~WORD TROUBLE

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If we know what impersonate means,what does imchocolateator mean?

English is a hard language

.
Next,what does imspectaclestator   mean.?

Yes,my lord,she was trying to pass herself off as a pair of spectacles.

No,my lord,I am just having trouble learning to spell

It imticles my enticles to try to look like spectacles.

It enchuckles my dottleacs to try look like a box of chocolate cats.

It enthruckles my enteliacs to try to look like a box of candlewax.

It delickles my spontiliacks to try to eat an enchocolatillladillado.

Yes,my lord,I plead guilty to being a direct indescandant of him, James Joyce, and the bontiliadacs

I am sentenced to thirty years of thesaurean anticleeriacs and  terroriasmacs.

With constant unaccess to ice pick pocketpacks and diplomacs stats

Stan’s wedding anniversary

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  • Stan was wearing his best suit topped by a denim apron polishing the big windows with a microfibre cloth as he waited breathlessly for his stunning wife.Mary entered the room wearing a long purple and mauve dress which clung somewhat tightly to the curvaceous contours of her beautifully rounded body.On her feet she had some smart pewter ballet slippers and in her elegant hand she carried a huge pewter clutch bag which contained some of her many medications.She addressed Stan,
    “I think I can leave my handbag behind if I put my mouth spray into my bra.”
    “That somehow detracts from the romance of the evening.” Stan pronounced openly.
    “Well,you know,I never had a cleavage until lately and I fell I ought to make the most of it.”
    “Surely I should be the one make the most of it,” he riposted jocosely.
    “Of course you may.my angel,but not in the restaurant,”she answered back sweetly
    “I’ll put your spray in my pocket then,shall I?”
    Suddenly the doorbell rang.”Who’s this?”It was Annie,their next door neighbour. she was wearing a coral velvet track suit with matching Reeboks and sun hat .
    “Hi,I just came in with a little prezzie,”she declaimed.In her hand was a huge box of chocolates..”Gosh,Mary you look lovely in that beautiful long dress but you’re not going on your bike,are you?”
    “No,we are having a cab,but it’s not come as yet.”
    “Well,never mind.I’ll ring 999 and get them to send an emergency ambulance for you!”
    Fortunately,as luck would have it the minicab appeared from the sky and it was only as they were entering the restaurant that Stan realised he was still wearing his old denim apron.
    “Shall I take it off?” he pondered.
    On the pro side I will look smarter on the con side I might spill some soup down my front.I wish I’d done more logic at college.So he kept it on.Mary didn’t seem to notice.She just took him for granted.If he stood on his head and sang”Jerusalem” she probably wouldn’t pay any attention.
    Then he noticed that Mary was wearing an apron too.It was the same colour as her dress.What a brilliant idea,he thought.
    “There may be money in this.” He could start a small business,”Aprons R You” selling lovely aprons in all colours of the rainbow.
    Suddenly he heard noises;he awoke and heard Mary shouting “How can you go to sleep when you are out with me?”
    “Would you prefer me to recite the Periodic Table?” he snapped gently.
    “I’d prefer a poem,” she cried..
    .All right,Petal,I’ll think of one soon.In the meantime would you like a fool?” “No.I’  ve got you,” she responded handsomely.”I mean for a pudding?” “Oh,yes please.A Rubik fool would be lovely.It will pass the time.You know I get so bored.”
    “Well,I do my best but it’s hard keeping up with you.would you like to read a few truth tables whilst I finish my meat.”
    He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small leather bound book.
    “Truth tables and levitation for geniuses,” by Bertha Russell.
    “Oh,Stan,this looks interesting.I’ve always wanted to fly like an angel or an owl.”
    “It’s never too late to say never.” he responded.”Whatever do you mean?”
    “I don’t know.Just because a sentence is grammatically correct doesn’t imply that it means something.”
    “Yes,quite right.And conversely a sentence can mean something even when it’s not grammatically correct.”
    “Isn’t thinking exciting!”
    “Yes,indeed.I was thinking how exciting it will be to go to bed with you.”
    “Wow,good grammar and full of meaning.I am yours.I am like a ripe plum ready to drop off the tree.I am a cat ready to mate.I am a song waiting to be sung.”
    “Gosh,are metaphors your bete noir?”
    “Je ne parle pas Francais.”
    “Aimez vous ein Nederlander?”
    “Sprechen sie Deutsche?”
    Ist sein mutter immer krank?
    What a naughty author.

