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What a strange poisonous day!
It began beautifully enough, sunshine and more observation of the rose that has inveigled its way into the garden between the rowan and apple trees; a little poem, not great but it would do.
I went down to Blackheath to get some index cards to help me remember my words for tonight, walked into a shop, and a man turned around and looked at me. And the way he looked at me was obvious, not threatening but clearly attracted physically. He wasn't really similar to Terry, he wasn't even an ugly man, but they are both variants on a type very common in the south east of England, a pale eyed lean look, all angles and sinews. I get a lot of attention from this kind of man, possible because I am the opposite - small, freckly-brown and beginning to curve beyond my control - or perhaps I notice attention more when it comes from this body type, due to its association. I left the shop, bought stuff elsewhere and went home, where I wrote a poem about it. Two poems in one day, and though neither are the best I have ever written, they are OK. Then I saw a shadow passing against my front door, the figure of someone who wasn't there, and knew that I was not too far from an attack.
'Turn it into Art,' I thought. Not great Art, not Ahtdahling, just any form of Art, doesn't have to be good, but the attempt to make it is very powerful. Art is involvement but it is also artifice. You must be in it, but you also have to stand back from it to make it. So that is what I did. I recorded the poem, though I locked all the doors before I started. (https://audioboo.fm/boos/2267276-pinch-faced-blue-eyed-men)
And I was OK.
Then like a fool, I decided to do a quick FB check, catch the craic.
What an idiot. On one pagan forum, someone had decided to put up a warning they had received from a 'very good source' that Islamic extremists were going to protest at solstice celebrations around StoneHenge, Avebury etc. This got called out as BS almost instantly, with due responses, and I watched in awe as the stupidity spiralled. 'They were bound to come for us eventually,' was one comment. Another was 'Let them protest. This country isn't under Sharia law - yet.' And of course, there were many people sick of the deluge of Britain First and its ilk crap all over the net, there was much accusation, much derision - one person had phoned British Heritage and the local police only to find that no precautions against such protests had been made - and on it went. I should have been heartened by the readiness of people to rebuff this Little Englander fear-spreading shite, but the mood was so ugly.
In a way we are fortunate that no really charismatic opportunist has risen in our politics; Brits are not known for rebellion (this is why the queen is so important - the idea is that we identify with the state through identifying with her, and if we ever rise against the state, we are betraying her personally. It is a very long term form of emotional blackmail meets stockholm syndrome, a dangerous lie, but we have grown up with it and we like it) So we don't normally rebel in an organised way, but we do riot - and any politician who knew how to use that could do very well right now. This is why both right and left are tearing Farage down as fast as they can; he is stealing votes from both sides and they know it. He's not Hitler, and would be less dangerous if he was - Brits laugh at ranters - but he speaks like an ordinary bloke and the people like him. The way to stop the metamorphosis of Great Britain into Little Shitten would be to end the resentment by not having so evident a gap between rich and poor, by giving people homes, and if not giving them jobs, then giving them benefits. Give. But the rich don't want to do that, and we are in the grip of the rich. And either they will take us into Elysium world, or the poor may present us with Adam Susan's vision, with a little bit of Airstrip One here, a few feelies and soma there...
Fury, ignorance, anger, whining;I wasn't expecting this until after the England/Uruguay match.
I left the page and returned to my news feed only to see a friend comment on an act of animal cruelty so shocking, I can't let my mind go to it even now. Enough, enough. That's FB and me done for a while. The day had turned toxic, I felt like I was throwing it up.I can't believe that there could be so much hate on a rose filled sunny day.
And today, today. I have been asked to learn some speeches for a friend's do tonight, and will be staying there till morning. But though I know it will be beautiful and funny, nice-drunk and kind, this is not where I want to be. I want to be in Oxfordshire, at the Uffington White Horse, to see the dawn rise, and honour an innocent little being. And then I would like to walk for a very long time, to see if anything I remember of this country still remains.
