pretty helpful book,

in a bizarre sort of way.

Called Lose Weight! Get Laid! Find God!

The title is the worst thing about the book.

The content being the humorous depiction of the stages man goes through, more or less, in every year of his life.

(And since each page is a year, you can look up to see where you have been and where you are going, and have a good laugh at the same time.)

And, finally,  of course,

there is one great book everyone knows,

more or less,

or at least has heard of,

and,

this,

as I write this blog,

being Christmas day,

you might want to check out:

the Bible

Happy holidays to all.

copyright Dunnasead.Co 2015

This was a blog for the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium. To see what the others have written, and with this group, it is always fascinating, check out: Ashok, Gaelikka, Maxi at Maxi’s Comments,  Padmum at This and That and Here and There, Pravin at Business to Buddha, Ramana at Ramana’s Musings, all at wordpress, and Shackman at Shackman Speaks at blogspot

 

Haul Out The Holly

Christmas has always been very special to me.

Not the least because I grew up in a climate so cold you were thrilled if the heat in the house melted the snow enough so you could see the color of the roof to tell one house from another.

Getting in the door was another matter.

And the days just kept getting darker.

And darker.

Till afternoons at three was already time to put the lights on,

and everyone filled up on orange juice to offset the plague,

or scurvey,

or whatever,

caused by continuous cold.

And then came Christmas.

The coldest, wettest, darkest time of year.

And,

bingo.

Lights, tinsel, ribbons, the smell of cookies baking,

family heirloom ornaments on the tree,

and mysterious packages under it.

I met my husband just before Christmas one year.

I lived in a house sponsered by the university just for German speakers.

Use of any other language cost a quarter.

And since most of us didn’t know the word for ironing board,

and the lit courses didn’t discuss the name for the type of medication that cured having eaten six week old sausage by mistake,

we needed real Germans around.

And voila…

Exchange students over for a year as visiting scholars.

They got a free dinner,

we the kind of info you don’t find in a dictionary.

(In those days, there was no Wikipedia.)

And since, around the middle of December we decided to do a skit-

the twelve days of Christmas,

German style:

six naked swimmers

(in reality in bathingsuits and wrapped in towels)

two German grannies,

(buns in gray hair, heavy walking shoes, canes)

four VW’s,

played by a now very  famous topologist who hopefully won’t be humiliated if his youthful exploits come out-

hey, at least he wasn’t the nude swimmer,

and of course, since his roommate was the VW,

they pulled my husband into it to play-

a wandersmann-

a German trail hiker,

in leather knee pants.

And since,

unfortunately,

no one in his part of Germany,

or most of the rest of Germany, for that matter,

wears long socks, leather knee pants and a plaid shirt,

with hat with goat’s beard ornament,

he came to borrow mine.

LOL-

So after I explained that

only very skinny very young girls fit into such pants, especially at the  hip,

but he could borrow the long bow I was using for martial arts as his staff…

And just like that, he invited me to a Carnival celebration.

We were engaged Christmas a year later.

From that time on,

I have worked my way through college in every imaginable Christmas pageant role,

Played flute in a major cathedral in Cologne’s Bach’s Christmas Oratorio,

conducted choirs who were dressed in:

black, white, and enough jewelry to hang a Christmas tree,

reindeer hats,

Santa caps,

formal floorlength pantsuits, with divided skirts, even on the men,

and bow ties, on both men and women.

Sung Amahl and the Night Visitors,

from behind a stuffed camel,

while dressed in a shepherd’s costume,

with long white veil,

that made the policeman who stopped me on the way home for speeding ask me what order I belonged to, ma’am.

But the one thing that was most important to both my husband and I,

out of the midst of all the chaos, and darkness, and snow shoveling, and conducting huge thrown-together choirs with stagefright, and singing with over a hundred fever, and rushing to stay working, and get prepared in time for a concert while buying packages,

out of the midst of all of it,

was the one fact that meant so much to us:

no matter how dark it got,

there was always light,

and joy,

and a warm church with a lit Christmas tree,

and the love of, and in, the Christmas story

to look forward to.

