If, as Dave said towards the end of the last online event (Healing the Mother of All Wounds), the truth is a sensation, how do I articulate a sensation? Letters are not nerve endings; words are not cell tissue; sentences are not ligaments or bone structures; articles are not organs. A book is not a body of organic knowledge, more like a bowl of old kibble. I am defined by my limits, but also by my willingness and capacity to move outside of those limits, even if to do so means losing all prior definitions, being de-reified, de-realized, even, horror of horrors, impotent?
On the last Dave event, I stopped taking notes about half an hour in. Instead, I curled up next to my wife under a blanket, and let my attention drift between Dave’s words (and the images on the screen) and my unpleasant bodily sensations and the thoughts and emotions they coagulated into. I felt like I couldn’t cope with existence, in a small way, with attending the event, taking notes, later composing a blogpost, it was all too much for little old me. Why? Was it because little old me was deeply wounded, and now was the time for letting my awareness go deeper into that wound? So at least was the subject of the event.
Enter the Identity
To get them out of the way, here are the few notes I took:
Image of original wound that comes to mind for Dave is a menstruating vagina. (I had a similar less formed image, and was reminded, before Dave mentioned the vagina, of a painting I did, with myself as a bloody, tooth-and-claw fetus at the center.)
At the age of five, Dave had a strange fascination with going back to the womb. This desire to go back to a previous time in life is common in adults: the older they get, the more common it becomes.
One thought of the mother while she is pregnant, that she doesn’t want the child inside her, or even that she is not being supported and may not be able to cope, and the fetus feels that doubt as a wound. The mother is rejecting the life inside her, the fetus mirrors this and does the same. (The fetus is the mother at this stage). If the mother is afraid of the child’s father, the fetus will also feel that, and be afraid of its father.
The period when identity forms, usually the first two years, when we go from no-identity to identity, relates to learning language and specifically learning our own name. Our memories seem to begin after the age of two, because before that, memory is not linguistically encoded but encoded into the nervous system. When a child learns its own name and makes a shift into identity, there is a loss that occurs for the child, even if most parents do not notice it.
Children often learn brand names before their own names. Dave imitated an infant saying “Coco-lola,” reminding me of my niece Emerald: I gave her a small wooden artist’s figure when she was one. I named it Don Quixote—after a fictional character from a novel who reads so many chivalric romances that he loses his mind and decides to become a knight-errant. She called the figurine Hotsy Dodo, so that became his name.
Taboo of Taboos
The original wound is the taboo of all taboos.
How can we have a bona fide authentic revelation, Dave asks, when our persona is based on non-revealing? This relates to how and why Dave has ended up putting so much time, energy, and attention (especially on island retreats) to helping people overcome their social inhibitions and free up their life force to express in new ways. He compared this to other spiritual teachers and groups, in which it is all about keeping a calm, placid exterior and developing internal stillness. Dave’s focus has been consistently about letting all our hairs hang down, and allowing our inner turmoil to come up and out.
At the end of the event, he said, “I have given you explanation without catharsis.”
I don’t want to do more of the same, especially since I do not even know what I am talking about, since words are mostly my way of coping with, and buffering against, the unbearable affect of original wounding. That last may bear repeating: words are mostly my way of coping with, and buffering against, the unbearable affect of original wounding.
Broken Priapus
If in doubt, go meta. This is from a recent exchange with Dave about writing (or not writing) this blogpost:
With the blogpost, I am always hoping for the unexpected to emerge into the void that generally exists when it comes to how to turn the experience into an online article. That void so far has been filled by something deeply personal to me, rightly enough. . . . But this time the void is much larger, as per the vacuum created by so few notes.
There seems to be a trajectory I have observed, even an alliance, between you and I, which has to do with ~ you tell, and then I show, making me a kind of canary, in at least two metaphorical senses (I leak, but I also faint).
Hence my thought for this blog is to demonstrate a revealing, within the context of your event but without offering much that will reproduce it for those who appreciate a somewhat literal copy. Though something is lost this way, I feel the potential gains more than make up for it; for what is explanation without catharsis?
Dave replied:
This is an interesting topic and exploration; it opens so many possible threads.
I was wondering a few days ago when the blogging might plateau for you or I.
Impact is a very relevant way to reveal the importance of a process/person/place. There can be a difference though between describing benefits of a massage or a tour vs. one’s existential wranglings a la Sartre, where your own angst session may become deified, reified and immortalised by your readers, precipitating something you never wanted: une statue en hommage au priapus fracturé.
Open Cock Surgery
For readers not familiar with French or with Greek mythology, the last bit refers to a statue of a broken fertility god, Priapus, depicted with an enormous erect penis. Dave’s comment was timely, since I had just written an afterword to 16 Maps of Hell that gives voice to my reservation about how the book is compromised, as all books are, by the author’s desire for canonization, for specialness. This is particularly problematic—and ironic—in a book that attempts to expose the cultural pathology of Hollywood. The pen is mightier? Perhaps, but it is also more easily broken.
There are many threads of sensation that threaten to converge here, at this somewhat arbitrary location of an ostensible blog article. My task as the scribe with the broken pen is—becoming almost paralyzingly daunting to me. Stage fright, performance anxiety, call it what you will: it all comes down to the fear-based, survival-rooted sensations of an original wound, and how they manifest in complexes of behavior that are circular, vicious, and repeating. And now we have the meta-meta attempt to both show and tell such complexes, to risk exposing the wound in a way that might reinfect it, but potentially will cleanse it and redress it for healing. It all depends on the delicacy and skill—and the timing—of the exposure.
Also, as with those public acts of surgery in Victorian England, it depends on the right environment. A collision between too gory an operation and too squeamish an audience may clear the room with the viscera and stench of reality, and cause a crisis for surgeon and patient both—especially if they are the same! But c’est la guerre: nothing ventured, nothing gained. To dress a wound, expect a little pain.
Ancestral Distress Region
Trigger Warning: What you are about to read may bring up undesirable sensations and correspondingly unpleasant associations. If the heat becomes too much, please leave Hell’s kitchen.
Beginning gently then, my latest response to Dave on this thread began with these words:
One of the things that threatens to cause paralysis: so many sensations, so many ways to try and articulate them—grasping at the straws of mental interpretation as they whiz by like poo sticks under the bridge.
It ended with these:
. . . especially if the blogpost turns out to be about My Penis : o
Sometimes a writer must take the bull by the cojones if only in order not to stand there helplessly and be trampled beneath the hooves of inevitability. Impotence, like awakening, is inevitable—so why pussyfoot around it?
