A thousand apologies for the slight delay in posts (oh c'mon it hasn't been that long, and in any case the wrinkles give your face character). This has been a very enlightening week for me. Aside from marking the 1 week anniversary of this blog yesterday (what, no marching band?), the last seven days have been very eye-opening to say the least. And now comes the age-old problem (as old as time itself, really) where the putting together of words, lines and paragraphs based on a mere 26-letter alphabet in order to describe an experience-or a set of such in this case- will fail miserably in doing them any justice.

But then again, we must try, n'est-ce pas?

Suffice it to say that somehow, i was gifted the chance to experience the most important stages of an entire human LIFE, micromanaged into a brief few days. New Life, in the birth of a colleague's second child; Love, in being a groomsman to a good friend as he married his partner; and Death, in being stuck behind a hearse in a morning rush hour traffic jam.

i say "gifted" because it actually really did feel as if i'd been given (for a greater reason currently unknown to myself) a comfy front row couch (with remote in hand, of course) to the phases of life without personally having to directly go through them. Far from being a sedentary channel surfing role though, as i was required to toggle through the raw emotions and feelings that came packaged with all three channels.

Whatever reasons for, whomever from and whatever lessons learnt, it's safe to say that i'm definitely the wiser for it. A bit like going through the age of 0 to 90... only without the wrinkles, but with all the knowhow. By the way, i lied about the character-face-wrinkle thing. Might want to invest in some avocado and cucumber dip for that.

Now, what say you we get on with some channel surfing, hm?

Wrinkled Couch Potatoes

Before we go any further, let me state my position, loud and clear. i love animals. Whether glistening deliciously while twirling lazily over an open fire; or marinated with spices, rum and aromates before being diced up and skewered and then broiled over charcoal; or my favourite yet, seared and encrusted with Dijon mustard, garlic and rosemary flavoured bread crumbs and served with spiced garlic-sauteed baby potatoes, creamed cauliflower and a sweetchilli salsa, the very fact should be under no doubt whatsoever that i love my animals. With a passion.

  Right, now that that's out in the open, let's get to the real business at hand. Sometime this past week, the news came out of Las Ventanas, Spain that a famous Matador- one dashing (and currently needing an over-subscription of aspirin and an adjustment to his Facebook profile pic) Julio Aparicio- had been gored by the bull he was engaged in a bullfight with.

  Now, this normally would come as no great surprise considering the risks involved in trying to play "What's the time, Mr. Wolf?" with an 1100 pound (500kg) raging bull. One could easily see this as an occupational hazard, much like i would consider the papercut i received in the office Monday an occupational hazard (and a darned painful one at that). Note, i said "normally". Because what happened to Mr. Julio "i might need stitches" Aparicio was anything but.

 Julio (silent "J" everyone, it's Spanish) had the misfortune of having said-bull tell him exactly what time it was. In a moment we can only put down to a loss of concentration, Señor Aparicio slipped, whence-upon Señor Bull spotted an opening in his tormentor's defences and rammed a razor sharp horn up through the chin of Señor "this can't be good" Aparicio, where it then proceeded to penetrate his tongue, pierce the roof of his mouth- thus fracturing the jawbone- and end its brief but now world famous journey out through the mouth. And just as quickly as it went in, the bull yanked it out.

Now, if it sounds as if i'm cheering for the away team, in this instance "Team Bull", well then you're very much correct in your assumption. Why, you may ask? i invite you to read the following brief excerpt: 

" before the fight, the bull is enclosed in a dark box (pen), which has the effect of terrorizing him. When released and before he gets into the ring they (the bull "fighters") nail a sharp harpoon into his back. An animal previously abused, manipulated, shut up in darkness and in pain then runs galloping into the arena with an apparent furious attitude. Actually, when the bull enters the plaza, he is a frightened animal, desperately seeking to escape."

Oh but wait, there's more:

" to kill the bull, the matador traditionally has to thrust all three feet of his sword near the vertebrae to damage the heart or a major blood vessel. This is only in theory and almost never happens. The usual is that the sword can only manage to reach the lungs and the animal slowly agonizes and drowns in his own blood; after several attempts the bull is still alive, dying, moaning piteously and vomiting blood. Finally, the bull is stabbed with the puntilla ( a little dagger) in an attempt to sever his spinal cord. If the cord is not severed but only damaged, the bull is not really dead, but in some degree of paralysis and is dragged alive and conscious . Even if the cord is severed, the head of the bull is still 'live' for a few minutes, so he perfectly feels the pain when the ears are cut off. The bull is never completely dead for the second act of the carnage in the backroom of the bull ring, where the bull is quartered."

 You like? i knew you would. By the way, Señor Julio "i'm thinking of being a cruise ship lounge singer now" Aparicio is recovering well in hospital.The reports i've consulted so far state that "it is not clear what happened to the bull". Hopefully it's gone to a place where people appreciate animals. Like i do.

I Might Need Stitches, Señor

i was stuck in traffic this morning. Big deal, you vacuumed the cat and fed the carpet as usual, you might say. And yes, it might very well have been the usual garden variety, rigmarole morning everyone else and their dog experiences of hair-raising stunts and near-misses only ever witnessed at a fender bender race track, coupled with the customary language so richly dense of slander and motherless profanity of the variety only ever heard at Drinks & Bingo Night at the local senior citizens rec club - had it not been for the fact that i was stuck in traffic this morning behind a hearse.

