Hervor howls some great stuff and today she conveyed the recipe for turkish delight and bounty truffles. Not only did she impart the secret, but a demonstration saw me in the kitchen swaying in chocolate ecstasy.
Today was supposed to be a day of creativity, and while Hervor came through with the idea of creating truffles, I managed little more than getting the paints out. The ideas were there, but they were thwarted by too little energy and a motivation sapped by the knowledge of techniques I lack.
I decided that the best thing I could do would be to fuel my painting with truffle rushes. Unfortunately, truffle rushes don't last very long - but they are intense.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Voodoo Doll
I have recently been wondering if I could turn my acupuncturist into a houngan (voodoo priest).
I am lazy and don't want to be bothered travelling the 120km round trip to see my acupuncturist so I had a brainwave: If I made a voodoo doll of myself and gave it to him, maybe I could just ring him up and tell him how I'm feeling and he could insert the needles in the relevant points.
Does voodoo work over distance?
*sigh*... just an idle thought.
I am lazy and don't want to be bothered travelling the 120km round trip to see my acupuncturist so I had a brainwave: If I made a voodoo doll of myself and gave it to him, maybe I could just ring him up and tell him how I'm feeling and he could insert the needles in the relevant points.
Does voodoo work over distance?
*sigh*... just an idle thought.
Suicide Season
Why are there so many people that are suicidal? Is it individual change, societal change, environmental change? Or is there no change at all, but people are more willing to speak of their misery?
I spent the day with several acquaintances and was surprised to discover that both of them had recently considered suicide. Both were serious enough about it to have obtained the means and travelled to the destination of their intended demise. One was stopped by the strangest of coincidences and the other spent the night merely looking at the lethal 'weapon'.
Many psychologists and psychiatrists have a tendency to attribute the state of people's minds to their dark pasts, or their cognitive schemas. In the first instance, I don't believe that previous traumas have a greater influence some 20 years after the event than they do either at the time or the few years following. Secondly, many trauma sufferers have developed their behavioural & belief structures as a matter survival, why would they want to change them? Why would they want to do away with the protection that has enabled them to continue living? Perhaps they aren't the most effective strategies, or maybe they are a hinderance in other aspects of life, but hey, that's what enabled them to be alive at this point in time.
The only reason I can imagine someone should even try to change is if they have reached the point of knowing they can't continue to live the way they are. We can and do change our behaviours, but changing beliefs so we can be 'happy' only amounts to convincing ourselves of some unrealistic falsehoods. Life isn't kind and fair and facing it with optimism is setting yourself up for greater disappointment.
I spent the day with several acquaintances and was surprised to discover that both of them had recently considered suicide. Both were serious enough about it to have obtained the means and travelled to the destination of their intended demise. One was stopped by the strangest of coincidences and the other spent the night merely looking at the lethal 'weapon'.
Many psychologists and psychiatrists have a tendency to attribute the state of people's minds to their dark pasts, or their cognitive schemas. In the first instance, I don't believe that previous traumas have a greater influence some 20 years after the event than they do either at the time or the few years following. Secondly, many trauma sufferers have developed their behavioural & belief structures as a matter survival, why would they want to change them? Why would they want to do away with the protection that has enabled them to continue living? Perhaps they aren't the most effective strategies, or maybe they are a hinderance in other aspects of life, but hey, that's what enabled them to be alive at this point in time.
The only reason I can imagine someone should even try to change is if they have reached the point of knowing they can't continue to live the way they are. We can and do change our behaviours, but changing beliefs so we can be 'happy' only amounts to convincing ourselves of some unrealistic falsehoods. Life isn't kind and fair and facing it with optimism is setting yourself up for greater disappointment.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Stupidity Vs. Desperation
I've been stupid and I've been desperate but I don't think I've ever stooped as low as the makers of one TV show which shall remain nameless (simply because I can't remember what it's called). The storyline is about a serial killer that suffers OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) and whether our hero's can catch him before he kills again.
Well of course they bloody can because it's going to take the poor bastard forever leaving the crime scene! He's going to have to check 1000 times to make sure his victim is really dead, and 1000 times to make sure his hands are clean after all that blood (unless he killed them with gas or something - in which case he's going to have to check 1000 times that he's turned the gas off). Even after he's left the building he'll probably have to go back and check that he really did get rid of that knife and didn't leave it lying on the table, or that in the struggle his victim didn't get any DNA evidence under their fingernails etc. And of course, the amount of times he has to return to the crime scene to ensure things are how they should be, is going to increase the likelihood that someone sees him; repeatedly. The frequency with which he's spied at the crime scene will undoubtedly enable any witness to give a good description to the FBI (or whoever it was that was on his trail).