A pool of winter light

Their eyes drew me,
And their eyes draw me again
Into a pool of winter light
Golden from the low sun.
I swim in it
Like a hawk flows on the wind
Over the depths,
Of life.
Contained by a white china cup,
I’m your reflection now
Drowning in the slanting sunlight
Like a stone in a lake.
Falling deeper until I find
the creative mud
with which I mingle
no longer a stone
but a soft flowing stream of sensations
which meets with joy
the earth’s depths and presence.
And something new will grow.

In the desert

Tangled lives
Tangled lives

She walks in a deserted landscape of monotone colours.
Big with child,she crosses this rough terrain alone,
without a Joseph to protect or a donkey to carry her.
no inn nor stable is here.No cattle nor sheep
nothing alive.
Now she feels her labour pains coming;
Lies down amongst the rocks to wait
Here is an anonymous,faceless figure.
Pronounces himself a doctor.
She labours; he picks up her son.No Messiah nor Oedipus;
Without speaking,he conveys to her,this child has died.
Not ever held in the arms of hie mother
Nor father either.
He’s tossed, light as a few feathers,
light as a bird
onto a pile of bodies nearby.
Whose unwanted children are these?
Stil lying flat and weary with grief,
she observes her child-
one of many there.
Days pass and strength returns.
Stands now and walks over to say,Farewell.
The child opens his eyes;
Mother,they say,shining.
Holds him and presses him into herself for warmth…
Which way to go and when?
No signs, no maps…
Is there a right way?
Is there a guide?
Why was she journeying this way?
She remembers nothing
She has lost almost everything .
Steps forward..and walks on.
What other choice is there?

If you are witty, please leave the city

Rain stopped prayer today.
It never drains when it pours.
I never complain till my heart roars.
He pestered me,flustered me,beseeched me,admired me ,then threw me off like a used old coat.
What a liar..but to do him justice he’s very trying and none can compare in sighing with self pity.. sometimes witty,
Floods washed my heart away and I feel lost.
There’s many a true word spoken as  a test.
Endurance is the only way  to get rhymes
A few words are best not spoken out loud.
Better to touch than to strike a hard blow.
“Tis better to have lived with cost,than never to have lived at all.
Better to have trusted and lost than to have manipulated to a self serving end
I love you only once a day.
I love you when I see you pray
Wisdom is the king of humour.
Spite is the malady that  kills.
He shall tear his frock…. stop stealing my clothes and tear your own
Was Jerusalem built here,in England’s mares and evil spheres?
We here believe Jesus was white and an Englishman,
I wish you a merry Litmus.
He needs his head resting,doctor
I was tried many times and pleaded for sanity.
Old men are more malicious as their nerves are torn.
If,homeless kindly sleep in Church.Thank me,too.
If depressed kindly weep in Church.
If shy,please don’t mention it.
If worried you may gnaw your embroidered kneeler.
If paranoid,we are looking at you sideways.
If fasting,kindly faint quietly.
If abstaining,please weep softly.
If dead please report to the Vicar.
If wicked ,please play away tonight.
Tread lightly for I have shared all my dreams and you have used me badly.
Don’t stop till the gnats have all stung.
The vicar went out with a wrangler from Cambridge.
If you need legal advice you are in the wrong place.
Fish and whips available in the bookstore.
Handcuffs are going up as Marks And Spencer go down…
If completely expired, keep mum.
If past your use by date don’t rot till after the service then kindly place your body in the compost heap and you can call your soul your own for a while.
Men often have an idea of themselves totally remote from the truth.
And women keep quiet out of pity.
Whip up a mouse for the dessert?
If weighed down by sins kindly recycle them in the church Bin

