Jewish English touch of humour

1.

Who’s the most famous Jewish man ever?

Jesus Christ!

Don’t you wish  God was your Father?

2

Which Jew   was most famous  relatively?

Do shut up about Albert Einstein

3
Can mechanics be Jews?

Only Quantum Mechanics 

4.

My cat looks Jewish

Is he canny?

5.

Why are Jewish people more intelligent ?

So  God could send messages

Does he text?

Not yet but he can whisper.

6.
I’ve heard Nothing

I’ve seen Nothing

I’ve  felt Nothing

Now I almost know Nothing.Give me time, oh Lord

7
It’s so dark at night I feel soulful

Well. put a  light on

On what?

8

We forgot to turn the TV off  before Sabbat Dinner

We can’t turn if off for 24 hours since it is electric

Just   cover  it up

Is  it a crime?

No, it’s   only a  sin

I feel shamed

Join the club

But it’s Sabbat!

It’s  a Sabbat Club but it meets on Sundays

Are we all shamefilled?

No just the duvets

But shame has no feathers

They are in the duvets of the world

Is it a duck?

Don’t ask me,I’m Jewish

You might be an ornithologist

Not today, thanks.I’m an atheist

A Jewish atheist?

No, A Catholic atheist!

How many non existent Gods are there?

How can we  answer that?

GOK

 

 

A petrol bomb

As down St Giles I cycled late one night
The road as silent as an empty church 
A speeding car  attacked me from the right

I saw, I knew, I felt no touch of fright
Time was stopped until  I felt the punch
As down St Giles I cycled in the night

 Flying like a moth  towards the light
Is this my end or shall  my  mind  come back?
A speeding car  attacked me from the right

The car drove at right angles  to my bike
I had no time to scream or speed my foot
As down St Giles I cycled in the night

I saw stars,  when flung to fearsome flight
I landed on my head, a flash,  a flood
A speeding car  attacked me from the right

The choir   rehearse without  my  voice ,now crushed
To Woodstock  and to Banbury  cars  rush
As down St Giles I cycle in the night
A speeding car, a petrol bomb , ignites

 

 

 

 

Song of the earthworm

They tell me that trees are a wonderful sight
They have leaves hanging on them all day and all night.
They tell me the golden sun shines in the sky
It’s said to be so much brighter so high.
I’d like to hear birdsong and thunder and hail.
At all these pursuits worms are likely to fail.
We only make holes in the soil as we move
And we know almost nothing about feelings and love.
We don’t know why we’re here or what purpose we serve
And our earthen workplace is also our grave.

 

You have to laugh or else you’ll cry

 

 

Autumn 2013 008

My image  of my own garden

 

 

Since my husband died I have been afflicted with recurrent UTI’s.
This year  has been the worst I have only one  entire month  when I was well.
Unfortunately   they affect the brain  and hence the mind.I have had scans but it seems my immune system is not strong.I wondered if it was the steroid injections as steroids do affect things like white blood cells etc

Anyway, today I have something humorous to tell you.~
I  have  had antibiotics then they doctor asked me to take a sample to send to  the pathology lab
I took it yesterday.When I gave it  to the receptionist she said in a  rather unkind tone
Why have you brought this?

I wonder why?
I might have said, it’s your morning  coffee replacement
Your plants need watering.
It seemed a good idea at the time
It’s so pale I wonder if I have anaemia.
I was bored and wanted to see you.
Mind your own business
However I just said the doctor told me to
Are they trying to economise even on lab tests?
The government has told doctors to delay the referring for cataract surgery
As my mother used to say:You have to laugh or else you’d cry

A more understandable article about Godel’s theorem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

img_20191122_203051https://www.perrymarshall.com/articles/religion/godels-incompleteness-theorem/

Excerpt

Godel’s Incompleteness Theorem says:

“Anything you can draw a circle around cannot explain itself without referring to something outside the circle – something you have to assume but cannot prove.”