I did briefly consider that he might be a "pure O" and not suffer compulsions, but then if he's a serial killer is there a need to state that he suffers obsessions? Wouldn't it be pretty obvious that obsession is a central feature of serial killing otherwise the perpetrator would simply pass over the thought/impulse to kill and not consider it again; like the rest of us do.
If in the event that he was a pure O, then obsessions with other things would probably preclude his penchant for killing as it's not usually in the top 10 list of must have obsessions.
Go figure.
Well of course they bloody can because it's going to take the poor bastard forever leaving the crime scene! He's going to have to check 1000 times to make sure his victim is really dead, and 1000 times to make sure his hands are clean after all that blood (unless he killed them with gas or something - in which case he's going to have to check 1000 times that he's turned the gas off). Even after he's left the building he'll probably have to go back and check that he really did get rid of that knife and didn't leave it lying on the table, or that in the struggle his victim didn't get any DNA evidence under their fingernails etc. And of course, the amount of times he has to return to the crime scene to ensure things are how they should be, is going to increase the likelihood that someone sees him; repeatedly. The frequency with which he's spied at the crime scene will undoubtedly enable any witness to give a good description to the FBI (or whoever it was that was on his trail).
I did briefly consider that he might be a "pure O" and not suffer compulsions, but then if he's a serial killer is there a need to state that he suffers obsessions? Wouldn't it be pretty obvious that obsession is a central feature of serial killing otherwise the perpetrator would simply pass over the thought/impulse to kill and not consider it again; like the rest of us do.
If in the event that he was a pure O, then obsessions with other things would probably preclude his penchant for killing as it's not usually in the top 10 list of must have obsessions.
Go figure.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Two Things at Once
Some people can do two things at once, but not me. For those of you out there who think you can, consider this - try being (in person) at a job interview as a houser for the homeless, and several thousand feet in the air simultaneously. For me it is impossible, so today I miss out on flying. Why must life thwart my fun?
And you thought I was going to say something like; try eating and singing at the same time. Bah! Easy....
And you thought I was going to say something like; try eating and singing at the same time. Bah! Easy....
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Predator
I have two dogs. The first is a Beagle bitch and the latecomer is a Beagle x Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dog (aka Beaglier). In the Beaglier, each breed shows itself in the expected ways; like a beagle he loves the great outdoors, but he'll come in to lounge in his armchair long before the beagle will even consider calling the hunt to a halt (whether it be of mice, butterflies, birds, caterpillars etc).
Initially both were city dogs, but the bitch was largely brought up on a farm while the Beaglier...well let's just say you can take the boy out of the city but never the city out of the boy. Picture this: He has just undergone an endurance pat and as I signal the pat has finished (leaning back in my chair) he spots a bug on the floor a few metres away. Ears forward he goes to investigate. He lowers his nose and starts sniffing - its a cockroach and it runs towards him. He spins around, does a huge leap onto his armchair and watches wide-eyed as the cockroach runs beneath it.
For the next 3-4 minutes, he looks around the edges of his chair; he sniffs around the cushions (just in case it happened to jump up beneath one of them I guess), and does a general search of his chair. Once satisfied the cockroach hasn't managed to stow away, he perches his front feet over the edge, bum in the air, and begins to sniff near the bottom of the armchair.
The entire performance reminded me of the stereotypical housewife that saw a mouse. It was the finest 5-7 minutes entertainment I had since I saw the comedian Ross Noble.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Life on Standby
Who was the clown that said "Life is what happens while you are waiting?" (or something to that effect anyways).
Currently I wait for that telephone call that says "we want to interview you for that job".
I already have a job, but it's not a job I really want and it would seem they don't really want me either. However no one else wants to do it and those that are already doing it are being signed off on stress leave; two in the last week alone. Ah, what it is to work with the disaffected youth of today. Not that the youths are intolerable (sometimes they are), but the boss and the merry clique that surrounds him are the veritable brick wall that everyone keeps banging their heads against. And as if that isn't enough, several of us have had a good go at banging our heads against the Union wall as well. Such fun has never been had.
I also wait for inspiration to strike. I've been waiting a long time for that ignoble but enjoyable beast to raise its earless head. The ideas are there, but I just couldn't cope with all the mistakes that would have to be rectified should I undertake any of them. I already have so many mistake-filled projects awaiting my attention that I feel overwhelmed.
Even the toaster seems to be making me wait longer than usual these days. Perhaps I'm just impatient and I should make like Sleeping Beauty and go to sleep while I wait. Is it wrong to sleep the wait away?
Currently I wait for that telephone call that says "we want to interview you for that job".
