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Biography of Margaret Alice
Friday Morning Contemplation: Kate Turkington’s book (More To Life Than Surface) is shaping up nicely, delighting me with her childhood memories, reading the Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopedia and being quizzed by her sister on its contents. I also read parts of it and loved the articles about the stars in the sky and thought the whole universe consisted of the Milky Way only; I loved the illustrations of fairies and little children and the information on gods and goddesses. Whereas in Kate’s house it was complemented by Shakespeare and moralists, we had Langenhoven’s Complete Works and the Afrikaanse Kinderensiklopedie, illustrated so enchantingly with Dante’s Hell and Purgatory, and abounding with stories of Siegfried, Kriemhilde and Brunhilde… Between Langenhoven’s stories of Herrie the elephant pulling a tram, spirits walking the earth, Aunt Effie’s F’s, Brolloks and Bittergal, Loeloeraai on the Moon, Soetlief and Liedla, the Fairy, the magazines “Die Jongspan” and “Patrys”, I managed to pass the quickmire time that seemed to keep us stuck in some kind of limbo where nothing ever happened...
Tuesday Night Musings: Our Dear Swami Prabhupada feels America and the West are going to pot and we should return to ancient Indian practices to restore order in our human communities, he recommends parents organizing weddings by consulting astrologers and people being betrothed at ages eight or ten – brilliant solution for what ails modern man, return to a time period predating the Middle Ages; return to pre-diluvium practices and ancient slavery; then people won’t complain, he says… It is an uphill battle to keep reading, especially where he indicates that the measure of truth is simply the fact that Hare Krishna said he was infallible; if he said so, then it’s true, and basta… I had better return to Dame Turkington; her Peruvian musings on the sacred site of Machu Picchu, with all its atmosphere and strange feelings are a lot nearer to reality…
Sunday Night Insight: Swami Prabhupada says all our problems will be solved if we stop eating meat - thou shalt not kill - and chant Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare while dancing with delight – tonight, Sunday night before a new week whacks me on the head, I’m reading Swami Prabhupada’s assertions, made in 1973, that enough food is produced world-wide to feed all people – Neale Donald Walsch also makes this claim; apparently famine is due to the fact that commercial crops are bartered for weapons for eternal warfare and imprudent agricultural practices are laying the land waste; droughts are exacerbated by malpractice – yet there is enough, scarcity is a myth; what interesting thoughts to harbor on a Sunday night, I’ll read myself asleep with “The Journey of Self-Discovery” by His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada…
Friday Night - Ate in the hotel today, what a mistake, facing consequences tonight, hoping for bravely, but it might just turn out to be stupidly, all my thoughts have left me, I'm empty-headed and oh, it is so boring here where blackness reigns supreme, I've fallen into the Black Hole that always waits in my mind, darkness descends...
I'm confused, since I filled all the dairy space for Tuesday, I carried on writing into Thursday, so I lived this day as such, now my sense of time, always very weak, is completely gone, I have to reorientate by thinking of last night's TV programs to remember where I am - 'So You Think You Can Dance', oh yes, it was magnificent, now I know exactly how far this week has gone!
Monday is marching on, left-right, and the empty hole left by my departed soul is looming large and wide and menacing; why should I be left bereft on a Monday morning? I've looked everywhere for inspiration, for something bright and charming, but since my soul has gone there is nothing left to resonate with the notes I find; yet I still believe that the perfect minor note will call back my soul, so the quest is going on...
Sunday Night: Remember the creative sadness on Sunday nights before school Monday starts, remember the comforting feeling of unwilling duty, doing the last of maths, finishing a task, writing an essay, learning texts to be tested the next day? Whenever I feel bad today, I look for creative sadness, that homework feeling drawn inside myself, my refuge from the world and people in words on paper, dreaming a dream as I work…
Friday, kind and restful, finally, gives one time to breathe again, to frolic in the sun, smell the sweet jasmine, jump into the swimming pool - the water is still cool, but just to feel the cold is exhilirating, it must be done to know we are alive, cold is zestful pain...