We wish a blessed Christmas,

and a wonderful holiday season

to all.

 

copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

The Well Of Our Being

Who on earth would set a topic like “the well of our being” for the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium to stumble over?

Me.

Or rather,

the well of my being.

That part of me that is always setting me some kind of a task so I finally learn what I am, in the end, supposed to learn.

And this time, it is to think about the well of my being.

And all that is well with my being.

For to me,

the well of my being was given to me before birth.

It is a fund of energy, and, if you will, programming,

the genetics of who I am, the past memories of our common life as human beings,

everything that was given to each of my ancestors for survival,

and for joy,

But also a small chip of goodness given me by a good God, so that I can draw on it in times of danger,

or need,

but more importantly,

for others.

My well also contains my photo footlocker-

the mental pictures of everything good that has happened to me in my life.

I draw on it when times are hard.

And rejoice in it when times are good.

One of the jokes in our family,

usually when I am lost in thought looking at something,

is “time to add this to the photo box.”

My personal album contains mental pictures of crucial times when my prayers were answered,

but it also contains:

a picture of my parents and grandparents,

each in a particular moment of happiness.

My siblings and nephews are also there,

And my husband’s family,

And, of course, the moment I met the most important person in my life,

after God,

My husband.

Our memories of a sunset on a tropical beach,

climbing a hill on an island in the Atlantic in a monstrously cold hard rain and laughing all the way,

archeological digs and study tours we have been on,

Me watching him injured.

And climbing out of the hole again.

Me watching him lecturing. Admiringly.

He watching me conduct. Smiling.

My time with students.

And singing crazy roles like the voice of the souls of the dead in heaven

(from under an altar with my back to the public in a baroque oratorio)

These are my photos.

The well of my being.

And that which form the wellness of my being.

I hope they gave you happiness.

And I wonder what yours are like.

 

copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

 

This was a blog for the FLBC. Can’t wait to see what Ramana at Ramana’s Musings.wordpress.com, Pravin at Business to Buddha. wordpress.com, Maxi of Maxi’s Musings.worpress.com, and Chuck of Shackman- Speaks.blogspot.com  have to say.

 

Who Let The Reindeer Out?

Walking around our little subdivision this year has been a real eye-opener.

Apparently, someone here in Gutenberg Land tallied up the exact number of ohms, amperes, and whatever, in LEDs,

and discovered that a light display doesn’t violate all the myriad of complicated energy saving laws, and

voila,

Eat your heart out, Vegas:

Blue elves,

green door lintels

gold hedges between the house,

orange Bethlehem stars,

or gold comets with monstrously long LED tails,

balcony aprons of a blanket-sized sheet of gold lights,

and,

in the windows,

Menorahs,

real ones,

often antique,

in a sort of picture frame of lights,

and,

a specialty in this area,

what are, over here called light arcs-

a kind of, well, arc, Roman style,

sort of like a stone bridge with candles sticking out.

Oh, and:

MASSES of sleighs, reindeer, and

Ouch, gasp,

Santas…

Giant red-clad dummies,

Climbing ladders,

sticking out of chimneys.

The three stooges would have a holiday.

The thing is, you see,

we are in the town that has the only papal see outside of the vatican.

with Swiss guards in the cathedral and everything.

Which means that,

there can be as many as-

some local statisticians guess-gasp- even over-

50 percent Protestant.

More if you add in all of the other religions we have over here .

It just plain doesn’t matter.

“This is a Catholic town.”

Which is why,

every year,

regular as clockwork,

someone in my evening Gospel choir course

stands up,

marches up to me,

on St. Nick day,

and hands me a chocolate St Nicholas,

with greetings from their Priest, Bishop, Monsiegneur,

whoever is in charge of converting the infidels this year,

(one year I even got the super-duper infidels conversion basket-

a small basket made entirely of woven chocolate,

with a small nick and angels and a blessed holy family)

It was handed over with the words

“There never was a Santa Claus, it is Saint Nicholas”

And every year,

I think of the wonderful things from my childhood,

like sitting on Santa’s lap for pictures,

putting out cookies and milk,

and praying for as long as i could next to my bed so I could maybe hear Santa’s sleighbells and the sound of the reindeer hoofs.

And I have to laugh.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

After which I thank them politely for their interest and concern,

but we all have our own beliefs.

(And mine say: Go team Claus)

And then I throw myself into the fun.

Like the fact that every year, my barbershop group “One Fell Swope” and I get lots of oos and ahs when we do a barbershop version of some of the best Christmas songs,

Including a parody we do that starts with an intro from Wagner’s Flying Dutchman and then switches into Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer.

And, of course, we end  our benefit concert with a quick chorus of the barking Jingle Bell dogs.

Which, even among Germans, usually brings the house down.

Or,

in one concert two years ago,

to it’s feet,

barking along.

(Followed by O Du Fröhliche- O Serenissima- the ultimate bring tears to your eyes go home happy song.

Which, to me at least, is the meaning of the whole thing.

Laughter.

And the smell of pine trees.

And the taste of roasted chestnuts and spiced apple cider,

And lights everywhere,

like the fantastic windows in the cathedrals, to remind us of what heaven is really like.

Joy

and remembrance.

And people with strange angel costumes with wings,

and we three kings of orient are

(or Famous Barr, if you are from the St Louis Area-

“We three kings of Fa-mous Barr- tried to smoke a rubber cigar”-

hey, it’s funny when you’re about eight)

and reindeer antler caps where you can pull on a string to make them clap,

and singing the good old songs

and hugging strangers

and laughing a lot.

And remembering why we are really here on this planet.

And also,

for some of us,

whose birthday it is.

Wouldn’t it be great if Christmas came one Sunday per month?

 

Copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

Instruction Manual II: How To Use Your Bed “Old Sven.”

Thank you for buying our I*** bed “Old Sven.”

We are sure that you will have many happy hours with this product.

Now that you have unpacked the bed fully,

and removed, stomped, cut up,

and carted off the packaging,

a little at a time,

by bicycle

to the local cardboard recycling center,

waited for a week

for the bolts and nuts that were missing to arrive,

including the special screwdriver key,

that everyone has floating around somewhere in their house,

in multiples,

just that you can’t really remember where it is that you put them,

during which you slept on an airmattress,

since you paid the delivery people to put the old bed out on the sidewalk,

and it has snowed,

rained,

and two cats slept overnight on it,

Congratulations!

You now have your bed “Old Sven” put together,

and mounted-

including wires leading to the walls,

so it doesn’t fall over.

In case of an earthquake,

Last reported in Germany

in 1972.

You are now ready for Step II: Using the Bed.

  1. Take out The Manuel.

2.    Now turn to part II:

How to use a bed.

Part one:

First put on sheets, duvets, and pillows,

not included,

make sure they are in the correct “Old Sven” coordinated colors

so they match the Old Sven Duvet Covers and top sheets-

shown on p. 24 “Old Sven.”

Then:

Wait until the correct going to bed time-

it can be set to remind you on your “Old Sven” copper mechanical winding alarmclock.

All parts included.

p. 25

You are then ready for the Swedish going to bed ceremony.

First throw the Christmas tree out the window so you have enough air to breath, since you have put up three sets of Zilly book cases in your bed-sitter.

Which you are using on the holidays since a cousin has spent all his extra Christmas money finishing his appartment, and can’t pay a moving company until the first of January.

So once he is carefully locked into the back bedroom, with a special bunkbed and reading lamp, p. 31,

you are now ready to

  1. put the cat out.
  2. send your husband to the bathroom to put on the pajama set, Ilvko, he received from his mother.

You will get revenge later, from page 47.

And then it is off to bed.

At this point, it might be better to follow the sociologically correct going to bed pattern as set out in a recent study by Dr. H. Hakan, a gentleman of Finnish-Norwegian descent,

who explains it thusly:

Ladies, let your husband go to bed first.

Sleeping men produce almost as much heat as reindeer.

And since this has been,

since the dawn of time,

one of the main reasons for women getting married,

since your feet became cold about the age of 14,

wait till he is loudly snoring,

put in earplugs.

And curl up.

At this point, it might be important to mention that,

should he awake,

you will need to be sure that while constructing the bed,

you put on the extra washers

and tightened the stress-absorbing special c-shaped nuts.

Happy Dreaming.

Copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

Family Occasions

Yes, family does occasion:

joy, happiness, weddings, births, birthdays, holidays,

and funerals.

Or wakes,

Which, in an Irish-American family, are definitely nothing to sneeze at.

It also occasions:

sending money in ever-increasing lists of emergencies,

having people overnight who somehow appear to be related to great aunt Lavina,

three times removed

by means of uncle Herbert,

who want you to take down “just a small portion” of your fence

so they can park their double-wide RV-

“just for about a week”

while they borrow your car to see San Francisco.

Then there is getting up at 5 am to stuff wet bread down a 35 lb turkey’s gullet

when you’re a vegetarian,

since the entire troup of 16 cousins,

plus wives and kids,

are at your place this year-

minus the twelve who got up at eight, and are now eating corn flakes in the garage,

to avoid the turkey stench-

And the only thing the others are bringing along is bizarre kinds of pies,

like oyster-salmon, yam and chestnut, and pineapple pickle,

plus, of course, the sixteen kinds of cranberry sauce,

jellied, boiled, sugared, raw with citrus,

since the making of cranberries,

at least in our family,

has become a way of proving your skills as a homemaker.

And, it has, over the years, become a vicious competition,

with no one liking anyone else’s cranberries.

Oh, and then, of course, there is the potluck wedding where you are supposed to make the veg,

and it has to be white,

and it can’t be potato gratin since Laverne is bringing that.

(I settled for wax beans with onion and chick peas, and a hominy salad with onion and teeny tiny nuked in a kitchen machine bits of red pepper)

And if you have ever eaten a wedding dinner done entirely in white,

including the white fish,

Don’t.

Christenings are always good, though.

People enjoy watching it all,

and afterwards,

everyone plays games and sings

and is, for the most part, happy.

And that is the main thing.

Especially as the babies are usually so exhausted they sleep.

Looking at packages at weddings is also great fun.

There is simply nothing better than trying to understand why someone would pack a bowling ball to look like a bowling ball to give you a good laugh.

Except perhaps, to try and understand why they would give a bowling ball in the first place.

Is there a store list for bizarre items,

or do people just save the ones they got for their wedding and hand them on?

Oh, and while we’re on the subject,

graduations are always great.

And simple.

A commemorative piece of jewelry,

and some money, if you have it, since the graduate is hopefully going to college

and will need it,

or is finished with college and looking for a job

and will need it.

Unless the graduate is, of course, a dog.

Who is taking part in a canine commencement ceremony,

black tie and gift from a registry list at a pet store requested.

What you don’t believe me?

I have a picture of a poodle in a mortarboard on top of the bookcase

to prove it.

His “mamma” gave it to me.

His name is Winky.

 

copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

This topic was a prompt from Maria, of the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium.  Can’t wait to see what Chuck of Shackman Speaks.blogspot.com and  Ramana, of Ramana’s Musings.wordpress.com, among others, have to say.

I Sink, Therefore, I Yam

As a choir director, you hear a lot of strange things being sung in this world.

And after a few years of it,

no matter how much you love the work,

the singers you work with,

the entire atmosphere of creating,

the joy of directing chaos into less chaotic,

(hopefully)

and listening to the applause “your” people earned,

there are still those moments when you look out over a filled house,

or at the stage, if you are at a concert,

and start to get that queasy feeling in your stomach.

Because you just know,

in your heart of hearts,

that the singer(s) have

  1. breathed wrong, tightened their jaw, are working far too hard, and are therefore about to
  2. produce texts that are going to embarrass themselves,

as well as everyone in the place,

By which I mean texts like:

incline your rear (incline your ear from Handel’s Messiah)

or,

I sink, I can, I know I can,

or

many a blue morning- (many a new morning)

blue being the word for drunk over here.

And, if you, like me, are a fan of sixties golden oldies,

as well as classic,

you have surely heard groups at a rock concert singing something they are absolutely positive is the right text.

In perfect unison.

Much to the amusement of the musicians on the stage,

who wrote it.

(And just for the record, all of you stealing my stuff, it’s gospel train’s a-comin’, not gospel trains are coming.)

On the positive side, however,

I have also heard:

the Risen is life,

which I personally found pretty cool,

especially since the original was the rhythm of life.

Then there are the great singers who just can’t stop at the end of the text,

or,

the fear of everyone in the biz,

tend to freudianly link,

which probably inspired such texts as

PDQ Bach’s “Loving is as easy as falling off a log,

a cat’ll love a cat and a dog’ll love a dog…hot dog.”

Or the ones where someone can’t understand the text, and fills in the blanks himself:

That’s ma little Choo-choo (Chatanooga Choo-choo)

or Fred sails at sunset,

which, I assume, was the inspiration for  great texts like mersy dotes and dosey dotes,

(mares eat oats and does eat oats.)

probably written by a choir director.

Then there are the classics,

known to most people who one time or another sing,

for their bread, or just for fun,

like Silent night, holy night….Round John Virgin,

Or Oh Atomic Bomb

which I won’t even pretend is funny at this moment in history.

Not that I’m immune-

I once got distracted by a disturbance in the audience,

breathed too late, and ended up with a passage that starts high anyway,

and with a frontal vowel, and therefore needs preparation.

Result, My want, instead of I want.

Not that anyone noticed.

Or at least they were too polite to tell me,

which would quite surprise me,

since I was once told by someone his trombone playing was better than my singing.

Countered by his wife’s “oh no it isn’t”

Last night took the biscuit, though.

In an absolutely, with much time and effort, beautifully decorated hall,

filled with family,

and fantastic, prize-winning young musicians,

I heard, and saw, a very small girl fighting in the wings with her mother,

and yelling

“I don’t care, I don’t want to sing.”

I started the clapping, hoping to encourage the little girl,

and she came on.

About six or seven years old.

And sang,

beautifully,

a song from a children’s musical,

someone told me,

with her own text of

“I want to go home and eat hot dogs and icecream and play with my dog

instead of singing this dumb song,

and you should all go home and play with your dogs too.”

Hands on hips.

Attitude.

Respect, little lady. Respect.

 

copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

The Rain: Using All Five Senses

How would I describe Rain without all five senses?

Since rain is a product of God, or nature, or both,

depending on your standpoint,

you have to assume it is sensible.

Otherwise it wouldn’t be reasonable to have it.

Or sentient.

In some belief systems.

Or sensational.

When there hasn’t been any for a while.

Sensitive?

I assume so.

Although what it is thinking or feeling when the sun dries it up, or the wind blows it away isn’t really in my thought system.

Perhaps sensorial?

Good thought.

I’ll work on that for a while.

So, since we now have rain with all five senses,

what about without?

H2O.

Past present and future.

And full of bits of everything that has gone before,

and will go on long after we are gone.

So what do I sense when contemplating rain?

Everything.

Everything I can, have ever, and will ever,

see, hear, touch, taste, smell.

The entire world.

In a raindrop.

A microcosm of creation.

And the creator.

The smell of wet hay on a summer morning when the sudden rain caught the farmer on his tractor, and you, waiting for a late-running bus, unprepared,

The sound of tennis shoes squelching down a rain soaked road and sploshing through deep puddles.

