A Tale of Life and Death, the character of Julian

Julian muses: 

She is the kind of woman that makes one feel like royalty, or even the son of a god.  She is a woman who took my breath away with her audacity, her intelligence, her sense of honour and above all, her presence.  Not the most classically beautiful woman in the world perhaps, but there was an inner light that dazzled and sometimes blinded me.  You may think me a fool, but I was not the only man to kneel willingly at her feet, nor the only one to offer my life to her.

In this day and age, when every one has turned away from the old values, when religion is the topic of vulgar jests and matrimony has become meaningless except for financial benefits, a matter that no longer is blessed with the potential of children much of the time... perhaps you will find the concept of unconditional love and obedience absurd.  Hanging from a cross, I had time for reflection and I am not a man who is gullible or ignorant.  After the first hour, I begged to be allowed to kiss her exquisite feet and to pledge my allegiance to her.

Now you may create your own sordid scenario based on a mistaken notion that my acts were driven by a desire for sexual gratification, that she was Mistress, not of the souls of men and women, but of drama.  I expect you did not pay close attention to the very first thing I said to you:  She is the kind of woman that makes one feel like royalty or even the son of a god.

You probably thought she fed upon her own power and loved the idea that SHE was royalty (which she was by heritage actually) or that divine blood and authority ran in HER veins.  I do know that she thought we all had a birthright that could raise us far above our current social status, far beyond any considerations of money, career or whatever else defines us in the eyes of society.  And THAT was her power, her gift to all who came to her for help.

Much has been written about dominance and submission... once taboo, it has become common currency in the bedroom and the boardroom.  What she offered was far beyond all of the vulgar commerce or partner agreements.  Beneath her whip, I was reborn.

Characters of Antoine and Julie

For the novel, portraits of a couple too common in reality to ignore.  

Antoine: Do you really need that fan and second light on when you're in the bathroom?'

Julie: Let's see... i'm in there about 2 minutes.  But I guess... why don't you just follow me about and instruct me on how to become a total asshole?

Julie:  The latest thing is to start every complaint with 'Note:'  Does he EVER listen to himself?

Abusive behaviour is corrosive.  It is eating away at my soul day by day.  I try to ignore his absurdities and his contempt, because I know it really is directed towards himself.  I seldom have known any one who hates himself so much and cannot deal with it in a slightly more positive fashion. He is a real 'kick the dog' personality and the sad part of it is that, as a successful salesman, he was able to conceal this aspect of his personality from me entirely until it was too late.  I met him at the wrong age, the wrong time and the wrong circumstances.  The fact that God decided to allow this man to plant the seed of life in my womb changed everything.  From that point onwards, my life was devoted to my daughter and what I felt would be best for her.  I remembered the nightmare of growing up in a broken home, of having my Mum remarry and the constant power struggle between her and her new 'family unit' and my real father, who spent the last decade of his life living alone in a sad little hotel so that he could stay close to us.

I do not understand how women kill their abusers frankly.  It elevates them to a position they do not deserve.  I would not go to prison for any man or woman. Would you be willing to go to prison for killing a mosquito or cockroach?  Why then would you be willing to ruin your future for an abusive man or woman?

It makes one think of Lou Reed’s album ‘Berlin’.

‘Caroline says as she gets up off the floor,

You can hit me all you want to,

But I don’t love you anymore...

But she’s not afraid to die.’

More about this pair later in the context of an estate item.

Sappho and Freddy Mercury

There is a part of me that would like to chuck all of the following into the nearest bin, along with all of my romantic ideals, aka illusions, and perhaps take a thunderbolt from Aphrodite's kinsman and hurl it down onto the heads of all of those who have deceived me, insulted my intelligence and humilitated me since my mother died.  Most of these individuals are people I should have been able to trust and certainly once were loved by me.  To know first of all that some one closely related by blood asked me for my medical records, not because of any concern for my good health and survival, but to see what the chances would be of me dying of cancer so I would be out of the picture still is difficult to process.

The general consensus appears to have been that having once been (for a brief time) a bit of a wild child, I never grew into adulthood, never actually became an individual who was eligible for anything good in life.  

Aside:  Never, never judge an individual by his or her childhood or even adolescence.  People who do not have parental or social guidance especially can spiral down quickly.  If you are a neglectful or irresponsible parent and your child does need help, emotional support or guidance and you fail to give it, count yourself lucky indeed if that child does not commit suicide.  It amazes me how any one can be egocentric where parenthood is concerned.  There are parents who look at a child and simply see a reflection of themselves, and where reality differs, they round off the edges and blur the outline.  They see what they want to see.  The child is an extension of their egos, and anything that goes wrong is shoved beneath a psychic carpet to rot.

That happened to me.  I actually nearly died because no one listened to me when I complained about severe pain and when it dragged on and on without any resolution, I did become desperate and despairing.  I was barely 21 years old, and I saw no future because I knew something was terribly wrong and no one was addressing it with any sort of logic.  Small towns, however prosperous and sophisticated they may appear, are still small towns, and the networks of gossips include members of the medical profession, sad to say.  I think society has changed a little in this respect and being young does not mean that your voice cannot be heard now.  In those days, however, it did, especially when a parent and other self-appointed experts spoke more loudly.  

