Updates from December, 2013 Toggle Comment Threads | Keyboard Shortcuts

  • beulah888 6:08 AM on December 30, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Candy, Chocolate, , Freedom of Speech, , Hackney Road, , Law, Opinion,   

    Two Chocolates And A Bite Of Freedom 

    English: Shops on Hackney Road Near Cambridge ...

    English: Shops on Hackney Road Near Cambridge Heath Station (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

    Just finished a quarter of my second chocolate bar.  I bought both, a Snickers and a Lion.  Yeah, that’s me.  a Snickering Lion.

    I walked all the way along Hackney Road to do this, and am still trying to  eat the Lion.  It is a tough one.  Sticky pully and caramelly.  Dropping bits in the  cafe chair as I type and the owner/manager glances not so surreptitiously at me.

    It is freedom.

    Freedom to walk along and buy two whole chocolates and attempt to eat them and to drop bits in the nice Internet Cafe lady’s not so hot chair.   It is Freedom to choose to have two chocolates and to be able to purchase them and to eat them and not have to offer anyone any.  It is Freedom to sit her typing this with no one bothering me, even though I might be typing inflammatory materiele of the political/sexist/racist or other so determined kind.

    It is Freedom of Type.  Freedom of Bite.  Freedom of Speech.

    Freedom is hounded by those who invent the inflammatory materiel label to stick onto something they want hidden or with which they do not agree,  and think they have the right to press down opinion.  Even foolish opinions get an airing.  Especially in Hackney where everyone is either mad or foolish or both.

    Except for me of course.  I am neither mad or foolish.  I am grumpy.

    The thing is, once your foolish opinion does not agree with the other  general foolish opinions you can be labeled insane or stupid.  However, if you get a following, you might be labelled “a big man” in the community.  Some community.

    I love chocolate (s), even drinking chocolate.  I love freedom.  Even Freedom of Type.

    Some persons would say that Freedom of Type is the same  as Freedom of Speech.   I do not agree.  I can type all I like and even write a trilogy of offensive stuff, but unless it gets published AND some  people read and follow instructions or whatever,  all I have done is verified the need to save a few trees.

    Once I speech, that is speak, something however, what I have done is given credence to a thought or belief and have also published/publicized that belief in no uncertain terms.   A bit of paper or a poster is legally easier to deal with, but legally weaker as a means to an end.   A speech is legally more difficult to deal with but legally stronger as a means to an end.

    Type is written, speech spoken.  But which is more ‘free’?  I would say the Freedom of Type.   After all, I can rip up or delete or otherwise erase.  With bloody free speech all I can do is wish I had kept my mouth shut.

    Me, I prefer chocolates.  Each bite is a bite of freedom.   If I am chomping on a Lion, I can’t really do much harm.  Even if I am typing.   ‘Cause my mouth is too full of gooey sweet stuff to allow me to utter a single word.  All I can do is type and bite.

    So I’m feeling rather free right now.   A silent sweet freedom.

    English: A Snickers candy bar, broken in half.

    Foolish opinions or no,  I air my views, but I still want my freedom.

  • beulah888 9:19 AM on December 5, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Alejandro Morales-Loaiza, caption, , Death stalks, Egypt, Grief Loss and Bereavement, , John Donne, Photo credit, Rest, Sleep, St Anthony, , Twilight Zone, Walking-Dead,   

    Death Life And The Twilight-Zoners 

    Still-Life with a Skull, vanitas painting.

    Still-Life with a Skull, vanitas painting. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

    St Antony of Egypt

    St Antony of Egypt (Photo credit: Lawrence OP)

    Death stalks Hackney like a plague.  A Carriage carrying Death to every door is abroad on the streets and lanes and walks and byways.   It is covered in a cloud and cloaked in a cloak; but the cloud is the deceiver.

    La Muerte | Death | La Mort

    La Muerte | Death | La Mort (Photo credit: Alejandro Morales-Loaiza)

    Hackney, London, has given me nothing but grief, so I am pleased to see it get its comeuppance.   Grieved and grief-stricken may those that struck me be.

    How could someone live in a place for over six years and have no-one nearby on whom that person would feel free to call upon for assistance in an emergency?   I figure it is because those that live nearby are not neighbours.  Or friends.  One would call upon neighbours or friends.  Or even good strangers.   So if that person does not feel free to call upon those nearby, then it must be because that person knows (not feels, thinks or surmises) that those nearby are not going to be of assistance.  Does the Butcher save the pig when it squeals?  Can an enemy or foe give you comfort?  Would the Usurer relieve you in your debt?


    Death.  A panacea to many.


    Life a threat to some.


    Some fear Life more than Death.  They have their heads on backwards; are backward facing even as they walk backward, thinking they are facing forward.  Not seeing where they are going, only noting where they have trespassed.  Hoping that by so doing they will not have to face the reality of their transgression.


    Life is about forward movement.  About upliftment.  Death is a finality of that.  So the walking zombies, inhabited by bats and vermin and the bugs of death, cannot bear to face Life.  They therefore walk backwards less they stumble upon the truth.  If they try to walk forward then they are forever looking backward, peeping over their shoulders in fear that someone, something, will recognize them for the frauds they are.  They are afraid of the Truth.  That Life is greater than Death.  That the place they belong to is less than a no-man’s land.  And perchance they fall back into the void from whence they came, they pretend to know where they are going, pretend not to care, and turn their back.  But the Truth is there before and behind them.  The truth being that they are a Lie.


    They have no future, nothing to look forward to.  Nothing behind them that has not gone on before.  That is past.

    Their future is their past and their past their present.  Hence they have no real present and no future. Therefore, how can they be?


    So whichever way they go or turn they are in an eternal never-land.


    Twilight-zoners.    The ‘Walking-Dead’.


    Eye death

    Eye death (Photo credit: @Doug88888)







    DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so:
    For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
    Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
    From Rest and Sleep, which but thy picture be,
    Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
    And soonest our best men with thee do go–
    Rest of their bones and souls’ delivery!
    Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
    And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
    And better than thy stroke. Why swell’st thou then?
     One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
     And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!

       “Death” by John Donne

  • beulah888 9:57 AM on December 4, 2013 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: Bathroom, Bog, , , , Loo, , Poetry, Poo, Shampoo Shave And A Shower, , Shite, Toilet,   

    I Shite At Nite…..My Shite…In Hackney 

    I Shite At Nite

    This is mine.  This page, Shampoo Shave And A Shower, is part of my grand WordPress blog. And “I Shite At Night” is just part of it.

    I love myself dearly.  I am not full of shit as those Hackney mad people and zombies are.  I have a life and a beautiful one at that.

    So this blog being homeaffairsdotme, must include the toilette, toilet, bathroom, boudoir and bed.  Not to mention the kitchen which is not the heart but the soul of any home.

    I shite at night because it is my right to shite

    Don’t tell me I must shite in the day, just because you say

    It is the  normal thing to do

    What is normal for you is not right to me

    What is right is normal is right, you see

    And to shite in the day, because you are scared

    Is no reason for me to fear –  you.

    I shite when I feel like

    And that is at nite

    When Nature naturally calls

    You shit out of fear

    Of the dark and the drear

    Of your deadend dead-end state

    And because all of you do it

    Shit I mean,

    That’s no reason for me to share

    Your guilt your pain your sorrow or your air

    For mine, my state

    My ‘homeaffairs’

    Are in order

    Hence my shite

    Though it is done at night

    Is a sweet-smelling odour

    Of natural shit.


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