Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Nearly killed by a gum tree

I was walking to the laneway between streets when I saw a flicker in my vision then heard a muffled crash. It was a gum tree branch, a big one, that had broken off and dropped ten or so metres onto the road.

I missed being squished by three seconds.

I dragged the branch from the road to the and kicked the lesser broken folliage to the other side.

It's like Get Smart; it missed me by that much.

It's yet another occasion that I have just avoided death; and hilariously the second tree-based one at that.

(Mikey looks around with trepidation...)

It's like living in an active monarchy

Whilst we're not Americans America casts a deep shadow and its now rocky governance affects all within. Which is pretty much the entire planet.

It's terrifying to go from sanity and technocracy to royal diktat with no basis in fact which is the governance model of Trump. He issues decrees from on high, has an obsession with an alleged denuded military and even has sychophantic courtiers watching him be king whenever he decides to show off his office to on lookers in one of his many golf clubs such as "ICBMs 101" which he recently performed for diners at his "Southern White House". And just like a king he moves his court from place to place but instead of that cost worn by a guest it falls upon the American tax payer ... which pays money to his clubs for the pleasure of his costs incurred.

It would all be a glorious satire were it not true.

Trump thinks he is a king. He has thought that his entire life; that he is deeply wonderful and society needs to bend their knee. Now he's "in charge" that conceit and way of doing business is the logline of his presidency.

A mad king surrounded by lickspittle courtiers whose grandiose concerns are removed from the populace. 

This is what it must be like to live under a monarchy where the needs of the aristocratic class must come first and where you have little influence on the direction of government.

The world has two years until the King Trump model faces its electoral political test in the midterm elections. We can only hope that the poor rise up to vote (if they can) to severely crimp the plans of this monster.

But as we've seen a week is a long time in politics and we have about a hundred weeks to go.

Probs save us all.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Things as said to me

"No Richard Burton; it's not Wednesday!"

Five minutes later he said it again.

Later he said in all seriousness "I was trying to stop you being a dick."

That's fair feedback.

Chickens (heart) Pringles

The duckless chickens are happier now their aquatic oppressor was choppered out by US marines after its regime collapse but instead of the duck looming at the gate it's now the chickens.

And it's because of Pringles. I first gave them generic Ps that I did not want, the slices crackled to bits in my palm then scattered across the pen dirt. And they enjoyed that muchly.

Then on a whim, and as a means to not eat all the Pringles, I experimented with the name brand efforts.

The result is the five of them waiting patiently for much of the day at the gate, two half-embedded in holes they've dug, for the next golden shower of Pringle shards.

I've accidentally hooked them on a chicken opiate. I might have to ween them off.

I bet the Pringle equivalent of methadone is generic chips from a no-name brand---the kind my mother got us for school lunches in the '80s that she packaged in the smallest of sandwich bags. 

I'll also need a bunch of small cups and some "Try sport instead!" pamphlets.

Saturday, February 25, 2017

Scared the ginger

I am an inventive cat, oratorically speaking. I can rant and rave (alone) effectively and with great passion for hours at a time if my steam has built and I am in a safe place to blow.

I just slipped into it and was building in volume when I saw the ginger cat lift its head from its nap and look into my angry face with deep concern. 

I felt bad; I forgot about the cats. They don't need to see an angry combo of fat, muscle and hair storming about the place yelling with precision diction about the woes that have befallen him. 

I wonder if Hitler had that problem? If he lapsed solo into one of his infamous four hour hate sermons and forgot he had a cat in the room. 

"UND KILL THEM ... oh nein, mein kitty, come to Addie..."

I'm using Hitler because he is the go-to staple of angry speechifying. I bet in his time he went through a dozen lecterns from emphatic fist pounds in addition to all those hearth rugs he masticated whilst in a drug-enhanced psychotic state—untreated bi-polar fueled anti-Semitism and amphetamines a good combination do not make.

One of the fun facts that came out about Trump was that he's not a big reader; as in he doesn't read books. He watches TV.

The other tidbit was that Trump had a copy of Hitler's speeches on his bedside table for years. Which means when he did read, and it was probably months or years between visits, he was reading Hitler's speeches. 

Hitler came to office with not-much-support. Then he declared "an emergency" and gave himself unfettered power by combining the posts of president and chancellor—the former had the ability to sack the latter and even at his most-nuts Hitler was never tempted to sack himself.

It's fucked shit like that which has me worried. Plus he's even got the weird hair thing locked down. Hitler had the Charlie Chaplin mo and right-side part and Trump has his fantastical creation that is likely assisted by plundered exotic animalia or ozone death in a can.

Angry speeches and distinctive hair are canaries in the dictatorial coalmine—along with singling out minorities for oppressive attention.

The future does not make for good. We lost "No Drama Obama" for "Total Drama Trump"—with the latter barely reading and if he does it's by Adolf H.

Probs save us all.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

The fall of Milo

Laurie Penny does a fine job reporting from Milo's bus then reflects on his fall and how reality affects those that follow him:

"On the Milo Bus with the Lost Boys of America's New Right" by Laurie Penny, Pacific Standard.

Leaf blower handled

I went past one in operation outside whilst walking. And for me, in that moment, the leaf blower was just background noise.


UPDATE: It's underground frog season. The backyard is roaring with their sex-shouting. I stood right over a hidden seducer—which is apparently down a wet hole—and it was so loud my eardrums rang.

And I was okay.

Sat in wee

It wasn't my wee and I didn't notice until I saw the dribble on the seat where I did not go and felt the damp of where it went on me.

I had a shower.

Still, at least that's something unusual I can go with the next time someone asks what I've been up to.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Thor sore

We were watching a movie where the Hulk pounded the Asgard out of Thor. theboy thought Thor dead and cried.

I didn't leave the room but I did sit there on the cusp of fight flight because the sound of distress is a trigger when you have PTSD. 

He stopped cryingThor is just sorebut that's what it is to live with a psychological injury; even your child's distress can distress you. 

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

PTSD flared? Baste in anthems

One of the techniques I use to battle the sads is with battle music; anthems that give both joy and a feeling of "to the barricades!"

After recent unpleasantness I needed some epic basting to counter the dark menace of looming anxiety so I queued up song after song of epic power as a reminder that I did that and that I survived it.

The "to the barricades!" mix

I Love It” by Icona Pop

The Nosebleed Section” by Hilltop Hoods

"Danger! High Voltage" by Electric Six

Get Back” by Ludacris (from the Tropic Thunder end credits)

The Old Landmark” performed by James Brown (from The Blues Brothers)

Tubthumping (I get knocked down)” by Chumbawamba

Some Nights” by Fun.

(later that day...)

Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys


Monday, February 20, 2017

A howling no from my body

My PTSD flared with anxiety, bad dreams, bad guts and body pain the result.

My body gave a howling no but I gritted teeth and pushed forward to get some needed nasty work done.

Now all I hope is that my body and brain knows it's over—stupid subconscious and its impact on the body prime.

That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; normal seeming tasks come littered with psychological mines that can shred the psyche on detonation.