Playing In The Best Absurd Comedy: The pulling of hair, the screeches, the sackcloth and ashes in spite, the dementors got me when I learnt that the mad administrators managed to block payment once again by refusing to divulge that the quote was deemed insufficient, only by repeated requests for payment was it revealed that the main alligator was informed this morning after TWO weeks and she still has not received the criminal quote by which operations are blocked, here they come, the dementors, aaargh, I can't describe this to you any more!
Wednesday Contemplation: Every hour I scream and tear my hair to keep the Dementors happy who are ready to pounce and suck the last vestiges of possible joie de vivre from my nearly dead body; I take daily preventative measures by reading romantic lines to keep happy thoughts of troubadours alive while I’m forced to deal with the arsenic of these poisonous acronyms; refusal to divulge requested information on the lousy critters who refuse to take wholesome words increase my chances of falling pray to the Dementors and ending up in Azkaban!
We start the day with Work-On-Hand typed on Excel, I was born for this, that is sure, human life can have but ONE purpose: To keep account of its every move on sheets of statistics, as Terry Pratchett wisely pointed out, the 95 per cent of missing black matter and unseen energy is all taken up by administrating the universe – little creatures with notepads planning and marking every activity; I still think we should only work two days a week and use the other three days to keep statistics of every move we make – hey - wait- we’re already doing that, you should see the sheets if statistics in my office – I’m part of the unseen black matter in the universe, administrating into infinity – to be born for this, what beautiful privilege, what wonderful opportunity; being human means living in a bureaucracy; the marvel of the human mind – when will the Vogons finally destroy this administratively derailed planet of ours? And if the dolphins reinstate the earth sending fish bowls with messages, So Long And Thanks For All The Fish, I won’t return; you can bet on that!
Sing Friday: A crocodile playing at being a princess; knowing positive role models will help to improve life in the swamp; a swamp full of glow-worms and magic, a flibbitygibbit and a will-o’-the wisp all floating about, weaving a wave of words, rhythms and beats and chords and daydreams, long drawn-out vowels and rainbows flashing through golden auras, a crocodile unwilling to climb onto the shore and start with her chores; too enchanted with rhythmical whorls swirling in musical eddies, still enjoying the afterglow of open consciousness, yesterday’s epiphany still buoying her on clouds of delight…
The moment is come, to get up and run along to the library, it is calling irresistibly; a million voices calling and whispering and singing and inveighing from the pages of books, a million books filled with knowledge and mystery, now the faded rose is blooming again; the remaining petals illumed brilliantly..
Thursday unfolding slowly, the petals falling one by one; the day a wilted rose, my mind went into reverse; I'm backing up against the stream and I don't know why, without perceptible reason, I lost my grip on sensory reality and fell into a deep, black pit; it isn't fair that I should have a Black Hole in my mind, why can't I fall into the Rabbithole? Why did the universe give Alice of Lewis Carrol a Rabbithole into Wonderland while I was issued with a Black Hole in my head? One recourse is to appropriate Carrol's Rabbithole, seeking the White Rabbit, the Caterpillar and the Cheshire Cat – but I mostly end up with a fake Cheshire smile myself; only the smile remains while the rest of me is disappearing along a different line down the trousers of time…
Monday morning, charge into the office building, compile Work-On-Hand; take new colleague Thokozile to Kingsley; Karen says show her how to go; I said waving and dancing down the street; Karen laughed yea right! , Tiaan is ill, Nici slept badly; I'm unsure of what's in my head; I better start looking for things that feel nice while I look at them so as to let the universe know that I want to feel good; let's see - where to start - but first translating a message for the Cyclopian Troll Interpol with his one eye flashing fiery and red; he wants criminals dead and all good citizens free as they go; I've got to arrange the folds in my head into an acceptably work-a-day way in order to face this day....
