Day: May 4, 2025

Write your answer with a PIN

What about New Year executions

Christmas fees

Birthday cocreation

Funny folly days

Fall hallows

Hot steamed bidding

Don’t forget the scream for the Christmas pudding

Do you think starters are coarse?

I seem to have mislaid the wives and the hawks.

I misled my folks!

What do you think of paper lap buns?

Would you like to wear paper blunderwear?

I’ve been reading my well frozen library books,all bleak. Do you want to  examine me tomorrow on paper?

Paper, paper everywhere and not a drop of ink.

I think I shall write with a PIN tomorrow

If you had a combination of real numbers and a computer I wonder what the outcome would be?

People

Alfred wished his wife would make a cake.
He himself could neither boil nor bake.
Yet when Marie bought cakes in Marks
His eyes emitted orange sparks.
I saw their marriage was at risk
And so I undertook my task.
I bought a needle circular,
And now I knit round cakes for her.

Wilfred wanted clean sheets every night
Their laundry basket was a wearing sight
Yet when Annette rang the launderette
He swore right through the alphabet.
I thought that they might well split up
Then dear Annette would lose her grip.
I bought some lovely plastic sheets
And on his bed they look so neat.

Herbert like to use real handkerchiefs
And, fancy, he wore heavy cotton briefs.
When Mary Jane boiled all his stuff
He said his pants weren’t clean enough.
I thought their union’d perish soon
And she’d not find another groom.
I bought ten gross of paper pants
And now he feels quite exultant.

Gilbert liked his tea to be real hot
But one Sunday his troubled wife forgot
He screamed and yelled like an infant
His face was red and petulant
I thought Diane would strike him dead
And have nobody in her bed.
I bought ten insulated mugs,
A teapot, and by Jove they’re snug!

These little tales are meant to make you laugh
For I would rather read or draw a graph.
But if we do not help our friends
We’d go much further round the bend.
I don’t want you to suffer long
So I’ll come round and sing my songs.
I’ve got my handbag and my case
And now I’m coming ,full of grace.

I saw Anne Frank

Photo0340

Walking through unceasing traffic outside the main hospital,
I saw Anne Frank at the bus stop,I thought
There was a young woman with seven children,
Jewish,I saw.Little ones shyly offering us their seats.
I asked if she lived nearby.
No, we live in Stamford Hill,North London
What a shame you have to come so far,
for this terminus is inside the hospital grounds,you see.
Oh,no!We did not come for the hospital.
We came to pick fruit on that lovely farm down the hill!
Yes,we have been there too, it is very beautiful,I say.
It’s easy enough on public transport,she murmured softly like a little girl.
The children gazed, demure and polite,
I could see their smiles were not so far away.
I asked her,Would it be offensive
if I gave my husband a kippah
as he is tired of his hat?
Not at all,she murmured,smiling.
Why,you can get them anywhere now…Stamford Hill,Golder’s Green
She took off the hat from her son’s head
to show me how white his skin was there.
She told me how they just came back from a seaside holiday.
Too soon ,their bus came.She’d be ready for a cup of tea or two.
I saw eight faces smile,just a little smile,you know;
enough it was and all for me.
The oldest girl waved her hand gently as the bus left.
I see this is not just a place with a hospital.
It’s got a pick your own fruit farm;it’s got woods,hills,
fields with horses,tomato filled greenhouses,large white houses.
When they close their eyes they’ll see the green and the sunshine;they’ll see the woods on the hill.
And I shall see them and Anne Frank too ;it was the hidden smile.
Why,I see it is almost the Mona Lisa too.

A smile can be such a mystery.

Emerging from a hospital,tests,blood,anxiety.,machines,..
it’s like dreaming,
it’s like being given a hint;
there’s another time intersecting with this
and history herself brushes against my cheek
with a rare intimacy
that makes me both smile and weep.
It’s always here,but we don’t see…
It’s not a hospital only;
it’s a doorway to other worlds

and what worlds,indeed.,

Leonard Cohen On Psychotherapy

One notes that psychotherapy is not part of the joke. As Cohen told Stina Lundberg in a 2001 interview:

I don’t trust them [psychological explanations]. As I say in that song: “I know that I’m forgiven, but I don’t know how I know; I don’t trust my inner feelings, inner feelings come and go.” I think that psychological explanations can be valuable and that psychotherapy can be valuable for some people, but the fundamental question of how and why people are as they are is something that we can’t penetrate in this part of the plan, that we simply cannot grasp, and the feelings that arise – we don’t determine what we’re going to see next, we don’t determine what we’re going to hear next, taste next, feel next or think next, we don’t determine, yet we have the sense that we’re running the show. So if anything is relaxed in my mind it’s the sense of control, or the quest for meaning. And my experience is that there is no fixed self. There’s no-one whom I can locate as the real me, and dissolving the search for the real me is relaxation, is the content of peace. But these recognitions are temporary and fleeting, then we go back to thinking that we really know who we are.

And he told another interviewer in 2001:

For one reason or another, I didn’t have any confidence in the therapeutic model. Therapy seems to affirm the idea unconditionally of a self that has to be worked on and repaired. And my inclination was that it was holding that notion to begin with that was the problem — that there was this self that needed some kind of radical adjustment. It didn’t appeal to me for some odd reason.

Asked if he had tried psychotherapy, Cohen told another interviewer,

I preferred to use drugs. I preferred the conventional distractions of wine, women and song. And religion. But it’s all the same.

For the record,

Cohen did go to a therapist once, actually — out of desperation. He was so depressed that he called a friend and asked if she could arrange for him to see her therapist straightaway. Then he drove to St. John’s Health Center in Santa Monica “at about five miles an hour,” barely able to negotiate the traffic. When he got there, the therapist asked him to describe his feelings. After Cohen had finished, she said, “How can you stand it?”

The bitter end

We went to Richmond one bank holiday

With visions of a boat upon the Thames

One way or another men must pay

When we seek  a Richmond  holiday.

When we are alone what shall we say?

We don’t know until the bitter end

We went to Richmond one bank holiday

With visions of a boat upon the Thames