Question:
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – , and doesn’t ask what I can’t do. Or find a use which asks what I can offer, I’m not fussy. 
What I am fussy about, I do *not* want more failure to my account. It’s all very well telling myself that failure’s informative, but it risks being a set-up. Done too much of that; it’s long gone time to change the pattern. i should have read through before hitting send. bow, arrow, bullseye. one has to mix equal parts of valor and prudence. for example, if one is quiet and shy, aspiring for a job as a restaurant greeter is not a good idea. and if one gets flustered easily, believing one could serve at a busy switchboard is downright silly.
Hark! it is the Voice of Bitter Experience. 8-( i say this because there are people who, in the guise of encouragement, discourage realism. and energy wasted aiming for the stars could bring fruit in aiming a little closer to home. aspiring to an unrealistic goal is a bit like Tina getting into Ike’s car. it’s almost like obeying a subliminal command given by our abusers. and why would they want us to succeed, and escape them?
Heh, there are those types. Seems as if you’ve met too many. 8-( /me tries to remember that the type doesn’t encompass the *entirety* of the psychiatric professions. Heck, it was a student psychiatric nurse got me out to the farm, and that was a good and Helpful thing. Admittedly, it’d have been better and more helpful about 13 years earlier, but yer can’t have everything, and I don’t know whether such a thing was then possible. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – Ach, damnit, I want to be useful until I kick the bucket. & damnit if it’s officially work, so long as I know it means something. I’m never going to be rich, anyway. exactly, exactly, exactly. you took these words right out of my heart. feeling useful is much better i think. Me too. 8-) It’s what I’ve been aiming at, when I was aiming at anything at all, since I was about 16, and "careers" suddenly came into view. Never had a clue what I wanted to do, or could, but I knew I wanted to be useful. <<grin When I was in the bin, I made myself highly unpopular in the O.T. department by pointing out that the things they wanted me to do were useless. The downstairs wards were being painted at the time – I’d have been a model patient, given a paintbrush. I don’t suppose health and safety rules allow for such goings on, however! hey, don’t knock "useless" work. at least it gets you into the realm of things that really exist. i imagine that working with leather, cloth, etc. — things that were tangible — was a good antidote for the shadows and specters in people’s minds. and an accomplishment that one can point to, can dissipate a lot of failure.
Ahh, well…. I’ve seen good (at least reasonable) O.T. since. There are certainly some for whom it’s very, very helpful. And yes, I’d have been quite happy to learn wood-carving, or possibly even silk-painting, or some other such new-fangled invention . I’d have been downright chuffed at a chance to play an energetic, if totally incometent, game of ping-pong or badminton, for that matter – there was a great sports hall which went almost entirely unused. But to produce that which is neither useful nor decorative, and which neither requires nor imparts any skill – bah! humbug! To be dragged away from my knitting, which was both moderately useful and in some sense decorative, to produce that which was *dangerous* (oven gloves pre-tacked to insufficient wadding, renamed "glove puppets", but still so obviously oven gloves that if anyone used them for anything, it’d be that) – I was underwhelmed, and said so. Our ancestors were – patchily – more enlightened than we, in that respect: there were prison and asylum gardens, even farms, and work for all but the very maddest or most dangerous. Occupation, exercise, rehabilitation, and source of a wholesome diet all in one. Probably exploitative, in modern terms, but there was value in it. The two productive things which *were offered there (‘though as I left for the last time, the two youthful o.t.s were trying to get something more interesting going for the younger and less defeated patients) were relaxation classes (great, as a general principle: ghastly in particular, because they were compulsory – and increased my stress levels, until the point at which I ran away in considerable disarray and nothing was said about my returning) and literacy and numeracy classes. I’d have enjoyed that part, had the "pupils" not been poor broken-down souls (er, like me, yes), who mistook every "tutor" for staff, and every member of staff for a therapist. I hadn’t the defences against compassion or against my own echoing pain, to survive it. I’m not sure I have them now. That *is* a possible line for exploration, ‘though. Just not in a loony bin! /me makes note to find out more. And another not to make rash decisions *right* now. besides, i often wished they’d let me work with leather during my brief stint in the loonie bin. several times in my life i’ve wanted to do things with leather, and hadn’t a clue. they gave me freedom to walk the vast wooded grounds, which i appreciated, but work with my hands would have helped.
Heh, I take the point. That was certainly the theory; if only the practice had lived up to it. and i don’t think the painters working on the building could be counted on to be good company for a patient, frankly. when i was in the LB i was a bit thin-skinned.
Heh. Could be. Contrariwise, they’d be very real, and surprisingly often the rough diamonds *are* diamonds; especially if they recognise a willingness to get on with things. I’m at all not sure that they’d be worse company than my fellow loonies, who soon worked out that I suffered from an excess of compassion, and would listen to their harrowing tales. As it was, the best afternoon I had of it was watching the local hospitals’ XI play cricket against some village team. That cricket ground has since been replaced by cramped, ticky-tacky houses, and that once-spacious place is now overshadowed on every side (but the main road) by the rotten, ugly, unhomey things. But I hope a few trees remain in the grounds, to shelter squirrels and drop shinybrown conkers for those who look. Baba Yaga — People who claim to be neutral soon show which side they are neutral on. - Eric Berne
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It could very well be that I still haven’t really taken in the fact that *I* have to make the moves in my life, and that I *haven’t done all I can. this leaped out at me. Pow! right between the eyes.
Heh. Just now, I’m left wondering, how I can have put so much work in, and come such a long way – and still have so much more to do? I can’t believe I’ve fought, and fought, and fought, and changed myself beyond recognition – and sworn I’d do no *more surgery on my Self – and the job’s not even begun. <<sits back, steeples hand, and looks over top of (slightly grubby) spectacles That is, of course, the depressive position. The practical position is, get back into good habits of sleeping, and eating, and exercising, and so forth – all of which seem to have gone west lately -, and then change something, anything about the rest of my life. If that don’t work, try changing something else. So I’m frittering time and a migraine which is already quite unpleasant enough on the computer. Very constructive! Insight can be a curse. i think you and me have a lot in common.