All of this ended only when I moved out of the geographical area, and instantly went to a good gynecologist who hurried me onto an operating table and whisked out my very dangerous ovary.  That close call redefined my psyche.  I lost any faith in the future.  I saw how easily a disease or illness or even an act of violence could terminate any life plan.  And I admit that after that, I became very insouciant where planning of any sort of financial security or programme for old age was concerned.  I honestly never believed I would survive long enough to reap any rewards, so I lived for the day basically.  I did not squander my life, but when I had a job, I never put money aside for my old age.  I admit that freely, and I have spoken to my daughter many times of my foolishness.  There is an expression a very dear friend of mine used to use:  'We are cut from the same cloth, you and I', he often would tell me.  The fact that he was one of the most brilliant, well read individuals I ever knew made that declaration a positive one.  I would not have wished to have been a literary or theatre critic as he was, and I knew in my heart of hearts he always envied writers of fiction and wished he could have had what he perceived as the 'courage' to create fiction, but all of that aside, being cut from the same cloth as John Gross would be a source of pride.

The only reason to mention this expression is to say that my daughter is NOT cut from the same cloth where money and planning are concerned.  She is a very responsible and forward-looking individual, some one who never tried to borrow money off her family, who never abused the love of family members for her own gain, some one who really is a bit of a role model for me in many ways.  In point of fact, she may not be a role model, but what she is for me is my compass that constantly points to the honest and decent option in any situation.  Going back to the start of all of this, I tried NOT to shape my child into a duplicate of myself.  It is natural in a way to want our children to find joy in the aspects of life that give us joy, but I really really tried to allow her to become whatever she wished.

Whatever influence my mother had on her unfortunately never resulted in any validation for my daughter, and that breaks my heart a little.  My grandfather was an artist, and in our family, artists were placed as being closer to God than any mere ordinary creature.  He was not successful in making a name for himself.  He had little success in supporting a family of seven children.  It was my grandmother who held down two jobs to do that, working as both a teacher and as a nurse... but it is my grandfather who is the subject of ancestor worship.

Of the seven children, my mother was the first to have a child, and I was that child.  Indeed, my grandfather's mother (my great grandmother) was the epitome of a social snob and declared that it was indecent to have seven children, especially if one could not support them financially.  She therefore recognised only the eldest two, according to my mother.  My mother happened to be the second child.   (My mother told me this again and again, and yet just now, I realised that my great-grandmother had THREE children, not two.  So was this simply another false fact in the Book of M to lend her greater stature or legitimacy or something?). It is a true fact, however, that I really was the only grandchild to have known my great grandmother, simply because I was the first one in my generation to have been produced. Once upon a time, there was a photograph (black and white no doubt with those wonderful deckled edges that photographs and fine writing paper used to have) of me as an infant seated upon her very prim and proper lap.

This great grandmother never liked the fact that her son had declared himself an artist.  Art was something one did as a genteel hobby, but was far too bohemian to be embraced as a career.  Her other son became a Minister and a missionary minister to boot, but that is one of the traditional callings.  Ideally, the eldest son would have farmed the land, but they lost all of their land in a period of great economic depression.  My mother would tell me of the land they once held that had become valuable decades later in the very heart of various cities.  I am not certain what happened to the original farm.  She never spoke of that.

These ramblings are not for public consumption at this point in time.  I am simply trying to kickstart my writing again.  The past year and nine months have been the worst in my life.  It is ironic that I recognised this would be the case in a rather prophetic manner.  I anticipated my mother's demise as ushering in the absolute nadir of my existence, and it did.  I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer a few months before my mother died, and that was very horrible, and terrifying and painful and everything else.  The thought of BECOMING my mother physically after watching her degenerate after her breast cancer from a slender beautiful young woman to some one who was overweight and misshapen with an arm swollen to twice its size by lymphedema was a constant source of fear once I reached adulthood.  One has fears like this, but I have to admit, I never really thought it would come to pass... and then it did.  I lost the same breast she lost.  It was both better and worse for me, because I am left-handed and it was my left breast and the lymph nodes in my left arm that were taken.  She was right-handed, so her primary arm was not affected.

Undying Aphrodite of the shimmering throne/chair, daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I beg you not to overpower/subdue/bring low my heart/soul with anguish and distress, dear Lady/Mistress.  Come here if ever before you heard my voice from afar, and hearken/pay attention to me, leaving the golden house of your father above,  the noble sparrows  beneath the yoke, to quickly lead or bring down to the dark earth.  Close and compact, feathers and wings moving fast descending through the middle of the heavens in a whorl or spin.  Arrive suddenly/with speed, blessed fortunate one with your smiling face aid ask:  for what again do you suffer, do you call me yet again, do you want exceedingly, yet again ask why do you suffer with your frenzied raving spirit/mind/heart?  who do you want me to persuade (ask the divinity  Πείθω) yet again into your love or affection?  Who wrongs you, Sappho?  For even if she flies, she soon shall follow and if she rejects gifts, shall lead/carry/bring them soon in return, and if she does not love, shall love soon, however unwilling.  I pray you now to break me free/loose me from thought/care/anxiety, and accomplish my desire.. and be my ally.  

Let us discuss Aphrodite specifically in the context of Sappho.

First of all, Aphrodite is not the patroness of marriage in the traditional sense.  She is the power of lust and illicit love.  She herself has been made victim to this power.