Now where was I? Oh yes. The reason I wanted (ha!) to talk about My Penis is two-fold. Firstly, because My Penis is the locus of the lion’s share (ha! # 2: my wife is a Leo!) of my suffering as a mortal male upon this earth (I hope my male readers can relate). Secondly, moving as swiftly and nimbly as I can with a wounded fifth limb dangling between my legs like this—because it struck me that therein (in that thar region of ancestral distress) lies the perfect metaphor for, if not the original wound per se, at least for the symptoms that it manifests.
For is not the constructed identity akin to a Viagra-boosted phallus that, through sheer terror of exposing a moment’s weakness, allows itself to be turned into a battering ram that brooks no resistance? And into the bargain, becomes a pulsing organ of discomfort that offers no respite to its hapless owner, who is thereby reduced to a slave of artificially augmented hormonal desire, a hammer-head endlessly hallucinating nails to be pounded, tilting at windmills, allowing no rest either for the wicked or the quixotic?
Sex with My Wife (discontinued)
But enough hiding behind jizzy crypticisms and purply swollen prose. Let me lay my balls on the chopping block finally and say what I mean. As a man, I think about my cock and balls a lot. This is not in regard to pissing, about which I have barely a moment for contemplation, during day or night, but the other, far less frequent and infinitely more charged function, that of Sex with My Wife (a much-loved but sadly discontinued series, due to lack of popular demand).
(Take a breath, man—you can do it!)
When I think about My Penis, I like to think of it as fully engorged and ready for battle. The flaccid floppy thing nestling complacently between my legs waiting for action (the original couch potato?) seems, in such a scenario, a source not only of potential pleasure but of potential shame. Baldly put, what if I should start waving my erection expectantly before my wife’s eyes, only for harry the hard-hat to change his mind and withdraw, turtle-like, into his shell? He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day? Or to waste slowly away from shame and venture forth to battle no more?
Musical interlude:
My Penis is an organ that puffs itself up and then parades itself proudly, all readiness and enthusiasm, as it drives onward to victory. But—a moment of self-doubt or hesitation, and its warrior cry may turn to a whimper and a terrifying loss of ardor may occur. Worst of all, the fear of such a failure of nerve can itself precipitate the thing most feared. And so it goes, around and around in an endlessly spiraling, shrinking circle of narcissistic self-inflation and negation, all fueled by crippling anxiety that lurks beneath an increasingly compensatory counterfeit of passion.
This is not a pretty picture I am painting. I realize that. But listen: I grew up surrounded by male sex addicts. I know what I am talking about.
Interlude: A Garter Snake Called George
The Friday before Sunday’s event, I had a 1:1 with Dave, my first in some months. In my email I said that he could probably guess what it was about, since the subject in mind—that afore-mentioned discontinued series, and an apparently MIA libido—has been rearing its snaky head ever since I first consulted Dave, back in 2010. During our 1:1, Dave began to refer to My Penis as “George.” This was partly in order that any unwitting eavesdroppers not be unduly alarmed, but also an intentional anthropomorphization of that particular member of my anatomy. Dave dropped the reference to the famous mad king (George III) at one point, even as I realized, on my side, that, not only was George my father’s middle name, it was the answer to one of the security questions in my online banking (now changed, since Dave pointed out that the answer is actually googleable).
Among other things, the reference underscores how I would not be the first man to reify his own cock, or to suffer the “congenital” madness that ensues. There is some doubt as to what drove George insane, though the popular movie keeps to the conventional theory that it was due to a genetic blood disorder called porphyria, the symptoms of which include aches and pains (like CFS), as well as blue urine.
Nonetheless, the engorgement of the King George tentacle was one I decided to leave out of today’s blog-topus, so as not to become any more overwhelmed than I was already. But then, on the same morning I started work on it (yesterday), during my two-hour shift at the thrift store and right after handing out chicken to the hungries of Hope, an old lady called little Mary (who bakes cookies for them) mentioned, out of the blue, a garter snake that used to live under her house. It was called George, she said, and George came out whenever children were around. Little Mary finished her brief tale in the traditional fashion, with the discovery of a dead George under the house. I asked how George had died, and she said “old age.” (The happiest ending an organism gets.)
Two days prior to this, while we were out walking, my wife saw a huge garter snake disappearing into the reeds on our right as we passed. She pointed but all I saw was the flash of its tail disappearing. So apparently “George,” be he King or Snake or a combination of the two, is integral to the sensation report. (The number of Serpent in Hebrew is the same as Instructor, 666; King George was associated by American colonists with “The Beast 666”.)
As for how the garter snake got its name, one explanation is that it is due to its resemblance to garters men used to wear to keep their socks up. A pithier symbol of male insecurity and its relation to over-socialization could hardly be found.
Getting Down to the Bone
But I fear I beat about the bush (no, not George W. Bush, also the subject of two books about a mad king). We are up to 2,400 words already, and the reader is probably more confused than when we started. Don’t worry, it will soon be over.
The parallels I am attempting to trace now are between an erratically functioning penis in life-long collusion with an insecure male ego (little head to big head), with a shared goal to make each other feel good as often as possible. The result of this bio-complicity is a self-fetishizing loop of narcissistic identity-crisis-and-crisis-relief that depends, to a disproportionate degree, on achieving, sustaining, and discharging an erection. So blue balls lead not only to blue urine but to getting blue in the face. Freud called it genital organization: the unholy fusion between the sexual organs, the capacity for pleasure of any sort (eros), and the maintenance of the ego-identity, all getting fused into one pathological power drive. It’s the subject of Prisoner of Infinity (really, all my recent books), and Dave has called it OW: the original wound.[1]
To return to the excruciatingly personal deconstruction of one particular persona (WARNING: potentially indelible imagery ahead): what this ends up as is an overpowering desire to wave my swollen gland around, most especially in my wife’s face, combined with the corresponding fear of losing steam and going publicly “soft.” (Kings, emperors, and fathers no doubt have similar concerns of being perceived this way.)
Horniness mixes with ego insecurity and the need to be especially loved (centrality), and so I find myself desperately needing to be seen in all my naked, masculine glory. In fact, I even get turned on by the experience of being seen thus, a complex that goes back to my childhood and early adolescence, when I occasionally exposed myself to strangers (though my parents never found out about this strange predilection). The formula really isn’t that complicated: an emasculated libido is unnaturally obsessed with asserting its masculinity.