Oh, dire the prediction by Linda Goodmann – beware the month of August if you were born on the 24th of any month; August is the month of change – the cusp and azimuth come into play, and you will pay for your sin of arriving on the 24th day by feelings of increasing fatigue in this month – I feel myself growing weaker, succumbing to Linda Goodmann’s prophecies; sinking lower in my chair, resting my head on my arms, seeing holes of emptiness everywhere, feeling steel wires encircling my head and binding up my neck; I’m in a mythological prison of astrological proportions; I had better read Linda again to make sure I know exactly why being a 24th person is such a sin – but I sigh in contentment, since suffering is a God-given privilege and society insist we MUST have a cross to bear and choke in a yoke of psychological proportions; I’m fulfilling another requirement of this dream I call my life – flowing within the confines thought up by religion and science alike…
I'm so glad when people are open to the pen-capturing dilemma, I see these wildly wobbling ink-lines as the pens are running away while our administrative personnel are chasing with butterfly nets trying to capture them again!
I absolutely ADORE internal rhyme; ALL kinds of rhymes - internally and externally and everywhere else. Translation work is the bane of my life because where my ear dictates a certain word order and the choice for a certain word as it contributes to rhythm and rhyme and melody and song; my supervisor looks at the source document and the correct dictionary meaning and there goes the song - it is like sending a wooden stake through my heart; totally debilitating; I can scarcely force myself to read boring documents; much less translate them into boring target language lines without adding emotional words and irreverent comments.
There is a crocodile in my head that snaps at me all the time while I'm trying to do boring routine work, and I'm all bloody and hurt fighting it down so as to get real work done - while the crocodile only wants to hunt for new information and make funny rhymes and dream up new schemes - I live on pills to keep the whole entourage living in my head under control in order to get this show on the road!
Wednesday already, for a thing that does not exist, as sayeth quantum physicists, time is a weird phenomenon, it drives me wild with its requirements and I cannot find why my mind is marching to a different drummer all the time - given that non-existent time is a great fetish on planet earth...
Friday, Glorious Friday: Hope is dancing a can-can with America’s Statue of Liberty!
Thursday Afternoon Blue: The day had been prancing about like a wild horse and threw me off unceremoniously; I fell and rolled in the dust, here I am, still stunned, trying to gather my wits, I must pack up and return home to continue in another segment - first the mad dash into the street, the wild ride through traffic, dodging and diving, cursing and surviving between wild projectiles of impatient, angry drivers, me being discreet while hubby uses expletives that make strangers blush - picking up kids; a quick shopping spree, then the calmness of the kitchen - until dinner preparations must begin; vegetables and meat, a salad or two; eating in front of the TV - a loud act of rebellion against all educational literature; then the tidying of the kitchen listening to Classic FM... rest for the weary soul...
Tuesday Fair: Wayne Dyer says the body is “a curriculum to God” and all illness is indicative of separation from God – I’m afraid, if God is in Siberia; I’m in the Sahara desert. I ran into Mr Reductionist Materialism who declared with glee, smile right around the face, that when he is dead he will be gone – no spirit or soul left – and he is positively joyful assuring me the same fate is awaiting me also. Pity when he’s dead he won’t be there to enjoy his superior exultation at my discomfiture on being dead and not having a soul or spirit – ah – a conundrum there, I perceive – meanwhile, his consciousness will still be hanging around and it might take ages for him to realize he is still alive – guess who will laugh at whom then?
Heavenly Monday today, every now and then things work out brilliantly, work is done and the spiritual feeling creates a cathedral in my mind; the joy of today destroyed all negative vibrations everywhere!
Sunday evening, filled with dread, tomorrow the fight for survival begins again, while the crocodile only desires magic and mysteries; I must fight the reptile down and do human work - while the scared little alien is hanging from the rafters in my head, shouting nooo nooo NOOOO all the time!
Monday morning strange, thick air refuses to be breathed, thick thoughts refuse to become taut leading to the safety of reality; I'm in a whirlpool of corkscrewing swirls moving round and round; safely ensconced in an empty part of mental being where nothing is real - I hate being here; nothing is clear, nothing is happening; yet the silence holds no spiritual essence for me; this is confusion and chaos without a door...
Friday again - my book Seth Speaks broke in two, the book took such a hammering being schlepped about by me everywhere I go, it was a paperback and not strong enough; but each part will be taken care of now - lovingly; time to read some more of what Seth says about reality; only he gives me hope for society and a new, applicable morality...
