Mr Mascellani's Musings

What Should I Write About?

What should I write about?
The Moon, the trees,
the flowers, the Sun?
Or of more 'important' things?

I can't think of anything,
and I am finding it difficult.

Should I write about how sexy you looked
when you came out of the bathroom
wrapped in your towel,
flowery shower cap still on your head?

Should I write about your fluffy bunny slippers?
Your Virginia Woolfe tongue
and Sylvia Plath panties?

What?

Should I write about the first time
the last time?
Would you be interested?
I mean I am writing this for you.

Should I write about a cat?
a dog?
a fish?
Perhaps I should write about Alice In WonderPornLand?

Should there be a rhyme and reason?
Should I edit?
rethink?
rewrite?
Be worried about tenses?

Should I let you in,
and tell you a secret?
Possibly,
But not now.

Not at this time,
Not now,
maybe later.

I Wonder

Why is it when somebody does you a favour and you thank them they say things such as:

"Don't worry about it."

"Don't mention it."

" You don't have to thank me!"

But the next time that somebody does you a favour and you don't say 'thanks'- that person gets pissed off?


Why is that only a rare few are gifted with the ability to make good coffee? And even a rarer few can a good cup of coffee consistently?


What is the collective noun for clitorises? And shouldn't 'clitorises' be 'clitorides'?

Why do people wait for your favourite TV show to be on before they ring you up?

Why do gigantic spiders have to shrivel up to the size of a pea when you kill them, and thereby invoke the scorn and laughter of those you show them too, instead of their admiration?

Why do all the parties and social activities happen when you're flat out busy with chores, duties, and commitments- and stop as

soon as you are no longer busy?

Why does a unattractive single guy become so attractive to women once he gets into a relationship? Ok, the fact that he is now in

relationship- probably makes him more confident and more attractive-- but what did the initiatial woman who decided that she wanted

the relationship with this guy see that the other woman didn't?

Why do a lot of underpaid and unappreciated people who have been at the bottom rung of the latter of their job for years, refer to the

company that they work for-in terms of a 'we' as in:

"We made a record profit this year."

Really? And,yet, despite working like a dog- you didn't get a pay rise or bonus.


Why were the Skipper and Gilligan so chummy? And why did neither Ginger or Marianne get pregnant?

Why is the plural of goose-geese, but the plural of moose-moose, and the plural of caboose-cabooses?

When Will It (Ever) End

It was, I think, The French Existential philosopher, Jean Paul Sartre, who said, something like: The difference between good times

and bad times is that when one is experiencing bad times, one thinks:

'How long will these bad times last?'

Whereas when one is experiencing good times, one thinks:

'How long will it be before these good times end?'

That is to say, that just as one who is experiencing bad times cannot see the end of those bad times (and therefore cannot just 'snap out'

of' a depression). One who is experiencing good times, may not believe that these good times can last, because they have never

have in the past. (Which of course is the fallacy of arguing from tradition. 'It has always been like this so, it will always be like this')

No, not necessarily- possibly and probably but not definitely.

I mean, its just as logical (or illogical as the case may be) to assume that life is a continuos flow of good times that are momentarily

disturbed by temporary and fleeting times of bad then it is to assume the vice versa. It just seems, based on past experiences,

easier to believe that the vice versa is more natural, real, true and factual.

But, In fact, For most of us (And I, myself, am very much included in this) Our lives are pretty much, for the most part, banal. And it

is this very banality that (in comparison) make the good times seem so the bad times seem so bad. And, of course, bad

times seem (are?) much worse when they follow good times and vice versa.

'There is no greater hell than to recall good times in times of bad'- Dante

And there is no reason, even though experience tells us otherwise, that a person can't experience good times for the rest of his/her

life. (Yes, yes I am fully aware of the argument that says that one cannot truly know what good time is until one has suffered bad

times. I know that there can't be light without shadows I know about the Ying and the Yang. And I agree and that is why I said

that a person can enjoy good times for the rest of his/her life and not for its (one's life) entirety.

Although, such a scenario, that one can enjoy good times for the entirety of one 's life is imaginable and not impossible but relating

this to the argument that one can't know the good until one has experienced the bad, then one who experienced only good times

would not know that they are good times. So, would they truly be good times?

And, to finish up, let us say that our past experiences are true and that all good times have a shelf life, an expiry date then why

waste even one nanosecond worrying about the if or how or when the good times will end. Why not just accept that they might last

one minute or fifty years. And save your sadness for the time when they do end- and don't shed even one tear nor even one thought


worrying about the anticipation of their end. Just suck the marrow out of them as long as they last and consider that it may be that all

bad times have led you to these good times.


