Category: Quirks and whimsy
A living will is a dying wish
“The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our separate ways, I to die and you to live. Which of these two is better, only God knows.”
-Socrates
Such clarity of mind and absence of fear, when faced with imminent death, is remarkable and unusual. His last words were a reminder to Crito to pay a debt for him.
I am not dying, nor do I intend to do so for a number of years yet. However, I suspect when that Spectre is nigh, that I might not be possessed of the coolth and clarity of Socrates. So I will tell you now about how I would not like my dying to occur.
My intention is to inform my kith and kin and doctors to avoid the involvement of lawyers, who insist on making simple statements complex in order to guarantee certainty … and fees, no doubt.
In accordance with our will, my estate and all my possessions are to become my wife’s property and in the event of her death, before or after me, will be divided equally amongst our five children.
A simple concept was developed in Florida, USA to encapsulate the how I want to die / don’t want to die situation, called the Five Wishes, which met the approval of even Mother Theresa :
- My wife is the person I want to make care decisions for me when I can’t. If she can’t, then I wish one or two of my children to do so.
- I do not wish to receive Medical Treatment that will prolong my life, unless I would be able to enjoy a good quality of life thereafter. Don’t keep me alive as a vegetable, don’t resuscitate me unless I could go swimming unaided and sing songs thereafter.
- I like the idea of pain relief and maintaining dignity, even if it might not be good for continued breathing.
- I do not wish to be a burden on my family, especially if /when I become demented. Place me in care and only come to see me if I will recognise you.
- There is a Catch 22 here which you will need to resolve: the cost of care will come from our estate, which may diminish your inheritance. Let your own quality of life be the guiding principle.
- I would like a memorial gathering where people can offer prayers, tell stories, laugh and cry.
- Above all I would like to hear the singing from wherever I may be;
- I wouldn’t mind a wake – in any event, I would like people to have a bit of a hooley
- I would like my ashes to be the growth medium for an umVovovo tree (huilende boerboon / tree fuschia).
That’s where that thought went…
My granddaughter asked me to come and play; I replied that I was writing, to which she inquired: Why do you write?
To paint pictures with words … Really?
No, but I usually avoid the answer as I suspect it has something to do with a struggle to confront irrelevance or worse, insignificance.
I like the idea of creating something for others to see. Why does one seek recognition? Is it Pride: a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one’s own achievements … consciousness of one’s own dignity …?
Wikipedia sets my anxious Catholic-bred mind at rest. Pride can be positive – a humble and content sense of attachment… a product of praise, independent self-reflection, and a fulfilled feeling of belonging. Or it can be an irrationally corrupt sense of one’s personal value, status or accomplishments … synonymous with hubris.
Hubris is the terrible sin which saw Lucifer cast out of Heaven and transformed to become Satan. It is essentially placing one’s self above others, which as Satan experienced, attracts God’s great wrath.
Strong individuals who drive themselves on to achieve their goals often start to overemphasize the worth of their own wisdom and fail to seek out or consider the counsel of others. Their thinking takes on a circular nature:
I have achieved because I am wise therefore I need only to follow my own advice…
This lack of regard for others inevitably leads to isolation, avoidance by others and great internal conflict which, when faced with failure often manifests in uncontrolled outbursts and increased isolation.
The cure for hubris? A mirror could be used to provide perspective; or perhaps a challenge to seek ways to show gratitude frequently. A re-ordering of values and objectives would help – but who would be able to beard the lion in his den?
According to Greek legend and as Lucifer discovered, unchecked hubris leads to Nemesis.
I find that I am a great avoider, maybe we all are. Avoidance defers scrutiny and if neatly accomplished, may attract regard for the adroitness of the manoeuvre, distracting attention from the reason therefor.
Of course, in the strict light of day, there is no escape: avoidance is more likely a want of courage, which is unacceptable… (how does one avoid that?)
That’s what happens when one indulges in idle thinking!
Bollemakiesie
The young can make us young again too.
As is our habit we braaied at the weekend, well on Easter Monday. It was our usual family gathering with dear friends and some visiting rellies from across the ocean.
