When you hear the words ‘at a loss’ tossed around, remember that the phrase need not be interpreted negatively. The statement indicates that in order for whomever it is to ‘be at a loss’ they have come to realise that prior to their now they had something of great value that they no longer have – and will not get again. At least these people have the good grace to recognise their catastrophic failure to hold on to whatever that ‘thing’ of value was. This is helpful because by facing that failure they are opening their own minds to the actuality of their loss and they are accepting that there is no alternative but to move on without it, wherever that ‘on’ might be. That moving on – in itself – will hopefully bring them to a place of healing, a place where they can begin making amends to their discarded hearts. When you have something of value and you deliberately trash it because of your deluded stupidity, please remember that you are destroying only your own peace of mind – not that of any other. Understanding that actuality is where the word ‘accountability’ steps in. And those ‘at a loss’ will be held accountable – every single one of them.
‘At a loss’ is at times a distinctly fiscal description. For those shackled by the big bad world of finance, greed and ill-gotten gains – being ‘at a loss’ is terrifying news. In the lives of those types, the prospect of watching the numbers that gave them ‘status’ and defined their very existence whittle themselves from billions down to nothing can cause immeasurable stress, coupled with a debilitating fear – and those diseases combined can have disastrous effects. Usually – after hiding denial behind numerous lies, those ‘at a loss’ will start immediately their relentless search for ‘The Perpetrator of Their Misfortunes’ with a ‘no holds barred’ sort of blame-game. Unable to accept that they are ultimately responsible for their own drastic ‘losses’ they will flail around trying to find a fall-guy on whom to pin their fall-out, a scapegoat on which to strap their parachutes. Thereafter, when their fall-guy flies and their parachutes fail to open, they will descend into a state of chaotic desperation. In that state, those types are dangerous. They have sold their souls, i.e. their futures, and will attempt anything in order to restore the balance they imagine they had. It is best to leave them to it. Their wasted efforts expose them further and once totally exposed they will know to refrain from bitching and whining – which is a relief to us all.
Being ‘at a loss’ for words is not synonymous with being speechless. It depends upon what your intentions are. I choose to think that being wordless means that you in fact have a great deal to say, but in certain situations elect to stay silent because the people to whom you should direct certain words are a waste of the energy it would take to utter them. Direct your energy wisely. Those ‘at a loss’ will suffer, too, those protracted silences. Like they will suffer the ‘speechlessness’ that comes with the realisation that the words they never heard cannot ever be respoken – no matter how often they try to read them out loud. It’s all in the timing – and that is not the first time I have said that. Incidentally – those self-same words will not be heard, now, either – no matter which ears the speechless think their ‘right’ words might reach. It’s all in the tone of the say-so and the nature of the hearing ears. The say-so of the speechless, sadly, has no resonance and resonance – like Love – is not a commodity, no matter what your fiscal description.
Critics are important. When they are required. When they are not required they are nothing short of a pain in the arse. Critics are the reason there are censors, and censors – where necessary – can be valuable. For instance: censors are needed when it comes to the matters of children. Adolescents should be guided, too, by sensible censors and adults in their own capacity should be quite capable of choosing what they would like to expose themselves to. When critics are selected – and I am not talking about the idiot critics who elect themselves experts on subjects they know nothing about – there are vital criteria that must be met. One of those is the selector’s ability to recognise in a critic his/her inherent intent when criticising.
Fortunately constructive criticism exists. It is still possible to find those who delight in the success of others in this dog-eat-dog world. It would seem that the predominant desire in this world – perhaps because there are billions of ‘have-nots’ on this planet – is to see your neighbour fail once he/she has achieved a degree of success deemed by you to be ‘above their station in life’. Resentments abound. Those that ‘have’ at first become their own clan, thinking that by pulling together they will somehow preserve their imagined pre-eminence and protect their investments. In the manic dash to close ranks in their capitalist panic they do not realise that the welfare of their fellow humans is their investment.
Once upon a time I said that there were some things I needed, and some that I didn’t. It would seem that some idiot decided that they knew better than me what I required and in an act of perhaps misdirected goodwill delivered me to the kangaroo court, the Spanish Inquisition’s firing squad and the Doors of Hell. It was not expected that I would benefit from the experiences, but I ensured that I did. I discovered on my lengthy journey that kangaroos were in fact dogs dressed in sheep’s clothing, that Spanish is a beautiful language to listen to and I learned that my private Hell was nothing to fear. Quite the contrary. It is the scars that are housed in my private Hell that held the keys to the foreseeable future. We all have a private Hell. A personal place we send ourselves at various stages to make amends. The point in being sent there is to fix things, to heal our ravaged souls. There is no point in going there with the intention of inflicting further damage upon yourself for the same old sins committed. You are there to face and accept old fears, to process your allocated pain. You are there to understand your sadness and to let it go. You are not there to assassinate your own character – so do not become your own worst critic.
