Leigh and Rodney extol the virtues and the negatives of people leaving their homeland

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#HarryandMegan #Costablancaandvalencia #migration #Alicante

It is part of being human to want people to think you are absolutely fabulous.

Even if you’re just an Ordinary Joe, or a wallflower wife or the bloke who works down the chip shop, you want to be thought of as something special.

But what if – in the lardy, oily, fiery, fat-dripping confines of the chippy – your boss gives you a good battering every day?

Or what if you are a good wife?

You know you are loving, caring, nurturing. And above all else, honest. But in reality, behind your nice middle-class white UPVC front door, there is a war of attrition being waged against you by somebody you loved.

And when you go out to Tesco with your handsome, Mondeo driving middle manager husband, do you hide your disappointment, fear, heartbreak and despair behind a Benidorm smile?

Do you feel suicidal? But above all, believe your children need their daddy in their lives come what may?

So, you spend your life feeling lower than your Labrador’s feeding bowl…

Or what if you are Ordinary Joe – or Ordinary Dave, or Jeff, or Pete – and you work shifts and overtime at the local pie factory and get lunch six times a week at Greggs for convenience?

After all, that’s your role isn’t it ‘mi old sausage’!

But what do you do when you get home a bit tired – looking forward to a cuddle with the kids and a couple of hours with Judge Judy and the Simpsons perhaps – and you are met with a flying pan, plates spinning through the air, slashing nails, snarling teeth, insults and hysteria.

And your kids are cringing in fear.

Or what if your elderly mother has Munchausen’s and blames you personally for the cancer she had 67 years ago and has never shut up about since? What if your Dad is a drunken bully without a brain who tells you still, on a daily basis, what a waste of space you are?

However, what if all of these people are actually in your lives right now and have been for decades?

There they are squatting inside your mental health, using it as a rooming house for their own very dark hearts…

Yes! There he is, the narcissistic boss who controls your future. And there she is! The hysterical wife who controls your children. Oh! And there, having a Pinnocollada at the tiki bar with a plastic palm tree, is the show-off husband who controls the roof over your head with a cowardly iron fist hidden inside a kid glove.

 And worst of all, right there by your side are your twisted parents, those who deliberately arrested your childhood development so they could control you forever.

With all these demonising evil people in your life, how are you ever going to feel absolutely fabulous again?

Or even remotely happy.

Narcissism, in simple terms, is psychotic selfishness … a rabid sense of entitlement, a disturbing lack of empathy, a no-holds need for admiration fished for with a poisoned hook, a vicious fantasy and unbridled aggression.

Munchausen is also psychotic selfishness but these people use real and imagined illnesses as their weapons of choice. These people trap you like a fly and keep you in a jam jar on their nicely polished sideboard for their friends to see.

Sadly, there is very little hope of a Narcissist or Munchhausen-ist ever being cured – they never want to be, you see, because all would be revealed. Besides, controlling is far more fun than caring.

The other reason there is very little hope of them ever being cured is simply this; to a man and woman they are inveterate fantasists, liars and abusers.

But that is exactly what they accuse you of.

#narcissists #munchhausen #abuse #control

A true story of absolute horror

Picture this … a 95-year-old granny suffering dementia, is leaning heavily on her zimmerframe and moving slower than a snail round a specialist care home.

Clare Newland – who once, for a few minutes, was the ‘darling’ of the Australian nation – is in the home because she is very very old indeed and suffers from dementia.

The problem is that Clare has a steak knife in her hand.

Now, look again…

Clare is lying in a pool of blood on the tiled floor, shaking and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog shot in the outback.

She has just been tasered TWICE by police called by carers who were obviously frightened for the safety of others because of the knife.

When Clare fell to the floor with a potential 50,000 volts coursing through her frailty, she smashed her skull in.

As I write this it is unlikely that she is still alive. When she arrived in hospital it was discovered that her brain was bleeding.

The brave officers had been called to Yallambee Lodge in Cooma, New South Wales, for some reason not explained yet.

Or can there be any explanation in fact?

The early-hours incident has sparked an outcry and

the New South Wales police chief has said an investigation is under way.

Well at least Clare can rest in peace can’t she, if the police are investigating why they tasered a quite famous old lady with an average size knife in her gnarled hand.

Assistant Police Commissioner Peter Cotter told us that

two officers and care home staff tried to de-escalate the situation, before she began moving towards them – “it is fair to say at a slow pace”, he said.

