Today I shall use this as an on-line diary, or to use the American term “Journal”.

I have translated “Pyrrha” twice, one straight foward, a “strong” translation, the other nearer to Horace’s intention. For his odes were meant for oral telling by reciters and story-tellers and would be full of “nudge-nudge”. “Unhappy” for example was a Latin slang term for sexually frustrated. Did Horace mean that? The references to the sea and the waves suggested “sperm” and “ovum” and so on, it did to the inscriptions found on Hadrian’s Wall (for example). But of course did Horace know that? His odes are full of such things, like Shakespeare though, he could go only so far. “Aye, there’s the rub” indeed!

Well, my last entry caused so many interesting comments that it became the first such set to be printed out and kept.

  Once again, I’ll like to thank everyone, well, almost everyone! I think I’ll leave off the subject for a while and return to my life-history, though as I got “sent” an Horace Ode, I had to translate that, I am pleased how much Latin I remembered.

  I speak my mind with my own comments, if I love a poem I will say I do, I will not lie, and a lot of you are worthy poets and others need only encouragement, which I am happy to give.

  I do not hate anyone as such, I am not programmed to hate, but of course there are certain concepts that make me ill, because they are illogical. Astrology, religion, racism… all have no basis in cold logic, though I have explained, I do live in cliches, though I try my best not to.

If I think you are beautiful I’ll call you that, though of course I’ll try to keep a lid on it, I see some young men as beautiful not for any sexual reason, but because I find them perfect, as for young women…But I will keep my lusts to myself other than in my poems (and translations!) Some of Xanga’s are rude, that is natural, andmany bloggers are as thick as two planks, rather than tell them that, I stay away from their inane ramblings. Also, I always stay away from anyone who wishes me to. Screw them!

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I never wanted pen-pals Such an idea seemed so naff, But since the internet, People I have never met Have often made me laff! As for reading famous books That has gone to the dogs, I find reading much more fun On forums, on eMails And most of all, on your blogs! Terry   ————– Next entry: Some of my hobbies!

I receive eMails from Xangians who do not really understand that my views are mere mirrors of my perception. They do not understand that having been born with aspergers syndrome, I can not empathize with others. That does not mean I am cold-hearted, though I might have been born that way. I do understand pain, I have had pain, I do understand death of loved ones, I have had loved ones who died, what I do not understand is the basic differences between people.

An American case in point. Dean has to pretend to be devout, a strong Christian, to get votes from the Bible-South. What does that tell me, as someone with no Empathy? Not so much that they are all bigotted red-necks who love God and hate black people, but that Dean is not a worthy person to lead any American party. Now I expect that reads like an anti-American rant, and indeed it is. But if I see Americans as bible-belting gun-tootin’ racists, that is only because that is the view I have gained. You will not change that view by insulting me but by enlighting me. My views on life are those of pure ignorance, despite my IQ being 179.

But I have no hatred or anger, and I know my views are what they are because I have no understanding of reality, and I beg Americans to show me that I am wrong, not that I am a fool.

Some of you won’t read this because you have already fallen out with me, sadly I see you people to be akin to the teachers who belted me with the cane because they did not understand what it was like not to understand.

Those who are still reading though are of course of better substance, and I appeal to you all to change my cliches, you can never change how I can not empathize, that is impossible, but you can change how I view life.

For a long time I HATED Aussie people, why? Because of a teacher from Australia who used my unhappy childhood to bugger me. For a long time I viewed ALL Australian men as child molesters until I began to work with a man who was not, then of course my perceptions changed. That is how I am.

If any of you find me insulting then maybe it’s not because I am rude or angry, but because I can only see humanity as fiction.

A poet who writes under many names, most of them female might seem very empathic, and it is true I have learnt empathy until I am more empathic than 99 % of people, but the empathy is fiction, as ficticios as the people I write under.

Most of you reading this will be Americans, that is why I have dwelled on that country, but I am the same with everyone.

Please forgive me, and please teach me the right way, but no religion conversations, that will be a step too far. Religion has nothing to do with Empathy,  I do know that many religious people are warm and kind (and many are not) but I will never believe, never again. What I need to know is that my simple, my stupid, views on how other people live and how they act are not the complete jig-saw.

I wrote a poem once:

My life is a jigsaw puzzle, (it began)

Please help me to find all of the pieces…

 

Terry.

Postscript on the 25 comments. Italian has it all wrong, as does those who STILL think I was dissing Americans when I am not. I know some people do not understand the concept of what I have wrote, and of course the younger of you might still assume I was writing about hate. But of course I was not. When I was young no one bandied words like “asperger’s” or “autism” I was just called selfish, thick and uncaring. Medicians can not cure something that does not exist. What tablets are there to make a blind man see or a man with no legs, jog? What is not there can not be cured. A man without a head does not need to blow his nose.

I asked for understanding that when I upset people unintentionally, I am not doing it because of hate or bigotary, but because I can only learn from others. Give me a hug and I say you love me, give me the finger and I say you hate me (unless I know you are doing it for a wind-up). It is how I am, some of you get it, some of you do not. I do not want to think in stereotypes, and in a way I do not. But there is only one way for me to learn and that is by reading, I can not really understand life any other way. If sixty people from say, Easter Island, was in contact with me, and 57 of them told me that they worshipped the stone heads, then the three others will have to tell me  19 times that not everyone from Easter Island worships the heads – to even things out.

To those (at least 3 in the below comments) whom I have offended, forgive me, but remember I can not do any more than explain how I am, not unless any of you can wave a magic wand. I am trying my best, I always try my best, it is all I can promise. Let’s be friends.

Thank you all, esp Little Egypt for going to so much trouble!

Terry.

 

Isis Lock, Oxford

 

Southsea, Portsmouth.

		Chesterfield’s “Crooked Sphire” Church

I thought three photos from my collection will make a change from poetry! I must get back to my life-history though!

“Poets can laugh and they can cry, sometimes though they find that crying takes over their damned poetry and depresses everyone” Philip Larken: “Notes”

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Five days in a little country village in The Cotswolds.

I haven’t wrote anything of worth, but it has been an old-fashioned Christmas. Southrop has no shop and it’s pub isn’t worth going in, but I didn’t care. My grandson took me around his village and we walked to the next (two miles away), in not bad weather. There was very little telly, and lots of food and drink.

But the best thing about a small village is the peace. No yobs, no police sirens, no noisy neighbours, just a closed school, a small church and a small river.

I felt I could live in such a village (though one with a decent pub!) for the rest of my life, for there are few distractions from writing.

The one drawback is my daughter thinks I have wasted my life writing poetry.

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I told my grandson

A poem by Walter de la Mere,

When we were in a wood

Near his village.

 

“Grandpee told me a poem!”

He said to his mother

Who looked at me coldly and said

“I don’t want him growing up

To be a useless poet,

I want him to be happy,

Let him play football for example

That way he will make money

And do something useful

With his life.”

Southrop Church.

School (Grandson forth from right)

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Lord Pineapple

 

I’ll be here again when I feel better and when I stopped writing poetry under assumed names! Lord Pineapple Reading pic.

 

 

Centre, the stone house was where I lived for many years welst working as a reporter.