M-hm. Baba Yaga — People who claim to be neutral soon show which side they are neutral on. - Eric Berne
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shit. i *really* should think through what i say, before i hit "send." this below was meant in a very specific way toward very specific people in my life, who have pushed me toward *unrealistically* high goals. (and who have insisted that these goals were realistic and if i did not believe in them, i was being lazy or negative or whatever.) This can be a passive-aggressive way of sabotaging a person who does not have enough confidence to insist on setting their own goals using their own sense of what is possible for them. i did not mean to imply that the same motive is present when anyone praises anyone else’s gifts and suggests high goals for them. azure, removing foot from mouth
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – bow, arrow, bullseye. one has to mix equal parts of valor and prudence. for example, if one is quiet and shy, aspiring for a job as a restaurant greeter is not a good idea. and if one gets flustered easily, believing one could serve at a busy switchboard is downright silly. i say this because there are people who, in the guise of encouragement, discourage realism. and energy wasted aiming for the stars could bring fruit in aiming a little closer to home. aspiring to an unrealistic goal is a bit like Tina getting into Ike’s car. it’s almost like obeying a subliminal command given by our abusers. and why would they want us to succeed, and escape them?
Response:
It could very well be that I still haven’t really taken in the fact that *I* have to make the moves in my life, and that I *haven’t done all I can.
this leaped out at me. Pow! right between the eyes. i think you and me have a lot in common. azure
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, and doesn’t ask what I can’t do. Or find a use which asks what I can offer, I’m not fussy. What I am fussy about, I do *not* want more failure to my account. It’s all very well telling myself that failure’s informative, but it risks being a set-up. Done too much of that; it’s long gone time to change the pattern.
i should have read through before hitting send. bow, arrow, bullseye. one has to mix equal parts of valor and prudence. for example, if one is quiet and shy, aspiring for a job as a restaurant greeter is not a good idea. and if one gets flustered easily, believing one could serve at a busy switchboard is downright silly. i say this because there are people who, in the guise of encouragement, discourage realism. and energy wasted aiming for the stars could bring fruit in aiming a little closer to home. aspiring to an unrealistic goal is a bit like Tina getting into Ike’s car. it’s almost like obeying a subliminal command given by our abusers. and why would they want us to succeed, and escape them? Ach, damnit, I want to be useful until I kick the bucket. & damnit if it’s officially work, so long as I know it means something. I’m never going to be rich, anyway.
exactly, exactly, exactly. you took these words right out of my heart. feeling useful is much better i think. Me too. 8-) It’s what I’ve been aiming at, when I was aiming at anything at all, since I was about 16, and "careers" suddenly came into view. Never had a clue what I wanted to do, or could, but I knew I wanted to be useful. <<grin When I was in the bin, I made myself highly unpopular in the O.T. department by pointing out that the things they wanted me to do were useless. The downstairs wards were being painted at the time – I’d have been a model patient, given a paintbrush. I don’t suppose health and safety rules allow for such goings on, however!
hey, don’t knock "useless" work. at least it gets you into the realm of things that really exist. i imagine that working with leather, cloth, etc. — things that were tangible — was a good antidote for the shadows and specters in people’s minds. and an accomplishment that one can point to, can dissipate a lot of failure. besides, i often wished they’d let me work with leather during my brief stint in the loonie bin. several times in my life i’ve wanted to do things with leather, and hadn’t a clue. they gave me freedom to walk the vast wooded grounds, which i appreciated, but work with my hands would have helped. and i don’t think the painters working on the building could be counted on to be good company for a patient, frankly. when i was in the LB i was a bit thin-skinned. azure
Response:
alt.abuse.recovery: Dear Baba Yaga, You are a gloriously talented writer. Your insignts into the human condition very smart. This is obviously something you enjoy. Don’t think I’m being ridiculous to point out something so obvious, but… – Watson, out
Thank you! With all this ego-fodder, I’ll be able to resist all comers, if ever I decide to write a book. Communication’s the thing I enjoy – along with getting pieces into the puzzle. Maybe you’re right, ‘though – maybe there’s some way I haven’t considered, of turning that to account. In this internet age, there ought to be. Baba Yaga — People who claim to be neutral soon show which side they are neutral on. - Eric Berne
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As mostly, below are ramblings more for me own benefit (stops the tendency to go in circles) than any other reason. Input always welcome, but not expected or required. Well, since you wrote it twice – thank’ee, m’am – I will, too. only because you wrote it twice.
Oh, yes, so I did. <<grin unsolicited advice: And very good advice, too. I’m in the market for anything which moves me on a bit. ’Though I’ll stop long enough to compain before moving, if a kick in the arse is what does it. (I’m suspecting self-kicking – purely in a spirit of impelling forward motion – may be the proper caper; takes a little practice to do it without falling flat on my face, however.) aim low. that way you’ll end up on your butt rather than on your face. the padding is generally better.
Good point. Very good point, actually. Falling on one’s butt is *backwards motion, ‘though… any house-sharing possibilities? or is that too difficult for you?
Probably a very bad move, I think – but worth keeping in mind in case it *becomes* a better move. Or I’m wrong. I’m pretty sure I’ve done all I can usefully, or sensibly, do on that front for now. However, that may change – it may just be that the balance between "want to be gone" and "like comfort" has only gone so far. It could very well be that I still haven’t really taken in the fact that *I* have to make the moves in my life, and that I *haven’t done all I can. In that case, either I’ll return to this conversation and make use of it, at a point when I’m better up to acting (relatively) judiciously than right now, or else I’ll deserve what I get for sitting on my arse. Otherwise, and anyway, – I must find useful occupation. are you saying that you have difficulty sustaining the effort or motivation for a full 16 hours a week?
Yup, whichever of those it is. Ability to outrun my own terror, maybe. But my stamina is improving, and I think it’s doing that faster since I decided Everest was a bit ambitious for a beginner (so to say). It’s better, I think, where I’m least afraid of letting people down. That’s the *other great disadvantage of paid employment, besides that it’s not so flexible; it’s doubly a bad thing to let someone down who’s paying for the privilege. you said you had work awaiting you there. what kind of work?
