Webdiary - Founded and Inspired by Margo Kingston

an albatross 龍 swan song

座座小橋通向天堂

"Why you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things is a virtue which has not been tested by fire."

From: The man that corrupted Hadleyburg – Samuel Langhorne Clemens

Flap, flap, plonk, flatter, flutter and fart – ouch… welcome dear friends, OUCH. I’m gunna have to be real quick here for at the moment I’m stuck in an orange swamp, up to me arse in purple crocs and trying to find the – OUCH – bloody plug (to drain the swamp), while thousands of terrorist coated warriors are chucking pebbles at me from the trenches. Not a pretty albatross, Audrey is in a flap, big time.

That’s what you get when you give up scotch and take the advice of your duck. In fact my present duck (who has a persistent cough and sniffs somewhat excessively) recommended a cure (for my pink elephant problem) and quacked/coughed out his instructions: he sent me on a geographical to a place of relief. For 27 RMB I purchased fine white powder in a small paper package.

Printed on one side of the package was a goldenelephant, on the other side a sinister looking goldenelephant laughing its head off. I gobbled the powder down just the same (as we do); so please understand dear reader ‘twas the goldenelephant’s fault.

And it probably explains why, as we speak, I’m having problems in a very colourful swamp. I don’t mind the cute, peace loving crocodiles at all – it’s those fucking annoying terrorist coated thingies – sheesh – they never give up. OUCH.

I’m gunna have to find meself another duck (again).

In situations like this ducks are bloody useless so I had to consult my Psych(o), a Madame Morpheus. I made contact. She said if I was totally fucked (“yet again”) in the head then “simply dream, at least you will do” – Ouch – “no harm.” She sounded somewhat dejected but that’s OK, she always sounded dejected, as far as I had observed.

“Just dream,” I replied, even a three toed Tasmanian fire breathing albatross can dream I thought, so I did. As it turned out it was the best advice I’d had in ages, for we all know that in a crises, it is sometimes best to do nothing, just dream. Oh, and then the Psych(o) very gently and with quavering voice asked to be paid for our previous 270 sessions. Mmmmmm.

Please heed my Psych(o)’s advice, dear reader, just in case you find yourself in a crisis having wasted/invested your moments in reading this; especially Eliot – nah – OUCH – only – OUCH – kidding – OUCH OUCH OUCH – E-l-io-t. Fuck off will ya…..OOOOUUCHH!!!!!!!

Mmmmm, another mystery solved.

Anyway, this piece of albatross insanity is dedicated to Webdiary and all who sail or have sailed in her, on her, around her, or up her, and to the friends I have yet to met who may happen upon this piece of insane seriousness – er – whatever you want to call it, whatever you can make of it.

Lately I've been a little busy getting re-acquainted with the noble art of bridge building; just a wee footbridge but a bridge nevertheless; for the time has come to reinvent oneself and flow with gentle abandonment along our universal and ever-present continuum – change.

I would dearly love to tell you a story with the (brutal) honesty it deserves. But I can’t. A story about a man, a gentleman and a gentle man who by comparison to my abandoned father was born at the antithesis of his social and political rainbow; yet in mind and kind they meet silently and peacefully at its centre.

It would have been a wonderful story for both men were of like mind and when tested in that fiery crucible of hate and war, corruption and moral treason, east and west, their ideological virtues became not just poetry, or conveniently compromised prose, but a living harmonic reality – to the benefit of all us punters.

That man, like my father, is a ghost now; he is the mythological flying dragon ghost. Sadly, unlike my father, this ghost has no name, the ghost has no name.

Unfortunately, fear robs me of telling you such a tale; fear not for myself but fear for my adopted family whom I love dearly, and most of all fear for my pumpkin, she’s my princess. Mrs Albatross – circa 1960:

That photograph is so very dear to me (usually only the chosen ones get to see it – but she’s cool this time for she has been building xiao bridges too); She is the most beautiful and innocent pumpkin I have seen, with a look that so touches, yet at the same time – haunts me. It is a personally deep and fascinating contradiction where all the mythological, historical and traditional ghosts of years gone by hide deep within the innocence of a child – one look; a child who began as a seed crystal of China’s belonging forever to the future, but not forgetting the past; a silk thread – a delicate and beautiful, yet determined and strong silk thread.