Stated in Formal Language:

Gödel’s theorem says: “Any effectively generated theory capable of expressing elementary arithmetic cannot be both consistent and complete. In particular, for any consistent, effectively generated formal theory that proves certain basic arithmetic truths, there is an arithmetical statement that is true, but not provable in the theory.”

The Church-Turing thesis says that a physical system can express elementary arithmetic just as a human can, and that the arithmetic of a Turing Machine (computer) is not provable within the system and is likewise subject to incompleteness.

Any physical system subjected to measurement is capable of expressing elementary arithmetic. (In other words, children can do math by counting their fingers, water flowing into a bucket does integration, and physical systems always give the right answer.)

Therefore the universe is capable of expressing elementary arithmetic and like both mathematics itself and a Turing machine, is incomplete.

Syllogism:

1. All non-trivial computational systems are incomplete

2. The universe is a non-trivial computational system

3. Therefore the universe is incomplete

You can draw a circle around all of the concepts in your high school geometry book. But they’re all built on Euclid’s 5 postulates which are clearly true but cannot be proven. Those 5 postulates are outside the book, outside the circle.

You can draw a circle around a bicycle but the existence of that bicycle relies on a factory that is outside that circle. The bicycle cannot explain itself.

Gödel proved that there are ALWAYS more things that are true than you can prove. Any system of logic or numbers that mathematicians ever came up with will always rest on at least a few unprovable assumptions.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem applies not just to math, but to everything that is subject to the laws of logic. Incompleteness is true in math; it’s equally true in science or language or philosophy.

And: If the universe is mathematical and logical, Incompleteness also applies to the universe.

Stephen King : How to Write

Scilla_aristides2018-1.jpg

http://uk.businessinsider.com/stephen-king-on-how-to-write-2014-8?r=US&IR=T

1. Stop watching television. Instead, read as much as possible.
If you’re just starting out as a writer, your television should be the first thing to go. It’s “poisonous to creativity,” he says. Writers need to look into themselves and turn toward the life of the imagination.

To do so, they should read as much as they can. King takes a book with him everywhere he goes, and even reads during meals. “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot,” he says. Read widely, and constantly work to refine and redefine your own work as you do so.

2. Prepare for more failure and criticism than you think you can deal with.
King compares writing fiction to crossing the Atlantic Ocean in a bathtub, because in both, “there’s plenty of opportunity for self-doubt.” Not only will you doubt yourself, but other people will doubt you, too. “If you write (or paint or dance or sculpt or sing, I suppose), someone will try to make you feel lousy about it, that’s all,” writes King.

Oftentimes, you have to continue writing even when you don’t feel like it. “Stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea,” he writes. And when you fail, King suggests that you remain positive. “Optimism is a perfectly legitimate response to failure.”

3. Don’t waste time trying to please people.
According to King, rudeness should be the least of your concerns. “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered anyway,” he writes. King used to be ashamed of what he wrote, especially after receiving angry letters accusing him of being bigoted, homophobic, murderous, and even psychopathic.

By the age of 40, he realized that every decent writer has been accused of being a waste of talent. King has definitely come to terms with it. He writes, “If you disapprove, I can only shrug my shoulders. It’s what I have.” You can’t please all of your readers all the time, so King advises that you stop worrying.

4. Write primarily for yourself.
You should write because it brings you happiness and fulfillment. As King says, “I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”

Writer Kurt Vonnegut provides a similar insight: “Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about,” he says. “It is this genuine caring, not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style.”

To risk perception is a fear we share

The pools of water on the pavement gleam
Reflect  the colours  of the   shops and cars
Giving us a feeling all’s serene

As I walk I wander and daydream
I sit on an  old wall,  the moss like hair
The pools of water on the pavement gleam

I invent a   sentence and a theme
Will I forget before I have gone far
Taking back the feeling all’s serene?