But Clare was ‘armed’ with a dangerous weapon, so what else could two police officers and specialist care home staff be expected to do but taser her within a gnat’s eye of her life?

“She had a walking frame. But she had a knife,” Cotter said.

Family friend Andrew Thaler made the initial claim that Ms Nowland was struck twice – in the chest and the back – before she fell, suffering a fractured skull.

“The family are shocked, they’re confused… and the community is outraged.

“How can this happen? How do you explain this level of force? It’s absurd.”

Mr Thaler described Ms Nowland as being “a great service to the community and her church, very fondly regarded by a lot of people”.

She appeared on TV in 2008 to mark her 80th birthday by skydiving over Canberra.

The NSW Council for Civil Liberties and People with Disability Australia, said:

“She’s either one hell of an agile, fit, fast and intimidating 95-year-old woman, or there’s a very poor lack of judgement from those police officers.”

The care home, which is run by the Snowy Monaro Regional Council, has defended its response. They followed procedures.

Yallambee Lodge opened in 1995 and looks after residents with “higher needs”, according to its website.

Ms Nowland has lived at the home for more than five years,

#tasered #95 #carhome #australia #nsw

Our surrealist writer ERIC LASTICK this week investigates a stringed and wired hero of our time…

JIMI OF WALLS AND BRIDGES: Seattle island urban three-storey high…builds of a red house over yonder. Jimi Hendrix stamped and owned on the exterior wall. Afro and moustache trademark a stellar vibe of his guitar. And as if to see it, and believe in the mighty power of electrified slides…chords to dazzle the highest of Rock Idols. The winds and cries of  Mary. The cutting groove of the notes to measures. Above what could be mentioned, then more! One can only try and imagine standing next-ed and by the fire. ”Let me stand. Oh let me try?”

The drug  addled culture spins…jams and upper octave climbs…all through the hours, until morning colors rave over the cool rain of this Seattle sky. Cool blues dilly dally the mellow return to the sober hours of 9 to 5. Crystal and candle set the scene of a lighter smoke clearing…see thru it all. Best known guitar player… a double-sided sword of excess and self serves. Deem of a Rock God in the forevermore. Wade upon a cloud and streamers of yesterday’s dies…dues on this damned kind of life. Room filled pot seeds scatter the cross-lane traffic of copiers, light on the fringe. Trips and reds all over. Studio sending another lower climb to the flatbed. Jimi, all of 27…as we sadly said our last goodbyes. Honest men see the light out of the dark and day…as the ultimate Jimi Hendrix experience lives on.

JIMI’S JAMS AND GROOVES WITH TEXAS BLUES GUITARIST, JOHNNY WINTER; 

 Salt shaker peppered blues…white lightening electric buzz…black latter rumbles—warp drives of 6 was 9. Flash curtains—humbles in the wisdoms of connective chords. Owners draw the next playback…shake the groove. Bumble rifts off center stage go the fallen of nearly anybody else’s guitar touch…riff scales, the corner bar of attempting supreme. Rudimentary blues be the puzzle that jets these 2 masters. Set in the salt and pepper shakers of every high bridge…draw straight up a musical echo…and lathe highway—too the writes of the skies! Girls search like bubble puppies—so too state…& prized! Aero lift never higher. Swell ladies raise skirted climbs tall as trees… and as right there, the acid heads wonder which one, flowers and blossoms to the sounds and combos of Hendrix; and of Texas Blues man Winter. Tuck-in you’re guitar strings like dances…white hairs under his hat. Paisley purple, ” wince worry” clear out of the fog. And so roll the band of Gypsy’s. The firewater applause, equal the pain of the abuser. Purple haze is a luxury—right before the jet engines spark loud of the next town. Salt and pepper know no reason to live a hundred years…buzzes in the seasons of the best grown herbs…finest brand whiskey and chaser at midnight. Army ladies of night-winds and carriers. ”I’ll bet lashes and silk stockings are the real curl…verses a phoney terrible establishment, centered in take-down…and in all its sinister greed. Salt shaker peppered blues enters of the heated lasted nights!” MISTER JIMI, WHEN THE MUSIC FAILS, HOLD BACK THE MOUNTAIN…MOUNTAINS OF DREAMS: Hendrix on the fires of amber forever blues. His Afros and curly spreads of creative crosstown minded eyes. 3rd strums of eyed requests. Nailed down the heavens…& it’s early arrives. Summit likes of fingers fretboard surreal. Color and comic, the science fiction—trucking—high fly of noted know-how for the earth’s below. Beggar dance, the band of Gypsy’s. Run and play…skipper claws, the cowers of the muse. The takes of industries. Jimi about to play by the Whiskey. Monterrey seems of so long—too a couple years stay. Well stone imaged of the glory of bonfire burning a guitar, held upside and reverse down. Sign it, and sing of a man finding his highest of highs—over the Waterfront of music man, in humble spades. Money only a toy to the willing. Music business a profit margin sum for one. Musician go back to play. Fury are the managers that say how and when you send. Money hungry old hogs in the pile of loot. Poor boy of only money wealth, is not rich at all! Jimi knew the mission only accomplishes by bettering the stakes. ‘For Christ sakes, it was his music. HIS art, in which to never surrender to the establishment, and it’s center core.” Only reachable bottom lines. Then, the music fails. Falsehood is no honor amongst thieves ; and of those in the watchtower. Dig me up a new theme of joy to our creator Jimi, the music you can. The music you really want to make, beyond the top 40 chart benders. Barrels aim of a stagnant end. No more reaches past the simple minds, when a bigger picture yearns, in all the burns of the creative process; that looms and consumes. High times is just short lived. Ample Ernie is in a hurry to the slag styles of curtain’s open draws. No slicks of hair dyed middle ages, done of centuries…depleted be of a nighttime  ritual glory faker