There's something about the presence of a jolting reminder to our finite-ness (if that word didn't exist, it does now) that transforms the earth citizen. Throughout our varied species, our behavioural change regarding mortality goes according to our beliefs and customs; but change it does, nonetheless. An elephant will stand over the body of a dead loved one, gently rocking back and forth as the other elephants in the herd caress the mourner with their trunks.Chimps will hold deathbed vigils, and mark the moment of passing with a cacophony of screams and wails, or alternatively a deathly silence (pun in no way intended) depending on the deceased's mode of passage into the unknown.

This morning i witnessed the usual seething mass of horns, screeches, engine revs, fist shaking and livid vocabulary of a morning rush hour traffic jam effectively reduce itself to a deathly silent (pun by all means intended) , makeshift funeral procession. Whether it was in a show of respect or acknowledgment of the close proximity of the aforementioned jolting reminder or indeed in fact both, i'll never know, but the effect was certainly tangible.  Call it fiddlesticks and rhubarb, but there are only so many other ways you can try and explain a silent traffic jam. And none are very convincing.

The entire scene may have lasted all of 5 minutes-a fleeting moment in the context of a busy working day- but as the hearse turned into another road and went on its way- while behind it the bustle and noise of traffic resumed just as suddenly as it had stopped- you got the sense that everyone that had been a part of that makeshift procession, all protagonists of an unscripted play,was left with the same profound and unspoken, yet unexplainable resolve. 

That we were going to make something of the time we had left.

Fiddlesticks, Rhubarb & Traffic Jam

According to a Population Reference Bureau guesstimate, the number of people who have ever been born, ergo, who've lived on earth since the "beginning of time"(a cosy tea-party for two roundabout 50, 000 BC) until the present day, is a mind-fumbling 106,456,367,669 (i'd hate to see the water bill). To those of us who break out in hives at the sight of figures, that's 106 BILLION people, give or take a few hobbits. It's a pretty interesting- mayhaps complex- set of calculations by which they arrive at this figure, but worry not,it checks out (you good old abacus, you ).

Now here's my brain fodder to chew on with your cud: Let's say we added up all the people who've lived since the beginning of time until the present day, what we now know to be an amazing 106,456,367,669, right? Now, suppose every one of those people asked of themselves at least ONCE in their lifetime what the meaning of life is-and had their own version or idea of what it is- you'd get about 106+ BILLION different answers, still with me? So, to date that's 106+ billion answers, and yet none is exactly the right one... ergo, we're nowhere closer to knowing the meaning of life.

Amazing when you think about it, really. How the closer we think we've come to answering the riddle of the universe, the farther we get from the answer... and the harder the questions become. i don't think life is supposed to be figured out, really...the figuring is rather in the living, think you not?

The one true certainty of life is that it begins, and that it ends. In-between we have the freedom of trial and error, learning and choice. i guess the lesson we learn through living is not to live your life always trying to look up and catch The Maker out with the puppet strings in His hand. The rules read pretty clear and simple actually: to play your show out till the curtain drops, and pride yourself that you gave it your best shot. Standing ovation, or not...

Feud 'Fore Thought {Entry 1}

As i write this,  a black family currently resides in the White House, the UK effectively has two cooks stirring the broth, scientists in the US have developed the first ever synthetic living cell and the Fifa World Cup is  to be hosted on African soil for the very first time. 
And as yet, i am also reminded of the fact that my bacon rashers did NOT develop wings  this morning in a dramatic splatter of runny egg yolk and tabasco sauce to fly off my plate, out the window and off into the distance; nor did i require to yank on a pair of  holy (scuze the pun) wooly socks and a knitted jersey as the breaking news broke across all  major networks that hell hath indeed frozen over and the resultant chill might send a cold front off into the west, but for the most part it should remain partly cloudy and warm across most parts.


There was a time in our collective human history when just the mere suggestion of the occurences in the above opening line would have in all probability gotten one hanged, drawn and quartered, or  even less humanely, laughed off as the offshoot ramblings of a rapidly declining mind. 

Kind of eyebrowraise-worthy when you think that in our present age, hell must surely freeze over just about every other day (including Sundays and public holidays) what with all the neverinamillionyears-ness that goes on today. So much so that the earth citizen has become numb and detached to anything already seen and done, with customary t-shirt duly acquired. Extremism's quickly become a cliche that one hardly looks up from one's bowl of cornflakes to acknowledge. It's become "so last week, daaahling"! That and all the other "isms" with it.

 As quick as we are to manufacture (and brand)  the proverbial storm in a tea cup, we just as easily slot back into our human tendency to find order in randomness and chaos and just get on with it. With life that is. Yes earth citizens, we live in revolutionary times. And contrary to the poem, the revolutions are being televised, mind you. If you can find somebody who cares long enough however, then by all means you deserve a branded t-shirt of your very own.  Wish we could pay you more fanfare and ovation, but that's a sign of our times, my friend.  A thousand apologies if we've rained on your parade. Pass the cornflakes, will you?

Welcome to the S.O.O.T. It's nice to have you here. 

Flying bacon and wooly socks