Somehow there was a slightly more festive spirit than the norm which seemed to make the beer and fizz go down easier.
We were a somewhat eclectic crowd with some in their sixties, fifties, forties, thirties, three dogs and a four year old sprite.
Normally a fairly shy child, on this day, she was filled with the energy of a March hare and the command of a Ringmaster. While we chatted and kept up the level of our liquids in the early stages, she inspected the toys and her dolls house, engaging the dogs in a number of role plays. A bit later, I noticed the dogs had gone missing. I found them in the dolls’ house, waiting patiently to resume the game.
However, the young queen bee had moved on and was engaging the adults, commanding their participation in a number of exercises and role plays, including catch-the-grasshopper and a tea party.
Her timing was impeccable and her enthusiasm and commands were charmingly irresistible. The new activity at Playschool was yoga so all were instructed to participate in yoga exercises. Peer pressure enforced participation, which should have been more wisely considered in some cases.
Head over heels (bollemakiesies in Afrikaans) were the exercise for men and all surrendered their dignity to roll around on the grass in pairs. The last pair included a grandfather who was proud to have been in his primary school gymnastics team and remembered well his star turn of a somersault over a wooden horse…
His bollemakiesie was very well executed, symmetrical and straight. However, the total effect was spoilt by the unfamiliar pressures on reasonably airtight gaskets. The resultant lapse of the system was quite a blast.
A nervous glance sideways revealed that it had not gone undetected.. two people were crying and the dogs were trying to run away…
Growing old does not prevent infection by the rashness of youth, it merely impairs the ability to maintain dignity and integrity while under its spell.
My granddaughter is quite a lot older and wiser now.
A day in the life … sometime soon
As I eased myself into the seat already moulded to my preferred posture, I replied to the pleasant Good morning to ye I received, grinning to myself because I was talking to a machine. Oh well, a mother’s training endures!
I was on my way to Bunnings to collect the customised shovel I had ordered this morning – a glitch had caused a drone jam, so it couldn’t be delivered immediately.
Amazing really – all I had to do is think about what I needed and tell Siri who placed the order, giving my specifications. Bunnings would have it printed by the time I got there and offered me a complimentary coffee as they could not deliver immediately.
The self-drive car whizzed off, covering the 10 km distance in 8 minutes, while I flipped through my voting preferences on the issues before e-Parliament.
Amazing that the trip only cost me 5 zillBits – back in the day, factoring in motor vehicle purchase cost, petrol, rego, tolls and insurance, it had cost 20 times as much.
My shovel was loaded at the drive-through and my coffee was handed to me – exactly as I like it. Siri had already paid Bunnings.
I told the car to return via the Protein Bar so I could pick up some fillet 
steak – the new worm algae protein meat barbequed magnificently and gave me a perfect medium rare. The Bar took a box of my tamarillos, pawpaws and apple chives in exchange.
The rump would be accompanied by fresh salad from my own vertical garden and home-made sauerkraut. I was also going to toast some crickets as they were now juicy and plump. That was why I needed the new shovel – to be able to transfer compost from the waste processing output to the garden rows.
I was really proud of the fact that my home is self-sustainable and produ
ces sufficient to supply the sixty-five families that now shared the Bahr Place precinct.
Overcrowding wasn’t such a problem if one used the wonderwall barriers which muffled noise and projected scenic view holograms but didn’t affect birds or rain – I even had a rooster which crowed the dawn every morning! No complaints either when I listened to Bohemian Rhapsody at max volume.
(I revert to my old naturally deaf ears…)
The chickens give me eggs and meat and are happy scratching through my vertical gardens on all the walls and the roof. The water tanks give me prawns, mussels and trout. Admittedly my fruit trees need to be pruned regularly as the basement area iss under 3 metres high. The arnica did exceptionally well and was great for aches and pains from a hard day’s gardening, as did the marijuana I grew under licence for pain relief of the few remaining cancer victims not cured by gene therapy.
Mind you, who am I to complain – I am only 95 and Siri told me my body indicators showed I was in perfect health and can expect to live another 30 years at least, before I get treed. I am proud of the fact that I have reversed cancer, diabetes and Alzheimer’s and still have one of my original knees, eyes and hips!