Rodney and Leigh discuss the Cloud over our society – come and join them…

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A three part story-adventure of the Doors’ vocalist, Jim Morrison

Another stunning piece of surrealism from The Society’s resident writer ERIC LASTICK ….

 ( PART 1) 

 CRYSTAL SHIP IN WAKING HOURS: A genesis on board. Crystal take wave…of waters of ship too sail, “the poetic” on time of hypnotic float …paddle to it’s form. Know of the ship…It’s  crystal insides. Jim’s world & all our world’s, inn opener of message, as if in bottle-spring”, straight through time. What a spectacular built ship this night to these forwards; in past, present tense—-too the moment of poetic lines. Future song among the generational pull of the seas…in upcoming days, years…and journey’s for all; trust and linger. An Opus ring…treasure blend of no end. Sea through channels, only Jim can see. Gem a lobe, an ear to hear—-as the Crystal ship reminds of almost Nursery rhythms for the sleepy-eyed wonders of the sea… as moonlight approaches, the gold deck of kid-like frolic…step into the night, by day…day towards night.

 (PART 2)

 PAM AND JIM MORRISON: Exiles from the forefronts of ”Rock ‘n’ Roll”

 PARIS POET, Jim Morrison, riding the causeway of tender leads—towards the northern river…and sways through the high hills of green—as the Ireland mind lends of bloodlines of time. In 1971 Pam and Jim rejoice a new life…and that being of France. Centering fine spirits of olden Bush-mills. Sips, then gulps too dances and riches, as boyfriend, girlfriend—too a new day, nineteen seventy one…as a fast growing poet on the lend; and in all the absences and forefronts of his command of ”Rock’n’ Roll” (When the music’s over)

 Love lasts in the craziest sly of the poet. The lion themed, in tastes too— not conquer of art, but to sip through these Bush mills—of someplace else, other than the doors that perceive. Allegorical be of the olive branch, verses the unknowns and bewares there of the unknown soldier” An old admiral helper-hand of Southeast Asia’s, ”Gulf of ton-waters”.  ”NO NEVER”, as Jim once implied, to which his very own kind…and it’s bloodline were all distant dead, in these eyes that which beholds! Next, as the Ray Manzarek organ streams of consciousness. The lighten fire. The pyre of  sorely and sour things…and all love of passion. The very riches of family and friends… disclosed a special bin of all those yesterday events. And rather close— of the doors that perceive. His obsession of sex and death, as a black magic—too never draw a line in the hot of the sands—too those infatuation dances on the hot rails…circuses and lewd drinking ends, in a Dade county Florida, Cooper-rue in Blue. A coat and badge beat squad …as Jim sung for it’s shorten everlasting …when the music’s over”.

