If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
To say something is meaningful is to say that that is how we arrange it so; how we comprehend it to be, and what is comprehended by you or I may not be by a cat, for example. If a tree falls in a park and there is no-one to hand, it is silent and invisible and nameless. And if we were to vanish, there would be no tree at all; any meaning would vanish along with us. Other than what the cats make of it all, of course.” Source – (William Fosset, Science Fucker.)

“Sound is vibration, transmitted to our senses through the mechanism of the ear, and recognized as sound only at our nerve centers. The falling of the tree or any other disturbance will produce vibration of the air. If there be no ears to hear, there will be no sound.” (Source unknown, nobody with ears heard him say it.)

All very interesting, and confusing? Makes you think doesn’t it?

Makes you want to lock up all the Scientists in a tiny room, blindfold them, and challenge them to prove they are really there. They can’t see each other, so obviously none of them are really real -Science?

I have the answer. I LIVE in the forest. Trees fall down ALL THE TIME here. Sometimes I hear an almighty crash and thump, other times I don’t hear anything, (but I still can’t drive my car over them on the road.)

“Oh. But how can there be a massive Eucalyptus over the road? I didn’t hear anything…..? Perhaps it has always been there….. and I just never heard it before….?”

Anyway, I don’t know what the fuck that cat thought about when I fell off my Ladder, in the house forest. But my dog?

Did she actually pick up the vibrations or disturbance in the air? (She has large ears!)

OR did she actually hear me scream “JESUS FUCK!” on the way down off that demonic step-ladder and come running?

Science Logic allows that as I have ears, and vocal chords, as does she, I should be able to ask her, and she should be able to tell me the answer. Right?

Wrong. She just barked a lot, and tried to lick my face as I lay dying on the floor.

Science is also wrong about time in my opinion.

It should take about half a second to make it from the bottom step of a ladder, to fully prone on the floor, trying to decide whether I’m actually dead yet. So why is it that I had time to think all these things:

“Oh shit this is going to be bad…

“If I go through that window I’m not coming back am I?”

“The fuck is wrong with this LADDER?”

“The TV. Oh god… the TV!”

It takes longer than half a second to think all those things. So did time stop, or do you just talk really fast to yourself when you’re about to die?

I know – it sounds like the lamest fall ever? From the “bottom rung of the ladder” pffffft!

What you don’t understand is that this is the SECOND time I have fallen of this particular step-ladder. It is Demonic. Possessed. Wants me to die.

Our relationship started out beautifully, me and my ladder. I would drag him around with me, and he allowed me to walk all over him in the beginning. Drop plaster and paint all over him. Delightful relations.

Pretty soon he began to make demands like;

“Don’t put me near that stairwell. What are you mental? I could fall down there.”

“When you move me along to assist you in painting the particular surface you are working on, could you please ensure that you aren’t moving me towards obstacles which could be dangerous?”

God Ladder! What are you? My Mother?

I should have listened to him. Instead I took him more and more for granted. Dragging him along with me everywhere. Never once stopping to consider whether his feet were uneven.

The first time he threw me, I took it as a warning. Sure it hurt. Bruising, cut under eye, lumpy parts that took ages to heal etc.

I told Fitty that I had learned my lesson and would stop taking my Ladder for granted.

So back to work we went. Ladder and I. So happy. I was careful. Before I started working each day I would clear 5m space around the ladder and really be aware of where things are. Like the rungs.

As I inched further along the windows I was painting, I worked closer towards the TV and the evilly contoured, sharp-edged unit it sits on. An old toy box and a pile of folded drop cloths completed the obstacle course.

When working in a house you live in at the same time, it is impossible to keep moving things around all the time. Shit is plugged in, and complicated. If I undo all those TV cables I may never find out if Matt Dillon gets out of “Wayward Pines” or if Piper is truly AC or DC?

So that clump had to stay there. I just had to be careful.

Get to the final window of many, nearly finished. Need more paint. Step down off Ladder, step onto old toy box. Toy box flips you head-over-arse so quickly you are cannoned into the TV, cracking your rib cage on said sharp edged fuckery. Your face may have hit something too, and perhaps your wrist, but fuck that because I CAN’T BREATHE and the fucking dog is eating my face because I am defenseless on the floor.

(Trees all over the forest are nodding their heads and saying, “Did you hear that?”)

Cut to 10 days later. I am still sleeping upright. I cannot lie on my back, front or either side. Nights are long when you can’t roll over!

My ribs are beginning to heal. I can take a deep breath without passing out, and coughing no longer causes me to cry. I don’t know if any are broken, because I refused to go to the Doctor to be told that I have possibly broken some ribs.

I already know that.

I also already have pain killers that don’t make me vomit or hallucinate, and they will do. Some pain is necessary in order to slow one down to recover properly.

I blame the ladder.

I think it got a taste for sadism that first time, and I’m loathe to trust it again.

I don’t know what happened between us, but I’m thinking our relationship is now totes over. Some Ladders just don’t work out. They need help. They need to seek some counseling or something.

I’m considering taking out an A.V.O.

Until then, Ladder sits in the corner, behind the table. Cloaked in shame and paint, he sulks. Waiting to see if it really is over between us?



Recently I was discussing this blog with an old friend who calls himself “Writer”. He loves my blog. He is an “avid” reader. He continually tells me how I should be “Published” and make “Money” from my writing.

In order to do this I should “Take care of grammar mistakes, spelling, brackets and quotes”, (whatever …)

So, if you are reading this, and you are noticing all the grammar mistakes, please – Fuck kindly Off.

I used my time in High School just like every other teenage girl, learning basic things like messy buns and social climbing. English class was one of those I excelled at, so fuck knows why I can’t remember any of the rules?

Maybe it was all that weed I smoked in my 20’s?….