(I have refused my great grandchild’s request to clone me for her next child – I believe we are all unique and special in our own way and should stay that way).
Caught in the rain
Up at 4h35… Hmmm – looks a bit grey and they did say rain in the forecast.
Look South East: dark clouds. Lightening up in South West whence our rain is from. That means the rain has past. I won’t even need my hat – I hate rain on my bald pate; it’s hot in summer, but not needed at dawn.
Come Lulu, let’s get your lead on and away we go.
A quarter of a mile into the park and there are a few sprinkles, no worries…
Now a drop or two – if it gets worse we’ll duck under a tree. There’s no thunder or wind so more likely to be crowned by a kookaburra as crushed by a falling branch.
Damn, it’s coming down harder and the tree doesn’t work; have to dash for the shelter over there … it’s only 50 yards.
Haven’t dashed for years and I’m nearer 70 than 60 now, so it was not a walk in the park! My crocs nearly came off when Lulu ran around me, effectively trapping me in the lead, so I had to do a quick pirouette in the now teeming rain … we made it, eventually.
We made it – it won’t last long and at least in Queensland, the rain is warm and one dries quickly. Wish I had worn the hat!
Damn! Mosquitoes love stationary people! Hah! Got the bastard!
What does one think about when stuck in the rain? Lulu is sulking because I won’t let her wander and sniff.
Murphy’s Law No 2(g): if it doesn’t look like rain it will.
Well, it is a fine opportunity to meditate. Wish I had read the book, done the course… my mind seems to go into flutterby mould when I try to focus…
I know – I’ll think of something to blog. Very little response to my last two serious bits, maybe it’s time to lighten up? How about some happy stuff, rather than the acceptability of lies and the new morality of the past? Mind you: I was right about Bitcoin! It will hit US$10k this week!
Here’s an idea: what about getting caught in the rain in the park! (just a passing memory).
I have just remembered a cardinal principle of my life: you always have a choice
!
Getting caught in the rain can be a miserable experience or it can be a good one.
It’s your choice!
You can have a happy day too, if you like…
There’s a kick in Silly Socks!
Those of you who have followed the doings of the sillysocksonfriday school/movement will know that victory was recently declared in the campaign against the necktie and a new target was identified: plastic bags!
Well now, you may be as surprised as we were when within a few weeks of our declaration, the big supermarkets announced they were banning the horrible thin bags and would promote re-usable bags.
As you will recall we also targetted the sugar snake recently and there are increasingly loud calls for a sugar tax as a prelude to a stronger campaign to reduce sugar usage.
Coca Cola have now released a No Sugar Coke and are moving into the bottled water market.
Tell me that is not mega-impact!
So where to now? We need a Goliath to tumble!
Obsolete windmills or naked emperors are the preferred targets for a quirky tilt, but occasionally some dumb stunt will prompt a rant or a sunny day an ode to the good life.
Please add your ideas and targets in a comment below.
Namaste!
Because it played on Pandora today and it has always moved me, I have added this little gem from Crosby, Stills , Nash and Young for y’all:
Teach your children (click on the link to hear the song)
You, who are on the road, must have a code that you can live by.
And so become yourself because the past is just a goodbye.
Teach your children well, their father’s hell did slowly go by,
and feed them on your dreams, the one they pick, the one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
so just look at them and sigh and know they love you.
And you, of tender years, can’t know the fears that your elders grew by,
and so please help them with your youth, they seek the truth before they can die.
Teach your parents well, their children’s hell will slowly go by,
and feed them on your dreams, the one they pick, the one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why, if they told you, you would cry,
so just look at them and sigh and know they love you.
Irish Poetry: Humour, Rhythmn, Ryhme and Reason
Now Delaney had a donkey that everyone admired,
Tempo’rily lazy and permanently tired
A leg at ev’ry corner balancing his head,
And a tail to let you know which end he wanted to be fed
Riley slyly said “We’ve underrated it, why not train it?”
