We ache, I think
For a simpler time; slower pace
A Time to dance.

Now it’s everything, everywhere and
Seems all at once
Up is down and Down is up.

Empty vessels make
Hollow sounds while their
Fragile arguments are run aground.

What is trending—what is not
Keeps many souls from
Looking up. 

And while I jest,
I do attest I’m in a
Fit of Pique.

Is there anyone out there with know-how
Who can add
One more day to the week?!

You are vehemently vexatious
Poison on a platter;
A choice ‘tween spending time with You, or
Applying mascara to an eyelash pit viper?
I’d choose the latter. 

Imagine. 
Six bitter bitches in a basement.  The Karen Collective.    
I’ll admit, it does need some rebranding,
If only for those good souls named Karen who aren’t actually Karens. 

How about The K-Collective?  Or the acronym TKC for short. 
Sounds liked a suitably edgy and progressive banner under which to sell an assortment of home-made vaginal scented candles. 

Oh wait…I have just been informed by the internet that this has already been done.

But were they named cundtles?  

Follow me for more marketing ideas you’re glad were missed. 

Do you meet weekly to discuss memes that You perceive have harmed you? 
One of You charged with stopping to pick up the fancy coffee to go with the avocado toast I suspect.   

Doesn’t anyone just drink coffee anymore?  I do.  But I just found out that coffee is racist; until then I just thought it was getting bloody expensive.  I am partial to some avocado toast though, and if that makes me a Karenous class traitor, then so be it. 

Now, while I’ll admit that there’s no accounting for taste as my late Aunt Pat used to say, all the energy spent on arguing over some pop stars’ outfits is enough to power a small Duchy.  How about some balance? 

The Sam Smith Sunday Roast collection, whilst not my particular cup of tea, was later, in my humblest of opinions, offset by an outfit that was not unholy, and comparatively flattering.

A white blouse with a pearl studded collar, complimented with a just below the knee black skirt with pleated bottom; a pop of color was provided by a cross-body red heart-shaped bag which I thought broke up an otherwise binary color palette. 

Hashtag be kind.  I haven’t heard his latest, but I did buy his first album and I know I’m not the only one; and besides, if you don’t like my take I don’t bloody care.  Why? Because I’m not here to make friends.  That’s why. 

What’s in Your closet then?
Is that the faint rattle of skeletons I hear?
It’s hard to tell though innit. 
The sound is drowned out by the sheer amount of
Virtue Signaling points shot from Your canon.

Loud as a thousand Pachinko machines,
Grating as nails on a chalkboard;
Thought terminating clichés on every corner,
But then,
It’s not like that bloke Orwell didn’t warn us. 

Which reminds me,
What brilliant mind conjured up the job position of sensitivity reader?
Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d think that was a new way of saying censor. 
What is it with this bollocks that has one word always being replaced by at least two?
I’ll just assume they like to hear themselves talk.

Are these losers married to bill collectors?
How do these cundtles sleep at night?
As for those dunning others for money they don’t have
You wouldn’t even have a job if people could pay their bills.  Do better. 
Enough with these soft sadist positions; or, if you prefer,
SSPs. 
I heard bitches love acronyms. 

Somewhere
A first time is being had.
Somewhere
Another is turning bad;
Somewhere
Someone is acting in good faith.
Somewhere
Somebody is taking back their life; or,
Complicating it, ruining it further
The gift of insight yet to arrive.

Somewhere
A last sunset is seen.
Somewhere
Two people will meet tomorrow,
Fall into a Love they never saw coming.
Nature.
She’s cunning.

Somewhere it’s raining.
Somewhere it’s not.
Somebody,
Somewhere is
Losing the plot.

Somewhere
Someone is planning to run.
Somewhere else
Death, at the hand of a gun.
A wasted life
Someone’s daughter, or son.
Knives Somewhere else
Take another One.

Somewhere
An alternate timeline exists
Where everyone’s happy and
Obese with
Peace.
I can dream
So can You
There’s others too, who
Somewhere at some point
May make it come true.

I fell down a rabbit hole with this bee thing.
I had the sudden urge to find out how many types be in existence.  There be many.
The perils of a smart phone and internet connection. 
Get this.  A bee called Megachile Pluto is the largest bee in the world.
Have a quick gander at your thumb—that’s  how big it is!

Adult thumb sizes vary of course, but I don’t need to see any bees even the size of my slender, arthritic thumbs floating around.  {My apologies to any readers who are absent their thumb(s), or whose thumbs are not slender.  This is my lived-thumb experience.}

The Smithsonian article (link below) described Megachile Pluto as a massive unit. 
I couldn’t have put it better myself. 

