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Saturday, April 25, 2009

GALLIPOLI: “Forgetting is what we damn do best,” laments a cross Victorian amid his tears, torments, and nightmares, to a wordlost Payton L. Inkletter


Be all that as it may, meanwhile:


In other news…

25th April 2009:


Saturday: Health problems didn’t make my long sleep so comfortable, but nevertheless, I managed a mere 16 hours’ sleep! And as most always, I did not feel so great for it. This week I have had a 17 hour, a 12 hour, and a 16 hour sleep on three of the days, but the tiredness sets back in, if it leaves at all, within a few hours almost always. It’s Sarrerdi! And it’s Anzac Day (a rather grey one here in Perth), that happy and sad day to commemorate loss and courage, values we have and lifestyle we enjoy, and the human condition. Sadly the world is still wracked with war and the threat of war, terrorism, hatred, and intolerance of anything and everything between peoples.


Missus Inkleoneinamilliondaughters picked up Pa pree and went on a shopping and visiting marathon, while I devoured the huge platter of sliced Fuji apples and shavings of cheddar cheese, washed down with Moccers coffee, that I pleaded with her to make for me before she left, claiming I didn’t know how to slice apples nor shave cheese, let alone how to make instant coffee. She acceded to my plea, with grumblings, and read the paper while enjoying the bounty, in glorious solitude. Health problems did their usual interfering with an otherwise pleasant interlude.


Next I tackled writing this diary and sundry poota jobs, before rushing to the kitchen some hours later when I heard them pull up, the delinquents that is, and made it look like I’d been busy cleaning up for some time. Of course the saltwater chickodile didn’t have to vocalise the fact that she knew I’d really been doing my own thing. I remained for towards an hour returning the kitchen to its former glory, which was the last time I cleaned up, a mere day earlier.


I had a tiny bit of time outside in the twilight watering the very thirsty bamboos and putting buckets of scraps into various worm farms, then retreated back inside to write more at the computer, before My Beloved with the little people and our vittles. I returned Pa pree to his place before nine, and tested his computer, which is playing up again, before disconnecting it and bringing the tower back with me, for The Babies Ink&Peggletter to take tomorrow to work on.


I returned to computing, until the chalcedony chameleon lured me into the lounge with a big plate full of freshly boiled chestnuts, and I watched much of Foyle’s War on Aunty with her, while I ate those very delicious filling nuts, although I perhaps expended more calories peeling the leather off them than they donated back in their substance. Michael Kitchen is wonderful as Christopher Foyle, and don’t the Brits keep proving they do better drama than anyone else, as well as comedy, excepting, of course, we Aussies!


I gave the Sheila Monster a back and back of bad leg massage with the Homedics percussion massager in bed, then tucked her in with a kiss, and returned, after midnight, to this writing job. The computer is doing its usual playing up, crashing Firefox windows and freezing, and generally reminding me why I fell out of love with Bill Gates within moments of first using Windows 95 a thousand years ago. (Yes, I am aware that Firefox is not a Microsoft creation, but the WinXP operating system whirring underneath is, and if I can possibly blame anything that goes wrong upon Microsoft, that’s my immature prerogative, so leave me be!)


Health problems yet again prevented me from going for a late walk, and this is now approaching a week since I had a full walk, for the Pa pree bin out walk of the other night was a quarter the usual length. I downloaded some Radio National broadcasts podcasts whatevercasts for Baby Inkletter, and did this and that, and before I knew where the time was it was daylight. I took a risk and entered the boudoir and bed of the voluptuous vole about half six.

+paytontedwithlove+

2 comments:

gladyshobson said...

For those who suffer torments, forgetting is never possible. For those who have not lived through wars in a personal way, they have nothing tangent to remember. Each person bears their own sorrows and grief. To be able to 'remember' a war that took place many years before one's birth is little different to recalling older battles where people have died in defence of their country or world order. Here we 'remember' the dead of past and present wars in November when we have services at the war memorials and wear our poppies. One of the most touching services at our war memorial is for those who suffered at the hands of the Japanese. (Marked at the anniversary of when the war ended) It was a small gathering compared with the November service, Remembering the details from when I was a young girl, and from reading Ernest Gordon's book, Miracle of the River Kwai, I stood with tears streaming down my cheeks. People are suffering in many ways in different areas of the world TODAY and through no fault of their own. We do well to honour the dead by giving our attention to those presently going through a living nightmare. There are millions to chose from.

Payton L. Inkletter said...

Gladys: Thank you for your excellent, considered, and heartfelt comment, with which I entirely concur.

I vacillated before posting this headline on Anzac Day, due to the charge understandably associated with the subject, and given that the headlines here at 'In other news…' are almost invariably humorous, cryptic, and nonsensical. Of course, the 'forgetting' to which I refer are the interpersonal, intercommunal, and international behaviours which lead to violence, the most spectacular of which is large scale war.

Giving even a cursory glance at the state of humanity's relations today, one could be forgiven for concluding that the lessons of the last two World Wars, and countless other conflicts which have caused horrendous pain, death, loss, and destruction, have not been learned. At least part of the valuable insight of these lessons to which I refer as being lost is that even utmost personal, social, and international effort - that is, effort expended upon character growth and self improvement (personal and national) - to reconcile differences on both sides of a conflict, is almost always preferable to resorting to war, especially nowadays given the destructive power of the huge range of weapons available, from chemical and biological, through 'standard' ordnance, to nuclear.

And I commit to my imaginary annoyed Victoria Cross recipient that I accept responsibility for my contribution to the problem; even violence committed by angry words alone, which I succumb to not infrequently, is a cause of the trouble, because when escalated even this early stage form of interpersonal invalidation leads to physical harm to another.

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