Then he took a rag
They rubbed it, scrubbed it,
They oiled and embrocated it,
Got it to the post
And when the starter dropped his flag
There was Riley pushing it, shoving it, shushing it
Hogan, Logan and ev’ryone in town lined up
Attacking it and shoving it and smacking it
They might as well have tried to push the Town Hall down
The donkey was eyeing them,
Openly defying them
Winking, blinking and twisting out of place
Riley reversing it,
Ev’rybody cursing it
The day Delaney’s donkey ran the halfmile race.
The muscles of the mighty never known to flinch,
They couldn’t budge the donkey a quarter of an inch
Delaney lay exhausted, hanging round its throat
With a grip just like a Scotchman on a five pound note
Starter, Carter, he lined up with the rest of ’em.
When it saw them, it was willing then
It raced up, braced up, ready for the best of ’em.
They started off to cheer it but it changed its mind again
There was Riley pushing it, shoving it and shushing it
Hogan, Logan and Mary Ann Macgraw,
She started poking it, grabbing it and choking it
It kicked her in the bustle and it laughed “Hee Haw!”
The whigs, the conservatives,
Radical superlatives
Libr’rals and tories,
They hurried to the place
Stood there in unity,
Helping the community
The day Delaney’s donkey ran the halfmile race.
The crowd began to cheer it. Then Rafferty, the judge
He came to assist them, but still it wouldn’t budge
The jockey who was riding, little John MacGee,
Was so thoroughly disgusted that he went to have his tea
Hagan, Fagan was students of psychology,
Swore they’d shift it with some dynamite
They bought it, brought it, then without apology
The donkey gave a sneeze and blew the whole lot out of place
There was Riley pushing it, shoving it and shushing it
Hogan, Logan and all the bally crew,
P’lice, and auxil’ary,
The Garrison Artillery
The Second Enniskillen’s and the Life Guards too
They seized it and harried it,
They picked it up and carried it
Cheered it, steered it to the winning place
Then the Bookies drew aside,
They all commited suicide
Well, the day Delaney’s donkey won the halfmile race.
Flit like a butterfly…
You might wake up some mornin’
To the sound of something moving past your window in the wind
And if you’re quick enough to rise
You’ll catch a fleeting glimpse of someone’s fading shadow
Out on the new horizon
You may see the floating motion of a distant pair of wings
And if the sleep has left your ears
You might hear footsteps running through an open meadow
That was Bob Lind singing about the elusive butterfly of love.
The butterfly I am thinking of flits aimlessly, changing direction for no reason other than a splash of colour, is wafted up and sideways by the breeze….
That’s my mind, which generally has a struggle to focus and apply itself. Distraction is easy and frequent and false hares are irresistible once started, so I end up foxless.
Is that procrastination, a lack of discipline, poor focus, scant 
concern? Probably all; which is somewhat depressing. Tenacity and determination have always been my weak point: it took me 14 years to achieve my BA, for heaven’s sake!
Phew! This started out as flash realisation it was Friday and I had not written my weekly blog and a mild self castigation for following bloody butterflies again!
I have been meaning to read up on meditation; maybe this is another message?
Enjoy your weekend, y’all!
Old Insults, not profane!
“Hey! You scobblelotcher! Thy vile countenance curdles milk and sours beer!”
Now that is a nasty, personal insult which is likely to generate some reaction from an idler toying with his nose contents instead of attending to his duties
.
Snollygosters, gobermouches and gnashnabs will seize on that one and add it to their repertoire of groans unless someone heads them off with an irrelevant deviation.
However, if aimed in your direction you could robustly deny being a whiffle whaffler and retort: Zooterkins! I will not take that from a zounderkite and fopdoodle such as you, whose klazomaniac shouting only serves to bumfuzzle and create a catawampus. Stop sitting there and doing diddlysquat – you will get your dipthong in a twist.
I discovered these words in Dictionary.com – a veritable treasure trove of such gems. I must confess that they are very expressive and I regret that they are no longer in common use!
Do use a few – if only to bumfuzzle others!
Here are some Shakespearean words which you may like to combine in a best-insult competition.
Mind you it will be difficult to surpass the devastatingly nasty subtlety of Winston Churchill: “We know that he has, more than any other man, the gift of compressing the largest amount of words into the smallest amount of thought.“
sillysocksonfriday 