Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Monday, 18 November 2013

On Failure

Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, 'ere break of day...
Success is rare, fleeting, and not what most people believe it to be. Like the opposition in Russia 1855-1964 it is hard to trace a case where success was made or where they were effective. Peasants rose and were quashed, achieved effectiveness and then were crushed and left with no hope so that by the time succour arrived in the form of Khrushchev they had neither hope nor recourse when the Virgin Lands failed and brought dust and death. Nationalities rose and took their flight only to find themselves betrayed and handed over by their Western allies or else broken on the back of the Nazi wheel to actually anticipate liberation by the Soviet forces.

Culture in a study on glass plates.
Russian Empire, 1912.
Under the Tsars there was undirected brutality and destruction, pour encourager les autres, followed by nationalistic chauvinism and destruction of culture. The Soviets celebrated the different cultures whilst undermining their underpinnings and purging all those who were less orthodox. The successes, fleeting, were themselves terrible and made matters worse: the destruction of the Provisional Government in an armed coup by the Bolsheviks, harnessing a genuine desire to see the end of a terrible war and the end of political strife. Followed by a terrible Civil War in which the most Pyrrhic of all victories was won. Then the ousting of the errant Khrushchev by the Brezhnev clique in 1964, dooming the USSR to moribund economic stultification and sure death. An assassination of Alexander II leading to the 'silence of the graveyard' under his son, Alexander III and the voluntary, almost relieved, abdication of Nicholas II don't even count as successes for the opposition however fleeting.

The Girlie had reached insanity.
Went to sleep easy enough.
Suspect Maccy Dee's as the reason.
Not my choice, but I am not at home.
So it is in life and relationships. Tilly seems to care, offering help and time and space when I am depressed - she helps keep the wolves at bay. But only so long. She is no more interested in my emotional state than I in hers or those of my children. Sleepless nights, disturbed sleep and nothing I can do - I try keeping the Boy at bay but am beaten by... I don't actually know what. Tilly grows tired, irritable, defensive. The kind of mood that when I have it Tilly says she feels bound to attack and grow angry with. I do not react that way, of course, because I am a coward. Girlie vomits on the stairs, I return to Tilly in the kitchen and the house in a state I am all too familiar with. Of course I tidy, attempt to clean, engage with tired and ill-looking children. I shoot down my Boy's expectations by not joining him in bed, averting my eyes from his tired and pleading face. Tilly retires, as usual, to a different room. This time the bedroom rather than the kitchen.

They have always been there, on the front lines of the
coming revolutions. For no revolution is safe whilst
women are ignored and a great many more fail when
support is withdrawn.
Different but equal?
Oh, Adolf, you crack me up.
But...
But.
A small victory with a semi-difficult class at work, enough to get a lesson through, and enough to make me feel that maybe I'm not fighting a losing battle there. Comparisons made to their last teachers, both Doctors, but the arrows go wide and do not wound - I have played this game myself too often and know how to dodge and tell the right story. A colleague, also new, a safe pair of hands who is a lovely person but, when the time comes, I doubt very much will rise to the occasion and be a good enough teacher to beat a good field. And I feel bad because I have been there once, but I learned quickly because there was no support and a much harsher teacher than I. Perhaps I am too nice? An interjection from the Head, a sulk with near tears and once again I am cast in the role of comforter without really knowing what comforting is. A new student, Asperger's, placed in my form because of my understanding. And I wonder - is it idle boasting that has brought me here?

And I lie. I cheat. I manipulate. As I always do. And here, even here, I am not so much honest as ranting. Garnering sympathy for the unsympathetic and understanding for the inscrutable. "Does History record any case where the majority was right?" and I find myself in agreement - it does not. "Historians are dangerous people," wrote Khrushchev, "they could ruin everything". In that sense, I am very much a historian.




"History will be kind to me, for I intend to write it" - Churchill.
"My blog is kind to me, for I write it."

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