The Money Shot
Mercifully for me, such cock-o-centric narcissism appears to be quite common: witness those wealthy, sex-obsessed guys in movies with full-size mirrors over their beds. Do you think they need a mirror to see their partners? Of course, tragi-comically, such narcissistic self-fetishization gives rise to a corresponding fear of being seen (or seeing myself) in anything less than the purple robes of fully engorged masculinity. The more naked the emperor feels, the more shamelessly he parades his dingaling before the hushed crowd. Who among them will dare to titter? Who will dare not to gasp and gush praise on one so dangerously, explosively insecure? (My brother comes easily to mind now.)
Now, at last, we arrive at the reason I have chosen to expose myself in such a self-deflating way. (No statues please; it will only be torn down anyway.) Rest assured, you are not simply a reluctant witness to another bout of Horsleyean auto-analysis/aversion therapy. Rest assured that, even if you are female, or the most fully functioning set of male genitalia on the planet, verily, this concerns you.
The sensitive reader, who stays with his or her sensations throughout this post, may have noticed how the author moves continuously between a raw state of articulation, rooted in affect and sensation, and a more crusty, swollen overlay, a scar tissue of intellectualization, just in order to relieve the distress of such sustained and unceremonious self-exposure. What was once a kinky kick, is now a galling cleanse.
Compare all of the above, if you will, to the constructed identity, as what forms like congealed scar tissue around an original wound. Like my underappreciated and overburdened member, it has two settings: fight or flight. When it is fully “erect,” it stands strong, stiff, and tall, pushing its way relentlessly on to the fulfillment of its desire, brooking no resistance. It lives inside a never-ending fantasy of conquest that forces the whole world to enable and indulge its many shades of gray.
This armored, quixotic false self is a dodo ever-on-the-verge-of-extinction, and hence forever hotsy-to trotsy. He is one of an under-represented, inarticulate legion, the married incel. Above all, he cannot bear to be seen as soft, weak, passive, flaccid or vulnerable. The moment the fight goes out of him, he flees back into the original wound of his originary womb, there to nurse his pride slowly back to health. His—alright, my—mighty superiority complex flips over into one of pathetic inferiority, even as my childish imitation of a man (whose pen is mightier than his word) is revealed as a half-man, perennially stuck inside a child’s pose of panic, anguish, and despair.
What I am saying is: this hurts me more than it does you, so please, no complaints. But if you are close enough to the operating table to start to feel the show inside this tell, can you follow those revolting reverberations inward, into your own owie?
Final Thoughts Before Launching
The Morning after writing the above. It is hard to imagine Dave giving a class centered around his penis. I am sure it would be quite unnerving for participants, particularly female ones. It might be seen as irresponsible, even cause for concern, for a spiritual teacher (or even a “spiritual teacher”) to take such a downward turn.
But what Dave tells, I show. (He pokes, I bleed.) And even for me, this has been stressful. I have allowed my pen to venture—to boldly go—where the spoken word would blanch at going, to deliver an unusually charged ancestral load, one which (I can only pray) is more fecund than fevered. (Remember that trauma passes on via conception.)
The connective tissue between My Penis and My Identity may be what we refer to as Will. (George, meet Will; try to get along, do!) Will is an even more ephemeral entity than Mind. In its purest expression, it is Life Force, uninhibited but also undriven, as effortlessly emergent, I imagine, as a mountain spring or a six-month storehouse of semen, summoned forth by an inviting receptacle.
A hardened will is unresponsive and irresponsible, one-pointed and unbending (the cock that cannot bend may break). It is determined to reach its goal and deliver its load, like a bullet from a gun, at any cost, regardless of any resistance or objections it may encounter (which only fire its desire). It is a heaven stormer, a dragon slayer, no time for hesitation, doubt, or contemplation as it tilts furiously at every passing windmill and pulses laser-like towards every maiden. Like an engorged cock with a hair trigger, it has only one thought, one desire, one will in its little head: to disengorge itself and return to the peace of de-tumescence—if only for the cycle to start up, all over again. (There is only the very briefest of respite for the wicked.)
A soft will, on the other hand, may be seen as weak or impotent when really it is only chivalrously patient, waiting for the life force to stir it into action. It needs no other compensatory drives, it strikes no quixotic or erotic poses, has no thought of victory or defeat, hence no fear of frustration. It has no image to uphold, only truth: the sensation, to unfold. Its potency is in its easiness with impotence: the power, after all, is not its own. The cock does not possess the life force, or even the sperm. It is dependent on its own lower parts to deliver.
A woman, I suspect—mine at any rate—is waiting for such a long-suffering lover to stand and deliver, not a sack full of semen but his true essence, what is hidden even from himself, and that is brought forth, not by his desire but hers.
This is only a guess. I have no map of Heaven. Nor will you find one here, now or in the future. Once this riddle is solved, once the square peg is circled, made ready to enter the round hole, perhaps I will no longer have any need to write, at all.
That doesn’t mean I won’t do it, of course. Only that word will have flown free from pen, released by the finger that drove it. The day that happens I, for one, will be over the Moon.
***
To those willing, ready, and able to follow, there will be a follow-up exploration on Zoom currently scheduled for Friday June 12, at 1 pm Pacific Time, 9 pm UK time. This event is for penis-holders only. Foreskin non-compulsory (ref to footnote below). If interested, send me an email.
Next online Dave event: Breaking the Grand Illusion: Coming Unstuck, Never Arriving and the Least Expected Option (highly recommended read, 3 mins).
“Shaking Up The Trance: Catching Enlightenment Transmission During COVID-19 Confusion” (2 min read)
***
[1] Footnote mini-essay: “Kellogg’s Covenant, or the Member in an Iron Mask.”