Friday - time is just an illusion, and how happy it makes us, putting order in the confusion that is called our inner mental life; the outer structures of routine is such a happy route-map that keeps us within safe tracks while the mind is free-wheeling between identities and universes...
There goes my probable self project, she worked so well until she discovered poetry, now I need a new slave in her place – this one will be sent off into the own unverse – another probable self, conscientious and bright, required, mind focused like a laser beam in a stream on the subject at hand, the one-eyed Cyclopian Troll Interpol woke up with his club and are chasing criminals everywhere with messages sent furious and fast…
Tuesday Morning Realization: Learning to Focus is what life is about, if I could only focus on what I am doing right; life would be so easy - but it might just be boring also... when 'Thinking the Unthinkable', Ed. Peter Brookesmith, is waiting to be devoured while the Indefatigable Tim LaHaye is waiting to tell me How to make Differences Work for Me... but first, a political document....
Today it was a pepper steak pie, it
is cold outside and I got up hungry
I needed something warm, the choice
between staying hungry or headache
I chose the headache and now I can’t
move, chained to my office by the pain
in my head; chemical depression and
muscles contracting
Yesterday it was chocolate cake
with the marvellous icing I love,
oh, the brilliant choice between
survival and quality of life!
A whole universe of probabilties and all we can converse about is what to eat, how much and how often and where; I am hungry - perpetually, so now it's off into the streets to find something to eat!
An unusual cold spell, feeling unwell, sitting at my desk unable to concentrate - did the tongue-tip test: Tried to read a book about a fairy living on a flower and when even that failed to interest, I knew the head cold was stronger than will-power; I've got to get well again before playing the game of life with the self-importance required by the Ego in order to keep infusing a meaningless office with meaning and desire...
Dear Dad, at the age of twenty-two, you never knew of what lay ahead in the years to come, of financial troubles and family connivance, of middle-class morality and superficial refinement used against you, but today, now that you know; what can I say...
Living a Mythological Life, seeing all in terms of astrogenetics and numerology, sacred geometry and magic David-Blaine mystery, levitation and meditation leading to contemplation - oh, for living the Mythological Life where Administration becomes a courtly pursuit worthy of ladies and courtiers and dreamers like me!
The silver sun of summer has turned into the mature golden sun of autumn that lovingly caresses all objects with soft, golden fingers until they shine with an inner radiance and beauty; mischievously exploding on shiny surfaces to blind the unwary and delight the observant. Every autumn turns me into a gushing, sentimental person, enamoured of the retreating sun, the champagne coolness of the pool and the riotious reds of trees unleaving.
I want to go a-yodelling, everywhere on earth, and should you want to go with me, so happy we shall be! (Sung to the tune of 'Mein Vater war ein Wandersmann'/'My vader was 'n Musikant')
Hi Gerhard, thanks for visiting my site, I look forward to trying that new motorbike, what a wonderful idea - and by my joining you, your mother can prepare a funeral for two! (Sorry Anne-Marie, but there is no way I can let you spoil our fun, the guardian angels take care of everyone - so we'll go on a breakfast run!)
This is a water crystal photographed after exposing water to the word truth - each personal truth is beautiful...
Cyberscribe floated off on a thin gossamer strand of thought and still can't find her way back to cold translation tower, her body is parked behind her desk because she is doing her best to return from the great beyond and the wide blue yonder, but still her spirit is floating free and not in the office at all...
A water crystal, photographed by Dr Emoto, after Thank You typed in Japanese, was glued on a container with water - then frozen. Water reflects our feelings back to us, good feelings create beautiful geometric patterns; negative feelings cause disorganized crystals. We can communicate through reflections in water crystals! This is like a pensieve (J.K. Rowling) .
Oh the Internet, for the Internet, finding facts and theories, aetheric quantum mechanics and speculation on the Internet, the joy and elation, all about Transmutation, reading with amazement, discovering all things new, hope and visions, revealing new horizons, enlarging perspectives with new insights and meditations – oh for the Internet, my source of joy!