First obvious bet is as general helper at humane and enlightened project for dementing people – not that I have a clue whether I can do that sort of thing without causing chaos/ cracking up, but if anywhere, there, so it’s worth trying. Next bet is envelope-stuffer, organdiser of paints, felt-tips, & wotnots, and otherwise doer of useful nothings for charity wot runs said project. & next is, oh damn, back to where I began, with slightly more idea of where not to look next time, and slightly more scope in the way of possibilities than I have here. There are (I checked with the volunteer bureau there, a year or more back) numerous other things I might try, too, a rather greater variety of things than in this town full of the comfortable retired: it just happens that that one comes on a plate, has some kind of meaning, could be adjusted (within reason) to suit me, and fits nicely with my social circle. Somehow, I’ve got to work out what I *actually* have to offer, and what use I can turn it to, which means enough to get me up the Hill Difficulty which stands at the beginning of all new enterprises, and doesn’t ask what I can’t do. Or find a use which asks what I can offer, I’m not fussy. What I am fussy about, I do *not* want more failure to my account. It’s all very well telling myself that failure’s informative, but it risks being a set-up. Done too much of that; it’s long gone time to change the pattern. Ach, damnit, I want to be useful until I kick the bucket. & damnit if it’s officially work, so long as I know it means something. I’m never going to be rich, anyway. feeling useful is much better i think.
Me too. 8-) It’s what I’ve been aiming at, when I was aiming at anything at all, since I was about 16, and "careers" suddenly came into view. Never had a clue what I wanted to do, or could, but I knew I wanted to be useful. <<grin When I was in the bin, I made myself highly unpopular in the O.T. department by pointing out that the things they wanted me to do were useless. The downstairs wards were being painted at the time – I’d have been a model patient, given a paintbrush. I don’t suppose health and safety rules allow for such goings on, however! funny, from what you write here and elsewhere, you’ve always struck me as a fairly competent person. these posts seem to suggest you don’t believe that of yourself.
No. I admire folk like Polly Wog – she walks her walk. I talk a lot about walking. Baba Yaga — People who claim to be neutral soon show which side they are neutral on. - Eric Berne
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Dear Baba Yaga, You are a gloriously talented writer. Your insignts into the human condition very smart. This is obviously something you enjoy. Don’t think I’m being ridiculous to point out something so obvious, but… – Watson, out
Response:
Well, since you wrote it twice – thank’ee, m’am – I will, too.
only because you wrote it twice. unsolicited advice: And very good advice, too. I’m in the market for anything which moves me on a bit. ’Though I’ll stop long enough to compain before moving, if a kick in the arse is what does it. (I’m suspecting self-kicking – purely in a spirit of impelling forward motion – may be the proper caper; takes a little practice to do it without falling flat on my face, however.)
aim low. that way you’ll end up on your butt rather than on your face. the padding is generally better. give it a try. have a coming-out party. ?! Coming-out?
of retirement. put retirement house in mothballs until retirement. better yet, rent it to a retired couple or anyone else who wants it. get a property manager to deal with renters. Oh lord, if only. I’d be long gone! Sadly, ’twas a case of my meaning one thing (glorified retirement home = ossifying town where I live, not me little flat), and saying another. Options so far as I can see are private rent (which seems only theoretically to be an option, for all the usual reasons) and social housing – which only becomes an option when (or, at ghastliest, if) either I climb up the housing list, or someone living in social housing where I want to live decides that he wants to live in social housing where I do live.
ah. okay. any house-sharing possibilities? or is that too difficult for you? I’ve been considering what they call "low-demand housing", which (as my housing officer here informed me) means that you wouldn’t put a dog in there, as a stopgap. Unfortunately, I can’t work out how I’d get *out of it once in, short of complete crack-up – and it ain’t certain, even then. Eager as I am to be gone, I’d rather avoid going the loony-bin route.
doesn’t sound like stopgap if it doesn’t have a stop. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text -get up and get on train. move. take work. live. play. live. play. live. play. eventually retire. or not. Not sounds pretty good, just now. Which for someone who’s still not up to the minimum 16 hours a week it takes (at least, around here) to become a shelf-stacker [it ain't meaningful, but it *is uncomplicated], is a pretty good sign of under-occupation. <<grin
are you saying that you have difficulty sustaining the effort or motivation for a full 16 hours a week? you said you had work awaiting you there. what kind of work? Ach, damnit, I want to be useful until I kick the bucket. & damnit if it’s officially work, so long as I know it means something. I’m never going to be rich, anyway.
feeling useful is much better i think. funny, from what you write here and elsewhere, you’ve always struck me as a fairly competent person. these posts seem to suggest you don’t believe that of yourself. — astri
Response:
alt.abuse.recovery: Enjoy your week together, Baba Yaga.
Thank you, James. 
I trust you’re well? And yes, I’ve been saying nasty things behind your back, though not having anything to do with you. Does that count?
I think you know my general opinion about that; & I think I’ve laboured the point enough. But I’m enormously relieved to hear you haven’t been saying them about me. Baba Yaga — The man who never looks into a newspaper is better informed than he who reads them: inasmuch as he who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors. - Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826
Response:
Sweet Evil Jesus Baba. You are a brilliant, engaging writer. Sorry for top posting but I couldn’t bear to snip and I didn’t want to do the long scroll down thing for my unsubstantial remarks. I loved this post, read it twice. Work? You’re a gifted writer. That may be your destiny. Jean
Thank you, Jean. You’re always good for my ego – and I love your way of expressing yourself. Who but you would come up with "Sweet Evil Jesus"? So far as writing goes – I hope not, I’d have to be disciplined, and edit, and, and, research things! Or d’you think I could get an opinion slot in one of the dailies, spouting off the way I do here? Baba grinning mightily — The man who never looks into a newspaper is better informed than he who reads them: inasmuch as he who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors. - Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826
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Ooh! I’ve enticed tigerbunny out of the warrens of the jungle. <<beam alt.abuse.recovery: I second astri’s idea to get a property manager and rent the place out. Tell yourself you can go back.
