My dear old Mum (that’s Mom, to you Yanks) used to ensure that I had a nice hot cocoa each night. No objection from me … I loved it.

I still do, in fact. So on a whim a few minutes ago I googled it—you know how it goes, everything you like these days either causes cancer or the consequent halitosis drives away the opposite (oops, the adjacent) gender* — and discovered to my utmost shock that the habit of a lifetime is actually … good for you. Apparently it does wondrous things, and I now know the difference between ‘cocoa’ and ‘cacao’. But the one thing it won’t do is put the cat out.

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“Wow~! I want some …”

* Be careful here—we aren’t allowed to differentiate no more. Which is just as well ‘cos knitting purple booties is much more general purpose (covers all bases**) than either pink or blue.

** Tried it myself once. Nobody told me how to ‘cast off’ so I ended up with one sock eight feet long …



Screen Shot 2019-09-26 at 09.00.07COMMON SENSE, TRADITION, AND THE COMMON


It’s all very well having ‘voice recognition’ technology that can transmute the spoken word to written writings … but wotif?

Wotif the speaker of the spoken don’t speak proper, like? So try this for size—

“Strange fogs engulfed the land, the Sun barely shown for days, even weeks at a time, and when it did it was but a feeble imitation of itself, crops died in the fields, forest growth almost came to a stop over the whole northern hemisphere, famine etc etc …”


I was brought up to understand that the English (as in English, note—not American, Kiwi, Australian or any other foreigner lingo) word for the past participle of “to shine” which although written as ‘shone’ is correctly pronounced as ‘shonn’. The sun didn’t shown—it shone, qua shonn, dammit.

That’s the second time this week already—once in conversation (a u-toobe narration) and this instance in written writing. Sadly I can’t stop the progress of destruction and so our once-common language is becoming sundered.

‘Twas ever thus …




Screen Shot 2019-10-09 at 12.13.30.pngMYTHS, LEGENDS, AND

other esoteric stuff. I was about to send my copy of Margaret Starbird’s ‘The Woman With the Alabaster Jar‘ to my sister (a spiritualist) when I stopped to refamiliarise myself with it. A mistake.

I got hooked. Again. (That’s the trouble with an open mind, sometimes it can be a wee bit too open.)

It led me via a circuitous route to this image (again)—


—which with a wee bit of tidying up reveals this image down finger

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—which even to the unadventurous calls forth multitudes of further queries, such as:

why is God (incarnate) reaching for a bun that’s not there?

#  is that effeminate dude immediately on JC’s right actually his Spouse?

#  Spouse Mary, hmmm? She of The alabaster jar etc etc?

#  To whom belongeth the hand holding the knife pointing at the heart of the guy …

#  … by whose reaction it seems he’s only just noticed it himself?

Questions, always questions. I did ask years back without ever getting a satisfying answer; and never shall (but it keeps me off the streets).


that da Vinci knew a lot more about a lot more than even he dared declare in public, hence he encoded some of it in his works. Damned if I know but it’s fun trying …

AND I rather like the idea of God incarnate bonking a gorgeous redhead before crossing Himself …


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wee devil.png

I’ve stated that to my eye the Egyptian pyramids are essentially superb casings filled with rubble.

Quite some rubble though—on the Great Pyramid the blocks average out at about two and a half tons each. Some, not quite so rubbley and made of granite are about seventy tons.

So from other scribes’ efforts on U-tube I filched these almost at random—

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AND the last one below informs us that the bits in yellow aren’t blocks — they’re Ground Zero foundation bedrock carved to look like blocks. Cute.

Sadly I can’t go further with this lot at the moment, I’m reading a book devoted to the theory that the ancients built the GP of E using internal ramps. (Originality, I like it. And who knows, maybe they did? Brrrrr …)

Images uplifted with thanks from:


More soon but don’t wait up …



(as is often said)Death chattering

what it seems.

And fair enough too … except:

sometimes life is too complex to allow the philosopher or scientist to intrude. Like, like, like personally just live for yourself (and try to ‘let live’).