Today the government official did not manage to master the week-end’s upheaval – so tonight is the beginning of the flight into the straight trajectory that leads to the perfect symphony of tomorrow’s document, with researching terms as the only markers along the flight path, with administration as the lodestar to guide the brain in reaching bureaucratic perfection – the projectile of today fell and crashed, ran out of steam, the brain shutting down; but it will become the starting point for a new beginning, tomorrow is another day… with my mind carefully folded in the right configuration to become the perfect official, the conscientious official tomorrow…
Today I lost the fight against my wayward trends and unruly nature; I was too tired to fight the dragon of impulse and feeling, but tomorrow the fight is on and I SHALL become the hard-working official I am determined to be… now begins the uphill task of brainwashing my mind into subsiding, becoming concentrated in one thin, sharp laser beam to cut through the administration of tomorrow, I lost today, I was just far too tired to fight it, this dreamer within me, this “Taugenichts”, but tomorrow I shall fight off Mr Hyde and be Dr Jekyll again.
The beautiful blue mosaic I made at Christmas, with three rulers and grouting and glue, it was almost too much, but I did overcome my own clumsiness (with assistance, of course...)
With the books around to sprinkle magic everywhere, it was possible to do official translation and keep existential Angst at bay - the brain needed real stimulation after steeping itself in fairytales - they served their purpose so well...
I did not read enough children's books when I was small - so now I make up for it by reading magical fantasies written for kids!
A little government official stalked out in her lunch hour to collect magical books to bewitch the week-end: Mermaid's Wish, The Leprechaun, Ordinary Princess, Enchanter's Spell, The Dragon That Ate Summer and At the End of the Rainbow - armed with globs of delight the official is ready to punch holes in the weekend!
My mother, hitched to her own star in her own universe, taught me how to leave reality behind and go find a new corner of the multiverse...
An Alice crocodile feeling tears welling up
as she looks up every single term in the
French financial document, she wants to
play outside, discover a new universe, meet
new friends, find out what make satyrs tick,
creating new strings of shiny words to sing-
but she is stuck in her office where lonely,
barbed-wire words all tied up have no sting,
to be compiled in an official report, with a
hopeful eye towards another conference
whenever one comes along…
The crocodile came home, dead on her feet; she had a lovely day at work:
the Performance Assessment came back, they cut her a lot of slack, only
abbreviations to be changed, all was okayed; she continued working on
a French document about statistics in an African State, leisurely she hurried
along, the looking up of every term such a great bore, but diligently she
carried on; oh joy, oh wonderful; she had to call two freelance translators
today, got a chance to chat, throwing compliments back, explain new red-tape
procedures in place, why quotations were so important all had to put their
wine down, stop interpreting for people from the DRC, all was fun and the
game-plan worked so very fine, her brain stayed nicely allayed in the right
folds that spared her pain untold and kept her officious self going strong,
she was among the few people today who tasted heaven in every way,
she got to correspond with angels above - celestial their conversation;
she is content, this is not the end, but a new beginning
of a reptilian life led with a song…
I’m focusing on shape-changing into the officious official who will deal with office life tomorrow; trying to change the folds in my brain to follow the correct curves for a most auspicious rendition of the undercover poet at work – how’s that for brave ambition!
I wrote a poem about my nieces, 'A Golden-Haired Fairy' - The golden-haired fairy, Antoinette, could play piano before she could read; my uncle used to whistle a tune and she played it from hearing. The golden-haired fairy is independent today, she fought her way out of a strange web of difficulties, and she sings like a nightingale, without stop...
I imagined travelling in an out-of-body experience to the future of the earth at a time past the year 3000 with Robert Monroe in his book 'Far Journeys' and the prospects are beautiful, living without a physical body, becoming free energy and inhabiting any form of awareness at will - a bit like Nanny Weatherwax in Terry Pratchett - feeling what it is like to be a leaf or a cloud or a bird - oh, lovely experience! And overcoming the distortions in the survival imprint will be wonderful indeed...
When there's a hole in the road, I'm sure to fall into it, when there's the wrong thing to eat, I'm sure to devour it, when I have a little headache, I'm sure to worsen it into a full-blown humungous pain - so when will I learn common sense - probably not in this life, so I'll stick to rambunctious poets and forget all about compunction until the end of my life...