Heh. That’s not bad psychology. Although I’m pretty sure going back wouldn’t be an option, even if were in a position to. I hated this town when I was dragged here, too depressed and too bloody compliant to do anything but acquiesce, 18 years ago, and although it’s actually a very nice place in many ways, and although I’ve learnt a sort of affection for it just as you do by getting to know a person’s quirks, I’ve been wanting out for a long while. Moving is vastly overdue. It was useful to have (or partly, to find out that I had) something to go *to, to make me do something about it. So I’ve been all impetus for the past so long, dressed up for the ball and – no invitation. (I’m half-way to my three-score and ten, for gawd’s sake, I need work. Not quite knowing how much I can do – & having a habit of crashing out through overestimating – is a pest. boy, can I relate to that. I never know it’s too far until I’m there 
Oh, dear. It’s probably a victim/ survivor thing. 8-P Think we’ll ever learn? I’d settle for becoming more resilient – a mere week suspended in the garage while a grease-monkey tinkers with my engine would be a nuisance, but liveable with. Not to mention that I don’t have an awful lot to offer, even in theory, which isn’t negated by my weaknesses. You might be surprised to find that you do. I’m constantly amazed at what other people think is wonderful. Talents are things we don’t know we have until sumbunny else points them out.
True. & if it weren’t for you people here, I might never have learnt I had *any* sort of talents. I have much to be thankful for. If we didn’t *learn* it, how can it be valuable?
Hmmm. And then there are those who reason it in precisely the opposite direction – if it doesn’t come naturally, it can’t *really* be valuable. I just look at things wot need doing, or which people want done, and generally find that either I’d be completely hopeless (which is fine, so long as it doesn’t encompass every possible occupation under the sun), or else that I could do that bit and that bit, but I’d fall flat on my face when it came to *that bit – never mind mediocre, it’d be a disaster. Sometimes I find that bit out by doing it. I can dig, tho’, in an unscientific manner, and once upon a time I was pretty good at bottling lambs and rolling fleeces, not to mention Useful Arm-Waving when the shepherds were moving sheep. Thank god, one needs no social skills or um, presence, or wotnot, to do those things. One just does ‘em. There ain’t much left in the world of which that’s true. My brother doesn’t value his amazing skill with wood, because he doesn’t understand that everybunny cannot do that. I didn’t value my organizing/filing ability until I learned that there are (many!) people who cannot do that. They pay me lots to do it for ‘em.
Point taken. Anyway, you’re yourself, and whenever I see your nick, I know I’m going to find something worth reading. 8-) And anything which requires initiative, or anything which can be judged on any grounds more complicated than having done what had to be done, scares the shit out of me. I keep telling people (at my office and really, anyone who will sit still) that I’m thrilled, even though I find it a terribly sad thing, that, for the first time in my life, I’m working at the very edge of my ability.
/me sits still & unfolds her lugs for better listening. Wonderful for you. I think I remember you writing about working always within your abilities, a time back; sort of philosophically. And if it’s late, you’re no less there now. Some people spend their whole lives in the comfort zone of something they care nothing about, and which doesn’t fit at all, and isn’t really comfortable, except that they’ve been there so long they’ve worn a groove. A great many people. Still, for now, *I’d be happy to stay in my comfort zone. I absolutely don’t want to be at the edge of my abilities; I spend too much time there just in the natural course of things, and being terrified takes a lot of energy. So, I want to do something I *can do, and where I know what needs doing, and just build my stamina up, and let my nervous system find out what not being terrified is like. Then I can decide whether I want to find out the good of being at the edge of one’s abilities. What I’m doing requires all my attention. I’ve never in my 43 years done anything like that. (well, maybe learning to walk as a child It’s gawdawful, meaningless, stoopid work, but I’m fully engaged. It’s interesting (to be engaged – not the work). And I’m okay with doing the best I can, and working without being a master of it. Just plain weird for me.
It sounds like the right thing for the time. Healthy. And I’m all for being engaged. But I’m damned if I’m going to beat myself up over the fact, however much other people disapprove. Not that you need it, but I totally approve of you not beating up yourself. 
I said to one of my minions yesterday – I was so glad to know him. He reminds me of the wild life I lived when I was younger, and I’m not sorry. Many people told me I should be doing other things, but I did as I pleased, and I’m not sorry.
I didn’t, and I am. 8-P You are wonderful and refreshing. Thank you. wishing you a lovely visit with your mystery guest, and adding my influence to the weather clerk for your clear skies,
Your contribution much appreciated – he’s been generous with sun so far. And I’m enjoying, and I think the mystery guest is enjoying herself. (Only mysterious ’cause I keep forgetting to ask permission to mention, except when she isn’t here to be asked.) Baba Yaga — The man who never looks into a newspaper is better informed than he who reads them: inasmuch as he who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors. - Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826
Response:
Well, since you wrote it twice – thank’ee, m’am – I will, too. unsolicited advice:
And very good advice, too. I’m in the market for anything which moves me on a bit. ’Though I’ll stop long enough to compain before moving, if a kick in the arse is what does it. (I’m suspecting self-kicking – purely in a spirit of impelling forward motion – may be the proper caper; takes a little practice to do it without falling flat on my face, however.) give it a try. have a coming-out party.
?! Coming-out? put retirement house in mothballs until retirement. better yet, rent it to a retired couple or anyone else who wants it. get a property manager to deal with renters.
Oh lord, if only. I’d be long gone! Sadly, ’twas a case of my meaning one thing (glorified retirement home = ossifying town where I live, not me little flat), and saying another. Options so far as I can see are private rent (which seems only theoretically to be an option, for all the usual reasons) and social housing – which only becomes an option when (or, at ghastliest, if) either I climb up the housing list, or someone living in social housing where I want to live decides that he wants to live in social housing where I do live. I’ve been considering what they call "low-demand housing", which (as my housing officer here informed me) means that you wouldn’t put a dog in there, as a stopgap. Unfortunately, I can’t work out how I’d get *out of it once in, short of complete crack-up – and it ain’t certain, even then. Eager as I am to be gone, I’d rather avoid going the loony-bin route. – Hide quoted text — Show quoted text -get up and get on train. move. take work. live. play. live. play. live. play. eventually retire. or not.