The taste of wetness on the tongue as you, in your joy at reliving your childhood, and the geese in the barnyard, in their genetic programming, raise your eyes together to heaven and open your mouths in unison to receive the falling rain.

The aqua-planing feel of your hand on your bare arm as you try to slide off the heavy sheet of raindrops,

The joy at seeing the staid raising their umbrellas, and those too wet to care laughing with you as you revel in the elements.

Can you walk between raindrops?

Within them?

Be part of them?

As they were,

And are,

And then move on?

Some day.

 

copyright Dunnasead.co 2015

 

Thanks to Hemsleyseditorial.wordpress.com for the prompt

 

 

And Gutenberg Lived Here: The Call of The Wild

One of the jokes told here about

and by,

Germans is that

  1. if you have two Germans, you get a club

(or a glee club)

and

2.that the trains run on time.

Now only partially true,

after the privatization of the whole train system,

often leading to sudden,

and non-planned,

mass strandage on a track somewhere in Wanne-Eichel-

the equivalent of the outer Hebrides.

What the Germans unfortunately didn’t mention in these jokes,

perhaps because it is so common,

and inbred,

they don’t recognize the power of this genetic trait,

is the call of the wild….

That basic drive built into all Germans,

and activated at that moment of birth when they

take their first breath,

and start moving their feet,

in tiny little hiking boots,

in tiny rhythmic steps.

Looking for a woods.

The call of the wild.

Business is conducted in the woods over here-

a twenty kilometer hike,

then a supper of pigs ears in aspic

with fried potatoes and remoulade sauce,

and far far far too much alcohol,

and you sign the IBM contract.

Poets, musicians, and scientists,

seek inspiration in the woods.

A quick twenty kilometers, and back home to the den to  write.

Then there are the radical green party members-

who consist, in principal, of almost all Germans.

(Try putting plastic in a General Garbage Bin,

or not recycling paint or chemicals at the paint truck pick-up point,

or small electronics at the recycle place,

or dump a mattress in the woods,

and the ecology police-

yes, seriously, there IS an ecology police-

will take fingerprints and fine you,

or put warnings on all the houses that use the common trash bin-

And that is just the beginning.

To hunt, you have to:

have a hunters license,

be part of a club, and

practice active forest repair and ecology on your days off.

To go fishing, you have to…

(After all the time and energy put into caring for those brook trout, no wonder they are smiling when they are caught.)

These people don’t just hug trees,

they invite them home to dinner.

Speaking of which,

the once per year class reunion of my husband’s gymnasium class is soon upon us.

Oh joy unbounded.

(a gymnasium is state (or sometimes private) schooling for 10-19 year-olds who are planning to go to university, and is divided into classical Greek and Latin, modern languages, and scientific tracks)

These formal occasions started out,

many years ago,

as the usual “so what are you doing now with your life?” bragging and drinking session.

Since this is a small town, though, after the first few years, it rapidly became “lets start out bragging, then, since not so much has happened in our lives, let’s  go bowling, get drunk, and take a long walk through the forest to get sober.”

And since I’m the one who, in addition to being the only female invited,

(apparently one of the guys wants to find out how to sell things to Americans)

is the only one sober,

guess who gets to

hold heads,

feed aspirin,

drive the car so they get home safe,

and find them pickled fish and potato salad for the next morning.

In addition to walking them,

elephant parade style,

through the woods till they sober up.

This year, though, I’ve gotten smart.

To heck with the fancy heels and party atmosphere bit.

This time, I wear a down jacket,

moon boots,

knitted cap,

and carry a rucksack with a flashlight,

plastic-packed portions of dead fishes,

salted,

milk,

a gps,

and a wrist rope,

with bells,

for them, so I can’t loose them.

And then, once they are all tucked into their beds in the youth hostel,

and snoring,

I will take Harald,

and the car,

and drive ten miles,

to a luxury hotel with a pool,

where,

once he is peacefully snoring,

I will have a post-post-midnight swim,

and a two a.m. portion of the dried tomato, barley, and almond salad I packed for me.