At the risk of fleeing from the personal particular to the over-general (and non-personal, since I am happily intact), what of the culturally clipped cock, deprived of its God-given protection, whether for some primeval covenant or in deference to a modern medical pretense of hygiene? Circumcision is not a uniquely Jewish barbarism but a specifically American one; its predominance in the US is partially due to the promotional efforts of Henry Kellogg, who advocated circumcision as a remedy for “local uncleanliness,” “unchastity,” and in small boys, masturbation. Kellogg also recommended the “application of pure carbolic acid to the clitoris an excellent means of allaying the abnormal excitement.” (Ref.) While briefly researching this subject online, I found a wealth of articles defending the sacred rite (and right) of circumcision—on purely scientific grounds, naturally—none of which paused to mention the uncontested facts about the offending foreskin being “an integral, functioning, important component of a man’s penis [that] contains the highest concentration of nerve endings on the penis.” 20,000 nerve endings, no less, compared to 8,000 in a clitoris. “When the foreskin is removed,” I learned, “the head of the penis can develop a thick layer of skin to protect it, making it much less sensitive. As a result, circumcised men are 3 times more likely to have issues with erectile dysfunction.” (“15 Facts about the Foreskin and Circumcision.” See also here.) Since I am in the fortunate position to compare pleasure and sensitivity with or without the foreskin’s protection, I can vouch for the position that pleasure is greatly increased by those 20,000 extra nerves endings, as well due to the natural protection for the over-sensitivity of a raw, exposed gland. Over-sensitivity can quickly lead to numbness, which is precisely how trauma affects us. (“Cortisol levels, a stress hormone, are 3-4 times higher during circumcision than prior to the procedure, which can contribute to post-op breastfeeding challenges. It is also thought that the pain and trauma from undergoing circumcision may impact the child’s response to pain or stress throughout their life.” “15 Facts about the Foreskin and Circumcision.”) Re-ascending now from little head to big head, from original wound to false identity: a circumcised cock is supposed to be more impervious to certain kinds of disease (debatable). It is, in a literal fashion, more naked and exposed, more “vulnerable.” Yet this is only via the amputation of a perfectly integral part, a natural protective hood, removing which results in a hardening, a desensitization, of the exposed part. That is, a reduction of vulnerability, as a necessary defense against unnatural and premature exposure to environmental adversity. Is this perhaps a microcosm for the traumatic violation of our essential natures and the corresponding creation of a false identity, a non-revealing persona that only appears naked and unadorned (state-sanctioned hygiene is nowhere near to godliness), when really, it is more akin to donning an iron mask to conceal a terrible scarring?
George strikes again. The real focus of this post has been unambiguously clear.
George VI had trouble with his diction (“The Kings Speech”).
Unsure how the pithy “unholy fusion” relates to my Original Wound discourse.
Halfway through the “Nausea” let up for brief, hopeful, emetic moment – before starting up again.
When I awake, perhaps this ens causa sui PR nightmare will be over.
Time to man up & take responsibility for what you have released? Lancing boils can lead to getting hot-splashed.
I am confident you (& and others) will figure out where your diagnosis ends and my symptoms begin.
“Time to man up & take responsibility for what you have released? Lancing boils can lead to getting hot-splashed.
I am confident you (& and others) will figure out where your diagnosis ends and my symptoms begin.”
I am not, nor hot to trot, confident that readers are amply empowered to deconstruct the illusion of a dissection. However, recent counterintuitive commenting on the Gib Strange post provides encouragement that the impasse of unprecedented may break open.
I am tempted to retort like Suzie in previous post, presciently commenting “Are you putting your words in my mouth or my words on yours?”
“The real focus of this post has been unambiguously clear.”
That’s what I meant to say!
“All but the last, which seems ambiguous; surely breaking the ice = the Great Thaw?”
An exploration of the potential to widen the gap between men and women through ideological provocation, such as incel and antigenitalist, resulting in single men’s vehicles displaying compulsory warning “Danger: Unattended Prick Onboard”.
Did you find any cause for for concern in Suzie’s point “the risk through a subtle process of identification they will read it as worthy and something to respect even emulate perpetuating the virus”?
BTW Walnut Whip no longer has a nut. Choking risk.
no wonder I can’t seem to get my nut….
Did you find any cause for for concern in Suzie’s point “the risk through a subtle process of identification they will read it as worthy and something to respect even emulate perpetuating the virus”?
Mimesis is always a danger, since the externals of the transmission are always “red herrings”; not sure what the “it” is however; George? If so, is the point that it (George/this post/naked honesty about genital issues) is unworthy of respect? That sounds like something much more likely to perpetuate the virus & widen the gap. Suzie has her own issues; I put down my top coat over that puddle, as a gentleman must, and in order not to get bogged down by overflow.
Dave
When I awake, perhaps this ens causa sui PR nightmare will be over.
I howled.
And
Almost everything connected to this post is funny
True. It read to me like a lost chapter from Infinite Jest.
What is less funny is the fact that many may not see how funny it is and the risk is that through a subtle process of identification they will read it as worthy and something to respect even emulate perpetuating the virus hence why catagorisation analysis and antidote are essential. At the risk of undertaking a thankless task
To deconstruct the illusion of a dissection
I roll up my sleeves.
(For purposes of coherence I am putting all three here).
Catagorisation
Victim mentality on steroids or Viagra if you prefer.
Some brief analysis.
This armored, quixotic false self is a dodo ever-on-the-verge-of-extinction, and hence forever hotsy-to trotsy.
Which is it extinct or ever active? More dildo than dodo from what you describe
He is one of an under-represented, inarticulate legion
Jasun you are far from inarticulate.
Legion as in elite army or multitude? which is it as neither seems to work here?
And as a statement is it not in direct opposition to?
Mercifully for me, such cock-o-centric narcissism appears to be quite common
Also the narcissism in the above statement is quite something-comedy gold- ignoring as it does all the evils that the ever expanding lol problem propagates (phallus worship/phallus inadequacies are opposite sides of the same coin) in the interest of self.
The more naked the emperor feels, the more shamelessly he parades his dingaling before the hushed crowd. Who among them will dare to titter? Who will dare not to gasp and gush praise on one so dangerously, explosively insecure?
Not sure what you are saying here. It sounds like a dare.
Wasn’t The Emperor’s New Clothes about a deluded king who needed adoration and admiration so badly he would go to any lengths? And weren’t the crowd who acquiesced doing so not out of respect for his great vulnerability but because they were a psyopped mob as deluded as he?
Antidote =Taking up the dare
Hey old man put some clothes on!
Cedomir
This was, whether your female readers like it or not, big balls time! We’ll have to crowdfund you a wheelbarrow
I dare say this may be closer to what females think about this type of thing i.e., It is not new to us.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXsNgkZCUs8&t=1s
Congratulations Suzie ~ you are now the first honorary female member of the wheeelbarrow gang.
I will see your nerve-endings and raise. 😀
Worthy analysis, Suzie. So far only a pat on the head from his lordship for being a woman, but not on point – yet. At least you didn’t get roasted by his fiery dragon.
That’s no way to treat a lady, Sir George.
After the ironically named Liminalist (the space in between) Men’s Group he might rise to the occasion.
I opted for space between contradictory messages that a) warns the post should not be taken seriously; b) takes the first steps towards an exegesis of a post that should not be taken seriously. Since George is damned either way (fight or flight) he opts merely to stand his ground and remain at attention.