Not sounds pretty good, just now. Which for someone who’s still not up to the minimum 16 hours a week it takes (at least, around here) to become a shelf-stacker [it ain't meaningful, but it *is uncomplicated], is a pretty good sign of under-occupation. <<grin Ach, damnit, I want to be useful until I kick the bucket. & damnit if it’s officially work, so long as I know it means something. I’m never going to be rich, anyway. Baba Yaga — The man who never looks into a newspaper is better informed than he who reads them: inasmuch as he who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors. - Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826
Response:
Sweet Evil Jesus Baba. You are a brilliant, engaging writer. Sorry for top posting but I couldn’t bear to snip and I didn’t want to do the long scroll down thing for my unsubstantial remarks. I loved this post, read it twice. Work? You’re a gifted writer. That may be your destiny. Jean
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – First, let us establish something important: I have been away. I hope you all noticed that. And if I find out that any of you have been saying nasty things behind my back, there’ll be trouble. Or nice things. I want you to say them to my face, damnit! Lots of them! ‘Hem. As I was saying, I have been away. Actually, I ran away, in a blue funk, but we’ll draw a veil over that. So, I get up at an unearthly hour on what turns into a perfect spring day, spend several hours on trains, fairly ripping through some lovely country, and the obligatory stretches of urban wasteland and get to Glasgow, where my friend meets me. Considering that a few years ago, the half hour journey to the nearest town would knock me sideways, I’m doing pretty well! And I’m nicely in time for a truly superb (and cheap) lunch at the Shish Mahal restaurant. (Just in case anyone ever wants to know where to find good grub in Glasgow.) Follows a bumpy, trip through the Trossachs (which look, should you be wondering, just you’d imagine as Trossachs should), with an unintended detour to Loch Lomond. & not much remains of the evening, except that there must have been one. Come the morning, I’m drowsing in a tousled heap under the quilt, when a hand bearing a cup appears round the door, followed by my friend, who’s lustily singing, "Away, away, you ugly witch". (His excuse is that he’s been listening to Steeleye Span. A likely story, I call it.) A springlike week of holiday following, we trundle out around the surrounding countryside, and laze about rather a lot, and listen to music. & when the dreaded lurgy strikes us down, more lazing follows. So, I find myself slouched on the sofa with my friend, and watching the snooker (a billiards-type game, should our overseas readers be wondering). It’s round about now that he starts singing "Can’t you see the witch by my side?" Anyroad up, I’m struck by the discipline this game requires… Not just hours of practice, but an awesome degree of emotional control. & in particular, I get to watching Graham Dott. [Them as haven't a clue what I'm talking about may fast forward to the next para.] For one thing, tactical play is interesting (especially with someone by who understands the game well enough to illuminate what my ignorance can’t see!); for another, he’s a fascinating mannerism, where he thrusts his chin forward in a motion a bit like a bird gulping for a passing insect; and for an important third, he’s a gritty little character. Coming back, and coming back, frame after frame, and this astonishing control, so that he never gives up, never gets carried away by the situation. He’s not the most talented player (so much was apparent even before the final), but that determination & level-headedness raised him above himself. There’s something to be learned from, there, I think. Especially for so volatile and so unsteady a creature as me! More lazing, more music, and a hilarious (and touching) evening out, at which my friend and his siblings got to reminiscing… Their memories are glorious technicolour, quite remarkable. And we laughed fit to bust. It’s almost trite to remark the link between tragedy and comedy. It’s striking, ‘though, to watch the process in action. The difference is in the view… Detachment is a thing to be cultivated. It’s the mark of the adult person, in many ways. <<sigh Not but what some folk cultivate it too well… Perhaps, come to think of it, detachment is a large part of what enables a snooker player to have the sort of self-dscipline to survive the game a week. At some point, my friend changes song again, to "Separate the torso from the spine". I decide that it’s time to book my ticket home. And so, with a dealine prodding my laziness into action, I get around to meeting up with a couple of friends who live nearby – and not meeting up with another, on account of children’s social lives. I want to move! It’s ridiculous to have friends – active, purposeful friends, people whom I like and respect and enjoy – scattered about an area, and work waiting for me to boot; and instead *still to be living in the glorified retirement home my parents dropped me into when I was 16, minus sufficient useful occupation. (I’m half-way to my three-score and ten, for gawd’s sake, and I’m still living a life defined by the disaster I was when I was 19. On bad days, I have an uneasy suspicion I’m still waiting for someone to do it – whatever precisely it is – for me, as I obediently did for years, until some brave and kind soul told me he couldn’t, and freed me at least to start for myself. Time to do something about that, I think!) Home, to such delights as freshening up the kitchen paintwork, picking up other people’s litter, and retrieving traffic cones from the river, and a general dispirited feeling. I need work. Not quite knowing how much I can do – & having a habit of crashing out through overestimating – is a pest. Not to mention that I don’t have an awful lot to offer, even in theory, which isn’t negated by my weaknesses. But I *do* know that whatever I do needs to be meaningful to me, not just generally a good thing, & I do know that I’m not bad at playing unskilled labourer, so that’s something. Anything wot requires more brawn (not that I’ve got much of that, but I’ve got stubbornness to make up for the lack) than brain suits me fine. And anything which requires initiative, or anything which can be judged on any grounds more complicated than having done what had to be done, scares the shit out of me. But I’m damned if I’m going to beat myself up over the fact, however much other people disapprove. I’ve done enough surgery on myself for one lifetime: from now on, likely reward has to match effort; and so far, that isn’t directly a priority. Time and events may or may not change that. Anyroad, as this turns into totally a different post from what I expected, tomorrow a person whom some people here know is coming to stay for a week, so that promises fun. All the more so if the clerk of the weather co-operates. <<fizzle Baba Yaga — The man who never looks into a newspaper is better informed than he who reads them: inasmuch as he who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors. - Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826
Response:
Oh Baba! Wot a lovely story If I can’t have a holiday of my own, I do enjoy other people’s. Or nice things. I want you to say them to my face, damnit! Lots of them!