Jim’s main squeeze, Lady love, Pamela…a sudden whelp of the heavies—too those so— sad stamped, hit travels. The frequent of the Paris winds. Odd ball poet’s themes—too a needle tracked infernal! Metaphor is all to real—too her man’s end! The bathtub last breath…pulse reads of negative zero. Cold stored wrappings of luke warm to cold of Morrison’s last day. The strange of the Paris twists. Turns a final hedge stone—as the alley cats great groupings…and uneasy stay-ed of the poet… and legendary rocker at the grave grounds of these Paris holds!

(PART 3)

 CATS OUT UNDER THE STARS: Quarter till three. Quarter moon, deep cat-nip slumber…weigh the night—order-up the melatonin. The vitality of all those yesterdays. Hallowed flare…buried tall tale weeds where dreams still, ”mean to mend”. To fix in a darkened furred dream.

DREAM SEQUENCE…imagine a typical back alley-way; as i, the whole embodiment of a Tom cat—and right along with another, to the prowling  and poking out of the cold darkened alleyways of an Urban setting…as 2 brash fireballs—leap up the fire escapes… and back sections of the poorer classes. Jim, my Tomcat colleague in crime, fearlessly takes too the very top of a dumpster, in a rather self driven dive-bomb effort; rummaging through discards of stale bread and salad sides. Fish-heads staring back at him .. by an old corner restaurant. Tomcat Jim, with eyes in a line of a ”dozen-set” of fish eyes, that gleam in the night watch, of a burly grimy dressed— a white smock man, ditching trays of dried egg—while Jim goes face down in his whiskered malaise, at his first-come, first-serve, wildcat indulgences. This gruff looking man begins to smack the handle end of his broom, attempting too shoo away, Jim, the Tomcat…who runs from harms way.A restless yell of ”Varments” ”street thugs” ”Misfits” Echos the backstreets we run… alongside the familiar face of Jim Morrison, rock star legend, in actual cat form! Check paw too tail, as two fleeting cats on the go…riders of a hateful human storm. Sledging through life’s rains. Towering lions allude the attack, yet scavengers that we are, as. Morrison begins to stir crush and gutted by claw of the opportunity of a back alley hunt… with 2 cats on the move—too have our fun, tangled in the mischief all of the night, in a cat nip trove…dizzying and drunk-like fun!

SEND FOR ME, MY OWNER…just not tonight. Cats out under the stars. Street derelicts, grease filed walls. Sips of cheap dirt wine. A bum loses over a ”pop can” of gravy train, as Morrison quick-step and a cat arm wave…as he celebrates with his tooth grip can in mouth! The mean loud and stumble bum, one by one too their own cornered expressions—and share in bottle breath…reek and bottled of ten land bastards of blackened dark gray, as they are complicated. Gray ticks in the stillness and ugliness—where film noirs,  of like dreams. Serotonin at twelve after three…leaked are the thoughts, fears and visions of two poets in two distinct parallel realms! Seems so real, of all the endeavors of ink pages…paper leaflets scatter, as Jim, the Tomcat, drinks from a pet bowl of a last days whiskey, in the vanities and throwaways of all yesterdays. Self hate berate and minimizes a belief and self worth. Call it psychological cat warfare—too the stirs and fangs. Some may call it witchery of such high intensity. The intellectual best suited ways of upping the ante. Yet deep down in this drenched wine bath dream, a literary angle turn to a beggar of the soul, in realms and back alleyways, never writing quite up to speed. Esoteric in an inescapable bitter claw…as cats drop their pens, doing the better part of nine lives. Canterbury muse pass down the flash pan alley—two poet cats who fight and fester…and in need to put a lid to an under tail. Two cats raise coattails of poets past…as 2 cats under the stars. In Dreams…in wonders. Though a plain of existences to learn from…and wake the day with a simple reason and joy of the written word—too it’s truest sense in one good night sleep. When the music’s over, turnout the lights.

#jimmorrison #thedoors

Howdyado everybody! Welcome aboard Leigh’s preservation society – it’s become a bit of a runaway since surrealist writer Eric Lastick began steering! Thanks mate!

However, some people are a bit confused by the intention of the site The Leigh G Banks Preservation Society – Surviving life with laughter, literature and love… but the answer is really there in the title.

It all began during Covid when we were living and working in Central Europe… our news agency, broadcasting and events business caught the bug and died.

But we wanted to save some of the work we’d been doing, and The Preservation Society was born – the clue came from this very old brilliant song The Kinks – The Village Green Preservation Society – YouTube

New members have asked why other news – other than about Dylan – appears on the site … well, the original site was there to stand up for people who were having problems and we began to focus on Parental Alienation, problems with child support. And of course, Bob Dylan!

