A Trash is a Trash

I was on a bus home a few weeks ago. The whole England (that's what they were saying) was having a "beautiful" Indian summer. "Beautiful" as long as you are not on the city bus which only has tiny pull-open windows on the entire floor to let the fresh air come in; it was a hell of a sauna. What was worse was that the bus was absolutely packed.
On the first row chatting loudly were two kids, about 18 or 19, each one occupying a two-seater seat. It sounded like one of them was talking about a computer war game. So this woman is a slut and she 's like, sleeps with anybody, everywhere she goes, the bold one goes, Uh-huh, the other one nods. It's a battle zone and she is wearing a bikini...

When a man sleeps with anybody, he is a stallion.
When a woman sleeps with every one, she is called a slut.
It's sexist. Gender discrimination. If a word like slut is being used that way, James Bond is a slut.

There are a number of words people use without thinking that are, in my opinion, politically incorrect.
Take "white trash" for example. Why do they need to add "white"? Is the term based upon the idea that white people are not often trash that it has to be defined that way?
A trash is a trash. Full stop.

Everyone Looked Strange

This song used to be my theme song when I first moved to the UK.

The Doors is great.

A Great Tune

The original by a rock n' pop genius,

and a cover by a legendary rock charisma.

Here Comes a New Year

I cannot describe how much I love January.
It feels like I am born again with consciousness.

For me, New Year is holy and sacred like the birth of Christ for Christian people.

I left 2010 behind on the New Year's Eve.
It doesn't matter how traumatically bad last year was---someday, I might be able to look at it without the faintest pain.

The New Year lets me keep my chin up, stand straight and smile.

I am happy, so happy it's January again.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Clearing and Sorting

I like to keep things in order and manageable.
Therefore, I have decided to clear the clutter in these book of Scraps and box of Keepsakes.

It's in progress.
Slowly.

Guardian Angel

Once in a while, it comes to me.
For no obvious reasons, it gets to me,
and I'd find myself floating in the Black Hole.

First the ground becomes transparent,
then I start falling,
or sink in a bottomless well.
There seems to be no light
or I'm surrounded by faceless people.

No friends or lovers,
mother or father
sister or brother,
would be able to reach my hand

No grandmothers or grandfathers,
uncles or aunts,
neighbours or enemies,
would hear my soundless scream.

I'd stand, sit, walk, sleep and wait,
until the exit emerges.
When I finally step out, there's the ground.
My life resumes its peaceful routine
until it snatches me to dark places again.

One day I realised
that I don't find myself in Black Hole as often as I used to.

It must be you.
You, who reaches for me
even before I reach for you
every morning.

Words Hung in the Air

The words hung in the air like a three-count indictment.

This is a line from the prologue of Black Dahlia.
James Ellroy describes the deadly silence like a Japanese sword sheathes itself in a perfect slow motion.

Words used to echo in my head. These days words hover in the air. A line or a single word,
a sentence or a paragraph, they float above me and shine in prismatic colours, casting a beautiful reflection over my daily life.

I mumble to myself;

The words hung in the air like a three-count indictment.
The words hung in the air like a three-count indictment....

Preserving

From spring to summer in 2009, I made compote or jam every week. I started making my own for two reasons; store-bought jam is too sweet for my taste and buying from shops means more empty jars to recycle. Although 90% of my production was consumed by my husband, I still enjoyed the process of turning fresh fruit into something a bit more lasting.
My new mutant name was announced when I started talking about making fruit leather, homemade oil sardines and smoked bacon.
"If you were a Sesame Street character, " said my husband, "you would be called Preserve."

Cookie Monster: Ohhh! Cookies!!! Yum yum yum yum...
Preserve: Wait, you blue fluffy thing, let me preserve them first.

Elmo: Lalala...lalala...What are you doing, Preserve?
Preserve: I'm preserving your goldfish. You'll be able to be with him as long as you live.
Elmo: ....(fainted)

Big Bird: Have you seen Snuffy?
Preserve: He's over there. I've preserved him.
Big Bird: Are you saying you've stuffed my best friend!?
Preserve: No, I mummified him.

The Count: One bat, hahahahaha! Two bats, hahahahaha!
Preserve: So they say you are a vampire.
The Count: Me? No, I am the Count.
Preserve: And you are a vampire.
The Count: Um....I suppose I am.
Preserve: So you're dead.
The Count: Well...
Preserve: You don't need to be preserved then.

I think Preserve belongs to the Simpsons rather than Sesame Street.
This reminds me of The Landlady, a short story by Roald Dahl.
I can't and will never be able to understand what is so good about stuffed animals. I'm not a big fan of preserved flowers either. Unlike preserved food, they seem pointless to me.
The obvious difference; preserved animals or flowers are there just to get dusty.
But when it comes to food, time improves its quality; pickled, marinated or cured.