— RooBeeDoo (@RooBeeDoo1) April 3, 2020
— RooBeeDoo (@RooBeeDoo1) April 3, 2020
*’rollie stone’… /:D… *
‘ROLLING Stones guitarist Keith Richards proved he’s still got plenty of puff left — after being given permission to smoke on stage.
‘The 74-year-old rocker was seen having a crafty cigarette during the band’s show in London this week — aptly called their No Filter tour.
‘He was cheered by the crowd of 70,000 at The London Stadium in Stratford as he lit up, flouting the strict no smoking rule.’
*/thinks and smokes… 70,000 people applauding the lighting of a cigarette, against the rules? In a stadium, Clicky, some believe hosted a magikal ceremony… /smokes and thinks… I wonder if the magik was intended as a one-off thing, or if the potential lingers longer than anticipated?*
*Butt then aren’t we all born a bit slippy, Clicky? …/blows smoke rings…*
‘But Newham Council said it would not be taking any action because smoking was part of the act. ‘Smoking on stage is permitted “where the artistic integrity of a performance makes it appropriate for a person to smoke”, therefore no action will be taken,’ it added.’
*As You Like it… /final drag… Underworld may have directed the music but Shake Sphere’s Tempest formed the basis of that magikal ceremony in 2012, Clicky… /fills air with smoke… And he’s still going…*
*Smoking is an art, Clicky… /stubs butt… Sonnet 6+6+6… Ya Ken?*
*Really, Clicky? I’d have had money on you going with a Stones Song…*
*Close enough, Clicky…*
*Thaw… /lights up… Blue Frank… /drags… has an interesting post up on his ‘Ice Age Theory’ today, Clicky… /streams smoke… Oh that’s reminds me, I got Iceland in the World Cup Sweepstake at work… /rolls eyes…*
‘c. 1300, “miracle,” also “wonderful story or legend,” from Old French merveille “a wonder, surprise, miracle,” from Vulgar Latin *miribilia (also source of Spanish maravilla, Portuguese maravilha, Italian maraviglia), altered from Latin mirabilia “wonderful things,” from neuter plural of mirabilis“wonderful, marvelous, extraordinary; strange, singular,” from mirari “to wonder at,” from mirus“wonderful” (see smile). A neuter plural treated in Vulgar Latin as a feminine singular. Related: Marvels.’
*Yikes! …/deep drag… Let’s wrap this up, Clicky…*
Let's find some work!
Ripley: Hey, I feel like kind of a fifth wheel around here. Is there anything I can do?
Apone: I don’t know, is there anything you can do?
Movie = Aliens
So...where do I start?
Craigslist is infested with data/information leeches and scammers, newspapers are going to require me to subscribe and/or pay. I don’t trust Monster nor Dice since they’ve gone through so many acquisitions that I don’t even know who they are anymore, so…where do I start?
Let’s take a step backwards, start from the beginning, and find out what I can do.
I know how to operate a cash register and have worked at jobs handling cash.
I know logistics and have warehouse experience.
I know how to fuel airplanes.
I know customer support, have done help desk, desktop support and phone support.
I know technical writing.
I know software development and programming…
but I haven't done it in forever.
I’m gonna stop there, because what I really need is an old copy of my resume, and I currently have no way of getting to it since it’s sitting on the hard drive of a computer that doesn’t work anymore. Hell, it may be gone forever if the hard drive doesn’t work.
Fuck this noise 😦
Let’s share what I’ve seen on Craigslist lately…
No pay – “Exposure” only.
They don’t want me to respond via Craigslist? Seems shady, but $16-$32 a day to read books? I could likely read 2-4 books a day quite easily. But then I have to write a review and, since I’m being paid, that means that I’ll be gleaning the turds for peanuts in order to find something remotely palatable to write about. I mean, they are going to want positive reviews, kind words, shit that sells books: no one wants a paid reviewer shitting atop their shit pile. That would be an ex-cess-ively shitty mess.
This appears to be another non-paying gig, and I’m going to have to spend untold hours playing a game that might suck-ass. Then I’ve got to review it. But what if the game is good, but I’m terrible at it? Would that make for a good review?
“HEY! THIS GAME IS AWESOME! But I suck at it.”