It’s raining in New York right now says my iPhone.
I didn’t need to know that but here we are. 
It also said it would be five days before we get a 50% chance of rain; or,
If you prefer, precipitation.
I prefer rain.  It’s easier to pronounce.  Precipitation sounds like posh rain.

Well enough of this pluvial play; which, by the way
Relates to having much rain. 
Wow. 

Okay.  Boomer! 

Is that the best You can do then? 
Because that’s not the flex You think it is M’dears,
Particularly coming from those still wet behind the ears.

Crusty old Boomer!!

Yes, thank you.  I’m well baked, and in the Good Afternoon of life.
You,
On the other hand, should live so long….

We often forget the urgency of youth 
While We sometimes seek to relive some of it,
If only vicariously through others. 
But nothing’s very urgent anymore is it?
Because You’ve been there. Done that. 

Mind the Gap.

In my day…
We say.
Eyes roll backwards.
We often don’t notice how We carry on, or how
We might come across; and vice-versa as
You too will become Us. 

A blend of Parent one and Parent two. 
You may blame your woes on such nonsense as not having been 
Breast fed, chest fed? or otherwise ridiculously affirmed in some manner;
While trying in vain it seems to actively avoid developing any inner locus of control. 

But do carry on developing the outer one bad actors would rather You
Focus upon and blame everything for;
Instead of taking some responsibility and moving the fuck on.  
But no.
You want saints who never put a foot wrong.

We live in an age where Everything appears
Pathologized, Medicalized, Idolized, or Trivialized;
Often all at the same time. 

There has to be a better way!

Yet it appears that the more done in the name of
Saving
Anything
Makes it all worse.

Yet still the world moves toward an event horizon it will cross anyway;
The Fourth Turning
Will not be held at bay.

Mind the Gap
Don’t fall in.
You’re next.
Then,
It all begins again.
 

© Elly LeBlanc; The Late Bloomin’ Author; February 2023

Example.  Casually scrolling, some entertainer you haven’t thought about in bloody ages, and who you likely already thought was brown bread, makes the news because they only just popped off the planet for parts unknown and blimey, he was only 68!  I might only have a few more years…. You get the idea.   

Although we’re forever in pre-boarding I suppose, regardless of age, and must take some measure of comfort in not knowing the exact time of take-off from a hopefully not too bitter end. 

To balance it all out of course we must also remember to Memento Vivere—remember that you must live!

With that in mind I still go commando.  I know.  As a woman of a certain age, and post-menopausal no less, I probably shouldn’t.  Yet rebelliousness to any degree can keep the old juices flowing.  Besides, coverage can be kept close at hand such as in the boot of the car, or a tote bag even.

I suppose I should clarify that any going commando in my case refers to going on a prolonged walk without the structural support of at least a walking cane—and not to leaving the house without wearing me knickers.

I realize that I’m playing a little fast and loose with the definition of going commando, but I implore you to indulge me as I work on gaining the confidence of a mediocre man about to enter a female sports category.  I’m pushing those boundaries toward my authentic self and yes my imaginary balls are tingling at the prospect dammit.  I’m wearing the bloody trousers in this essay.

Sensible shoes are de rigueur too—the kind Mum always told me would prevent the bunions I ended up with because I didn’t listen.  Those beauties have been visible from space for years.  {I later learned bunions can also be hereditary, she had them, and wouldn’t listen.}

For women who live long enough the cloak of invisibility will be bestowed upon you.  Unless you’re a man of course. Then, you’ll be stunning and brave; but whether you festoon a fanny or a makeshift minge with fairy lights it won’t matter, because once you pass that event horizon there’s no going back—and, the more you try, while you might once again become visible it’ll be for all the wrong reasons.  Besides, no one wants to look like mutton dressed as lamb, do they?  Hang on a minute…

Social media has confirmed that to be a lie.

Pardon my digress.

If you’re lucky enough to be without any horrendous medical conditions as you get closer to midnight, you’ll likely still experience some reminders that you’re beginning to wear out; although I’m sure there are some people who never get anything. 

Bring them to me so that I may beat them with my big, handcrafted, made in the USA walking stick.  The one I bought because it looks cooler than a cane, thus making me feel less old and allowing, should the mood strike, to go all Gandalf and say You shall not pass!

I’m lucky to have been born into immense physical health having inherited decent genes, but somewhere along the line a little rent comes due.  In my case, as for many, it was Arthritis—Osteoarthritis.  Something I’d never given a second thought to until several years ago. 

I certainly didn’t think the bugger would ever take up residence in one of my hips, and while not life-threatening, it’s still a bloody nuisance and a sharp reminder that one is no longer a spring chicken.