Marilyn: Remember, I said if any ever asked you what I was like, what Marilyn Monroe was really well, how would you answer
them? (Her voice was teasing, mocking, yet earnest, too: she wanted an honest reply) I bet you’d tell them I was a slob. A banana split.

TC: Of course. But I’d also say…
(The light was leaving. She seemed to fade with it, blend with the sky and clouds, recede beyond them. I wanted to lift my voice louder than the sea gull’s cry and call her back: Marilyn! Marilyn, why did everything have turn out the way it did? Why does life have to be so fucking rotten?)
TC: I’d say…
Marilyn: I can’t hear you.
TC: I’d say you are a beautiful child.

‘A Beautiful Child’ – Truman Capote (in ‘A Capote Reader’- Abacus,1989)

Watching Wild Things

You can call me a nerd if you wish, but I have to admit, I love to watch wildlife documentaries - sitting or lying on the lounge with appropriate snack foods and drinks for the season. I guess it is, partly, because I associate wildlife documentaries with the weekend TV shows I watched as a child.

I remember those days, The family all the kitchen table, eating meals such as roast chicken, potatoes,corn, peas, drinks desert, coffee- wonderful. Sometimes there may have been an argument or two but, otherwise things were fine.


Then it would be up on and off into the lounge room, for we kids to watch tv shows such as like such as World Championship Wrestling, Green Acres i>The Many Loves of Dobie Gilis, ("Work?!??!!!"). And movies starring Abbott and Costello, FrancisThe Talking Mule, The Three Stooges, Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin, and of course Marlin Perkins' Wild Kingdom.


"To night on Wild Animal Kingdom, we take a look at the Os-tralian Gay-lar (Galah) this beautiful bird with its bright pink plumage is one of the wonders of the ossie bush. (Dramatic pause) but what's that in that tree? "It's a feral Ossie bush cat!- a predator who preys on the gay-lar."

Another connection, of a different sort, may be my fondness "Mafia" films and shows (The Godfather, Sopranos, etc) I am no too sure what the nature of the connection might be. But have you ever noticed that there is usually some scene where the "Don" or some other gangster is watching a wildlife documentaryon TV? It's probably got something to do with the concepts of 'the survival of the fittest' and the law of the jungle. Watching dangerous things from a safe distance.

"Oh, look! the Ossie bush cat has caught the gay-lar."

Lies

I realize that sometimes lying is necessary. Sometimes it is a matter of life and death. Sometimes it's the kinder option.


For me, it is not necessarily the lie or even the reason (or act) behind the lie that will cause a relationship to end.


No, what irks me, what I cannot stand, what will end a relationship (love, friendship, business,whatever ) is the sloppy, ill-

conceived lie. The sort of lie that insults my intelligence. The half-assed lie that says,

"You simp, I couldn't even bothered being a good lie, believe or don't, I don't care."


But, of course, it is not the lie that says all that, but the liar.


If someone doesn't respect me enough to come up with even a halfway decent lie, then I want nothing to do with that person.

The optimist sees the glass as being half full.
The pessimist sees the glass as being half empty
Old saying.


I don't know about optimists, I've never been an optimist.

But I can tell you that the pessimist does more than see the glass as being half empty.

He sees it as being half empty, wonders what dirty bastard drank half his drink- and he's also pretty sure that whoever it was

probably spat in there as well.

One of the most memorable compliments that I ever received was when I was doing a class at Sydney University 'Women's Writing: 1650-1800.

I was the only person in that class, tutor included , who wasn't a lesbian.

The compliment came after I had presented paper . I had thought that they were going to kill me

But instead they applauded and one woman said,

" Man, you've got balls! "

Which I took as a wonderfully strange and ironic compliment.

I was well-liked from that point on

They always welcomed me with open arms .

But,of course,never with open legs

But then neither did the straight women in any of my other classes.

And that's why.

The Door That Is Always Locked
It is sadly ironic, dear reader, that the very same defence mechanisms that many

people use to protect themselves from unwanted, undesired outside influences; from

harm and pain- make certain pleasures and, ultimately, life itself impossible.



They (these many people) cut themselves off from the world, from other people,

build walls around themselves, make themselves impenetrable.


The door that is always locked keeps out enemies, strangers, friends, and lovers.

History shows that any great civilisation that cuts itself off from other civilisations

and their influences becomes stagnant and backward looking, and finally collapses.


The orifices of the human body allow in both those things that can give and sustain

life and those that can harm and end it.