I already have a job, but it's not a job I really want and it would seem they don't really want me either. However no one else wants to do it and those that are already doing it are being signed off on stress leave; two in the last week alone. Ah, what it is to work with the disaffected youth of today. Not that the youths are intolerable (sometimes they are), but the boss and the merry clique that surrounds him are the veritable brick wall that everyone keeps banging their heads against. And as if that isn't enough, several of us have had a good go at banging our heads against the Union wall as well. Such fun has never been had.
I also wait for inspiration to strike. I've been waiting a long time for that ignoble but enjoyable beast to raise its earless head. The ideas are there, but I just couldn't cope with all the mistakes that would have to be rectified should I undertake any of them. I already have so many mistake-filled projects awaiting my attention that I feel overwhelmed.
Even the toaster seems to be making me wait longer than usual these days. Perhaps I'm just impatient and I should make like Sleeping Beauty and go to sleep while I wait. Is it wrong to sleep the wait away?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Medicate with Jesus
I like my Doctor. He's a nice man with a good heart, a keen sense of humour, and tries to be helpful. But even those of us who never seem to be more successful than mere trier's of helpfulness, fail so miserably as my Dr. managed to the other day.
Backstory: I've battled with depression for many years, have had psychiatrists, psychologists, med changes etc. I've heard some pretty inane crap coming from our learned friends. For example during a particularly nasty episode of agitated depression my at-the-time psychiatrist told me to go and "have some fun". At the time the most fun I could muster was to spill coffee all over myself because my extremeties were shaking so badly that I couldn't keep the cup steady enough to sup from.
Return to topic: I sat trying not to snivel when my Dr asked how things had been. "Not very good", I replied. "My mind doesn't seem to wander further than a decision whether to slit my throat or re-sculpt my car around the roo-bar of an on-coming truck". The throat slitting had been the focus of an entire day but the re-sculpting was just a joke (I wouldn't wish such an incident upon a truck-driver). My Dr nodded with an appropriately sad smile and then said: You're no stranger to these kind of thoughts and as a friend I can only suggest letting Jesus into your life.
I can, and have accepted all kinds of suggestions when it comes to battling the black dog, and it wasn't the first time Jesus had been suggested as an anti-depressant, but my mood was not conducive to discussions about medication changes as I had only just begun a different medication a month earlier.
I tried to be diplomatic and said that I had, over the years, looked into several different religions but none appealed to me and they all seemed to preach that which they could not practise. He agreed and said that the Bible shouldn't be dismissed because of its connection to 'religion'. When he quoted the Gospels to me something strange happened; blood seemed to fill the inside of my eyeballs and I assumed this was the phenomena of 'seeing red'. The anger I experienced wasn't the wild uncontrollable kind that I expected to occur during the presence of such stereotypical phenomena; and to a large extent I managed to control my vitriol enough not to make a lifelong enemy out of the dear Dr.
Jesus might be a medication that is helpful for many people, but in my perverse mind, the possible side-effects are just as unwanted as those listed on most anti-depressant profiles.
Backstory: I've battled with depression for many years, have had psychiatrists, psychologists, med changes etc. I've heard some pretty inane crap coming from our learned friends. For example during a particularly nasty episode of agitated depression my at-the-time psychiatrist told me to go and "have some fun". At the time the most fun I could muster was to spill coffee all over myself because my extremeties were shaking so badly that I couldn't keep the cup steady enough to sup from.
Return to topic: I sat trying not to snivel when my Dr asked how things had been. "Not very good", I replied. "My mind doesn't seem to wander further than a decision whether to slit my throat or re-sculpt my car around the roo-bar of an on-coming truck". The throat slitting had been the focus of an entire day but the re-sculpting was just a joke (I wouldn't wish such an incident upon a truck-driver). My Dr nodded with an appropriately sad smile and then said: You're no stranger to these kind of thoughts and as a friend I can only suggest letting Jesus into your life.
I can, and have accepted all kinds of suggestions when it comes to battling the black dog, and it wasn't the first time Jesus had been suggested as an anti-depressant, but my mood was not conducive to discussions about medication changes as I had only just begun a different medication a month earlier.
I tried to be diplomatic and said that I had, over the years, looked into several different religions but none appealed to me and they all seemed to preach that which they could not practise. He agreed and said that the Bible shouldn't be dismissed because of its connection to 'religion'. When he quoted the Gospels to me something strange happened; blood seemed to fill the inside of my eyeballs and I assumed this was the phenomena of 'seeing red'. The anger I experienced wasn't the wild uncontrollable kind that I expected to occur during the presence of such stereotypical phenomena; and to a large extent I managed to control my vitriol enough not to make a lifelong enemy out of the dear Dr.
Jesus might be a medication that is helpful for many people, but in my perverse mind, the possible side-effects are just as unwanted as those listed on most anti-depressant profiles.
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