More George Steiner

“The third confrontation between exigent utopia and the common pulse of Western life occurs with the rise of messianic socialism. Even where it proclaims itself to be atheist, the socialism of Marx, of Trotsky, of Ernst Bloch, is directly rooted in messianic eschatology. Nothing is more religious, nothing is closer to the ecstatic rage for justice in the prophets, than the socialist vision of the destruction of the bourgeois Gomorrah and the creation of a new, clean city for man. In their very language Marx’s 1844 manuscripts are steeped in the tradition of messianic promise. In an astounding passage Marx seems to paraphrase the vision of Isaiah and of primitive Christianity: “Assume man to be man and his relationship to the world to be a human one: then you can exchange love only for love, trust for trust.” When human exploitation is eradicated, the grime shall be scoured from the tired earth, and the world made a garden once more. This is the socialist dream and millenary bargain. For it generations have died. In its name falsehood and oppression have spread over a good deal of the earth. But the dream remains magnetic. It cries out to man to renounce profit and selfishness, to melt his personal being into that of the community. It demands that he break down the blackened walls of history, that he leap out of the shadow of his petty needs. Those who resist the dream are not only madmen and enemies of society; they betray the part of light in their own humanity. The god of utopia is a jealous god.”

In bluebeard’s castle

In Bluebeard’s castle

“We cannot think clearly about the crises of Western culture, about the origins and forms of totalitarian movements in the European heartland and the recurrence of world war, without bearing sharply in mind that Europe, after 1918, was damaged in its centers of life. Decisive reserves of intelligence, of nervous resilience, of political talent, had been annihilated. The satiric conceit, in Brecht and Georges Grosz, of children murdered because never to be born has its specific genetic meaning. An aggregate of mental and physical potentiality, of new hybrids and variants, too manifold for us to measure, was lost to the preservation and further evolution of Western man and of his institutions. Already in a biological sense we are looking now at a diminished or “post-culture.”

 

“We are not, I believe, dealing with some monstrous accident in modern social history. The holocaust was not the result of merely individual pathology or of the neuroses of one nation-state. Indeed, competent observers expected the cancer to spread first, and most virulently, in France. We are not-and this is often misunderstood-considering something truly analogous to other cases of massacre, to the murder of the Gypsies or, earlier, of the Armenians. There are parallels in technique and in the idiom of hatred. But not ontologically, not at the level of philosophic intent. That intent takes us to the heart of certain instabilities in the fabric of Western culture, in the relations between instinctual and religious life. Hitler’s jibe that “conscience is a Jewish invention may give a clue

George Steiner: “In Bluebeard’s CastleSome Notes Towards the Redefinition of Culture” 1971 / 2. A Season in Hell Yale University Press © George Steiner 1971

English: A picture taken on June 27, 2008 in P...
English: A picture taken on June 27, 2008 in Prague, Czech Republic of the former house of Franz Kafka. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Real Presences: Is There Anything in What We Say?
Real Presences: Is There Anything in What We Say? (Photo credit: Sol S.)

George Steiner: “In Bluebeard’s CastleSome Notes Towards the Redefinition of Culture” 1971 / 2. A Season in Hell Yale University Press © George Steiner 1971.

You can read the whole article from this genius

George Steiner
George Steiner (Photo credit: fieldus)
  • Kafka (abigail1668.wordpress.com)

Dancing

We were dancing to a tune,a tune I’d heard before.
We were spinning  close together across the polished floor
But as I moved towards you,you moved the other way
And I knew then,you  were hearing  differerent music play.
I made my mistakes,yet I thought you understood
Realisation comes down on me in a dreadful flood.
You’re just a stranger who seemed to know the dance
And I thought you loved me, but that was merely chance.
I’m so foolish, so foolish I give my heart away
I make  my errors then,of course,I have to pay.
Why don’t I learn more ? Why do I repeat
The dance I am dancing, which leads  me to defeat?
Oh,I’ll still keep on dancing for dancing is my life;
And like Andersen’s mermaid I walk always on  knives.
So foolish, so foolish my artless loving heart
I dance though I know this dance will tear my soul apart

Was this the apple then

Was this the apple,then,your mother’s breast
Which father thought was his to oft caress?
And when ,in deprived rage,you bit to test.
In anger he  would  ever you harass.

 

So then you learned that you could hate as well,
For punishment struck hard in your small heart.
Your memory was wordless ,could not tell;
Though pain and anguish made your  soft skin smart.
As unknown as the journey to your birth
As shocking as the grief of unmeant wrong..
As frightening as the gauging of your worth
As sudden as the ending of a song.
Impossible to foretell or to prepare,
The ambivalence of the heart  starts here.