She was born near Cyprus (in other words, native to Sappho's land) from the severed genitals of Uranus, a sky god.  When Chronos castrated his father Ouranos with his sickle (a curved tool/weapon that symbolises the crescent moon, and thus Chronos, god of time, is associated with the cycles of that heavenly body), and threw the genitals into the sea, Aphrodite (foam born) emerged from the foam.  This is the version of her birth that is given by Hesiod.  In other versions, she is perceived as the result of the union of Zeus with Dione (a Titan).   In the latter, then, she would be, as the Orphics used to declaim:  'I am a child of Earth (mud) and starry heaven, but my nature is of heaven alone.'  Despite everything you say, there are associations with the ancient Cybele and the mystery religions where it is only through castration that a god emerges. 

She probably was the heir to the traditions of Inanna/Ishtar and the Phoenicians who called her Astarte.  Nonetheless, as that is not relevant to you, her name associations of 'Aphrodite Pontia' (of the deep seas) and 'Aphrodite Euploia (of the fair voyage), and her name Cypris ('of Cyprus') all surround her like the sparrows in the Ode.

Whether the word conjures sparrows or winged phalli or simply a torrent of words, it is part of this supplication or invocation to the great goddess.

Now to the affairs of the Goddess.  Married (against her will in some cases) to Hephaistos, the greatest smith in all of the worlds and a cripple to boot, but having affairs with Ares, Hermes and Dionysus himself, there is of course the famous tale of how Hephaistos created a golden net and trapped the goddess in the act of intercourse with Ares.

The result of her union with Adonis or Dionysus was Priapus.  Priapus of course is the most potent tiller of soil, the very power of fertility with his enormous phallus and association with gardening.  Here again though I see the association with older cults.

Other children of Aphrodite allegedly include Eros, Harmonia, and the mortals Aeneas and Eryx.

She is linked to the term 'mixis' which means 'mingling' and has obvious associations, but associated both with peace and with strife, as Freya herself in later times.

Described by Hesiod as 'quick of glance', 'foam-born', 'smile-loving', 'golden Aphrodite', and by Homer as 'smiling' and 'golden'.  So Sappho's description of Aphrodite responding with a smile is very classical.

I am going to take the bull by the horns here, because her association with my beloved Adonis is very clear.  She fell in love with the beautiful boy, locked him in a chest, and delivered him to the care of Persephone.  The lady of Hades then fell in love with him of course, and would not return the precious cargo to Aphrodite.  Zeus intervened and made the usual dictate where these consorts or lovers of the Great Goddess are concerned: Adonis, as a god of vegetation should spend four months in the Underworld, four months with Aphrodite, and four months of blessed solitude each year.  Thus we have here again the fate of Dumuzi who was punished by Inanna for not having mourned her disappearance into the Land of the Great Below to confront her dark sister, Ereshkigal, but simply held orgies and sat upon HER throne in the Land of the Surface, by taking her place seasonally in the Underworld to perform the role of Ereshkigal's dead consort each year for a season.

So, against YOUR desires,  let us explore the conception and life of Adonis. 

He has many different tales, because his cult obviously was adopted by the Greeks.  For the Greeks:  it all began when his grandmother Cenchreis, boasted that her own daughter Myrrha was more beautiful than the goddess Aphrodite.  This sort of boasting always leads to disaster.  The goddess punished her by causing the girl to fall in love with her own father.  In some versions, the father was Theias, king of Syria, but in others, he was Cinyras, king of Cyprus.  he was the son of an incestuous union between Theias, a king of Syria and Myrrha  or Smyrna, his own daughter.  She is defamed by the accusation that it was she, the child, who 'tricked' her father into having sex with her.  This sort of trickery definitely is one of the powers of Aphrodite incidentally.  The child of this union was Adonis.  The father was so disgusted by the event that he wanted to murder his own daughter, but she pled for her life and was transformed into the Myrrh Tree.  Myrrh incidentally is the symbol of death and is used even now in incense and in embalmings.  Adonis was spirited away by the smitten Aphrodite, hidden in a chest, became the object of a jealous dispute between Aphrodite and Persephone, and Zeus pronounced his doom.  He actually was killed by a boar, either an accident or agent of a jealous god/goddess, Artemis or Ares.   Aphrodite then transformed him into a violet flower.  They still hold the annual rites of mourning for Adonis in some parts of the Arab world as well as Iran under other names, but originally it was a festival known as the Adonis.  It involves the planting and nurturing of fast-growing grass that then is pulled out by its roots and thrown into moving water (usually a river).  In Lebanon, the river actually turns purple during a season and this was considered the result of casting the dead god into the water.

Symbols of Aphrodite include a band or girdle she wears across her chest (an ancient me that holds her powers of desire and seduction), a sceptre (another ancient me), a dove or other bird, including the goose, a wreath of myrtle, a looking glass (mirror), and often she actually rides a swan or goose.

I think the following about yoking the chariot is significant.  She is obliged to leave her father's house, and perform an act that gives her one of her powers.  The yoking of the chariot and invocation to the sparrow or sparrow to carry the chariot down to earth is not accidental.

She cannot perform this task from her comfortable throne or chair.  Moreover, she cannot fly down from heaven to earth.  She needs the sparrows and the chariot and the descent is quite dramatic and powerful.  As I wrote previously, it is like a tornado with a specific destination, arriving suddenly to Sappho.