So, some news of the day, like the Ukraine, Trump, ‘Richy’ Sunak, PA stories and different things do appear … they are worth reading and commenting on.

And so is the work by The Society’s resident writer Eric Lastick, he is one of the best surrealists I’ve been involved in many years …

Then of course there is my writing on Dylan, my true literary, rock n roll and cerebral hero for more decades than I care to remember.

The site is also there to get Eric’s writing and mine to people and we are happy for people to send their thoughts, pictures, writings, songs etc etc etc for publication, possibly on the site. What we won’t do however is baldy promote businesses, publications that have no story to tell, other than they want to sell you something.

Once again, thank you for joining us and let’s share some literature, laughter and love!

Cheers everybody!

So, the lid may have finally closed on justice for a teenage boy

The woman whose claims led to the torture and murder of teenaged Emmett Till, has died at the age of 88.

The Calcasieu parish coroner’s office in Louisiana confirmed the death of Carolyn Bryant Donham, Mississippi. She had cancer and was in hospice care.

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In 1955, Emmett Till was 14 when, while visiting his family in Mississippi, he was accused by Donham, then aged 21, of whistling, making lewd comments and grabbing her.

Days later, Till was kidnapped at gunpoint by two white men. Evidence indicated that a woman, thought to be Donham, identified Till to them.

We carried this story a while ago, when it first came to public notice again…

Leigh G Banks writes: The little hamlet of Money is notorious. Yet few have heard of this tiny Mississippi delta settlement.

Way back in the Fifties – when its reputation became forever linked with racism, bigotry and child murder – Money was said to be a ‘fine’ place to live…

...or die because of the colour of your skin.

It was a tin-roof town with a giant cotton gin and a church. And that was about it except for Bryant’s, a grocery store where locals, including the families of black share-croppers, would gather.

Then it all went wrong … a black teenager smiled at a white man’s wife. The teenager was called Emmett Till.

Emmett was a 14-year-old African-American boy from Chicago, and was visiting his uncle Moses Wright.

It was August 1955 and black boys and girls weren’t allowed to flirt. But he tried it with Carolyn Bryant – who owned the store with her husband Roy.

She was supposedly scared. Emmett was tortured, hanged and thrown over the a bridge near the fabled Tallahatchie Bridge.

It was Roy and his half-brother, J.W. Milam, who did it.

Money, Money, Money – it was a white man’s world.

Bob Dylan took up the cudgel and wrote the Ballad of Emmett Till.

He wrote: “And then to stop the United States of yelling for a trial

Two brothers they confessed that they had killed poor Emmett Till

But on the jury there were men who helped the brothers commit thisawful crime

And so this trial was a mockery, but nobody seemed to mind

I saw the morning papers but I could not bear to see

The smiling brothers walkin’ down the courthouse stairs

For the jury found them innocent and the brothers they went free

While Emmett’s body floats the foam of a Jim Crow southern sea

If you can’t speak out against this kind of thing, a crime that’s so unjust

Your eyes are filled with dead men’s dirt, your mind is filled with dust

Your arms and legs they must be in shackles and chains, and your blood it must refuse to flow

For you let this human race fall down so God-awful low!”

And then there is the fiction: Bobbie Gentry’s Ode to Billie Joe

#bobdylan #emmetttill

In the late 70s i was living that grand old hippy life of strange cigarettes, crash pads with cushions for floors and velvet curtains for walls … it was quite magical!

The Hari Krishna temple used to visit – and so, believe it or not did, Edgar Broughton with members of his Big Band … oh, how we danced and laughed heheheh!

Anyway, after one visit by the templers and the broughton-ers i found a copy of Blonde on Blonde by Bob Dylan! It had no info on the disc itself and the label was plain white with only two big black capital letter words on it – TEST PRESSING.

I had found the original test pressing of Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde! it was more important than the Holy Grail, so. … i acquired it.

I kept it for years until i got divorced … incredibly the record was amongst the things i forgot to take away with me in that masculine moment of leaving home forever.

I went back for it a few months later and my dear ex-wife had helped the children to turn the discs into two matching ashtrays!

Rodney and Leigh investigate why the maths of business don’t always add up. We need to do our sums…then they go to war over Nukes

#maths #Nukes #war

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