One perfect administrative day, a catatonic state, passionless existence in perfect adherence to numbers and lists; a perfect robot working by rote and feeling nothing but cold pleasure in doing a mechanical job, floating in limbo, empty of everything, the perfect consciousness for modern existence, empty of meaning and futureless - but passing time in a big way...
A statistical crocodile, in a while, you will find the reptile so docile, a procedural miracle will go down in history as a turning point for bureaucracy, a brave new world is dawning in the morning where red tape will be the symbol of joy and when we have nothing to do we shall be forming a queue just to practice a communal spirit so as to inhibit all wayward tendencies that might lead us astray; a new spiritual path is calling us, it is called perfect administration and leads to a modern heaven - just a few metres from hell....
After a conference it takes some mental gymnastics to get into the right mind-frame to face the same game at work where the ideal of being a brilliant administrator is faintly winking on the horizon…
The Alien must work on a new fantasy
to transcend the framework of her reality –
she must visualize the crocodile happily typing
away at her desk, finding statistics that are
purportedly missing and giving account of her
reptilian existence, finding courage to face
tasks that used to frazzle her before, enjoying
the challenge of accounting for every millisecond
of her life in bureaucratic perfection, pointing
out how she enjoyed procedural direction
and administrative perception reducing pictures
to lines and words to military slogans – she is
sure if she dreams hard enough, putting all
her power into the thought pattern of brilliant
administration she might yet convince the
crocodile to play along!
Sunday night with a vengeance - eating and drinking without reptilian care led to headache and illness, now I stare at the remnants of life and feel like death itself, the crocodile cannot concentrate or escape its fate... it is too late, only resignation and quiet contemplation is left for the crocodile soul...
Now I prepare for tomorrow with a new vision and mission: Compiling statistics while clobbering all unwillingness to death, becoming the perfect official understanding and applying the alchemy of administration to produce such elevating forms and ennobling norms and give prove of her right to existence, combating the existential pain on frittering the energy of life away on chiselling numbers and projections of work for tomorrow, work yesterday and work today - the vision is driving me back to Terry Pratchett, this is too much!
When in doubt, read Terry Pratchett - his irrevent take on life will put all your problems in perspective. You will realize that Watchmen Do Not Wipe Their Dirty Boots and various other wonderful things like Potatoes Are a Better Gold Standard Than Gold because you can eat it - whereas gold can't do anything but glitter. And that it is very religious to wipe thoroughly one step at a time. And that the word Rascal has a Twinkle in the eye. And that Mrs Cake is a very decent woman providing lodgings for the undead or the other-kind-of-normal. Terry Pratchett will give meaning to your life!
Do you sometimes walk on the clouds - or float about? Do you sometimes refuse to swim for fear of messing up your hair for someone who doesn't get to see you? Do you sometimes vacillate between feeling as ugly as sin and as beautiful as a snowflake? Do you sometimes bump into things, pluck a door from its hinges, drive into an intersection without seeing a thing? If you do, you are probably in love...
I think it is complicated, but your cyberpresence kissed my real life existence...
Sometimes sleep is all we need to turn our eyes inside and see the vision growing within, to return to the beginning melody and resonate with the harmony the universe is offering, being order incarnate, and aligning with all that seems good and great and seeing myself mastering the art of doing statistics - that is a high vision indeed, awe-inspiring; usually it makes me cry because I can't understand why my brain freezes on seeing numbers and my mind becomes numb when making lists - believing that there must be a magical miracle somewhere that will deposit a new, efficient me able to concentrate for longer than five measly minutes...
I work on the assumption that my father loves me unconditionally (and that he is a pragmatist) . When I confess my troubles to him, he says: “I love you'. When I explain my perplexities, he says: “It's okay'.
My loved ones don’t die – and I’m glad for that – because I would have to accept the blame, according to my GURU’S, the SELF-HELP AUTHORS Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay, Leo Buscaglia, Paula, Deepak Chopra, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, Gary Schwartz, Gary Zukav and anybody else – Betty Shine, Doris… Rosemary… you can look up their names on the Internet.