Keep reading I want to move! It’s ridiculous to have friends – active, purposeful friends, people whom I like and respect and enjoy – scattered about an area, and work waiting for me to boot; and instead *still to be living in the glorified retirement home my parents dropped me into when I was 16, minus sufficient useful occupation.
I second astri’s idea to get a property manager and rent the place out. Tell yourself you can go back. (I’m half-way to my three-score and ten, for gawd’s sake,
I need work. Not quite knowing how much I can do – & having a habit of crashing out through overestimating – is a pest.
boy, can I relate to that. I never know it’s too far until I’m there Not to mention that I don’t have an awful lot to offer, even in theory, which isn’t negated by my weaknesses.
You might be surprised to find that you do. I’m constantly amazed at what other people think is wonderful. Talents are things we don’t know we have until sumbunny else points them out. If we didn’t *learn* it, how can it be valuable? My brother doesn’t value his amazing skill with wood, because he doesn’t understand that everybunny cannot do that. I didn’t value my organizing/filing ability until I learned that there are (many!) people who cannot do that. They pay me lots to do it for ‘em. And anything which requires initiative, or anything which can be judged on any grounds more complicated than having done what had to be done, scares the shit out of me.
I keep telling people (at my office and really, anyone who will sit still) that I’m thrilled, even though I find it a terribly sad thing, that, for the first time in my life, I’m working at the very edge of my ability. What I’m doing requires all my attention. I’ve never in my 43 years done anything like that. (well, maybe learning to walk as a child It’s gawdawful, meaningless, stoopid work, but I’m fully engaged. It’s interesting (to be engaged – not the work). And I’m okay with doing the best I can, and working without being a master of it. Just plain weird for me. But I’m damned if I’m going to beat myself up over the fact, however much other people disapprove.
Not that you need it, but I totally approve of you not beating up yourself. I said to one of my minions yesterday – I was so glad to know him. He reminds me of the wild life I lived when I was younger, and I’m not sorry. Many people told me I should be doing other things, but I did as I pleased, and I’m not sorry. wishing you a lovely visit with your mystery guest, and adding my influence to the weather clerk for your clear skies, tigerbunny
Response:
- Hide quoted text — Show quoted text – First, let us establish something important: I have been away. I hope you all noticed that. And if I find out that any of you have been saying nasty things behind my back, there’ll be trouble. Or nice things. I want you to say them to my face, damnit! Lots of them! ‘Hem. As I was saying, I have been away. Actually, I ran away, in a blue funk, but we’ll draw a veil over that. So, I get up at an unearthly hour on what turns into a perfect spring day, spend several hours on trains, fairly ripping through some lovely country, and the obligatory stretches of urban wasteland and get to Glasgow, where my friend meets me. Considering that a few years ago, the half hour journey to the nearest town would knock me sideways, I’m doing pretty well! And I’m nicely in time for a truly superb (and cheap) lunch at the Shish Mahal restaurant. (Just in case anyone ever wants to know where to find good grub in Glasgow.) Follows a bumpy, trip through the Trossachs (which look, should you be wondering, just you’d imagine as Trossachs should), with an unintended detour to Loch Lomond. & not much remains of the evening, except that there must have been one. Come the morning, I’m drowsing in a tousled heap under the quilt, when a hand bearing a cup appears round the door, followed by my friend, who’s lustily singing, "Away, away, you ugly witch". (His excuse is that he’s been listening to Steeleye Span. A likely story, I call it.) A springlike week of holiday following, we trundle out around the surrounding countryside, and laze about rather a lot, and listen to music. & when the dreaded lurgy strikes us down, more lazing follows. So, I find myself slouched on the sofa with my friend, and watching the snooker (a billiards-type game, should our overseas readers be wondering). It’s round about now that he starts singing "Can’t you see the witch by my side?" Anyroad up, I’m struck by the discipline this game requires… Not just hours of practice, but an awesome degree of emotional control. & in particular, I get to watching Graham Dott. [Them as haven't a clue what I'm talking about may fast forward to the next para.] For one thing, tactical play is interesting (especially with someone by who understands the game well enough to illuminate what my ignorance can’t see!); for another, he’s a fascinating mannerism, where he thrusts his chin forward in a motion a bit like a bird gulping for a passing insect; and for an important third, he’s a gritty little character. Coming back, and coming back, frame after frame, and this astonishing control, so that he never gives up, never gets carried away by the situation. He’s not the most talented player (so much was apparent even before the final), but that determination & level-headedness raised him above himself. There’s something to be learned from, there, I think. Especially for so volatile and so unsteady a creature as me! More lazing, more music, and a hilarious (and touching) evening out, at which my friend and his siblings got to reminiscing… Their memories are glorious technicolour, quite remarkable. And we laughed fit to bust. It’s almost trite to remark the link between tragedy and comedy. It’s striking, ‘though, to watch the process in action. The difference is in the view… Detachment is a thing to be cultivated. It’s the mark of the adult person, in many ways. <<sigh Not but what some folk cultivate it too well… Perhaps, come to think of it, detachment is a large part of what enables a snooker player to have the sort of self-dscipline to survive the game a week. At some point, my friend changes song again, to "Separate the torso from the spine". I decide that it’s time to book my ticket home. And so, with a dealine prodding my laziness into action, I get around to meeting up with a couple of friends who live nearby – and not meeting up with another, on account of children’s social lives. I want to move! It’s ridiculous to have friends – active, purposeful friends, people whom I like and respect and enjoy – scattered about an area, and work waiting for me to boot; and instead *still to be living in the glorified retirement home my parents dropped me into when I was 16, minus sufficient useful occupation. (I’m half-way to my three-score and ten, for gawd’s sake, and I’m still living a life defined by the disaster I was when I was 19. On bad days, I have an uneasy suspicion I’m still waiting for someone to do it – whatever precisely it is – for me, as I obediently did for years, until some brave and kind soul told me he couldn’t, and freed me at least to start for myself. Time to do something about that, I think!) Home, to such delights as freshening up the kitchen paintwork, picking up other people’s litter, and retrieving traffic cones from the river, and a general dispirited feeling. I need work. Not quite knowing how much I can do – & having a habit of crashing out through overestimating – is a pest. Not to mention that I don’t have an awful lot to offer, even in theory, which isn’t negated by my weaknesses. But I *do* know that whatever I do needs to be meaningful to me, not just generally a good thing, & I do know that I’m not bad at playing unskilled labourer, so that’s something. Anything wot requires more brawn (not that I’ve got much of that, but I’ve got stubbornness to make up for the lack) than brain suits me fine. And anything which requires initiative, or anything which can be judged on any grounds more complicated than having done what had to be done, scares the shit out of me. But I’m damned if I’m going to beat myself up over the fact, however much other people disapprove. I’ve done enough surgery on myself for one lifetime: from now on, likely reward has to match effort; and so far, that isn’t directly a priority. Time and events may or may not change that. Anyroad, as this turns into totally a different post from what I expected, tomorrow a person whom some people here know is coming to stay for a week, so that promises fun. All the more so if the clerk of the weather co-operates. <<fizzle Baba Yaga
unsolicited advice: give it a try. have a coming-out party. put retirement house in mothballs until retirement. better yet, rent it to a retired couple or anyone else who wants it. get a property manager to deal with renters. get up and get on train. move. take work. live. play. live. play. live. play. eventually retire. or not. — astri
Response:
Enjoy your week together, Baba Yaga. And yes, I’ve been saying nasty things behind your back, though not having anything to do with you. Does that count?