It began beautifully enough, sunshine and more observation of the rose that has inveigled its way into the garden between the rowan and apple trees; a little poem, not great but it would do.
I went down to Blackheath to get some index cards to help me remember my words for tonight, walked into a shop, and a man turned around and looked at me. And the way he looked at me was obvious, not threatening but clearly attracted physically. He wasn't really similar to Terry, he wasn't even an ugly man, but they are both variants on a type very common in the south east of England, a pale eyed lean look, all angles and sinews. I get a lot of attention from this kind of man, possible because I am the opposite - small, freckly-brown and beginning to curve beyond my control - or perhaps I notice attention more when it comes from this body type, due to its association. I left the shop, bought stuff elsewhere and went home, where I wrote a poem about it. Two poems in one day, and though neither are the best I have ever written, they are OK. Then I saw a shadow passing against my front door, the figure of someone who wasn't there, and knew that I was not too far from an attack.
'Turn it into Art,' I thought. Not great Art, not Ahtdahling, just any form of Art, doesn't have to be good, but the attempt to make it is very powerful. Art is involvement but it is also artifice. You must be in it, but you also have to stand back from it to make it. So that is what I did. I recorded the poem, though I locked all the doors before I started. (https://audioboo.fm/boos/2267276-pinch-faced-blue-eyed-men)
And I was OK.
Then like a fool, I decided to do a quick FB check, catch the craic.
What an idiot. On one pagan forum, someone had decided to put up a warning they had received from a 'very good source' that Islamic extremists were going to protest at solstice celebrations around StoneHenge, Avebury etc. This got called out as BS almost instantly, with due responses, and I watched in awe as the stupidity spiralled. 'They were bound to come for us eventually,' was one comment. Another was 'Let them protest. This country isn't under Sharia law - yet.' And of course, there were many people sick of the deluge of Britain First and its ilk crap all over the net, there was much accusation, much derision - one person had phoned British Heritage and the local police only to find that no precautions against such protests had been made - and on it went. I should have been heartened by the readiness of people to rebuff this Little Englander fear-spreading shite, but the mood was so ugly.
In a way we are fortunate that no really charismatic opportunist has risen in our politics; Brits are not known for rebellion (this is why the queen is so important - the idea is that we identify with the state through identifying with her, and if we ever rise against the state, we are betraying her personally. It is a very long term form of emotional blackmail meets stockholm syndrome, a dangerous lie, but we have grown up with it and we like it) So we don't normally rebel in an organised way, but we do riot - and any politician who knew how to use that could do very well right now. This is why both right and left are tearing Farage down as fast as they can; he is stealing votes from both sides and they know it. He's not Hitler, and would be less dangerous if he was - Brits laugh at ranters - but he speaks like an ordinary bloke and the people like him. The way to stop the metamorphosis of Great Britain into Little Shitten would be to end the resentment by not having so evident a gap between rich and poor, by giving people homes, and if not giving them jobs, then giving them benefits. Give. But the rich don't want to do that, and we are in the grip of the rich. And either they will take us into Elysium world, or the poor may present us with Adam Susan's vision, with a little bit of Airstrip One here, a few feelies and soma there...
Fury, ignorance, anger, whining;I wasn't expecting this until after the England/Uruguay match.
I left the page and returned to my news feed only to see a friend comment on an act of animal cruelty so shocking, I can't let my mind go to it even now. Enough, enough. That's FB and me done for a while. The day had turned toxic, I felt like I was throwing it up.I can't believe that there could be so much hate on a rose filled sunny day.
And today, today. I have been asked to learn some speeches for a friend's do tonight, and will be staying there till morning. But though I know it will be beautiful and funny, nice-drunk and kind, this is not where I want to be. I want to be in Oxfordshire, at the Uffington White Horse, to see the dawn rise, and honour an innocent little being. And then I would like to walk for a very long time, to see if anything I remember of this country still remains.
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