I am quite certain that baby rape is – in addition to a heinous crime – symbolic. Of at least two things. One – there are things going on that have perhaps reached a head. A heads-up, if you like. Two – I am wondering why it is that so many black children are being subjected to this particular suffering. Not only black children, but many, many black children. It’s not right. Like it’s not right that the souls stolen from the children by the LRA were the souls of innocents. That kind of energy should not be in the care of a man like that. In fact, if I had my say, I would say be sure to burn him. That is the way to free the prisoners he holds, still. Thousands and thousands of them. That freedom is like the rising of a new tide, a phoenix from the flames, an army of beauty let loose to reclaim the empty houses roaming lonely the savannahs. There are a lot of empty houses. That is not a bad thing, but it is something to be aware of. It is a matter of time before these empty houses get inhabited. There are many undesirables that require housing. The good news is that there is a way to keep the houses empty until they can be filled by their respective owners. And yes, you can call them owners. They are. When it comes to a perfect fit, doors open. It has always been the way. That fail-safe takes into consideration not only evolution underway, but also the aging process. Hour by hour and every hour in between the hours. That is one sure way to be sure of your motivation and to be quite certain of where you are going. And – it is the way to ensure that when you do get where you are going, you can get in. It is pointless if you cannot get in. If you should underestimate the degree of change that is possible in a very short space of time, you might find yourself in a time warp. There was a story of wasps one time. It was true.
It was suggested that the Y2K was going to have a major impact on our world. It did. It was just slow-release. You might find that at that time, 00.00, there was an eclipse, if you like, a convergence of energies, realities, about which few knew. The fallout was delayed. That delay – if correctly measured – will give you an idea of the time delay of the hours between the hours, and the length of a minute. It is not that a minute is always 60 seconds.
Tonight the flaming hoops story is new. The tigers have rewritten the script.
The vampires can feel something is up. They swarm to the ticket office.
The tent has a maximum capacity.
This is one show no one is keen to miss.
No one will miss it. It will be pirated and sold on.
That is always the way. They will make the copy worthwhile.
This night, yesss, this one, there will be blood.
A great deal of blood.
The ringmaster just doesn’t know it yet.
The lions have yet to weigh in.
They have thus far remained silent, detached.
That is the luxury of a lion’s say-so in today’s world.
Watch out for what the lions discuss when no one is watching.
They have evolved from circus freaks into machines bred for the bullet.
How advanced is Natural technology? They are under no illusions.
They will always be King of the Jungle.
Go and ask Mowgli. He will tell you what is what.
The vampires bring their progeny to a show such as this.
It is worth the corruption of their young souls.
To see the wild win for a change will lift morale.
The children will bay like wolves. It is their instinct.
The dogs will not perform well if their slot is after that of the cats.
The baying of wolves will unsettle their senses.
For the first time, they will feel divided. It makes sense to divide a pack.
It confuses the master.
The Master. The vampires snigger into their sleeves.
Now that was funny.
What would excite the patrons was the blood-trade spectacle.
It would bring the animals’ eyes alive. It would be best if the hoops were afire.
That would add atmosphere.
If the ringmaster left the gate ajar, that would add atmosphere.
Once he was dead, beheaded, what stood between the angry cats and man?
Vampires in human form die human deaths. That was the dare.
It was their choice to visit the circus on a wild Friday night.
At moonrise it will become clear who sleeps, who wakes.
The tigers have made sure of that.
The fact that the ringmaster came back disappoints many of the circus performers.
Their sentence seemed shorter the other way, when the circus ran itself.
Not to worry. After the cats come the clowns.
They would make everyone smile. It was their job.
They were paid to clown around, so they must clown.
They had better bring the house down.
If they failed, they would be fired. A simple understanding between puppets and master.
Master. The clowns grumble his status into cupped palms that they fling wide, sideways.
They throw out the name with determination. A curse to be rid of.
Send it out. Out. OUT. There is no space in the tent for curses.
The animals can hear their dense man-whispers. The hiss of spit hitting dry hands.
Circus people were superstitious with good reason. Be careful what you summon.
The curses must stay outside.
They are on the naughty step until they learn the first aspect of values.
The gypsy sits outside in her painted caravan. It rests on the backs of two pitch horses.
The red looks good against their black.
She reads for people. Whoever, whatever. She follows the circus and she speaks out.
‘Cross my palm with gold,’ is what she wants to say, with a wink.
She says deadpan, ‘Five bucks, fifty.’
It is not just the wild animals whose eyes have died.