– Hide quoted text — Show quoted text -First, let us establish something important: I have been away. I hope you all noticed that. And if I find out that any of you have been saying nasty things behind my back, there’ll be trouble. Or nice things. I want you to say them to my face, damnit! Lots of them! ‘Hem. As I was saying, I have been away. Actually, I ran away, in a blue funk, but we’ll draw a veil over that. So, I get up at an unearthly hour on what turns into a perfect spring day, spend several hours on trains, fairly ripping through some lovely country, and the obligatory stretches of urban wasteland and get to Glasgow, where my friend meets me. Considering that a few years ago, the half hour journey to the nearest town would knock me sideways, I’m doing pretty well! And I’m nicely in time for a truly superb (and cheap) lunch at the Shish Mahal restaurant. (Just in case anyone ever wants to know where to find good grub in Glasgow.) Follows a bumpy, trip through the Trossachs (which look, should you be wondering, just you’d imagine as Trossachs should), with an unintended detour to Loch Lomond. & not much remains of the evening, except that there must have been one. Come the morning, I’m drowsing in a tousled heap under the quilt, when a hand bearing a cup appears round the door, followed by my friend, who’s lustily singing, "Away, away, you ugly witch". (His excuse is that he’s been listening to Steeleye Span. A likely story, I call it.) A springlike week of holiday following, we trundle out around the surrounding countryside, and laze about rather a lot, and listen to music. & when the dreaded lurgy strikes us down, more lazing follows. So, I find myself slouched on the sofa with my friend, and watching the snooker (a billiards-type game, should our overseas readers be wondering). It’s round about now that he starts singing "Can’t you see the witch by my side?" Anyroad up, I’m struck by the discipline this game requires… Not just hours of practice, but an awesome degree of emotional control. & in particular, I get to watching Graham Dott. [Them as haven't a clue what I'm talking about may fast forward to the next para.] For one thing, tactical play is interesting (especially with someone by who understands the game well enough to illuminate what my ignorance can’t see!); for another, he’s a fascinating mannerism, where he thrusts his chin forward in a motion a bit like a bird gulping for a passing insect; and for an important third, he’s a gritty little character. Coming back, and coming back, frame after frame, and this astonishing control, so that he never gives up, never gets carried away by the situation. He’s not the most talented player (so much was apparent even before the final), but that determination & level-headedness raised him above himself. There’s something to be learned from, there, I think. Especially for so volatile and so unsteady a creature as me! More lazing, more music, and a hilarious (and touching) evening out, at which my friend and his siblings got to reminiscing… Their memories are glorious technicolour, quite remarkable. And we laughed fit to bust. It’s almost trite to remark the link between tragedy and comedy. It’s striking, ‘though, to watch the process in action. The difference is in the view… Detachment is a thing to be cultivated. It’s the mark of the adult person, in many ways. <<sigh Not but what some folk cultivate it too well… Perhaps, come to think of it, detachment is a large part of what enables a snooker player to have the sort of self-dscipline to survive the game a week. At some point, my friend changes song again, to "Separate the torso from the spine". I decide that it’s time to book my ticket home. And so, with a dealine prodding my laziness into action, I get around to meeting up with a couple of friends who live nearby – and not meeting up with another, on account of children’s social lives. I want to move! It’s ridiculous to have friends – active, purposeful friends, people whom I like and respect and enjoy – scattered about an area, and work waiting for me to boot; and instead *still to be living in the glorified retirement home my parents dropped me into when I was 16, minus sufficient useful occupation. (I’m half-way to my three-score and ten, for gawd’s sake, and I’m still living a life defined by the disaster I was when I was 19. On bad days, I have an uneasy suspicion I’m still waiting for someone to do it – whatever precisely it is – for me, as I obediently did for years, until some brave and kind soul told me he couldn’t, and freed me at least to start for myself. Time to do something about that, I think!) Home, to such delights as freshening up the kitchen paintwork, picking up other people’s litter, and retrieving traffic cones from the river, and a general dispirited feeling. I need work. Not quite knowing how much I can do – & having a habit of crashing out through overestimating – is a pest. Not to mention that I don’t have an awful lot to offer, even in theory, which isn’t negated by my weaknesses. But I *do* know that whatever I do needs to be meaningful to me, not just generally a good thing, & I do know that I’m not bad at playing unskilled labourer, so that’s something. Anything wot requires more brawn (not that I’ve got much of that, but I’ve got stubbornness to make up for the lack) than brain suits me fine. And anything which requires initiative, or anything which can be judged on any grounds more complicated than having done what had to be done, scares the shit out of me. But I’m damned if I’m going to beat myself up over the fact, however much other people disapprove. I’ve done enough surgery on myself for one lifetime: from now on, likely reward has to match effort; and so far, that isn’t directly a priority. Time and events may or may not change that. Anyroad, as this turns into totally a different post from what I expected, tomorrow a person whom some people here know is coming to stay for a week, so that promises fun. All the more so if the clerk of the weather co-operates. <<fizzle Baba Yaga
Response:
First, let us establish something important: I have been away. I hope you all noticed that. And if I find out that any of you have been saying nasty things behind my back, there’ll be trouble. Or nice things. I want you to say them to my face, damnit! Lots of them! ‘Hem. As I was saying, I have been away. Actually, I ran away, in a blue funk, but we’ll draw a veil over that. So, I get up at an unearthly hour on what turns into a perfect spring day, spend several hours on trains, fairly ripping through some lovely country, and the obligatory stretches of urban wasteland and get to Glasgow, where my friend meets me. Considering that a few years ago, the half hour journey to the nearest town would knock me sideways, I’m doing pretty well! And I’m nicely in time for a truly superb (and cheap) lunch at the Shish Mahal restaurant. (Just in case anyone ever wants to know where to find good grub in Glasgow.) Follows a bumpy, trip through the Trossachs (which look, should you be wondering, just you’d imagine as Trossachs should), with an unintended detour to Loch Lomond. & not much remains of the evening, except that there must have been one. Come the morning, I’m drowsing in a tousled heap under the quilt, when a hand bearing a cup appears round the door, followed by my friend, who’s lustily singing, "Away, away, you ugly witch". (His excuse is that he’s been listening to Steeleye Span. A likely story, I call it.) A springlike week of holiday following, we trundle out around the surrounding countryside, and laze about rather a lot, and listen to music. & when the dreaded lurgy strikes us down, more lazing follows. So, I find myself slouched on the sofa with my friend, and watching the snooker (a billiards-type game, should our overseas readers be wondering). It’s round about now that he starts singing "Can’t you see the witch by my side?" Anyroad up, I’m struck by the discipline this game requires… Not just hours of practice, but an awesome degree of emotional control. & in particular, I get to watching Graham Dott. [Them as haven't a clue what I'm talking about may fast forward to the next para.] For one thing, tactical play is interesting (especially with someone by who understands the game well enough to illuminate what my ignorance can’t see!); for another, he’s a fascinating mannerism, where he thrusts his chin forward in a motion a bit like a bird gulping for a passing insect; and for an important third, he’s a gritty little character. Coming back, and coming back, frame after frame, and this astonishing control, so that he never gives up, never gets carried away by the situation. He’s not the most talented player (so much was apparent even before the final), but that determination & level-headedness raised him above himself. There’s something to be learned from, there, I think. Especially for so volatile and so unsteady a creature as me! More lazing, more music, and a hilarious (and touching) evening out, at which my friend and his siblings got to reminiscing… Their memories are glorious technicolour, quite remarkable. And we laughed fit to bust. It’s almost trite to remark the link between tragedy and comedy. It’s striking, ‘though, to watch the process in action. The difference is in the view… Detachment is a thing to be cultivated. It’s the mark of the adult person, in many ways. <<sigh Not but what some folk cultivate it too well… Perhaps, come to think of it, detachment is a large part of what enables a snooker player to have the sort of self-dscipline to survive the game a week. At some point, my friend changes song again, to "Separate the torso from the spine". I decide that it’s time to book my ticket home. And so, with a dealine prodding my laziness into action, I get around to meeting up with a couple of friends who live nearby – and not meeting up with another, on account of children’s social lives. I want to move! It’s ridiculous to have friends – active, purposeful friends, people whom I like and respect and enjoy – scattered about an area, and work waiting for me to boot; and instead *still to be living in the glorified retirement home my parents dropped me into when I was 16, minus sufficient useful occupation. (I’m half-way to my three-score and ten, for gawd’s sake, and I’m still living a life defined by the disaster I was when I was 19. On bad days, I have an uneasy suspicion I’m still waiting for someone to do it – whatever precisely it is – for me, as I obediently did for years, until some brave and kind soul told me he couldn’t, and freed me at least to start for myself. Time to do something about that, I think!) Home, to such delights as freshening up the kitchen paintwork, picking up other people’s litter, and retrieving traffic cones from the river, and a general dispirited feeling. I need work. Not quite knowing how much I can do – & having a habit of crashing out through overestimating – is a pest. Not to mention that I don’t have an awful lot to offer, even in theory, which isn’t negated by my weaknesses. But I *do* know that whatever I do needs to be meaningful to me, not just generally a good thing, & I do know that I’m not bad at playing unskilled labourer, so that’s something. Anything wot requires more brawn (not that I’ve got much of that, but I’ve got stubbornness to make up for the lack) than brain suits me fine. And anything which requires initiative, or anything which can be judged on any grounds more complicated than having done what had to be done, scares the shit out of me. But I’m damned if I’m going to beat myself up over the fact, however much other people disapprove. I’ve done enough surgery on myself for one lifetime: from now on, likely reward has to match effort; and so far, that isn’t directly a priority. Time and events may or may not change that. Anyroad, as this turns into totally a different post from what I expected, tomorrow a person whom some people here know is coming to stay for a week, so that promises fun. All the more so if the clerk of the weather co-operates. <<fizzle Baba Yaga — The man who never looks into a newspaper is better informed than he who reads them: inasmuch as he who knows nothing is nearer to truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehood and errors. - Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826
Response:
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i am ending up not knowing anymore who is abusive or not and why people do not react at all to abusive people??? i also see that *my definition of abusive might be quite different, that my being french and non american or north american makes me terribly different and that there is no real free possibility of my own expression with tolerance. you see, i have been stupid enough, used to communicate in almost 4 languages to believe that the net would be a great place to communicate with other people and it seems that i got all wrong: i learnt that i do not have my place on it, or only with people from my country, my language or the languages that are spoken around the country i am living in. too many persons do not have a clue about what i am talking about or why, it is simply impossible and so so sad 