Suddenly…I feel like the character from the movie “What Women Want”. I’m wearing pantyhose lined with panty-liners and/or maxi-pads around the house, all day, just to make $30.
“Staying fresh in the workplace.”
…she says. Since when is there even a line between the home and the workplace? Go to your bathroom, take a gander around, and you are likely to see more logos and advertisements than you would see on a 15 minute drive in an urban area, even if the radio is on.
Go to your kitchen. Take a gander at your appliances. Open the fridge. Open the pantry. Advertisements and advertising have LONG invaded the home via more than just television and radio. So I would argue that “staying fresh in the workplace” really isn’t that difficult. Not to mention that “keeping up” is just more advertising for more revenue streams. Certifications aren’t free, nor is the process of getting them.
Let's abandon this ship.
It’s long since sailed.
Let's go with recent experience to start...
Recent Experience: Thinking. Writing. More thinking. Blabbing nonsense on Twitter with a few friends.
And yep...more thinking.
That shit don’t pay, so let’s stop dilly-dallying, crank up MS Paint, and start making some attempts at…
A: Ever heard of a compass?
I mean within the mind.
Within the body.
A: Time. Can't do jack shit without the time to do it in.
But you gotta keep some things in mind.
Birds seem to know where to go, how long to stay there, when to go somewhere else, and where to go. So let’s stretch that out a bit. Let’s stretch it out say…over the course of a spring/summer/fall.
Spring is coming. You are a bird that migrates up north as the weather warms. However, back at the place you just left – unbeknownst to you – some contractor just started a new project to build town homes over the next 6-8 months. When August/September rolls around, and you begin your journey all the way back to your wintering grounds, you’ve no idea that when you get there, your home is going to be gone.
SO!!! How do we navigate our own minds within and without? Visualization sometimes helps. But most of the more modern tools are too linear, and most of the old “mysteries” kinds of things are too static or vague. I need something more fluid. Less rigid, but solid.
Solid like air. Solid like water.
Everything is contextual with fluids. Go fast enough? Air will burn you like a charcoal briquette, and water will break every bone in your body. And yet… a breeze at the right time is like a cuddle from the sweetest of lovers, and a splash of water at the right time can cool and refresh. I’m not trying to invent a steering wheel for the soul; there are PLENTY of fucks willing to tell you what to do with that thing.
Nope, this is more about how spirit and mind get us through the things we encounter. We like to think that almost everything is either positive or negative; good or bad; right or wrong; correct or incorrect; but it’s all those things. Hence, I think we spend most of our time in a state of indifference.
EX: Buy/Don’t buy. Sell/don’t sell. Walk/don’t walk. Run/don’t run.
We don’t like to think of ourselves as indifferent because it seems too wishy-washy. And yet…
decisions, decisions, decisions.
So yeah, indifference…we hang out there a lot methinks. Our secret lover.
SoPi-H – Iteration 01
SoPi-H – Iteration 02
SoPi-H – Iteration 03
SoPi-H – Iteration 04
SoPi-H – Iteration 05a
SoPi-H – Iteration 05b
SoPi-H – Iteration 06a
SoPi-H – Iteration 06b
So yeah… SoPi-H. That’s it. That’s them. That’s…what it is…what they are…
Drawing this shit from the hip, and not trying to be so goddamn perfect, sometimes aptly displays why I’m not always “all about shit lining up perfectly” or according to some rigid set(s) of specifics. As the perspective changes, so does the outlook on “what lines up…and what don’t”.
EX: SoPi-H_03 doesn’t look so bad. However, when you turn it 90° to make SoPi-H_04? Yeah…the wonkyness is MUCH more apparent.
The personification of indifference with respect to decision making.
The “defect” was always there, you just had to approach from the correct angle/perspective in order to see it. It looked great here, but not so much later. So if you’ve attached your anchor to a certain principle, what happens when you take a look at that principle from another angle?
It’s like finding a defect in clothing after you already purchased it, removed all the tags, you wear it for the first time, and you or someone else notices something about the garment later. I mean the fucking thing looked just fine on the rack.
How in the HELL does something like this get past quality control at the place that manufactured it? Why would a retailer not check their own stock for defects prior to making it available for sell?