When I initially prepared my Pumpkin’s image I placed a black border around it. She politely informed me that black meant death in her tradition (superstition? – I’ve noticed most maps appear to separate countries with black borders) – so I took it off with respect; looks far better anyway.

Now who, in their right minds could bomb the arms and legs of such a beautiful and innocent creation of all the Gods in all the universes? Sadly, we civilized souls continue to do so on a daily bases. My Pumpkin becomes more beautiful as our moments pass; she is the love of my life. I thank god, on a daily basis, that all the gods in all the universes do show mercy upon some; or is the quality/quantity of mercy simply a matter of Chance, simply Being There – in the right place at the right time/s?

It is unfortunate governments chose to build walls of fear (some higher than others); that ubiquitous tool of control: psychological control, financial control or control by brute force that enables the few, the powerful to exercise their will upon others – usually the ordinary souls, the nobodies just like me and you, whom represent 99.9% of the family of humanity.

We are all connected – by 6 degrees, they say – and with a little reflection (and research) it would be hard to disagree, for today the physical and electronic opportunities allowing us to connect have grown exponentially. They continue to do so.

On occasions my Pumpkin likes to talk and tell stories (don’t they all, god love em) and some years ago in a hotel somewhere in the French Concession in old Shanghai she told me a lovely but sad tale of a nameless ghost; a magical flying dragon ghost who was once a handsome prince. He was a clever and broadly talented ghost – he was once a prince, and then a ghost and then he became two ghosts, all at the same time.

It’s a funny old world, you know; we read and listen (with manipulative imagery) to stories in the media; too often these so called “true” stories are simply fantasy wrapped up in a riddle and regurgitated as fact. Mushroom clouds, 45 minutes; as we already know the truth about Iraq I have no intention of resurrecting that debacle, yet it remains (like a ghost in the closet) a fine illustration of the above observation directed at reporting, journalism and the corporate media today.

If that be the case why not turn a truth on its head, its antithesis? A story about fact wrapped into an enigma and presented as pure fantasy. Dialectical journalism? Hehe. And along the way allow ourselves to return to the kiddie within and visit that magical and secure world of fun and fantasy.

Before I take my (permanent) leave (to continue building wee footbridges across wee burns) it would be nice to have a bit of naughty albatross (and dragon) fun with some of the people I have connected with and dearly respect (for all reasons great and small) here at Webdiary; one degree of electronic separation.

Come dear friends, let me take you by the hand, and lead you through the streets of Zhong Guo; a dialectical magical mystery tour into the dungeons and dragons deep in the heart of the Middle Kingdom reaching all the way back to the Tang Dynasty.

Enjoy a few postcards as truth turns into fantasy, while fantasy turns into truth; if only in a small way. (Thanks, P F Journey, for the recipe/s – enjoyed the food and enjoyed your earlier dialectical thread which lives on, as my recipe).

And dear reader, if you so desire, try to find the key that will lead you to a name, the name of the wandering Flying Dragon Ghost/s.

The postcards shall be presented in no particular order and in some cases I have had to (with tears) censor them to protect the identities of pumpkins and angels.

Apologies for the albatross quality of the pics; I’m afraid to admit that was the consequence of stupidity followed by laziness, fine white powder, bars but not bordellos and the innocent gaze of my little slice of China, as she connects with me – and you.

Oh and Audrey plans NOT to go out all quite and peaceful like; she has a score to settle BIG TIME – she is going to let you humanites know how SHE feels about that Ancient Mariner thing from HER point of view. So there!!!! We are going to establish some type of understanding us simple creatures. AREN’T WE!!!!

The first batch of postcards from Audrey Albatross should be arriving soon (I hope), and sincerely dedicated (with a helium heart and methane mind) to: dear Eliot Ramsey.