“I opted for space between contradictory messages that a) warns the post should not be taken seriously; b) takes the first steps towards an exegesis of a post that should not be taken seriously. Since George is damned either way (fight or flight) he opts merely to stand his ground and remain at attention.”
Confused and unsure whether there is a practical difference.
(a) => this post should not be taken seriously.
(b) => “Ceci n’est pas une pipe” ∴ (therefore) this post should not be taken seriously.
Thankfully, commenters are taking the the post both seriously and mirthfully, which seems an exceptional opportunity for communal exploration. Indeed, it is already purposed as a beak-wetting primer for 2 Lim Men-Only Meets (for men who have something in-between or who are in between or the truth lies unattended somewhere in the uncanny valley?).
How to characterise the post?:
Flashing?
Foreplay?
A prayer for relief?
A celebration of e-man-cipation?
Aspiring to become a Balkan member to keep in Czech, (winky) mate?
Fooling on one’s own pecker?
An invitation to ex parte?
A hip jerk reaction against the threat of antigenitalism?
A deep dive into OW! Dancing around the wet spot. The fractured iceberg between men and women that could be wedged open to create the next Ice Age?
All but the last, which seems ambiguous; surely breaking the ice = the Great Thaw?
(Johnny are you ready to crack the ice? To draw back the veil and pay the price?)
Perhaps a more salient/honest response to Suzie’s bit of exegetic foreplay is that it is hard to respond to cryto-criticism and hipster-witticism in a way that doesn’t escalate the abstraction and veer into the too-cool-for-school evasions, just so as to avoid the dourness of too much earnestness. My achilles’ heel with my brother was that he could always count on an earnest response to his pre-scripted dandyisms, and always had an irreverent quip to quash my sincere inquiries.
As a meta-comment, I had considered the possibility of taking this post down, once all who needed to see it had done so, as the patient should ideally be allowed to pull up his drawers once the inspection is over. But now the audience is performing a post-mortem on the surgery, meaning I am with one pants leg on, the other off, and still taking questions. It is a pleasant surprise (compared to silence), but one that also prolongs the identity crisis intentionally precipitated by this big reveal (i.e, continues the aversion therapy).
The dominant/prominent women in my family and their close female friends never really cared if I or any other children were about when they discussed relationships, so even before becoming sexually active, I had some insight into what women thought (to me their opinions appeared to be quite uniformed) about sex and their partners. From my teens onwards I’ve always had close female friends, so my insider status remained and I’ve been up to date on such matters since and as they evolved. The sketch from Sex and the City is obviously just a cliche. Even though true, it oversimplifies what I’ve heard said/thought/considered/critiqued.
It’s worth adding that I have heard many a man analysed and dissected (often mercilessly) on the basis of their sexual performance vs social status/competence/perspective/ability (notice the latter criteria is more layered than the former which is individual and probably difficult to describe in words and categorise). The women in question unequivocally drew parallels between the two, some men were forgiven all (usually for a limited time) because they were great lovers while others were forgiven the inability to perform/satisfy because they could provide (usually for their lifetime).
Women play an active part in the ego = penis dynamic.
“It is a pleasant surprise (compared to silence), but one that also prolongs the identity crisis intentionally precipitated by this big reveal (i.e., continues the aversion therapy).”
Jake’s peg doesn’t have to rise again, since winky face’s speech has now launched a thousand ships. It’s no longer about your private George, but everyone’s George (again, not yours). Of course, if George’s needs have been met in the interim and the post was only a public love letter then it has served its purpose, but your readers may want more. Did you ever like Walnut Whip? Did you settle for only one per munch session?
“Time to man up & take responsibility for what you have released?”
I might cop for “unleashed”.
Having only read the post sans images of your object d’fixee (blocked by eponymous email *privacy* feature), I missed the tiny but driven, nay hammered home, point of the circuitous post, lost in all that girth. Is all fin de sickle and dandy with bon mot fixated George’s new obsession with top hats?
Was the subtle point of this cock-mating dance of a post to “femme down” rather than “man up”?
The puns abount genitalia are endless. Mammary glands a close second. Pulled this up for some lunch reading but had to put it away for later. I’m trying to run a family business after all.
From the title picture I thought it was goining to be Jasun’s take on Harry Potter. Instead it is about hairy putter. Which brings a thought. Could JKR have gotten rich due to penis envy?
I wonder what her relationship with her father was like? Perhaps the next volume in the Jasun Horsley series.
I guess thst last one was a stretch. I need to rise above such thoughts, but for me it’s hard to do. I’ll stop beating a dead horse now.
The “Harry Potter” riff was funny. Almost everything connected to this post is funny. Unfunny should be analysed, categorised and anti-doted.
BTW JaHo, your rising subscriber numbers started to drop after you rammed what filters would consider spam into inboxes everywhere.
A timely riff as I just emailed JKR about her TG stance.
Correction: I am not using that SPAM filter as it is useless to prevent human agents, who must be removed manually. The rapid growth curve was I suspect largely an illusion created by these creeping impostors.
Come to think of it, if anything will keep the parasitical crabs at bay, maybe it is this current post? (Even tho I repeated a previous error by using the V-word.)
Interesting, I wrote unleashed then changed it to released. Not wanting to give too much credit to the catalyst.
The power of the image, hmmm. To earth a thousand words. The alphabet and the goddess, meet in the middle around route 69.
Did anyone get this?:
“The power of the image, hmmm. To earth a thousand words. The alphabet and the goddess, meet in the middle around route 69.”
Goddess = Earth?
Route 69 = mouthing off?
Right!!!
There’s as much of a chance that “your own angst session may become deified, reified and immortalised by your readers” as there is of the Vatican canonising Dave and sorting the rest of us out with diplomatic passports and pocket money to go on the retreat. Perhaps you had something else in mind before writing this post, but this is all so human, all too human, to be misunderstood (it might help to be a man).
Throughout, the text reminded me of a novel. Finally, just before the end, I realised it was Gogol’s “Diaries of a madman”. I don’t use internet shorthand or acronyms because I don’t know them well enough, but, LO(fucking)L!!! After the short introduction, it was all belly laughs. I don’t recall reading a more personal account, while also somehow simultaneously impersonal (perhaps because it spoke to me directly, so how personal can it be) which elicited empathy (being in someone else’s shoes) and just sympathy (identifying with another’s lot).