What I did there...do you see it?
*/grins… How peculiar, Clicky… /lights up…*
mid-15c., “belonging exclusively to one person,” from Latin peculiaris “of one’s own (property),” from peculium “private property,” literally “property in cattle” (in ancient times the most important form of property), from pecu “cattle, flock,” related to pecus “cattle” (see pecuniary). Meaning “unusual” is first attested c. 1600 (earlier “distinguished, special,” 1580s; for sense development, compare idiom). Related: Peculiarly.
*’Also KT and KH’…/drags… No shit! …/streams smoke… *
*/flicks ash… Knot a favourite episode, Clicky… /drags… although, excellent use of a jammie dodger… /blows smoke rings… I’d forgotten about that…*
*Like the villain, House, in The Doctor’s Wife, Clicky, Daleks are a bit like a sea anemone… /puffs… “hard on the outside, squishy on the inside”… I hadn’t made that connection before… /taps teeth…*
Karl sat at his kitchen table, smoking and observing the tendrils of early morning mist gently tickle the tops of the garden hedge, before continuing their soft creep to the ground. It was dark outside but the lawn glittered with stars; pregnant dew drops nestling in the grass caught the thin, amber light that spilled from the kitchen window. He stubbed out his cigarette and gulped back the last dregs of cold tea from his mug with a grimace. Not long now, Karl thought, she’ll be home soon. Outside the mist started to swirl and pool.
He stood up and stretched, bones creaking and knees popping as if to salute the end of his vigil. He fleetingly considered that he was getting too old for this malarkey, but she needed a watcher – someone to light the way back. He could bear the discomfort; it was only for the night. Karl rubbed his eyes under his glasses, and dragged his hands down over bristled cheeks to wipe any tiredness away. He contemplated putting the kettle on when he heard the first high pitched bark puncturing the dark. The second got him moving. “Not the foxes again!”
As he opened the back door, the wet slap of morning air to hit Karl’s face was accompanied by a rude crash and skitter of a dustbin lid falling, somewhere in the mist. She’s coming from the right, he thought, opening the door wider to peer out into the murk. More barks, louder this time, and a fiery hiss, were followed by the sound of clambered wood, as the garden fence shook violently. Karl held the door further ajar, and a white streak shot out of the mist and between his legs, into the kitchen.
Karl closed the door on the mist and the foxes who, by the sound of it, were now rummaging through next door’s bin for tasty scraps. He turned to the slight figure, lying on the kitchen floor. “For goodness sake, Lara, do you have to tease the foxes? It upsets the neighbours.”
“It upsets the bins,” Lara replied, lightly panting as she rolled over and attempted to sit up. “No, they were waiting for me. Foxes are not called cunning for nothing, Karl.”
“Yes, but they usually leave you alone when you’re hedge riding.”
Lara sighed. “It would seem witches aren’t held in much esteem these days. Not by people or wildlife.”
Karl surveyed the flush in his wife’s cheeks and her glittering eyes, and thought she still looked pretty formidable considering her advanced years. He also noticed the shudder in her arm propping her up. “You should get off the floor. What would you like, sofa or chair?” he asked, scooping her up, with barely a tremble from his own geriatric limbs.
“Sofa,” Lara replied with a wan smile. “Thank you, dear. And a cuppa and a ciggie wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“Funnily enough, I was just about to put the kettle on,” Karl replied, before lowering his wife, so she could reach out and pluck the cigarette packet and lighter from the kitchen table. A fat bead of blood splashed onto the surface below, quickly followed by another. “You’re injured?”
“Damn foxes.” Lara winced and drew her arm back toward her chest. “One of them managed to get a mouthful of armpit. I don’t think it’s too deep. Just stings a bit.”
“But you’re bleeding,” Karl said gruffly. Too gruffly, he feared, from the look his wife shot him. “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and then I can clean that up,” he continued in a more conciliatory tone, before carrying her through to the front room.
Karl noticed that Lara was already on her second cigarette when he returned five minutes later, to set out a bowl of hot water, soap, flannel and towel on the carpet before her. “Kettle’s on for tea,” he said kneeling down. He adjusted his glasses and gingerly started to lift Lara’s elbow. “Can’t let it get infected, how would we explain that to Dr Patel?”
