RIGHT ROYALLY PISSED OFF

Just in a right royal mood. That's why I started this blog. Just to let the steam off before I explode. Having a bit of a stressful kind of a weekend anyways. Bit sad. Bit tooshy without any little irritations to IRK me.
Kind of settled with Izzy on a trip to Coffs Botanical Gardens as a balm for injured feelings. Looked it up on the net. OPEN TILL 5PM.So we drive off to Coffs, locate said Gardens and park beside the fabulously wealthy.
Get to the entrance. WINTER HOURS. GATES LOCKED AT 4pm. CAFE CLOSED.

Now I check my Blog called THE OLD PROVERBIAL RECOVERY and find that AA has closed down the website that was putting the DAILY REFLECTIONS online. Now I am really right royally pissed off. I am surviving on the archaic ship of Recovery which is truly in the hands of 3 Fellowships or more which have leaking holes and which refuse to put the sails up let alone add engines. 

LOVE THE MANY

TRUST THE FEW

LEARN TO PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE.

I had best keep paddling because their adamant refusal to move into the 21st Century is strangling them.  INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY says the dear little USA Blossom from AA WORLD SERVICES. Intellectual Property indeed !!!!! And as for the NA it sends out daily reflections in hidden emails for which you have to be confirmed. No allowing the Addict in need to stumble across a phrase or a reading which might save a life or two. 

What are we ? A secret Society ????????

I had already reached a place of wondering about how the Fellowships are meeting my needs nowadays and the needs of the people I see around me. The answer was already NOT VERY WELL and I don't like what they are becoming. Capitalist Logic can make anything seem logical. 

As for me - any protests left in me tonight ? Hmmmm. 

I might just put the LES MURRAY poem in that I use when the world takes me by shock.  And that includes the barbarism of the 'medicine ' I saw used last year and the inexcusable neglect by palliative care. 

Tennis Eddie's blue flame of outrage seems to have hit a gas leak with me tonight and I am in danger of causing an explosion or one of Marian's bushfires. 

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.

The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us

trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.

Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit—
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it

and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body

not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea—
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.

Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.

from
The Weatherboard Cathedral, 1969