This was, whether your female readers like it or not, big balls time! We’ll have to crowdfund you a wheelbarrow 🙂
Talking about this subject would be a lot easier. Writing it, editing it and posting it and then waiting for comments… Sheesh! I wish I was more competent to describe my impressions, but a quick unfiltered joyous one will have to do. I had to doff my hat right now.
phew – a clean bill of health from the Balkans! Maybe this piece of lead will fly after all. Have wheelbarrow, will travel. All hats off.
“There’s as much of a chance that “your own angst session may become deified, reified and immortalised by your readers” as there is of the Vatican canonising Dave and sorting the rest of us out with diplomatic passports and pocket money to go on the retreat.”
You secured that argument, Ced, with belt, braces, garter and suspenders. Canonisation only starts after rigor mortis sets in, meaning no retreat to fund.
That’s certainly true but only if splitting hairs!
Also, not to split hairs, canonisation requires that the saint’s rigor mortisized member is incorruptible (non-perishable). Maybe JaHo is positioning for just such a check before entering the cassock-clad Vahalla. That would be a big shock for readers, a coup de grâce for the Papacy and a pull-n-grimace healing shrine for writer’s-blocked Auti fans. Imagine, the author of the forbidden “16 Hells” renditioned into eternity behind the non-extraditable walls of Vatican City.
I read that when the Pope is elected by the cardinals but before he is paraded as the new Pontiff the select and lucky few have to fondle his ballsack from underneath the seat which has a custom purpose made hole to ensure that the new bridge between humanity and the creator is not a woman in disguise. Probably a defunct practice now but one never knows with the Papacy.
Since Roman times the Curia only consisted of men. Kurac (pronounced qurats in Serbian) means penis, Latin speakers have fewer sounds in their language and often drop consonants and/or add vowels borrowed from Slavic languages. So, Curia broadly used to designate an assembly, council, etc where issues are discussed and decided could potentially mean a gathering of penises.
Curiouser and curiouser, Ced. I am starting to think that you either have the Holy Grail of languages and/or and an unusual linguistic facility and a very private eye for genital semiotics. Were you the basis for “Name of the Rose” by any chance?
While reading this I remembered a garter snake who made appearances when I was a child that we called George. I haven’t thought of this in decades!
remarkable; do you have relative called Mary?
You might ask any relation to COVID-19 ? (see Madagascan marketing)
And what about the Nocturnal penile tumescence; wand to the dreamscape?
uh oh, sounds like a part two: George’s Dream Life: Where the Wild Dodos Roam.
The article resonates with similar themes I am wrestling with. There is a passage I read recently that seems apropos: “Contact through sexuality becomes compulsive when every other possibility of naked immediacy recedes.”
The writing was a fantastic expose’ of the intertwining of penis and pen [is] ; the gulf between language and the most sensitive of feeling?
Ending on will, which seems to be more of a metaphor for full integration, perhaps?
As mentioned before, the theme I seem to have wrestled with, and seems like the world at large is in throes to, is impotence – but not the medical penis focus, but rather a far greater impotence – spiritual impotence.
“Do I dare, do i dare? Disturb the universe?” [t.s. eliot]
Anyways, it seems that the whole article is trying to get past the distractions of the original wound whether it be coping with words or the escape of thinking with one’s erection; the original wound veiled by the pen [is]. An exhausting dance between grandiosity and shame, when acceptance is all that is sought after?
The healing of that original wound, to be born again ….
Congratulations Suzie ~ you are now the first honorary female member of the wheeelbarrow gang.
I will see your nerve-endings and raise.
Thanks Jasun,
I will wear the mantle with pride. smiley face (no clue how to insert them)
Acceptance speech
I would like to thank you this blog/podcast, Dave and last but not least George for providing such a rich and undoubtedly a bit nervy opportunity (heart and laughing face.)
A question that occurs: is the relationship between sex (libido) and sexual love (a pure expression of eros) exactly parallel to the one between the ego and the soul (as a subjective manifestation of the infinite or the divine) ?
It is surely healthier to use sex to express love, than use love to ‘get’ sex. I think we can all agree on that.
So making use of the energy of the body, even when possessed by the ego, to connect with the soul (thus demoting the ego in the process) is like engaging in lovemaking in order to truly make love (which also demotes the ego and connects one to another soul and sometimes even to the divine).
Thoughts?
–
On a more practical note, thank you for sharing these brave revelations, and I can identify with them very strongly. I hope and think (sense?) you will overcome them very soon.
“It is surely healthier to use sex to express love, than use love to ‘get’ sex. ”
Do you mean real love or “love”?
I deliberately left it vague so people could read different things into it, but I guess I was primarily talking about (sometimes subtle) forms of manipulation (including self-manipulation) that trick the self and others into thinking they are looking for love, even might be experiencing it, but afterwards it appears that one or both parties just wanted some kind of sexual release and feel nothing about it.
Finally read the article
To be honest, it was softer than I expected (no pun intended) but in a good way. Makes one wonder, is that all I’ve been, a walking penis with a very sophisticated guidance system attached? Also, gives new meaning to me how writing with pen, laying down the ink on receptive paper, creating a story, or love letter, or poem, to be kept safe and nurtured between bound covers as the story grows richer with time and readings. Very organic, now with digital lost, like life, too technical, too abstract, stored in the cloud, some invisible dimension only accessible by machine. The death of humanity, the birth of borg. Keep writing, you are our only hope.
Should that be keep dancing, Danny, your true love awaits?
Armory: “It is surely healthier to use sex to express love, than use love to ‘get’ sex. I think we can all agree on that.”
If love is that which can’t be co opted and sex without love is masturbation then the above are two sides of a single bent laundry token.
“So making use of the energy of the body, even when possessed by the ego, to connect with the soul (thus demoting the ego in the process) is like engaging in lovemaking in order to truly make love (which also demotes the ego and connects one to another soul and sometimes even to the divine).”
The theory may be good but beware cunning linguistics: there are many a slip between the cup and the lip.
“On a more practical note, thank you for sharing these brave revelations, and I can identify with them very strongly. I hope and think (sense?) you will overcome them very soon.”
There’s the ticket!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yT1sI7HYAFI
I’ve lost the plot
Count your self lucky, Vincent, to not know the plot of this Lonely Heat’s Club bollard for the “Regretter de Blanc” album. Jasun is looking for any excuse to lose this page. The snake is in hiding, waiting for the burning bush. It’s been this way for millennia.
It’s not rocket science
At what stage of the launch did you lose count?
The comments. The d. Byrne? quote dancing about architecture came to mind.