I always thought it odd that objects are referred to as she.  Ships for instance, launched with the exclamation of bless this ship and all who sail in her! followed by the waste of a perfectly good bottle of champagne.  Well isn’t that noble.  Until it sinks then “she’s” all the Jeremy Hunts under the sun and it’s the bloody ships fault. I suppose latent revenge then, led me to assign my arthritis male, and christen him Jeremy, because sometimes He can be a right one. 

Until that Jeremy moved in I had taken my easy, pain-free movement for granted, as you do.  I was around 57 when I had an official diagnosis of what ailed me, my stoic bent quickly overshadowed by my mind going straight to the worst-case scenario; or, if you prefer, I catastrophized. 

Life is a shipwreck, said Voltaire, we must learn to sing in the lifeboats!

The sky indeed was not falling, and nor would it, if I became proactive, grabbed a lifeboat of sorts, and started singing.  So I took up pole dancing; the story of which can be found in a little book I wrote about it called My Anthropolegy; a little tome in praise of pole dancing.  You can find it on that online store named after a shrinking Brazilian rainforest. 

I know.  A shameless book plug.  Yet I felt this to be a reasoned opportunity to slip one in.  Besides, I heard somewhere that old age combined with cunning can often overcome youth and skill.  Hence, the vulpine measures to lure anyone to the yard as I’m out of milk and eggs.

I did have a bit of a dress rehearsal for the descent into dotage though care of a past college class.

In search of an elective to add to the rest of the BS, I chose The Psychology of Aging which gave us a glimpse of what might lay ahead before my subscription is cancelled.  A live-and-learn as you wait your turn for the urn. 

We patched eye glasses to reduce peripheral vision, taped fingers to mimic severely arthritic hands, and used canes and wheelchairs to roam a campus in someone else’s shoes, albeit crudely.  Glad it’s not me—I thought as I easily slipped out of my appropriated disabilities; only to switch roles with my fellow student.  Another lesson—perhaps greater.

Patience Caregiver….

It’s hard to slow down when you don’t have to; it’s harder to keep up as you age.  Patience with others.  Patience with self. 

Go on then.  Dance in your own way toward the final exit.  Be patient.  Adapt. 

And don’t forget to sing in the bloody lifeboats! 

Cultures war

The World still turns

24.

Idols rise

Idols fall

Over not too much at all.

Talking heads

Flap their gums,

On and on, and

On, and on.

The Idolized

The lionized

Endless clowning

Pick a side.

Bios draped in this ‘n’ that and

Freedom wrapped in cringe hashtags

Does not reduce the body bags.

Want to stay

Above the fray?

Careful now

You’re each sides’ prey.

Nuance upped and

Did a Runner

No one listens to discover;

One track minds won’t go beyond

Simply waiting to respond—meanwhile;

Forests burn

Cultures war

The World still turns

24.

I would wave

You would not be gone.

I wish I had a Magic Wand

I’d love the rainfall once again

It was raining hard when You just left.

I wish I had a Magic Wand

I would wave so

You could see what You’ve become.

I wish I had a Magic Wand

To bring You back to who You was

Kill what’s taken You from Us.

Magic Wands do not exist

We are left to live with this;

HOPE.  The only thing there is.

© Elly LeBlanc; The Late Bloomin’ Author.

Is it This politician, or That?
Or the homeowner’s Stasi
Saying your doorknob’s too brassy—or something like that;
So much distraction of late, so
Tell us
Who did We not yet hate?

Delivering nonsense with zeal
To an audience barking like 
Clapping seals, and
Guests who should know better too;
Then a sigh of relief when
The cancel crew didn’t pick You.

Yesterday’s news now
Just minutes away
Forgotten before the end of the day;
Then tomorrow,
Reminded we all are again
Of everything that really should stay in the bin.

It’s exhausting…I’m ready so
Beam me up now!
Far, far away from the ignorant cows
Their minions mincing like baying hounds;
In their wake though
The sane left to wonder, irate

Is it You now, or Me? or
Some other, others to hate?
Confused yet?  Me too.
Wake me when Love arrives; She’s with that Peace.
They appear to be running late. 

I know you know the word I’m talking about; but for any pearl clutching people who have happened upon this bit, and who may still be feigning naiveté in preparation to further feign feeling shocked after they fall in—I am referring of course to the mother of all expletives—struggle and grunt—rhymes with….  Pairs well with a good feckless. 

I just adore how good old Cockney Rhyming Slang provides for a fun way of blanketing and softening certain words; and for those that don’t know, if you know the various combinations you only need say the first word.  Gold.

