Under the Sea, Under the Sea
Oh hell...writing has become impossible. I am too tired and there is no air in here. This is a mental slump in the afternoon in a mind already loaded down by the weariness with which I woke up. So this is not a good time to throw words at a page, although maybe it will clean my head of the accumulated shit.
The election? Today all I see are figures and I find myself cowering in their stupid shadow. They are noisy figures; millions here, billions there, and they explode like fireworks. All the cats and the dogs and all the other four-legged friends run for the basement and hide. The commentators try and make the best of it by reporting on the Other Side’s attempt at rubbishing the figures, but they are as loathed as I am to try to Understand.
But they are also saying that the Labour manifesto, launched on Wednesday, is something that we all should read. Within the pages of this thing are some genuine ideas, they say, buried somewhere in the twenty three thousand words. It is online somewhere. I may read it later between forcing myself to cook something Decent and ploughing through BBC radio online in search of Listen Again gold.
But even the thought of skimming the conclusions drawn by the newspapers fills me with lethargy. This is my fault and not the subject matter...my mind is willing to absorb the information but seems to be getting kicked in the balls by a siren who just wants to sing me lullabies. How much easier is it not to think about these things? Just to let the opinions take care of themselves...a kind of natural selection where only the best manage to imprint themselves in your consciousness, fighting for space amongst that all-important knowledge of Britney’s pregnancy and the lingering memory of yesterday’s delicious pasta dish. No...this would not let the fittest ideas survive, only the ones that rely on instant voter gratification; the emotional push-button issues, the lazy prejudices, the big tax cut figure.
If this is not making sense then it is in good company. A barrage of bizarre things has rained down on us in the course of the recent coverage. I cannot analyse them right now, so I will rate each thing on a comparison scale of sealife. Why not? It is about the most insightful thing I can offer today.
The Tories want more faith schools, and thousands of them. Whelk.
Labour are more insistent than ever on introducing identity cards that include biometric data. Conga eel.
Howard’s immigration strategy is actually driving disillusioned Labour voters back into Blair’s fold. Catfish.
Labour’s manifesto is missing even a vague solution to the pensions crisis. Tin of sardines in tomato sauce.
Charles Kennedy has been accused of exploiting his newborn for political advantage.A brick that fell off a trawler.
Okay, this sealife thing is a disaster and I suspect I am contravening some kind of international law. Can we change the subject now and get away with it?
But I fear a shadow has been cast over the post now. Look out of the window...the stillness is ominous and oppressive. An army of tumbleweeds is heading this way, blown in on a wind tinged with some exotic tragedy. Somewhere a church bell is ringing. ”Somewhere” being the church, I suppose. That would make sense. Like the words of the song...”tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town.” To which we all reply “the jail, perhaps?”
The Tories want to build more jails. I think I read that. I cannot hope to verify that without Internet access. That is a peril of this writing / posting offset of several hours with which I have to live. See? It is presently three in the afternoon, but I will throw it at the Internet sometime in the evening. Hardly seems worth it today. Bad jabbering and a spectacular lack of analysis. And I am too lethargic to edit any of it, but what the hell? It may provide a springboard for more thoughtful commentary on a later date.
It could also provide a reflection of the inner monologue that a carefully constructed argument never normally provides. Whether or not this is a Good Thing is another question.
On the journey to work this morning, for instance, I found my mind rambling around the subject of the lies we believe as children. Put simply, children are literal minded creatures and feeding them strange and curious metaphors is a minefield of confused interpretation. In particular, science is treated as subordinate to myth and fantasy. And why not? Perhaps it is to weave some kind of childlike wonder and innocence... or because the parent cannot remember back to their O Level science class as to how, say, thunder is produced.
The problem is that the more outrageous the fantasy, the more it will create more questions that it answers. And the last thing a parent wants is to hear the word Why. So why would god be moving his furniture so noisily – has the Almighty and Omnipotent Creator got a bit of a bad back? He can create a world in six days but is having trouble dragging his Chesterfield into the nook? Poppycock. Balderdash. (This is not how a child talks, but we are wandering around a mental landscape here full of faux-Victoriana and silly macho metaphors that involve animals that growl a lot, so what the hell.)
This can be summed up in one example, though. It is a dark and uncomfortable thought when you get right down to it... If babies are added to a family when they are found behind gooseberry bushes...what happened to the babies that don’t get found?
Brr. No wonder so many imaginative children grow up to be such tortured souls.
The election? Today all I see are figures and I find myself cowering in their stupid shadow. They are noisy figures; millions here, billions there, and they explode like fireworks. All the cats and the dogs and all the other four-legged friends run for the basement and hide. The commentators try and make the best of it by reporting on the Other Side’s attempt at rubbishing the figures, but they are as loathed as I am to try to Understand.
But they are also saying that the Labour manifesto, launched on Wednesday, is something that we all should read. Within the pages of this thing are some genuine ideas, they say, buried somewhere in the twenty three thousand words. It is online somewhere. I may read it later between forcing myself to cook something Decent and ploughing through BBC radio online in search of Listen Again gold.
But even the thought of skimming the conclusions drawn by the newspapers fills me with lethargy. This is my fault and not the subject matter...my mind is willing to absorb the information but seems to be getting kicked in the balls by a siren who just wants to sing me lullabies. How much easier is it not to think about these things? Just to let the opinions take care of themselves...a kind of natural selection where only the best manage to imprint themselves in your consciousness, fighting for space amongst that all-important knowledge of Britney’s pregnancy and the lingering memory of yesterday’s delicious pasta dish. No...this would not let the fittest ideas survive, only the ones that rely on instant voter gratification; the emotional push-button issues, the lazy prejudices, the big tax cut figure.
If this is not making sense then it is in good company. A barrage of bizarre things has rained down on us in the course of the recent coverage. I cannot analyse them right now, so I will rate each thing on a comparison scale of sealife. Why not? It is about the most insightful thing I can offer today.
The Tories want more faith schools, and thousands of them. Whelk.
Labour are more insistent than ever on introducing identity cards that include biometric data. Conga eel.
Howard’s immigration strategy is actually driving disillusioned Labour voters back into Blair’s fold. Catfish.
Labour’s manifesto is missing even a vague solution to the pensions crisis. Tin of sardines in tomato sauce.
Charles Kennedy has been accused of exploiting his newborn for political advantage.A brick that fell off a trawler.
Okay, this sealife thing is a disaster and I suspect I am contravening some kind of international law. Can we change the subject now and get away with it?
But I fear a shadow has been cast over the post now. Look out of the window...the stillness is ominous and oppressive. An army of tumbleweeds is heading this way, blown in on a wind tinged with some exotic tragedy. Somewhere a church bell is ringing. ”Somewhere” being the church, I suppose. That would make sense. Like the words of the song...”tonight there’s gonna be a jailbreak, somewhere in this town.” To which we all reply “the jail, perhaps?”
The Tories want to build more jails. I think I read that. I cannot hope to verify that without Internet access. That is a peril of this writing / posting offset of several hours with which I have to live. See? It is presently three in the afternoon, but I will throw it at the Internet sometime in the evening. Hardly seems worth it today. Bad jabbering and a spectacular lack of analysis. And I am too lethargic to edit any of it, but what the hell? It may provide a springboard for more thoughtful commentary on a later date.
It could also provide a reflection of the inner monologue that a carefully constructed argument never normally provides. Whether or not this is a Good Thing is another question.
On the journey to work this morning, for instance, I found my mind rambling around the subject of the lies we believe as children. Put simply, children are literal minded creatures and feeding them strange and curious metaphors is a minefield of confused interpretation. In particular, science is treated as subordinate to myth and fantasy. And why not? Perhaps it is to weave some kind of childlike wonder and innocence... or because the parent cannot remember back to their O Level science class as to how, say, thunder is produced.
The problem is that the more outrageous the fantasy, the more it will create more questions that it answers. And the last thing a parent wants is to hear the word Why. So why would god be moving his furniture so noisily – has the Almighty and Omnipotent Creator got a bit of a bad back? He can create a world in six days but is having trouble dragging his Chesterfield into the nook? Poppycock. Balderdash. (This is not how a child talks, but we are wandering around a mental landscape here full of faux-Victoriana and silly macho metaphors that involve animals that growl a lot, so what the hell.)
This can be summed up in one example, though. It is a dark and uncomfortable thought when you get right down to it... If babies are added to a family when they are found behind gooseberry bushes...what happened to the babies that don’t get found?
Brr. No wonder so many imaginative children grow up to be such tortured souls.
posted by Jamie at 2:45 PM
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