“I can always change back so you can take me to a vet,” Lara replied sharply, pulling away from his grasp.
She must be in great pain, Karl thought. “Come now, dear, we don’t have pet insurance. We don’t own a pet.” Lara’s eyes briefly flashed at his riposte, but her body relaxed and she allowed him to lift her arm. “So apart from getting into a fight with some foxes…”
“Ambushed by some foxes,” Lara quickly corrected him.
“Sorry, ambushed by some foxes on the way home, how was the rest of your night?”
Lara took a deep drag from her cigarette. “Well it started off okay,” she said, billowing a great cloud of smoke. “I went to see Annie and girls down at Saint Michael’s.”
“And how are Annie and the girls?” Karl asked as he cleaned her wound of blood.
“Naturally.” Any bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the swelling around the punctures had already started to bruise, turning an angry black mauve that only truly flourished on elderly skin. Karl stopped himself flinching at the sight. “You’d think they’d get themselves a spirit cat.”
“They’ve got a spirit cat,” Lara gently rebuked him with a chuckle.
“A ghost cat, then.” Karl smiled at her mirth. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh a ghost cat would be just as stuck as they are. Graveyards are lonely places, Karl. The residents like the company and the gossip. Especially the newly interred. Once the funeral is over, they rarely get more than a yearly visit from any family. If that.” Lara finished her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray perched on the arm of the sofa. “How’s it looking?”
“Ugly but clean. It’ll need some arnica,” Karl replied, rising carefully to his feet. “That’s in the kitchen. Besides, the kettle must have boiled by now. No, no. You stay there. I’ll go.”
Lara laughed and shooed him away with her good arm before reaching for the cigarettes and lighter.
Karl could hear swearing from outside the back door; Jim must be up and found the aftermath of the fox fracas. Karl popped the kettle on and grabbed the arnica and some aspirin from the medicine cupboard, chuckling at the string of expletives emanating from over the garden fence. He glanced out the window to see that sunrise was already burning off the mist that had been so thick an hour or so ago. It looked like it could be a lovely day.
The sound of the front doorbell caught him off guard. Who would be calling at this hour? Karl wondered and went to open the front door. Through the frosted glass he could make out the shape of a woman in a bright pink dressing gown. What could she want? Karl thought as he unlocked and opened the door. “Morning Celia. Is everything alright?”
“Oh Karl,” his next door neighbour cried, her face puffy and contorted with distress. “Karl, I’m so sorry if I’ve woke you,” Celia started to apologise. “There was some trouble with foxes in our garden last night. I don’t know if you heard any of it.”
“No,” Karl lied. “But I heard Jim swearing earlier. Did they make much of a mess?”
Celia looked distraught at the suggestion. “Well yes, but…” she trailed off with a sob. “Karl, it’s Lara. I’m so sorry. They killed your cat.” Celia had not come empty handed; she held out a bundle, wrapped neatly in a towel, out in front of her.
Karl felt an icy chill bloom from the crown of his head and cascade down his body. “Thank you,” he said numbly, taking the bundle from Celia’s shaking hands.
“I’m so, so sorry,” Celia continued but Karl had already shut the front door. He felt the lightness of the bundle in his arms. It felt so slight.
“Lara?” Karl called as he carried it through to his wife, but the front room was empty. He laid the bundle on the sofa and sat down next to it. A spiral of smoke floated up from the ashtray perched on the arm. Karl turned and picked up the last of the burning cigarette and with trembling fingers, finished his smoke.
*No, Clicky… /flicks lighter… two items to cover off in this post… /lights up…*
*Knot quite… /puffs… Similar, Clicky…*
*/drags… twenty-two… /squints… and knot Tutu, Clicky… /taps ash…*
*/coughs … It’s a spring-time book, Clicky… /clears throat… There has to be a rabbit…*
*Okay… /drags… thanks for keeping me on track, Clicky… /blows smoke ring…*
*My besties are SO fucking clever and talented, Clicky… /stubs butt… I AM the luckiest woman in the whirled…*
*Yes, you too, Clicky… /pats snout…*
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