The nostrils are that breathe in poisonous air can also breathe in fresh air

The mouth swallows poison and its remedy.


A totally closed body can know only a limited pleasure if, indeed, it can know

pleasure at all.


However, for the reasons given above, a body cannot be totally opened or unguarded

either.

What is the answer?

I dunno.

Perhaps that life is a series of risks-some calculated and some foolish, some that

enhance life. And others that end it.

But what would I know.

# posted by David @ 6:51 AM 0 Comments

Some Mothers

Joe's mother was a small, slight mean Polish Catholic woman who was feared by everybody in Joe's neighborhood. Joe was a school friend who didn't live in our neighborhood. He lived in a neighborhood filled with criminals. And, for some reason, even the most hardened, vicious criminals who lived there, men who feared not the police, jail, death or even God himself, feared Joe's mother.

John's mother was a big fat matronly biscuit and cake-baking mother whom everybody loved. She'd always bring in a tray of her biscuits and cakes into the living room while John and I and few other guys would be watching 'z grade' horror videos, and she would ALWAYS look in horror at the blood and the guts and the gore that was filling up the TV screen and say: 'Oh, Johnny, can't you and your friends watch something a little nicer!'


Albert's mother was young (ish) and sexy and everybody had a crush on her. She was perfection. One day we were trying to find some, any flaw in her beauty - but one guy summed it up:

’Man, even her thumbs are beautiful!'

Neither Albert nor his mother ever knew that she was the main star in many a young boy's masturbation fantasies.Steve's mother was very cultured but not at all snobby. Everybody loved talking to her. She was never condescending or patronizing. She had the unique ability of being able to talk to you at your level whilst simultaneously raising you above it.

Mario's mother was a cheery, motherly, voluptuous Greek woman Everybody wanted to be mothered by her. Everybody wanted to lay down his head on her bosom and have her stroke his hair and sing him to sleep with a lullaby- because she had the most beautiful of singing voices. She would sing as she did the housework and we'd say ' You should be a professional singer Mrs. X' and she'd always smile or laugh. But it was true. She was that good.


Frank's mother was dirty alcoholic slut who everybody hated because of the way she used to psychologically abuse Frank. One night when we were about 14 years old, Frank and I and a couple of guys were watching TV and chatting when his mother came home, staggered in to the lounge room, didn't say one word, preceded to squat in the middle of the lounge room floor, pulled down her panties, and began urinating on the carpet. She seemed to be pissing for an eternity. We tried to ignore her. But have you ever tried to ignore a woman in her late 30's who's pissing in the middle of a lounge room? Believe me, it’s very difficult to do.

Then she stopped. She removed her panties and threw them into one corner of the lounge room and again without saying a word she got up and staggered into the bathroom from where we could hear her heaving up her guts. We were all feeling sympathetic embarrassment for Frankie, and he must have beenfeeling something that was beyond embarrassment. For what seemed to be ages, but was probably only a couple of minutes, nobody spoke, nobody looked at any body else. Then I noticed that tears were running down Frank's face and I put my arms around him to try and comfort him and he put his head on my shoulder, and this sweet, decent 14yr old boy who had taken so many a beating from his father that he could take them without even flinching, he began sobbing like a baby.

Steve's mother was a pretentious snob who everybody despised. We never wanted to go to Steve's house. She was the type of woman who was always having afternoon tea and scones with the local priest. Now, there's nothing with that in itself but add that after 25 years the leather lounges in the lounge room STILL had plastic covering on it, and she had a fruit bowl filled with fruit that was for display and 'NOT FOR EATING' and she had one of those display rooms that NOBODY save perhaps the Pope, Queen, or the Prime Minister was allowed to enter- and you get an idea of what type of woman she was.

Peter's mum was in her mid-forties and she was lovely and everybody felt protective of her. One day when we about 15 years old. Pete said to me, 'Hey, Dave watch this.' Then he proceeded to go to his backyard and find a small rock, an unremarkable small rock. He took it inside and wrapped it in some old gift-wrapping paper and made up a small card on which he wrote: To Mum loves Peter. And then he gave his 'gift' and his card to his mother, and she opened and read the card and then began to cry as she hugged and smothered him with big motherly kisses. And he say: Ma, it's only a rock from the backyard, don't make such a fuss!' and she said 'It doesn't matter! It doesn't matter what you got me all I care about is that you think about your mother' Then she opened her 'gift' and put the rock on display as though it were a diamond.

Later on I said to Steve' 'Steve, your mother is so lovely and loving that its hard to belief that she gave to birth to cunt like you.' He agreed.