I notice how the old wall seems to lean
To risk perception is a fear  we share
The pools of water on the pavement gleam

I feel the moss ,I love the colour scheme
I love the texture with my  hand  unbared
Giving me a feeling all’s serene

Each lovely brick is different  yet is fair
Evoking in my mind  the sacred  word
The pools of water on the pavement gleam
A light rain falls and  this world feels serene

 

That is not mine alone.



Come back to me, my sweetheart
Don’t leave me all alone.
Come back to me, my darling
I can’t believe you've gone.
I’m crying ‘cos I’m feeling blue again.
I’m crying’cos I’m falling like a stone.
Oh, let me tempt you with my beauty
And my voice forever young.
Let me tempt you with my spirit
My laughter and my songs.
I’m crying ‘cos I never did you wrong.
I’m crying ‘cos with you I  still belong.
I thought maybe I’d follow,
To see where you have gone
But there’s a hand upon this tiller
That is not mine alone.
I’m crying ‘cos I wrote this old blue song.
I’m crying, I’ve been lonely for too long.
The hand upon my tiller
The mystery of the dark
The unknown one who lives in me
And sings like a skylark.
I’m singing ‘cos I wrote you a new song.
I’m singing ‘cos the cat ain’t got my tongue

Are you foreign?

Are  you foreign  locals say to me
You have a funny accent, and you rhyme
So do you ever have a cup of tea?

Where do you come from, did you swim the  sea?
I see a kind of hatred in their eyes
Are  you foreign   locals say to me

Lord, forgive them,  what  can  these folk see?
I must look other, not the same as I
And do they ever use a cup  for tea?

All of us are blends of history
The Romans and the Vikings left  long lines
Are  you foreign.   locals  question  me?

I wonder  have I missed some little cue
To tell the truth, it’s rare for  me to lie
And even now I nurse a cup of tea?

I look odd but  so do all I  spy
What a nerve , they stole a whole pork pie
Are  you foreign  locals say to me
Be off ,I  cry, I’ll kill  for   privacy

 

 

Not by   immigrants from Pakistan

How we met is   not at all bizarre
Someone stole my bike.I had no car
I walked along the street and then met you
You had just come back from Timbuctoo

We never  found the bike. it had  a curse
But fortune favours courage and  good work
The joy was tempered by the  wrath of Mam
Not by   immigrants from Pakistan

Later on we  owned a  cheapo car
We went to Suffolk on some kind of dare
The houses painted pink ,soft white and green
By Framlingham which once housed Tudor Queen

We  soon learned   to love the South Folks lands
Yet deep inside ,the North  grips heart with  hand

A little death  to let the earth revive

A stillness falls across the garden trees
A little death  to let the earth revive
Stand silent here  and feel the gentle breeze

Yet some icy hands will sting like bees
To test our spirit, show we are alive
As stillness falls across the garden trees

Later in mid winter trees half freeze
Frost will hang like silver chains devised
Stand silent here  and feel the sharper breeze

As the year is ending  don’t retrieve
The bad ideas, the feelings  cruel  archived
As stillness falls across red maple trees

The sun so low  it blinds  us to our needs
We waste our time of peace with pointed jibes
Stand silent here  and feel the colder breeze

Winter rituals enrich starving lives
So cruel the cold,   yet frost with beauty chides
A stillness falls across the garden trees
Stand silent  fall and winter ,feel the breeze

 

 

What we women wear

beach bikini braided hair carefree
Photo by Vaibhav Kashyap on Pexels.com

Why are we still suffering for our appearance?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Underwire_bra

You may like your wife or partner to look like this but do you know what it feels like?[Though once or twice these wires have deflected bullets] never knew what underwires looked like until I accidentally bought a nice looking bra online.When I felt the wires I decided to remove them.I am really shocked to see how tough and strong these wires are.I imagine unless you were very thin [and would not need much of a bra] the wires would really cut into your flesh at the sides where it runs up the cup edge.The wires are so strong I am sure one could make a weapon from them.I showed one to a friend and he was horrified.But looking round Marks and Spencer that great British shop [!] most bras are underwired.
I can’t see how,if you have large breasts that these wires would hold them up.They’d just dig in and then the breast would hang over the edge.
With all the fear of breast cancer,why do we submit to the diktat that we must make our breasts stand up or out?
If we are that bothered then wearing a long waistcoat over a top or blouse would hide our bulging figures.
So either I return to modelling birds from wire [ I have done before] or else it’s the garbage can for these nightmare objects.I wonder who invented them?

When the underwire breaks through the bra fabric, it can cause tremendous discomfort. Celebrity chef, television personality, and businesswoman Clarissa Dickson Wright only wears a bra on special occasions. At her 50th birthday party, she was dancing when she suddenly felt a “terrifying pain in my chest.” She initially thought she was having a heart attack. “The pain got more and more intense. I staggered off and discovered I’d broken my underwired bra.”

Look into the sun and fire perceive

Whirling in the winter wind, dead leaves
Dry and brown and broken ever more
Send their substance to the souls bereaved

People pray and yet do not believe
Christ was born  and angels  him adored
On the winter wind float dying  leaves

By our spirits may we be deceived,
Even in the heart’s most hidden core,
Sharing   presence with all us bereaved?

Look into the sun and fire  perceive
Power  destroys the lives  of all its whores
On the wind float  lingering, burned out leaves

For men of power think they can  God deceive
Yet even kings will die despite their  force
To lie in marble graves,  of love bereaved

Wrapped in cloths of linen, cream and coarse
With no coffin, Jesus  high  is borne
With the wind, with ashes , with dead leaves,
The photons of his love  light  hearts bereaved

His music is the waves as they run high

The music of the waves as they run high
Across the pebbly sands  onto the road
Then groaning of the shingle as waves die

The fish that dwell deep in the dark, dark brine
The flow within as  outer waters flow
The music of the waves as they run high

The moon reflects  sun’s  light to  other eyes
Above the seas which rise up to its goad.
Then groans the shingle as the steep waves die

The sea holds hidden goods  where man can’t pry
In the deep the heavy water moulds
The music of the waves as they run high

All the day and all of the  black night
The seas and oceans change from high to low
Ah, groans the earth as each wave has to die

Re-hear these sounds, are they a sacred code?
As angels wrestled Jacob feared the Lord
His music is the waves as they run high
His groaning is the shingle as waves die

 

 

 

 

 

Across the bay I see the Langdale Pikes

Across the bay I see the Langdale Pikes
Their shapes like faces  staring   out our grief
With savage slopes, sheer cliffs, inhuman sights

When we climbed, the shadows   caused me fright
As if a godlike painter  filled his brief
Across the bay I see the Langdale Pikes

The sun was hot  and gave us help and light
The hills  were bare there was no falling leaf
From savage slopes, sheer cliffs, inhuman sights

From these slopes there is  no fight or flight
We may fall down, the terror now released
Across the bay I see the Langdale Pikes

We gain a small idea of God’s true might
Climbing high and higher brings relief
From savage slopes, sheer cliffs, inhuman sights

At the top  we  feel a moment’s peace
No longer on the scree  with tense gripped teeth
Across the bay I see the Langdale Pikes
With savage slopes and hollows , our bombsights

S T Coleridge’s angst

26165960_1051146255025252_3890137923569168038_n

Collage and drawings by Katherine

 

https://www.bachelorsdegreeonline.com/blog/2011/15-writers-with-lives-more-interesting-than-fiction/

 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s life was beset by illnesses, opium dependency, marital problems, and a lack of confidence. He suffered from crippling anxiety and depression, which he increasingly treated with opium, which possibly led to his death of heart failure with an unknown lung disorder.

