Life, Death & Coffee 

​Some people require a visual. Some are more auditory. Others still prefer the written word. This vlog/blog post has it all.

I actually have a friend who prefers my vlog posts, where I TALK, more than she does listening to what I – and many others feel – is the considerably better use of my voice. 

Personally, despite having a good vocabulary, I find it difficult to verbalise my thoughts and feelings. I am unable to put these things into SPEECH. So, I put them in songs (one uses a different part of the brain when one sings than when one talks… this is the reason why some people who have suffered severe strokes, rendered speechless, can sing just fine…it is also why a stutterer can sing perfectly and clearly) or in visual art which illustrates how I’m feeling.

I find talking overrated. When I’m forced to speak, I do so…but, it’s rarely willingly. And, inevitably, I never end up saying what I really want and need to get across. It’s very frustrating. I don’t stutter badly, but I have elements of the problem. Speech is just hard work.

Of course, the problem with art, in any form, is that once it’s ‘out there’ it’s open to all sorts of interpretation. You see, hear, read and feel it through YOUR filter.

Sigh. It is the human condition. 

But, I continue to try to communicate, for what it’s worth.

 Life is hard. One could say, life is hard as speaking, and life with ANY chronic illness is a prison. Here’s an animation illustrating the daily struggles and dreams thereof:

This next video is a music video… I’m not explaining it. Just watch and listen. 


And, ending on a fun note. One of my grandfather’s favourite jokes was about a guy who needed to pass his school exams, but he was woefully stupid. His teacher, trying to be kind to him, decided to help him out by marking him a passing grade if he could spell just one word correctly. The teacher thought about it and realised that the student was too dumb to even get one word right, so decided to let him pass if he could just get ONE LETTER of one word right. The teacher thought that, surely, even this idiot could at least get one letter in a word correct. So, the teacher said to his student, ‘Spell the word coffee.’ The student replied, ‘K.A.U.P.H.Y.

And, thus, I give you this:


May your coffee be good and may you always be heard.

Advertisements

Don’t fret? Apparently so.

image

Here’s a picture of frustration for you, and a personal metaphor.

I’ve been considering my inability to play the guitar. In theory, this instrument should not evade me. I should be able to play it. It isn’t like it’s difficult, or a mystery. Except, I just can’t. Like being able (or, rather, not able) to cope and function in life, the guitar remains a source of failure.

It would be nice, helpful, perhaps profitable, if I could play such a portal and versatile instrument.

It would also be fantastic, helpful, etc., if I could make and answer phone calls and face social situations (i.e. going out my door), not either fall apart in or, alternatively, avoid stressful situations (stressful situations = life), not wish with every breath that it’s my last breath.

But, the guitar won’t let me play it…no matter how I’ve tried. And, life is just as contrary and hostile.

I can still make beautiful music, of course. Just as I still have moments of happiness, small victories while, ultimately, losing the war. But, the things out of my reach affect me greatly.

For the musically (or, humorously) challenged, the title of this post is a play on words… the guitar being a fretted instrument.  Don’t fret. Ha! Get it?

Why can’t I make the guitar and life sing for me? Well…it is what it is.

Not sure how to end this one. To stay with the music analogy, this post feels rather open ended and not resolving to the home chord…but, eh, I do that in songwriting all the time. So, yeah…life being as it is, I find it fitting to leave this…

Answers on a Postcard With My Boobs on It

image

I must, I must, I must increase…uh, I mean, I must blog, apparently. The obsession continues. What is this now? The fifth day in a row I’ve posted? Something like that anyway.

(The photo is superfluous; nothing to do with this post whatsoever…I just did this picture to post on my Facebook page. I like it, so you get it for free.)

Boobs, you say. Well, you might not say. I said. No, I wrote. Boobs. What about ’em? My husband, a photographer, is versatile in his art. Landscapes. Urban candid. Portraiture. Artistic nude. And, in my time, I’ve posed. It’s NOT one of the things I’m ashamed of.



Jamie sells his work on the website Redbubble. Occasionally a print or t-shirt (he’s designed a few) will sell. Sometimes it’s a card or, indeed, a postcard. Moneywise it’s nothing to write home about. We’re talking pocket change (unless someone buys a large print or, even better, framed print…hint, hint…you know you want one); it’s just nice to have the art seen and appreciated…acknowledged…occasionally liked enough that someone must own a little something of it.



Today, he sold a postcard of his piece entitled Surrendered #1. It happens to be one of those artistic nudes I posed for. It features my…chest features.



I wonder, who bought the postcard? Who will receive it? What message will it carry? How far will my boobs travel? They, most likely, will end up somewhere I have never been.



My visage…my naked form… on a postcard. Royal mail, special delivery. Bonkers!



Warning! Abrupt change in subject (keep up). I feel a shift. Like a bit of darkness lifting. I’ve had more energy today than I have in months (one of the results being that photo (not the booby one; the one on this post…so, ok, it does have something to do with this post after all); if I didn’t feel better I couldn’t have gotten in that position .  Maybe, I don’t know…could I be getting a bit of a remission, a reprieve, here? Please. Oh, I would be grateful. Not holding my breath – just like when I feel wretched, it is what it is. It’s a mistake to spend precious energy in thinking too much about it…even to hope. It. Is. What. It. Is.



Hmm…bad pun warning…   Wouldn’t you say this post is rather…titillating? And, with that pun intended, I’ll leave you to contemplate “answers on a postcard”.























When I say that I want to get into your pants…

Today I had the extreme pleasure of seeing my biggest woman crush – seriously, if we weren’t both married to totally wonderful men, I’d marry her…if she’d have me – I am unashamedly in love with her.  My friend Tracy is from this isle, but she lives and works in Thailand, so I don’t often get to visit with her in person (more’s the pity), and it is always lovely to see her. My afore mentioned wonderful man and I travelled into Nottingham to spend the day drinking coffee and wandering ’round the shops with Tracy.  It was a great time.

I’m getting to the pants part…and, this is where this tale will equally disappoint some while it will relieve others. As I was standing in front of my wardrobe wondering what to wear for the day, I decided on a long summer dress. This presented the problem of chafing thighs. Sorry, I’ve lost a whole bunch of you now, I know…

For those still with me, I will continue.  So, yeah…I love wearing skirts, but in the summer (the heat and I don’t get along), when I am not going to wear tights or leggings underneath, I have discovered that I need something to prevent chafing.  I wanted to wear the dress… but I had yet to be able to purchase something like bicycle shorts to wear underneath (which would keep my legs cool while preventing the, um, OUCH! I know… those of you who are size zeros, with thighs that aren’t even in the same postal code…I’ve lost you, too…anywho)!  So, I was considering just putting up with the pain, even though I knew there might be a great deal of it, since a lot of walking was going to be a main activity of the day. Then, inspiration struck!

“JAMIE!”

“Yes?”

“Any of your boxer briefs clean?”

“Uhh, yeah…”

“Good.”

And, voila!

Hey, if men can secretly wear women’s underwear – not that I am being secret about me wearing men’s – why not? 

And, as we were walking to the train station (in much more comfort than I would have been otherwise), I started laughing. Whenever I’ve talked about getting into my husband’s pants, I’ve never thought how literally that would one day be.

And now, I do apologise for those of you who were waiting for something steamy and saucy, well…

         maybe next time Tracy comes for a visit. 😉

The Question Is…

“To be or not to be?” is not the question.

“How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll centre of a Tootsie Pop?” is not the question.

Not even “How many singer/songwriters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” is the question.

The question is…

Image

“How many cups of coffee will be required in order for me to function at all today?”

That, my friends, is the question!