So in everyday life:  who the hell cares if we are all mostly just empty space? Certainly I don’t—if I have an itch I scratch it, if I thirst I guzzle a cuppa. Electrons in orbit, let ’em go spin themselves …


blasted angels can dance on the head of a pin*, or if Christ was a cowboy, or if Mohammed could be done for child molestation were he but alive today? And rightly so— or can exceptions be made for some selected fifty-year-olds who cheerfully bang nine-year-old little girls and brag about it?

Don’t ask me.

Ask the religious; for many millions of souls Uncle Mo is the Grand Ultimate Paradigm. I’m just one old dawg quietly thinking that where you have a contradiction at least one of its premises is wrong.

ye Gods


“Yes, Mr God, Sir?”

“They won’t like it, you know.”

“They don’t have to, Sir—I’m merely scratching an itch here.”

BOOM BOOM * I believe the answer some ecumenical pondering produced (after a great deal of intercourse) was: ten thousand. (I have no idea the margin of error.)


Death chattering.gifOR FREE?

You choose … but first, a quote—

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line, black

Screen Shot 2019-10-02 at 21.32.52.pngline, black

The theory I hold to is that you don’t choose, no-one can ever ‘choose’, that everything that ever was/is or shall be is rigidly fixed in Time and Space.

Free Will? Of course … we all have it, no?


And ‘no’ is not the answer you were wanting, is it? You were hoping I’d somehow bolster your delusions. Sorry, not this time. Sadly this is THE toughie and almost all folks fall at the foot of it—it’s so very very counter-intuitive. But here’s a thought you might find useful and helpful:



Feel better now?

And so you should because it is wrong. False, invalid, incorrect and a bit misleading too:

There is no change.

There cannot be change,


—and now that I’ve proven myself insane you may toddle off to bed secure in the knowledge that you are indeed free to choose; if educated you may even amuse yourself to sleep by dreaming up mathematical proofs destroying my statements.

And now, clever person, here’s an oldie but goody to help you sleep—I am told it was presented to a bunch of kids in a class and everybody ‘cept one said the answer (oh, so obvious!) was …the midpoint at noon!”  Yeah, sure …

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A monk must meditate all night alone atop a high mountain. So at sunrise he sets forth along the rough trail, sometimes picking his way most carefully between crags with precipitous falls for the unwary and sometimes clear stretches along which he can run freely—somewhere along the way he stops for a snooze, somewhere else he eats his sandwiches (saving some for the morrow).

He arrives exactly at sundown and spends a few hours meditating before falling asleep; to awaken refreshed and ready for the descent; once more leaving exactly at sunrise. Again his journey, downwards this time, is interrupted; by calls of nature, a sandwich, a wee brew break and occasional stops to admire the view. On the way down he runs, walks, stops, even takes a brief nap … and again arrives at exactly sunset. Wow!



Your question:

At some point along that trail he is in exactly the same place at exactly the same time on both days. You are invited to define that point …


it does tie in with the notion that there is no (R) NO freewill. (And be advised, I don’t like the expression ‘predetermined’) (or ‘preordained’).




I caught a snippet when passing through a webbie whose address I neglected to score. It was to the effect that Stephen Hawking threw a party with a special welcome for any Time Travellers who might attend … sadly none came; possibly because he posted the open invitation AFTER the party had taken place.




Aye, there’s the RUB …

ye Gods

referring to a source of more wisdom and greater solace than ever the Holy Babbles of any religious franchise can hope to claim. The Rubaiyat, officially approved by  —>

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referring of course to a work by a semi-obscure but powerful (!) Islamic mind some hundreds of years ago—a work which translated directly into English was obscure and almost meaningless; a work which once ‘translated’ (i.e. immensely enhanced) by an  almost unknown English clergyman became one of the modern greats (especially with we hippies).

Click the above quote for one of the many sources. Peruse, find one that appeals and curl up beneath a bough somewhere with a loaf of bread, gallon or two of a good red and whomesoever ringeth thy bell these days and get in amongst it:

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native school of thought …



That link again:




dodonever had pups or otherwise reproduced, I simply shrugged. Shrug. Will shrug. Think of the oriental concept of satori — how can one who’s been there explain it? Easier to explain sight to a man blind from before birth.

But often we stumble over helpfuls when researching something else—

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—and this verse had completely slipped my memory. But it explains nicely why I have never reproduced.

Make of it wot thou wilt …

dodododo                                                              dodo