Lucian Freud

 

http://www.ancient-hebrew.org/28_chart.html

The language your forefathers spoke
Dwells in your images.
Faces bleed with feeling.
Bodies rise out like rocks.
Your self portrait sings
Me,myself.I am.
As God spoke from the burning bush
You took the flame and ran

Kick it, scratch it, bite it, sip its dew

Choose a heap of words and make a form
The words may not be right but such is charm
Once you’ve made a heap of stones, of brick
You can shape it with your poetics

Treat it like a sculptress does her clay

Hit it, mould it, make it go your way

But, oh, beneath its hidden shape and show

The poem knows such life you’ll never know.

Get it in your arms and so you twist

A pile of soft cement with woman’s wrist

Kick it, scratch it, bite it, sip its dew

The poem is having its own way with you.

As we wrestle in our clay stained cloth

We feel the rising of our hidden wrath.

So at the end, we mould it with our souls

The poem itself has shaped the dual goal.

Thus master, mistress none can take the name.

For inner demons, gods have died in vain

Older and older,I’ll never leave you,but I will,no doubt, grieve you

Until the very end of time I’ll be loving you.

Until the end of all my rhymes,I’ll be writing you.

Until the day I die,I’ll be unintentionally annoying you.

Older and older,I’ll never leave you,but I will,no doubt, grieve you and

deceive you, misperceive you

and misconstrue my meter when I am writing for you and

I can’t stop to get the right rhythm

Otherwise I’ll think of you,wink at you and make a hypnotic link to you

For now,my fingers will be all over you..looking for fleas in your clothes, and

for for mice in your shoes.

I’ll be looking for tears in your eyes

and making you feel surprised.

Do you speak Estuary English?

You spun me a tale…..

Love your particular detail,like you are male.

You have small hands and feet.

And you can smile.

Love may fail

Though it has no examinations.

Or recriminations

So I’ll stop  showing  love to  you

And find something  wise to do without you

like making a Christmas Cake

Yes,I can bake

What do you hate?

 

 

They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell

Hypothermia made me write so well
The pen froze to my hand and would not leave
They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell

Just in case my head should start to swell
I made myself a hat from dried brown leaves
Hypothermia made me write real well

The government is  giving us free bells
So they will ring whenever we’re deceived
They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell

Hell is very fiery but with gel
I can get it  clean   from all disease
Hypothermia made me write,oh very well

I tell a lie, the cold invades my cells
I can’t clean  yet a bottle in a breeze
They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell

My husband is asthmatic, he can wheeze
He has  inhalers as his lungs will tease
Hypothermia made me write so well
They’ve offered me a  column, what the hell

 

 

 

 

The fishes swimming in your head

We humans seem concerned  that we must die
Yet complain we cannot sleep with shuttered eyes
Stay awake and let  the mind roam free
Invent new recipes, enjoy some tea

Feel the peace of darkness and  the bed
Tell off  fishes swimming in your head
Get up and clean the kitchen  of its grease
Check your records if you have a lease

Knit a mohair hat for winter time
Wash a scarf and hang it on the line
Change  the  printer ink  before it dries
Volunteer to work for M I 5

Unwillingly  admit we can’t control
The night and day,  the journey and its goal

The mind’s intentions, its mutating schemes

The entrance  opens to world of dreams
Impossible to   find out by our will
The mind’s intentions and its hidden schemes

Enlightened by  the    feel of  fey sunbeams
Knowing it is  stronger to sit still
The entrance  opens to the  deck of dreams

The eye grows wider. our vision   limpid leans
Until our  reverie has   got its fill 
The mind’s intentions and its wandering schemes

Warnings come in nightmares, how to heed?
The pain grows stronger like a workman’s drill
The pathway   leads to far more fearsome dreams

Are we  puppets strangling on our leads?
Who ‘s the master, who  must pay the bill,
Receive the mind’s intentions and its schemes?

High and low  let interact  and  tell
How we shall find our way  and what   to kill
The entrance  opens to world of dreams
The mind’s intentions, its mutating schemes