9¤ρµα ατος Ð chariot. Ùπασδεύξαισα aor.part. nom.sg.fem. of Ùπο-ζεύγν¯υµι yoke under, put under the yoke. καλός ή όν good, noble; beautiful. «γον = Ãγον 3.pl.impf. of ¥γω lead, carry, bring. 10çκύς ε‹α çκύ quick, swift. στρουθός Ð sparrow. περί is also used in Aeolic for Øπέρ above. γ©ς = γÁς gen.sg. γή ¹ earth. µέλας µέλαινα µέλαν black, dark. 11πυκνός ή όν close, thick, compact; fast, strong; πυκνά adv. δ¯ινέω whorl, spin; Aeolic δίννηµι; δίννεντες pres.part. nom.pl.masc. πτερόν τό feather; in pl. wings. çράνω = οÙρανοà, gen.sg. of οÙρανός Ð heaven. α„θήρ έρος Ð ether, heaven; air. 12διά through. µεσ(σ)ός ή όν (in the) middle.

Furthermore, she may have a smiling face, but Aphrodite has a dark history, as dark as that of Demeter and quite similar.  Adonis, whom she loved, was held captive in a chest.  Persephone and Aphrodite become rivals for his love.  Zeus dictates the old solution of dividing the year into seasons for him to go to one and the other and then have a few months alone.  (The chest is similar to Plutarch's telling of the myth of Osiris.  According to Plutarch, it is a sort of Cinderella glass slipper tale.  Set creates a glorious chest and offers it as a gift to the one who fits inside it.  Only Osiris fits in the chest.  Set locks it and throws it into the river.  It floats to Byblos where it lands, and a tree grows round it.  Isis searches the world for him and in some versions, actually became a nurse to the queen's child.  She liberates the chest or coffin and carries it back to Egypt.  Set cuts him into pieces and all the pieces are thrown randomly hither and thither.  The penis is eaten by a fish.  Isis must make a new one through magic so she can become pregnant by her dead husband in order to bring forth Horus.)

Undying Aphrodite of the shimmering throne/chair, daughter of Zeus, weaver of wiles, I beg you not to overpower/subdue/bring low my heart/soul with anguish and distress, dear Lady/Mistress.  Come here if ever before you heard my voice from afar, and hearken/pay attention to me, leaving the golden house of your father above,  the noble sparrows  beneath the yoke, to quickly lead or bring down to the dark earth.  Close and compact, feathers and wings moving fast descending through the middle of the heavens in a whorl or spin.  Arrive suddenly/with speed, blessed fortunate one with your smiling face aid ask:  for what again do you suffer, do you call me yet again, do you want exceedingly, yet again ask why do you suffer with your frenzied raving spirit/mind/heart?  who do you want me to persuade (ask the divinity  Πείθω) yet again into your love or affection?  Who wrongs you, Sappho?  For even if she flies, she soon shall follow and if she rejects gifts, shall lead/carry/bring them soon in return, and if she does not love, shall love soon, however unwilling.  I pray you now to break me free/loose me from thought/care/anxiety, and accomplish my desire.. and be my ally.

Sappho was a poet but she was first and foremost during HER life, a performer.  Thus, every piece that now is read originally was performed by her for an audience.  She sang, evidently, and although many people have attempted to perform her work, too much information is missing to make any of this more than wishful fantasy.  Nonetheless, I believe it is vital to identify the audience.

They would be very familiar with the Goddess Aphrodite, and she would be a day-to-day part of their ordinary lives.  There would be temples where sacrifices would occur after doves or birds or whatever was being offered were purchased in a market or whatever.  It does not matter whether Sappho was religious or not.  Aphrodite would be woven into the tapestry of her life and the lives of her audience in the same way going to Mass, having a cross in the house, and other old Catholic traditions would be part and parcel of the life of any Italian during the Middle Ages or until people actually were able to rebel against the Church.  

Apart from this, an Invocation to the Goddess at the beginning of any performance would be an auspicious act, like making the sign of a Cross.  'Bless and smile upon this little song of mine'

So she sets the stage:  The first part identifies the Goddess, and probably would have been accompanied by some action on the part of dancers or musicians.  No one really knows, but it is not impossible that props would be involved as well. 

Next, there is actual drama in the form of the descent of Aphrodite, the swirling or thick spin of the sparrows, the movement of the chariot.  Whether this was accomplished simply by a drum beating out an increasingly fast rhythm in conjunction with the poetry or whether it was accompanied by dance or whatever... we do not know, but I feel that this drama is an essential part of the Ode.  it is not static.  It is not simply a recitation of Aphrodite's aspects and powers.  It brings her down to the audience with words and associated actions (even if only in the mind of the audience).

Now we come to the gist of the Ode.  It becomes very personal.  It is a dialogue between Sappho and Aphrodite ostensibly, but in fact a vehicle through which she can express the whole business of love, of desire and torment, of the nature of seduction.  Sappho demands reciprocity of affection.  She enlists the very power of the Goddess Aphrodite to persuade this mortal to respond to her, even if unwilling, to 'bring gifts'.  I think this refers to love and sex, not actual items like flowers or fine cloth or whatever lovers gave to one another.  What is interesting here, however, is that she is not asking for happiness or joy.  She is asking to be freed from her torment and anxiety.  She needs the object of her desire to submit to her, and the implication for me is that, once this is accomplished, she will move on to some one or some other desire.

I do not know what more you expect from me, to be honest.  Again, one cannot ignore the audience.  She is singing in order to involve them in her own feelings, her torment, her quest for conquest/love/lust.  There is an undertone in the entire Ode, despite the 'smiling face' reference to Aphrodite, that Sappho never will achieve any real enduring happiness.  Her quest is ongoing and infinite.  'Once again', 'again' and so on.  Her definition of passion is ephemeral in nature, much like that of the Goddess herself, who fell in love more than once.  She does not ask that Aphrodite give her the love of some one who will be devoted to her for the rest of her life, with whom she can share love on a stable basis.  She is the female equivalent of a rake, a Don Giovanni.  If she had a Leporello, he probably could have counted her conquests.  

The life of Don Giovanni held no enduring happiness or joy.  He had courage, and he had the overwhelming need to conquer women, one by one, but he did not have any emotional attachment really to any of them.  I see very much the same in Sappho. This, however, is a fundamental theme in music and poetry through the ages.  Most poems and songs do not speak of a placid, joyful existence shared with another.  They speak of torment and longing, the desire to seduce the object of desire.  What happens afterwards often is irrelevant.  It is the thrill of the chase, and the excited, enhanced emotional rollercoaster associated with 'falling in love' and trying to achieve that moment of union that would constitute victory.

The next part of this essay is to compare Sappho with Freddy Mercury from Queen.  This would be anathema to any classicist, but I find it an interesting comparison, especially with respect to 'Somebody to Love'.

Here are the Lyrics:

Can anybody find me somebody to love?

Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little
Can barely stand on my feet
(Take a look at yourself in the mirror and cry)
Take a look in the mirror and cry
Lord what you're doing to me (Yeah, yeah)
I have spent all my years in believing you
But I just can't get no relief, Lord

Then the Chorus: 

Somebody 
Ooh, somebody 
Can anybody find me somebody to love?
Yeah

I work hard (He works hard) every day of my life
I work 'til I ache my bones
At the end (At the end of the day)
I take home my hard-earned pay all on my own (Goes home, goes home on his own)
I get down (Down) on my knees (Knees)
And I start to pray (Praise the Lord)
'Til the tears run down from my eyes, Lord

Chorus once again, then:

(He works hard) everyday (Everyday)
I tryand I try and I try
But everybody wants to put me down
They say I'm goin' crazy
They say I got a lot of water in my brain
No, I got no common sense
(He's got) I got nobody left to believe
No, no, no, no

Chorus again, then: 

Got no feel, I got no rhythm
I just keep losing my beat (You just keep losing and losing)
I'm okay, I'm alright (He's alright, he's alright)
I ain't gonna face no defeat (Yeah, yeah)
I just gotta get out of this prison cell
(One day) Someday I'm gonna be free, Lord

Find me somebody to love (repeatedly, now)
Somebody (Somebody)
Somebody (Somebody)
Somebody (Find me)
(Somebody find me somebody to love)
Can anybody find me
Somebody to
Love?

Sappho cares nothing about the identity of the object of desire.  She is consumed by the pursuit.  Freddy has lost the motivation, the faith in the pursuit itself.  Sappho asks Aphrodite, goddess of love and passion, to bring her the object of her desire.  Freddy asks 'any one' to bring him some one he can love.  

So is it the thrill of the chase?  Is it the very interaction with Love and Life itself?  Do we die when we no longer care?  When we no longer can summon the energy to look for love?  To have faith?  In some one, in something?  

Gaming and the Minimum Wage

When I first wrote this, the game I referenced was far less greedy in its demands for real cash purchases than it is now, and far less demanding in time requirements to achive results.  Unfortunately, one of the most ethical game names from the past now is demanding more money on a regular basis as well.  I am referring to Nintendo.  The ‘free’ game version of Animal Crossing has a membership fee now for certain benefits but worse, the console version of New Horizons requires a paidvmembership if you wish to interact with other players.  

Here is the original post, however:

Having been involved in gaming for decades, I believe I do understand the many different reasons why people play games, as well as the various strategies they follow.

One question that seldom is addressed, however, is a very important one. Every gamer should answer this question: what is your time worth?

If you are incapable of reading a good book or watching a good film or series because of some serious disability or restriction, but can play a game, there is really no reason to answer this question.  If, however, you are capable of employing your leisure time otherwise, what is your time worth?

In a game for which I still publish updates regularly, the player has a farm.  It is a 'free' game, but there are 'premium' items that require real money to purchase as well as game currency that one can purchase with real money or earn by completing specific actions in the game itself.

Here is where this question becomes relevant:

Recently, there was a 'Collection Mission' in which the harvest of Crops, Trees, and collection of products from Animals and Machines randomly would yield an item that could be 'traded' for various rewards.  In this situation, a farmer with an enormous, fully upgraded farm has an obvious advantage over the farmer with a very small farm.  The large farm can be plowed to support more Crops, and the farmer probably has 'purchased' or otherwise acquired every possible Tree, Animal, and Machine, as the size of the farm often is related either to the number of years one has played the game faithfully or spending a fair quantity of real money to 'skip' requirements.

I know many farmers who completed the activity without spending any real money, by planting, harvesting and replanting Clover (the fastest growing Crop) every half hour, and collecting Honey from Beehives who then pollinated the Clover to produce Honey.

The amount of labour required to do this, however, is staggering.  The rate of obtaining the 'random' item was very poor.  One could upgrade the Collection menu item, using a combination of materials collected from Neighbours as well as the game currency (known as RC, which one either can purchase using real money or earn from other activities in the game), so that Crops, Trees, Animals, and Machines randomly gave double the number of the item needed to obtain the various rewards.

One needed to redeem one of each of the Rewards in order to unlock the final Reward.  This required almost 500 'Blue Anchors', the currency specific to the activity.  I found that a hundred mature crops might yield only a dozen of these Blue Anchors, even when their random appearance gave me 2 instead of 1.

How many hours of a farmer's time, therefore, was required here, if he or she were determined NOT to spend ANY currency on this Mission, whether it were the use of the game currency earned in other ways in the past or by purchase of that currency?

There is no need to explain the actual activity in any detail, nor to comprehend it, apart from assessing the number of hours required in order to obtain ALL the possible Rewards if one refused to spend real money on this to bypass some of this labour.

In all honesty, for me, the repetition of planting, harvesting, and replanting is the equivalent of virtual peasant labour in the fields.  Choosing and planting Crops on a virtual farm for their beauty or use in whatever activity or product takes your own fancy is one thing, but being pressured into using YOUR entire day and night to repeat endless sowing and harvest of Clover is the backbreaking virtual slave labour.  Do not forget that the company that owns and produces the 'free' game obtains actual MONETARY returns in the real world every time a player taps on anything in the game.  You therefore have been persuaded into working for the 'Man' for less than minimum wage, for a Reward you may not even like or really want, simply because, as gamers, many of us are conditioned over the years to aspire to something known as 100% collection.  That means essentially that we will attempt to obtain every item the game ever produces or offers to us, one way or another.

I am not a rich woman, by any means.  I always am skint before the end of the month.  As I write a guide for this game and constantly update it, however, I really must engage in every activity and know what is involved firsthand in every aspect of the game.  I need to know the value of every Crop, Tree, Animal, and Machine, in order to formulate strategies for other players.

Raymond's Piano, one vignette in my Victorian Tale

No one knows what went through Raymond’s mind the day he bought a ticket for a one way trip from San Francisco to San Diego on the coach.  No one ever knew because no one ever cared enough to dig deeply into anything involving Raymond.  When he showed up on the porch of my grandparents’ house, claiming to be an old friend of Mabel,Stover, her declaration of ‘I don’t know this man from Adam’ firmly slammed the door shut where his place in the Phelan world was concerned.

What occurred then was nothing short of extraordinary.  My grandmother, being a very genteel woman with a proper upbringing, invited him to dinner in the same way she would have opened her door to any stranger coming from afar.  Raymond therefore came to dinner.

Even as a child, I recognised how much class and occupation as well as other quite rigid judgements defined the world of my stepfather’s family.  I knew that the Robinsons considered Vera had married own by marrying an Irishman.  It was a family of strong women who surrounded the one surviving spouse in the person of Fred, and the precious single egg in the basket who was named after his father and thus a ‘Junior’ for over half his life.  

Raymond, having been the driver of a coach, was a social embarrassment to Mabel.  She could not acknowledge, let alone value his unswerving and heartfelt devotion.  It was in fact a source of some shame.

As children, I do not recall that we ever protested against the rather shabby treatment Raymond received.  He kept coming to the house, even after ‘Mimi’ gave him the coldest of cold shoulders.  As genteel people, Vera was worn down by his daily presence at the dinner table to the point where she grudgingly invited him to a future family holiday or birthday.  That represented a milestone for Raymond.

He must have been very lonely, craving the comfort of a family, even one that never really accepted him.  The Phelans accepted my mother’s two daughters from her previous marriage instantly.  We never were made conscious by them of the fact that we were not of their lineage.  My mother, on the other hand, never was accepted completely.  She was a divorced woman, after all.  She ultimately had her revenge on the entire clan when, having oulived my stepfather, she was able to declare she had inherited five estates.

Meanwhile, Raymond rented a little flat in town, and made the pilgrimage to the house on the hill every day, often with a box of See’s pastels.  I do not think they even make those now.  They were similar to pastilles in shape, but basically were sugar.  That was what the older generation liked best.  I never really acquired a taste for them.  I loved the Bordeaux and the California Brittle and the Butterscotch Squares.  They may have had different names in those days, but I definitely was not excted by those pale pastilles that were very pretty but lacked flavour to some extent.  As every one apart fom my immediate family kept their teeth in jars at night, I realise now that the Nuts and Chews would have been arduous for them to manage.  As a child, I was not really at a point where I thought too much about the ‘whys and wherefores’ of life as Bilbo Baggins put it.

Anoher random memory that has nothing to do with Raymond specifically but definitely is related to See’s is the way my mother would commandeer any box given to any one in the family.  She then ould take a small bite from every chocolate ultimately, consuming the ones shevliked, but leaving the others in the box.  It was rodent behaviour really.  I since have found Easter baskets with the chocolates that somehow were hidden in the grass or otherwise left behind, and at some point before the next Easter, the tiny teeth marks and nibbling of mice would be apparent.  At best, some tiny creature probably would make countless stealthy raids to consume all of it, leaving only finely shredded foil and a few hard pellets in the place of the chocolate egg.  It always makes m think of my mother and how she decimated a box of chocs.

Sad to say, I have nothing more to tell about poor Raymond.  Wherpther he specifically named Mabel as his heir or simply died unmourned and unlocated by his family, his meagre possessions were absorbed into the Phelan estate.  They included an old upright piano, which came to be known as Raymond’s piano and lived for decades then in Mildew Cottage.  The estate includes five pianos and two organs.  The title to most of them would be contested were it worth the effort.  Poor Raymond’s Piano is of little value apart from being his one legacy to our world.  The Steinway, hotly disputed, exists in a mutated condition as it had been converted into a player piano at one point, after which an attempt was made to return it to its original condition.  Regrettably, that never will be entirely possible.  Like the breaking of a girl’s hymen, evidence of the little box that was added and then removed forever altered its size.

Fear of Dying and having a Wank

 One of my own greatest fears is that, at my age, Dementia somehow will creep up on me unawares in conjunction with some new potentially fatal condition like a dicky heart, clogged arteries, or most likely of all, a NEW blood clot.  Something, in other words, that could cause me to go off without any warning into the land of the Beyond...

Note here that it is not Death itself that I fear, but the manner of my dying, and here is the worst part:  NOT FOR MY OWN SAKE BUT FOR THE SAKE OF PUBLIC OPINION!

There are stories every day, not only on social media, but in actual mainstream, respectable newspapers, about some guy usually who was found dead on his own, hanged to death by the neck during the course of what he probably thought would be a quick, crafty little wank while the family was out and about.  Disaster strikes, and however famous or respected he might be as a writer, or artist, or any other REAL claim to fame, this is the last sentence in his biography:  'he unfortunately died as a result of auto-asphyxiation' if the biographer is genteel, or 'he died with a rope round his throat while having a wank.'

Oddly enough, it appears to be something that occurs more often to men than women.  I know there are women who for whatever reason flirt with self-destruction by allowing a partner to tighten a stocking or rope round their necks while engaging in intercourse... Ah, I just realised why women are not found dead alone, hanging from a ceiling!  It probably is because more hand action and agility and focus is required for a woman to achieve orgasm by herself than a man probably would need.

In any case, fighting for every breath never has been a source of arousal for me in ANY circumstances,  here is where my FEAR takes control of the stage.  As I wrote initially, my fear is that somehow I would become the victim of Dementia, and my own deterioration would reach a point, in combination with some geriatric hormonal increase that would transform me into a temporary nymphomanic without my permission or even knowledge of this change, making a sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde erotic nightmare.

Let me describe an event in my life that actually occurred, and probably is at the root of this terror:  When my daughter was quite young, I would take her to the cinema to watch a matinee.  I liked historical drama myself, and whatever potential inaccuracies, believed that taking her to films like this might stimulate a love of history (as well as a need to question official accounts and slants in ANY so-called history book or text) in her. 

We therefore went to a matinee showing of the film 'Alexander the Great'.  I know, I know, but it was not any sort of erotic scene that caused the subsequent horror to emerge.

Somehow, our own timing coincided with the arrival of a coach filled with people who had mental disabilities of some sort.  Whether they were born that way or simply suffered from Dementia that attacked them later in life, the cinema was almost entirely filled with an audience that had been discharged from this coach. 

My daughter and I were seated together in one of the rows closest to the screen, but an elderly woman in a wheelchair had been pushed to the very front of the cinema, in front of ALL of the seats, so that she could remain in her wheelchair.   Her aide or keeper or whoever had placed her there then split... no one anywhere close to monitor the actions of ANY of the audience members, apart from a very bored, inattentive usher who stood, leaning against the wall, next to the exit at the very back of the cinema.

Note here that we had to sit near the screen primarily because I had become physically disabled myself, and although climbing stairs to a row closer to the back would be possible, doing so with a device that helped me walk, and then trying to navigate my way to the a seat that would allow me to view the screen from the centre, was more trouble than it was worth.  We therefore tended to choose a row that, although not the front row, was the front row in its own little section so we could sit in the centre without being required to force our way down a long narrow corridor between seats and the back of the seats in front of them.  End of, but a necessary explanation as you will see.

At some quite random moment in the film, this elderly disabled woman began to moan quietly.  Soon, however, the level of sound became quite audible to EVERY ONE, and even in the dark, I could see jerky movements of some sort from her that made me think she was having some sort of fit.

As some one who tries to be conscious of the disabled and helpless at ANY age, I turned to my daughter and whispered: 'Please go help that woman!  There's something terribly wrong with her!'

I did not want to disclose the fact that I was physically disabled in this little tale, but THAT is why I asked my young daughter to intervene rather than intervening myself.

Even at her tender age, my daughter was far more savvy and sophisticated than I evidently, because she instantly and emphatically refused to have anything to do with this woman's situation.  I let it go at that point, despite the continuing moaning rising gradually in decibels.

It was when the woman actually FELL OUT OF HER WHEELCHAIR onto the floor that I demanded my daughter help her.  I still did not understand why the woman was making that racket.  I thought she honestly was moaning in pain, and that she had suffering some awful accident in the course of an epileptic fit.

So... my daughter simply told me that the woman had not been having a fit, that she was not moaning in pain, and flatly refused to go near her.  I ultimately went to the usher myself, after a few more minutes when it became obvious he completely and utterly either deliberately or because his attention was NOT on his job, was prepared to ignore the entire incident,

Yes, the woman was having a wank to Colin Farrell in his role as Alexander the Great.  Let us make no bones about that!

Not a bad choice of wanking material, I admit, but it NEVER would occur to me that an elderly woman would do such a thing in a public place where they were showing a film that had not been rated as porn.  This was a film that, although it contained some erotic scenes, should be 'safe' from the seedy fellows that wanked off in their trenchcoats in certain film houses back in the day before computers and internet porn, and similarly safe from any potential female counterparts.

The sad fact is that it was not her gender, nor her age, and probably nothing to do with her ordinary personality and character, that caused the situation.  She suffered from some mental impairment that dissolved all of the 'filters' on her behaviour, and all of the ordinary rules of polite or even acceptable social conduct.  She probably was not even aware of the other people in the cinema, nor even that she WAS in a cinema.  She was so 'caught up in the moment' that everything else ceased to matter or even exist.

THIS experience is indelibly fixed in my memory.  In my worst nightmares, I fear that one day, I will wank off in some public place, although I am not a nymphomaniac, nor even the sort of woman who really has engaged much in my lifetime in that sort of behaviour even in the privacy of my own room for the most part.  This caveat means nothing, however, if I am seized by the hair by the Dementia.  God only knows how awful that would be.  I have seen it completely destroy the lives of other intelligent, creative, very properly-educated, genteel women in my own family.  Never caught them doing a wank, I have to admit, but there are many ways in which a person, if he/she did not suffer from Dementia, could find their own actions embarrassing or simply silly and absurd.

The 'FEAR' however is amplified by the spectre of Death, of somehow causing my own death by an act of orgasm that, in my right mind, I would not have initiated at all if there were any possibility in real terms that it could kill me off.  I mean, it happens all the time, doesn't it?  The physical effects of a good orgasm are fairly powerful in terms of aspects of the human body, I always believe, but before I wrote this bit, I did a Google search on the subject.  Here is what one study concluded:

Disclaimer:  

The following are not my own words, nor even my own study...  and frankly, a lot of it is too technical for me personally.

Abstract

OBJECTIVE:

This study is to observe the changes of blood pressure (BP), heart rate (HR), double product (DP) and heart rate variability during sexual activity in healthy adults before we cover patients with chronic cardiovascular disease.

METHODS:

Forty-nine participants grouped by sex, 22 males, aged 40.6+/-7.8 years; 27 females, aged 40.3+/-7.8 years, underwent simultaneous ambulatory monitoring of BP and HR for 24 h. During the monitoring period, sexual activity of the participants with man-on-top in their familiar environment was performed. Participants were requested to measure BP manually at the beginning of each sexual phase and three times after orgasm in every 10-min interval and 60 min after orgasm. For each individual, eight measuring values, respectively, about BP, HR, DP and heart rate variability were obtained from baseline to 1 h after orgasm. The data were statistically analysed with paired t-test and the significant level was set at P<0.05.

RESULTS:

In both groups, the peak BP did not appear at orgasm, but at the beginning of plateau and dropped to baseline level at 10 min after orgasm (male 141.41+/-17.13/91.05+/-13.69 vs. 120.14+/-11.07/72.86+/-7.78 mmHg, female 121.67+/-16.61/77.37+/-15.03 vs. 109.37+/-10.54/67.19+/-9.41 mmHg). The peak HR occurred at the beginning of orgasm, and dropped to baseline level 10-20 min after orgasm (male 96.36+/-11.96 vs. 75.41+/-9.02 bpm, female 90.19+/-10.38 vs. 71.44+/-5.68 bpm). DP of both groups elevated at the beginning of plateau and orgasm then decreased to baseline level 10 min after orgasm (male 12964.27+/-2659.17 vs. 9134.09+/-1469.58 mmHg bpm, female 10044.48+/-1777.89 vs. 7841.30+/-1023.79 mmHg bpm). All the results showed that BP, HR and DP have mild to moderate changes during sexual activity in healthy adults.

CONCLUSION:

Using ambulatory technology to monitor BP and HR helps us to get the real data in participants during sexual activity. BP, HR and DP increase just slightly for a short time and recover to baseline level soon after sexual activity in healthy adults. The physical exhaustion during sexual activity is within the range of the daily-life workload.

END OF QUOTE

I guess what you are saying, mate, is that sex really does not present that much of a risk, and that, should I ever succumb to an inappropriate desire to have a wank in an inappropriate venue, with any kind of unintended audience, for ANY reason, that probably will not be the last entry in any biography written about me, if anything about me should prove important enough to become the subject of a proper or even improper biography.

How to use a Roku television when the Remote breaks or is destroyed

I am posting about this because I am not the first person to find herself in the awful position where a device that seemingly can be operated SOLELY with its remote control breaks.  In my case, the remote control was swept into the washing machine with my bedding this morning. It emerged DEAD IN THE WATER.

So here I was with a situation wherein I could not even turn on the Roku.  Every control is on the remote control.  A lot of internet research unearthed a temporary solution.  It is not straightforward, however, which is why I am publishing this post.

First of all, there is a Roku app that can transform any mobile or tablet into a remote control for your Roku television.  

Go to the Apple Shop if you use an Apple device or go to the Google Play App Shop if you have Android and download the official Roku app that creates a remote control inter alia.

The download and installation are simple.  It is when 'No device found' is displayed that the problem occurs.  The fact of the matter is that, if your television had been shut off when your remote control broke or was destroyed, it will not be found by the Roku app!  So what do you do?

Well, in fact, there IS a Power Button on the Roku television.  It is not easy to find.  On some televisions, it evidently is a small button on the back.  On mine, however, I was able to watch a video on YouTube to discover that the power button is in the very centre on the BOTTOM of the television.  On the bottom!!!!  You cannot see it even from the ordinary viewer's position.  There evidently are three buttons under the television but I did not determine what the others did.  I simply pressed them until one of them switched on the television.

Once the Power Button has activated your screen, the Roku app will find it and pair with it without any further fuss or bother.  I have ordered a replacement remote control device, however... the App appears to work, but all the research indicates that it eats away at your battery charge like a demon.