Open a bottle of wine, dim the lights and get down to it
Vincent, did losing the plot coincide with the opening of Asti Spumante? A good opera?
It was an amarone
Firstly not sure where to post replies as there is no reply button on the comments that are addressing my p.o..v.
I don’t think I used “crypto criticism” nor “hipster witticisms” that you cite as the excuse for not addressing my comments but was applying the when in Rome rule ,applying humour. I thought my points were quite clear. “It” is the post.
“Mimesis is always a danger, since the externals of the transmission are always “red herrings”; not sure what the “it” is however; George? If so, is the point that it (George/this post/naked honesty about genital issues) is unworthy of respect? That sounds like something much more likely to perpetuate the virus & widen the gap. Suzie has her own issues; I put down my top coat over that puddle, as a gentleman must, and in order not to get bogged down by overflow.”
No need to be coy honourable Jausn, Inform myself and your readers.
I would be interested if I have issues I am not aware of and would welcome the opportunity to explore subtext
“An exploration of the potential to widen the gap between men and women through ideological provocation, such as incel and antigenitalist, resulting in single men’s vehicles displaying compulsory warning “Danger: Unattended Prick Onboard”.” (Dave)
Dangers were obvious so no sign needed.
Ironically I find myself contributing to that potential despite being a huge fan of men, male discourse and their ability to employ humour when relating . It is the gross excesses of either sex which often involves gender focussed victim mentality that I find unappealing, unhelpful and lack a respect for. Also I seriously question whether genital preoccupation or indeed any preoccupation is helped by furthering the preoccupation ie adding attention to it in the form of an audience.
the number of replies are limited to those without dashboard access due to their shrinking nature in formatting. Still on the technical, when you C & P comments without putting in quotes then the reader cannot tell your comments from mine, an ironic merging of sensibilities considering the divide that exists between them/us. I have gone in and corrected that by putting quoted comments in italics.
You thinking your points are clear doesn’t make it so. Humor obfuscates as well as softens the blow with irony; it also makes questions or rebuttals more cutting.
“No need to be coy honourable Jausn, Inform myself and your readers.
I would be interested if I have issues I am not aware of and would welcome the opportunity to explore subtext”
It has to do with the question I never got around to asking on our 1:1 which never became a podcast. What’s your relationship history? Because you haven’t tried to hide your attachment disorder and, I would say, may be in danger of spirtualizing it into a virtue, which is the feeling I got from your responses also. Spiritual bypassing as a form of ball-busting.
Your comments probably have merit but either you or I, or both, are too mixed up with personal stuff around the subject for me to want to accept the invitation to the dance.
I have already been warned by JIS my second to be ware of dark femmes on the floor distracting me from my true goal.
“Also I seriously question whether genital preoccupation or indeed any preoccupation is helped by furthering the preoccupation i.e., adding attention to it in the form of an audience.”
You’re welcome to question it but since you are that audience & only privy to these inner workings because I trusted enough to share them, you’re in danger of hitting below the belt & so disqualifying yourself. Which would be a pity, since you’re currently the only wheelbarrower without cojones.
“It has to do with the question I never got around to asking on our 1:1 which never became a podcast. What’s your relationship history? Because you haven’t tried to hide your attachment disorder and, I would say, may be in danger of spirtualizing it into a virtue, which is the feeling I got from your responses also.”
I entered the fray asking for this directly and indirectly.
Complex trauma which has attachment issues as a core feature has been what I have wrestled with no argument.
You win some you lose some.
Win By truthfully saying what I felt I gained a hell of a lot in terms of breaking out of my prison. The self doubt stakes were high enough, new to the arena, lone female voice, no second or back up.
What did I lose?
You interpret what I shared in our one to one as “spiritualising it into a virtue” and my critique of the post as “spiritual bypassing as a form of ball-busting” and that I could be labelled a “dark femme” is small potatoes in the big picture.
Believe it or not I have never been called either.
By choosing to do what I did on this as only female and only detractor so far I can see how it could be construed as such. But that does not make it so.
No regrets and I am very grateful for the learning and growth opportunity.
herein lies the danger of mixing humor and pithiness with sincere dialogue; the “dark femme” was merely a ref. to a) your hair color; and b) the part of JIS’s greas-y exegesis referring to cha cha.
Yes it was courageous of you to step into the fray as the lone female voice, which was why I opted not to rise up right away to meet the challenge as I suspected that you might be in the habit of underestimating your own power, and therefore unready to have it coming back at you.
No regrets at my end either, and also thankful you took that chance, and hopeful you will do it again.
I won’t be going to you for any more one to ones I know that much.
do you feel there’s been a breach of confidence?
Jasun: “A woman, I suspect—mine at any rate—is waiting for such a long-suffering lover to stand and deliver, not a sack full of semen but his true essence, what is hidden even from himself, and that is brought forth, not by his desire but hers.
This is only a guess. “
Wary of dipping my toes into Muddy Waters but are the guesses gunna be any better in a men only meet?
Jasun: “Once this riddle is solved, once the square peg is circled, made ready to enter the round hole, perhaps I will no longer have any need to write, at all.”
So long as the issue is framed thus it ain’t gunna happen so the first question should be “how should the issue (namely (if i followed correctly) the separate self (identity)/undeveloped ego’s relationship to the “madness of king george”) be framed?
On another note: — jeez I’m slow!…
Dave O.: “George VI had trouble with his diction”
…24hours after reading this it came to mind and I finally got the joke!
Bonce: the guy’s meet was not configured to try and work anything out; nor did I feel my guess needed any improving upon but was close enough to the mark to pass for wisdom, which is always humble and so wears its uncertainty on its sleeve.
the second question is too circular and literal-minded for me to answer, tho if I read rightly you answered it with the question.
I also missed the dic-joke first time around. We only see what we want to see.
“…24hours after reading this it came to mind and I finally got the joke!”
Several days after Vincent commented “It’s not rocket science” I realised it might be dry humor. Now I realised his mention of “amarone” is a cryptic clue taken from Hannibal Lecter’s own cryptic joke. Fiendishly complex. All I can say is: don’t mess with the Italians.
Not saying there isn’t wisdom here and no doubt I’m reading my own issues with libido into yours (and vice versa?). The framing just strikes me as being cast within the confines of king George’s lonely world, men being “long suffering”… I won’t say any more as don’t have an alternative framing to offer (don’t think my “answer” constitutes a framing)…
I think the humor prevents that interpretation from landing; those who didn’t get it, certainly may have their own wounds to attend. My main hope was the post work for me; if it worked for others, that’s extra gravy on the roast.
Disclosure: If I were at Wimbledon, I’d have sympathy for both players, the umpire “more balls, please” and the ball boys and girls (not sure what is the latest PC term).
Inconveniently, I frequently view challenges to JaHo as helpful, insightful or incorrect-but-useful – though they distract from his scribing my visions. However, after reading his well-crated responses, I often wonder if the critic is a AI drive-by shooter, or a real one out for blood and gory, uncommitted to sensibly discussing the blog topic. Even when the commenter seems unfair (some comments are just too laborious to parse), I have suggested finding out why they have washed up on this blog’s sure-line. Are they a wounded seal (look up the French and say it correctly aloud), whale or shark? I would agree that a line has to be drawn if a commenter is malicious, dishonest, trolling or consistently off-topic. With all those balls in play, umpiring is a delicate skill.
I recall only once publicly questioning a commenter who exclaimed “gay” and “circle jerk”. Such things get my attention, not for PC reasons, but because I reckon anyone who posts them on a public forum is seeking something – and I would like to know *what*.
Unfortunately, commenter conversations rarely go deep, and until recently (when JaHo drew a beach line) seemed populated with off-topic monologues fishing for unrelated data or converts. Regrettably, strong water-breakers and nets can scare both friendly and unfriendly fish away. Although the sea anemone, crab, squid and whale have little to do with each other, they all contribute to the ocean ecology.
Crikey, I’ll sound like David Suzuki at this rate.
To the point, my impression is that Suzie’s comments carry real spunk (American meaning, ask JIS), represent part of the zeitgeist and are offered openly for deconstruction. Women aren’t just to be noted for pushing wheelbarrows of fertilizer around, they also grow stuff like marrows, pumpkins and (for some inscrutable reason) flowers, arrange things (flowers) and have subtle perceptions. If they come out to play, I say let them in on the game and alter the male-dominant rules for better inclusivity. Auticulture is a form of community and JaHo’s podcasts and Lim meets are friendly affairs. Are blog comment sections unsuited for this? Perhaps, communal options can be defined?
I take on-board Cedney’s close-quarter anecdotal observations of women exposing his impressionable young mind to views unfair/unhealthy about men. To my mind, this sounds like gristle for the mill, and demonstrates that there is an age-old wound between the sexes that is too easily scratched but rarely inspected – because both doctors and nurses are infected. I have referred to this as “the Bosnia in the Bedroom” – but it spills over to breakfast too. I could adjust the term to “Balkanization” (I wonder if anyone got the wordplay earlier?). Ced may comment whether that is offensive or hurtful, especially since Wikipedia lists it as “a pejorative geopolitical term for the process of fragmentation or division of a region or state into smaller regions or states, which are often hostile or uncooperative with one another.”
We have a university-trained sex therapist in our group. JaHo knows who. Shall I bring her in to balance up and smooth out the doubles match?
No, Mr Umpire, you have enough balls. Maybe ask again at “Love All”?
I’m slightly confused about the exchange here, not sure who’s replying to whom, although some people are clearly miffed and I find that unfortunate and sad. I thought that we’re all in this together. It certainly feels like that to me. Language is what it is and the comments section is very challenging in and of itself.
We don’t consider Balkanisation to be a pejorative term because it relates to a particular historical period and it has wider geopolitical implications. “Bosnia in the Bedroom” sounds great and got a chuckle out of me but doesn’t work in our languages (I’ll give it a try or might adapt it to a well known but specific and bloody battle). There’s a section of the Rio favela called Bosnia because it’s a disputed territory so the name of the country has reached far and wide for all the wrong reasons. In short, both work well. Bosnia was a microcosm of the Balkans in the 90s.
Thanks for the in-depth analysis. The tennis analogy, like the dance hall from Grease one, has migrated over from the last busy comments thread, over at Uncanny Valley. My impression, subjective as it must be, was that no one was sent off the court, but one player was better at serving hard balls than returning them, and opted out. Of maliciousness I felt none (until a rusty 74 showed up smelling blood, and there the mod did step in to wipe up the puke stains as quick as possible); dishonesty as you well know is a moving line much harder to identify; squids can only really be slimy.
You yourself recently said (I tweeted it) If you haven’t got into any trouble today, then you probably haven’t been 100% honest in your interactions (assuming you had any). The context being that you are called provocative because you don;t always back off when someone starts signaling to stay away from their crucial fiction. My error here, as far as I can see, was taking Suzie at her word, and pushing on regardless of suspecting land mines were ahead.
On a more general & happier note, the mission of this blog post has been accomplished, all is now well in the land of George. (Interpret that as you will; the proof is in the pudding but I ain’t sharing. 🙂 )
and then this happened….
Rusty 74’s sign off spew sounded suspiciously serpent Edenic. The jarring effect his learned thought-stopping technique. This thread is grinding to a halt with the diffident George (PI) finding his Holy Grail lingua franca in the Burning Bush. Here be landmines and dragons. Surely no reason for George to abstain from the quest for truth? Click. Another TV channel. Your relief is palpable. Onward, upward and don’t look down. Leave no (wo)man, behind.
“I’m slightly confused about the exchange here, not sure who’s replying to whom, although some people are clearly miffed and I find that unfortunate and sad. I thought that we’re all in this together. It certainly feels like that to me.”
Balls were called for. But no one came. COVID-19 to blame.
“No, Mr Umpire, you have enough balls. Maybe ask again at “Love All”?”
Should be adjusted to “No more, Mr Umpire. You received your balls.”
🙂
I came here for the neural plasticity (the craic and gravy are a bonus (or a consequence?)) arriving from Greg Moffitt’s neighbouring island in the abstruse archipelago; a wounded phoque (belly full of plastic). I’m glad I came, the dark clouds surrounding the island obscuring the fertile ground beyond.
If I take up a detached position, telescope in hand (not that type of telescope!), apologies if it looks like there might be a rifle attached (…many species contribute to the ecology through “enlightened self-interest” – but beware of invasives)
Agree the format here probably isn’t the best for in-depth discussion, but sure ‘tis what it is and none of us would be here if it wasn’t stimulatin’.
“…despite the dark clouds, doubts about the format and questionable number of balls on court, the game went ahead (rain did not stop play). The audience has been treated to some frisky exchanges and imaginative serve and volleying as well as the occasional long, well-crafted rally. A contentious foot fault and flirtatious contributions from some of the players has not mired this (a)limen(t)al match…