Now if you prefer a more modern take, Jeremy Hunt makes for a decent substitute.  Although it’s unfortunate if you’re the Jeremy Hunt from whence this more modern rhyming slang emerged; but at least his first name isn’t Mike and his wife’s name isn’t Karen.  Either way, struggle of a mantle. 

Often used by some as a most last resort.  Something still not panning out?  It’s a right struggle of a thing, innit?  Or, to simply shock.  Maybe you’re surrounded by them.  It happens. We may have temporarily turned into one ourselves, simply due to a lack of insight in the moment—happens to the best of us—just try not to become a permanent Member of The Berkshire Hunt club.  

Then, if you’re unsure if an individual is worthy of the full struggle, there’s twunt.  A fusing of two words that essentially mean the same thing—though I see twat as toothless in comparison—so in effect I suppose one could just call them redundant, and then no one can run to their mummy and say you called them a nasty name. 

Mum hated the word in general; though I remember when we were watching an old British movie together years ago and she pointed out that the actors, with their upper class plummy accents, often sounded as though they were saying it whenever they said the word “can’t.”  The “a” sounding like it was replaced with the fifth vowel, with the apostrophe carelessly tossed aside with the disdain typically reserved for a scullery maid.  All I could hear after that.

However, I do feel that poor Jeremy often comes up empty. Netflix made a six-part series on the history of naughty words and our Jeremy was missing in action. 

This, I believe, was sacrilege; and, they lost the chance for at least a poke at a seventh juicy episode—but perhaps the host pulled out, drawing the line at bad language.  I guess we’ll never know. 

Perhaps that’s why it only got 68% on the tomatometer, and a 58% average audience score.

And last, but not least, be vigilant.  Cunning unprincipled narcissistic twits stealthily move amongst us. Some run for office and get elected.  It’s all subjective of course; you may see one, or many; where I see none, nor any; and vice-versa.  Perspective, after all, is everything. 

Our Word is generally more acceptable in the United Kingdom, and of course, Australia where you will sometimes hear it used as a term of endearment as well.  She’s nothing if not versatile is our Word. 

After all, context is important, and if you must...strive to be a good One!

 Cheers!

 https://www.rottentomatoes.com/tv/history_of_swear_words

For a short article on something know as priming go here:

https://www.wired.co.uk/article/jeremy-hunt-mp

But then, I’ve never been alive for a Coronation, so can we at least have that first?  The only crowning I was exposed to as a kid was Mum threatening to “bloody well crown you if you do that again!”  Which basically means you’d get bonked on the head as punishment; but not really.  It was just a saying. 

Ooh.  This reminds me of something the late Terry Pratchett said:  Always remember that the crowd that applauds your coronation is the same crowd that will applaud your beheading.  People like a show.

I mean, it’s not like monarchies haven’t fallen before; and, we know Heads have rolled.
Yet we’re much too civilized for that anymore; or so I’m told.
But then technology’s now so advanced
It’s Digitally done—as We can now all say at once
OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!
We can all be Madame Defarge.

I’m in no way suggesting that—what? 
Oh how could you think such a thing?!
I was just surfing, and musing over Whoever’s supporting
Whatever’s the Latest Thing.  
I want a Show. 
Razzle Us.  Dazzle Us.
My knitting needles have been gathering dust; and
Mine are not the only pair you know….

She always had tissues. 

I don’t need them, I said.  I have You.

I now carry tissues. 

© Elly LeBlanc; The Late Blooming’ Author

More than a months’ rent, worn once. 

That’s what the sign should say in the upscale second hand shop with its plethora of pre-owned wares, stocked by those with more money and cents than You will ever have, and they still can’t just give it away once they’re done with it. 

Is there a market for expensive pre-owned thongs?  I’m going to go with probably yes!  Cheap bitches; but then there’s that old saying that “you don’t get rich by giving it away” and no one can remember who said that, but everyone nods in agreement anyway. 

 Even the have nots, along with the never will haves because they keep voting against their best interests, whatever those are.

Besides, it costs money to have interests; and let’s not forget them luxury beliefs. 
Some of those are real fancy. 

Why I do declare that I can just declare I’m a Member of the opposite sex, and even though I lack Membership, and simply because I feel like it!  Is this true?  Then I’m coming for my rightful paycheck—and you can make that retroactive.  I’m in  my 60s.  You do the math.

What’s that? You didn’t mean it like that?  Are you sure?  Then You can suck my imaginary one. 

It’s all starting to sound like the plot of a dystopian novel. 
Where the women are erasable.  Men interchangeable.

 Imagine a remake of The Stepford Wives revealing a world where the men are still men, and the women compete with those other women who were born without vaginas.  You’ve come a long way baby. 

What if…It’s a man’s world after all…it’s a….

All together now…!