Seth – books written by Jane Roberts, just Google their names – and Abraham – Esther Hicks - say I create my own reality, just as YOU create YOUR own reality, and WE create OUR reality together.
I apologize to all who surmise that I think of them in negative ways – because I don’t, I know I myself am the cause of whatever goes wrong in undertakings and I am satisfied that I am evil enough – but don’t hesitate to point out more instances if time allows, I have never determined the full extent of my own evil nature as yet!
I was so impressed when I found this photograph of my father taken when he was young, and decided to have him visit my site...
Monday nights are fair of face, shine with joy and crowned with lace, happiness is all around, I think I've found the centre of love...
Sunday nights should be abolished, should be declared illegal, Monday mornings should be banished - these together are the bane of my life....
If Time is an nonexistent woman, then Fantasy is one too, and I like her most, she should be given more freedom...
A defeated administrator, fleeing before the dementors whose kiss will suck the last bit of love for the thankless task of translation of bulletins out of her soul, listening to the rain falling outside, pretending it's a message of hope from her secret love...
So exciting, in total administrative bliss, flying with bureaucratic wings into procedural heaven and official paradise of perfect listings and brilliant statistics - the undercoverpoet is signing off - with too many spies posing as government officials around, she must also pose as an official and do filing and compile lists - but in her heart she is singing - 'Des yeux qui font parler les miennes... Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose, il me dit des mots d'amour... (Edith Piaf, la Vie en Rose)
Time is a Woman who got locked up in a glass clock, and in Bad Schuschein the story, it is explained that you should not be allowed to lock up non-existent women... (Terry Pratchett)
The Sunday Times gives me a new perspective on life...
Self-help authors are saving my life, they tell me all about being a spiritual person and since I am not one, I imitate the examples of the long-suffering individuals they hold up for the edification of untamed barbarians like me...
Since pesticides spell death and dying, I checked the Internet, Victor Zammit joyously informing the reader about scientific evidence for the afterlife and that love continues after physical death, so that is all right, after our demise from pesticides and nuclear fall-out our consciousness will revive in non-physical Gestalt within a new dimension and we shall be filled with love - and I will have all those lovely names of pesticides with which to play games, such as azoxystrobin, chlorfenapyr, folpet, iprodione and lambda-cyhalothrin - what can be more romantic than that? - Link to an afterlife evidence site:
http: //www.victorzammit.com/
Burning the sweet incense of forgiveness, laying my grievances on the pyre to have all evil thoughts go up in smoke, to lighten the burden; starting again with a tabula rasa, believing only good from my fellow men, especially those who want to become better than they are, I'll respect their wishes for improvement by behaving better myself, by being serious and contemplating the fires of Purgatory with a more sincere attitude instead of my usual mocking grin, I'll even try to focus positively on bureaucracy - the ultimate in morality!
Thus, without her heart,
lifeless, the remains of
the official, now just a
ghoul, continues typing the
murderous lists of poisons
allowed in the foods of the
people of the earth, the ghoul
can stand the pain because the
ghoul is dead already, and
a half-life cannot feel the
pain of the living...
In total resignation, the official
lies her head down on the table, in
complete fatalism, the official
dies on her desk, too dispirited
to carry on her rebellion against
senseless stupidity and rules
Too disheartened to write down
a word, too deserted to look for
dissenters like herself, her life
leaking away through Idiotic
Bureaucracy - the Bureacratic
Dementors had sucked out her
Soul and without it breathing
seems a useless redundancy
no feeling can penetrate her ice-
cold demented being, no reason
presents itself to continue seeing
no meaning is found in repeating
Repetitive actions, catatonic the
official regards the blank screen
to be filled with meaning:
Considering that it is necessary
to comply with, without delay,
Commission Directive 07/27/EC
of 15 May; amending certain
annexures to Council Directive
86/362/EEC with regard to the
Maximum residue levels applicable
to tolylfluanide and triticonazole;
The words are killing the official,
forcing her down into the ground,
sinking lower - there is nothing
left to live for… ..
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Margaret Alice
Free
Poetry E-Book: