~o~
Monday 6th 50F/10C. Medium bright periods through a mottled overcast. Almost still. Showers forecast. The apple tree is covered in blossom.
Up at 6.20 after a reasonable night. Chest still hurting. Still bunged up and coughing occasionally. Pressing the painful side of my chest during coughing spasms helps avoid agony. Still feeling sorry for myself. That I can't do anything useful outside. The grass has regrown on steroids. All thanks to the rain. The grass can't be mown while it is still wet. The observatory is still in a state of half undress. The gravel remains untouched.
I need to go shopping further afield. The next shopping village to the north will do. Cooler indoors at 64F/18C. I may clear the six, assorted log baskets by the stove. Big logs, small logs, kindling, useful chunks for starting. Who, on earth, has six baskets dedicated to a single stove? It's not the bløødy Titanic!There is little need for the stove or firewood now. Not unless it suddenly turns chilly. I can use the space for an aspidistra on a small table or stool under the window. Anything but that untidy mess!
10.00 Bright sunshine! My blog has become a faded personal diary. Left out too long in the sun and the rain. Too tedious and boring even for me to enjoy writing and endlessly editing. I feel like a hideously untalented TikTok attention seeker. Without anything worth sharing. I have no tattoos. No piercings. No make up. Nor even a funny hairstyle. Nobody will give a "like" to seeing any part of me naked. Not even if I use a beauty app. Not even for being elderly and humanly comical.
My foolish projects seem so worthless now. Yet filled my endless days to near obsession for years on end. Allowing me to overcome ridiculous obstacles. More by sheer momentum of effort applied. Than any particular skill or talent. Nobody remembers who demolished the pyramids. My pyramids are a western frontier town. Weather bleached timber that nobody truly remembers now. A few virtual photographs miss the point entirely.
Are we all attention seekers? Desperately justifying our reason for mere existence? Billions of deaths pass completely unnoticed. To be replaced by billions more, fragile skittles. All waiting anxiously to be swept aside. By those who manage to make a name for themselves. For good or for evil.
Few can stand the gaze of public interest. All of us carry the unseen, half concealed warts of idiocy and indiscretion. Few can exploit them for financial gain. Claiming the moral high ground has been abused to ashes and prehistoric dust.
Any freak show can enjoy its day in the media limelight. As the rest of us toil our whole lives away. For food, shelter and transport to the coal face. Plus a few, tacky, slave-produced toys. Soon to join the landfill of built-in obsolescence. People are landfill too. Billions of extras. Put here for our own entertainment. Each presenting a possible guide to how to live our own lives. Or a dire warning not to follow that downward spiral. Or just playing another extra. With no value to anybody but themselves. Except their ability to keep hairdressers, prison officers, nurses, carpenters and undertakers in a job.
Life really is completely and utterly meaningless. What we make of it is often reduced to utterly worthless too. By those around us. Dragged screaming by the hair from cradle to grave. By constant and vicious, aversion therapy. Usually by our own parents. Who to hate. Who to respect. Who to bow to. Who to kneel to. Who to prostrate to. Who to vote for. Who to die for.
Ants responding to external stimuli. Billions without ever having a single, individual thought of their own. All hail OUR neighbourhood! Our house. Our team. Our school. Our social class. Our great nation. Our faith. Our culture. Our ridiculous clothes. Our awful food. Our silly death ceremony. We do it all to ourselves. Slaves to the hive mind.
Like teenagers locked into the fashion of the day. Every detail passed down from on high and rigidly adhered to. Or suffer the dire consequences. Repeated over and over. For the whole of our pointless lives. For every new and passing generation. We largely police ourselves. Nothing is learned from repeated failure. Too little from our limited successes.
The Internet has simultaneously provided unfiltered access to some truths. Obscured many others. The news media has as much impartiality as a pedophile priest. Corrupted beyond any reason for their continuing existence. News has sold out to the highest bidder. Photocopiers driven by advertising greed alone.
The alternatives have their own agenda. Few will publish the unvarnished truth. Or even recognize it. AI will only muddy the cleansing waters of exposure. Conspiracy is the new gospel. Nothing is real. Believe in nothing. Except what you are told to believe. Keep taking the tablets. Keep on keeping on. It makes absolutely no sense. Except to our immortal, slave masters.
10.30. I had better have a shower and go shopping. Keeping on shouldn't mean having to go without breakfast. "THEY" say breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
So I struggled on. With ever more feeble finger strength. As the cardboard sought to de-laminate. Rather than part company at the allotted orifice. Starvation was only averted by a final, superhuman effort. But left my fingertips raw and my fingernails shredded.
As I slowly recovered, while steadily munching my way through the morning bowl of porridge oats. I wondered whether Arla dairy workers could use the standard: "I was only following orders!" defense at Nuremberg. Do their managers and those of the Blittish Post Office. Belong to some secret, fascist sect? Whose avowed intention is to undermine society by culling the weak and defenseless. Do they hold meetings? Where they all wear Putin masks and Nazi regalia?
As if the day had not already descended to a new low: I was rung by the dentist to bring forward my torture session by two whole days. Another patient had bottled out. Not the term they used but I knew exactly what they meant.
It was lucky I was going that way anyway. To restock on organic porridge and to find a milk carton opening tool. Probably at the overpriced kitchen objet d'art shop. A bartender's ice pick springs immediately to mind. Then I can exact my revenge on my tormentor at the dentist. "This wont hurt a bit!" I had better have a shower. Then change into my rubber apron and wellies. 🙈
16.20 Returning from the dentist and shopping. One filling and an extraction. Excused piano practice for several days. The pretty young dentist looked about 14½ but was sympathetic, empathetic and truly excellent. I asked if she was a student but she said that everybody asked that. Thinking she was too young to be qualified. The dental nurses were both incredibly well trained and practiced. Knowing exactly when to hand items over and when to drain and when to block the UV light. Robotic precision with a human touch.
~o~
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