Along with a chapter of my latest murder mystery.

Preferably feminist.

A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.

 

copyright Dunnasead.c0  2015

As The Id Goes Marching On

Many moons ago,

in the quiet,

or not so, depending on how old you were and if you had to do directly with the war or not,

times of peace, love, and all that,

we were busily exploring our souls.

God and Nietsche,

Religion and psychotherapy.

And here, a tip of the hat to all my friends,

almost all of whom who have,

at one time or other,

studied something to do with psychology.

(And who, one way or another, today still either work for a church, or for some form of moral ideal)

We wanted to change the world,

starting with us.

For which we read Freud.

The id, the ego, and the super-ego.

The result of which is:

please excuse the drop in level here,

probably my inner child trying to get out,

the work of one of my favorite tv writers,

Stephen J Cannell,

who,

like Shakespeare,

explored the soul by adding more and more dimensions as he progressed,

Cannell is a hero of mine, because he wrote at least one page daily,

without fail,

and because  he wrote:

The Rockford Files,

a super-ego knight errant with two partners,

Riptide,

the story of three young men,

the id, the ego, and the superego,

The A-team,

the entire three-man controlling, acting out crew,

Freudianly speaking,

plus a wacko brilliant enough to understand how bad his situation really is,

and sane enough to recognize that you have to use humor to get you to a place where they can’t get at you.

You get the picture.

Then others got into the race.

Friends:

three women, three men.

Sex and the city:

Freud, plus a fourth character,

Carrie,

the supposedly balanced mix of all three.

And, then, of course there is The Big Bang Theory.

Hmmm.

All characters constantly changing,

Four men,

two oedipul situation mothers,

no situation stable.

Flying without a net?

Or, using the Freud: the next generation child pictures:

Jung:

the injured child, the victim child, the superachieving child, the destructive child.

The necessary tricks for survival in a hostile world.

Our way of handling supreme hurt.

And, bingo,

we are

finally,

at the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium topic for today:

The inner child, the outer child:

Handling the bad,

but also, thank heavens,

the good memories within us.

The theory that many many writers understand,

because it also contains the concept that if you use what is good in you,

and your past,

you can eventually tamp down and overlay the bad.

One day at a time.

Which is, as one of the FBLC writers mentioned,

the basis for a lot of drug and alcohol recovery programs.

Not that I’ve had any contact, thank heavens.

I guess I always was

  1. a musician
  2. a “bird flies out of the egg” type- Hesse’s Damian, if you’re wondering, ie  “if I stop hoping I die” type-Goethe’s Faust.

The point being,

The inner child decides to act, or react, on a knee jerk level,

to bash everything bad away…

(yes, this is primitive, please keep in mind, I’m not a psychologist)

…Supported by the outer child, which acts out what the inner child needs.

And when the inner child is a destructive acting-out jerk,

it causes self-injuring behavior.

According to one theory I’ve read, even to the point of waving a white “help me” flag by becoming ill…help, I’m being smothered by my situation here, I’ll just get asthma so they see it, or drink because I am insecure, they can’t miss that.

As I said, a theory.

Not necessarily mine.

So what is needed in this picture, is an adult.

Developed,

and watched over regularly,

by the individual involved.

To regulate things.

Smooth them out,

bring balance and harmony.

And heal the inner and outer child.

Which, if you’re still kicking dragons,

means one heck of a lot of self control and hard work.

Or,

on the other hand,

in the words of Melanie Safka,

“a steak’s a phallic symbol if it’s longer than it’s wide…glory, glory, psychotherapy.”

I think my id needs a cup of tea.

 

copyright Dunnasead.co

This topic has also been very interestingly handled by Chuck of Shackmann Speaks.blogspot.com, and Ramana, of Ramana’s Musings.wordpress.com

both members of the Friday Loose Bloggers Consortium.