Ken jy vir Tant Mossie?
Sy is familie van..
Groot Vogel aka die man met die groot …..
“Never Smile at a Crocodile” as written by Jack Lawrence and Frank Churchill.
Never smile at a crocodile
No, you can’t get friendly with a crocodile
Don’t be taken in by his welcome grin
He’s imagining how well you’d fit within his skin
Never smile at a crocodile
Never dip your hat and stop to talk awhile
Never run, walk away, say goodnight, not good-day
Clear the aisle but never smile at Mister Crocodile
You may very well be well bred
Lots of etiquette in your head
But there’s always some special case, time or place
To forget etiquette
Never smile at a crocodile
The play-pretend queen found a story about a ‘flute player”, and she would like to share it with you….
“A new flute was invented in China. A Japanese master musician discovered the subtle beauties of its tone and brought it back home, where he gave concerts all around the country. One evening he played with a community of musicians and music lovers who lived in a certain town. At the end of the concert, his name was called. He took out the new flute and played one piece. When he was finished, there was silence in the room for a long moment. There the voice of the oldest man was heard from the back of the room: “Like a god!”
The next day, as this master was packing to leave, the musicians approached him and asked how long it would take a skilled player to learn the new flute. “Years,” he said. They asked if he would take a pupil, and he agreed. After he left, they decided among themselves to send a young man, a brilliantly talented flutist, sensitive to beauty, diligent and trustworthy. They gave him money for the living expenses and for the master’s tuition, and sent him on his way to the capital, where the master lived.
The student arrived and was accepted by his teacher, who assigned him a single, simple tune. At first he received systematic instruction, but he easily mastered all the technical problems. Now he arrived for his daily lesson, sat down, and played his tune – and all the master could say was, “Something lacking.” The student exerted himself in every possible way, he practiced for endless hours, yet day after day, week after week, all the master said was, “something lacking.” He begged the master to change the tune, but the master said no. The daily playing , the daily “something lacking” continued for months on end. The student’s hope of success and fear of failure became ever magnified, and he swung from agitation to despondency.
Finally the frustration became too much for him. One night he packed his bag and slinked out. He continued to live in the capital city for some time, longer, until his money ran dry. He began drinking. Finally, impoverished, he drifted back to his own part of the country. Ashamed to show his face to his former colleagues, he found a bat far out in the countryside. He still possessed his flutes, still played, but found no new inspiration in music. Passing farmers heard him play and send their children to him for beginners’s lessons. He lived this way for years.
One morning there was a knock at his door. It was the oldest past-master from his town, along with the youngest student. They told him that tonight they were going to have a concert, and they had all decided it would not take place without him. With some effort they overcame his feelings of fear and shame, and almost in a trance he picked up a flute and went with them. The concert began. As he waited behind the stage, no one intruded on his inner silence. Finally, at the end of the concert, his name was called. He stepped out the stage in his rags. He looked down at his hands, and realised that he had chosen the new flute.
Now he realized that he had nothing to gain and nothing to lose. He sat down and played the same tune he had played so many times for his teacher in the past. When he finished, there was silence for a long moment. Then the voice of the oldest man was heard speaking softly from the back of the room: ” Like a god!”
quoted from a book I received as a gift recently called: “Free Play” by Stephen Nachmanovitch
Anyway, I hope you all had a wonderful Easter-weekend! Take care…xxx
Even though I stitch onto rubber almost every day, I find that some days I just want to play.
My playground/playthings = Sketchbook, magazines, scissors, glue and ink = making monsters!
The blink of an eye takes roughly 84 milliseconds. Within half that time, according to studies of perceptual illusions and false memories, you can tap the darkness within and conjure monsters for yourself.
Pictures and words – whether printed or orally transmitted – can serve as priming stimuli too. As members of a social species constantly transmitting ideas in the form of words and pictures, each of us is perpetually primed by cultural metaphor to know just what to do with primitive fears when they are triggered – we make monsters.
Point is, midnight visits to graveyards aren’t required for conjuring monsters. They are always with us, permanently stored in our brains as a form of false memory deposited for future use by the priming stimuli of our culture.
There is a perceptual underpinning to why, once triggered and thereby invited to come out and play, the monsters of our mind so often end up ruling the day – or at least dominating our thoughts and feelings for a time.
The phenomenon is called boundary extension, and it is strongly associated with false memory.
Show a person a picture in which only a portion of a house is visible, and the mind will construct a mental picture of what the rest of the house might look like. In other words, we extend the boundaries of what we see until it matches our culturally learned expectation of whatever a thing is supposed to look like.
“(What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves — our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies. Now that I’ve been one myself, I know.)”
― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin