The Purpose of Ads.

The adverts that frequently interrupt YouTube videos cause me a lot of annoyance. That's because the majority of them are little or no better than sub-juvenile in form and content. I wonder why this should be and would propose two possible answers:

The creators of adverts know, or think they know, that the majority of people are themselves sub-juvenile, and it makes sense to spend the vast sums of money available to the advertising industry on that section of the population most likely to be receptive to to them.

 

There is a plot afoot to use the ubiquity of advertising to create or advance a negative movement in the mental acuity of the population as a whole. This could be for several reasons, all of which are easy to guess.

I favour the latter, even though it's hard to imagine how it could be achieved. I'm well aware, you see, of a thought process becoming ever more prevalent from a variety of sources. It runs roughly: 'Why are the people who run our culture becoming so stupid? How and why have we created  this idiocracy?' 

 

Some people would say that it isn't true, that it's just me being cynical, but I was having thoughts along those lines long before I began to read of others saying the same thing. Or maybe I'm just sulking because no dogs came to say 'hello' to me today.

Endless Thinking.

It began when I got up this morning, and for some unknown reason a line from a Bob Dylan song ran through my head: '... while life goes on all around you.' It's an innocuous little phrase, isn't it? A simple, throwaway line, and yet it began the process of raising questions about life and the nature of reality that went on for about an hour. Every question led to another question and a discussion between one part of my brain and another. Eventually it came to the last question, one to which nobody knows the answer. At that point the slot machine ran out of money, the world went dark, and I moved on to something completely different. (This is quite normal for me. When people accuse me of overthinking I conclude that most of my fellow humans prefer paddling in the littoral surf because they've heard some mention of giant squid.)

 

*  *  *

So, the next pause for thought concerned the value of consensus. (I'd just passed the village notice board, you see, which showed mug shots of all the members of the parish council. I used to be a committee type myself, but not any more.) I'm aware of the fact that consensus is often useful, but I wanted a good, dramatic example of a situation which led to something pretty dreadful. I thought of the story of Moll Dyer, a story which I assume is well known to most Americans, but I'll offer the bare bones for those who've never heard it.

Moll Dyer was an elderly, unmarried woman living in one of the North America colonies towards the end of the 17th century (in Pennsylvania, I think.) One winter was particularly harsh and compounded by an outbreak of some serious health epidemic, so the townspeople got together and decided that Moll must be a witch causing the calamities and should be done away with. They went to her house, duly buoyed by the opinion gained through consensus, to do the deed. Moll escaped through the back door while the mob were setting her house alight, but she didn't escape death. She froze. And perhaps I might add to this the sight of strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees. My only conclusion to this was that consensus must be accompanied by fine judgement and not be allowed to run amok.

 

*  *  *

 

And then there was a third subject occasioning a great deal of deep thought, but I can't remember what it was. (This is quite normal for me, too, these days.) I might mention that squirrels have started coming closer to me than they've ever done before. One ran past me on the lane this morning, carrying something -- presumable edible -- in its mouth. And yesterday one came dashing towards me, also carrying something edible. I thought for one blessed moment that it was bringing an offering to swell my food stocks, but no. It changed its mind at the last minute and turned right instead.

The Real Reason for Christmas Presents.

I was thinking about Christmas today for some unholy reason (I prefer to call it Yuletide now, by the way) when I was struck by an unholy notion.

It seemed to me that in the modern western world the main reason for celebrating what people like to call Christmas is to condition children to the notion that consumption is the truest way to happiness. And further, to establish in the unconscious minds of said children the persistent and pernicious hum of discontent which is the bedrock of consumption mania.

At least that's one way of looking at it.

Interestingly, I'm given to understand that a lot of extremely rich people who have every material thing there is to have also suffer discontent, and even depression, because they experience feelings of emptiness when there is nothing left to want. Humans are a bit of a failure really, aren't they?

(And now I have something to look forward to. When someone next asks me 'what are you doing for Christmas?' I intend to reply: 'Christmas? What's that? How do you spell it?)

The Woman.

I have to post this. I've been meaning to for a long time and haven't got around to it. I'm listening to it as I type. It's just that this woman is my idea of the ultimate in... erm... strong femininity. That'll do. And the way she walks off the stage at the end is pure magic. All down to my convoluted taste in women I suppose.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpiFmZLICgM&list=RD1pK02USyU8M&index=12

What I'm hoping is that some kind Norwegian (at least, I think she's Norwegian) will tell me how her name is pronounced.

A New Worry.

I had a text message this morning advising me that last week's blood test was satisfactory and no further action is required. But this morning I had a missed call from a Derby number, and the only telephonic communication I've ever had with anybody in Derby has been with the hospital.

 

So could this be connected with the other half of last week's proceedings - the urine test 'to check on the condition of your kidneys' (which should have been kidney, singular)? Now I wait with trepidation for a letter. I really don't want any more dealings with the hospital after the experiences I've had over the last eight years.

And a new concern has developed in my mind over the matter of mortality. Death is a pretty scary prospect, isn't it? It's the ultimate 'drop everything you've ever known or possessed and walk into the darkness, not knowing whether you're going to fall off a cliff into complete oblivion or have to get used to existing in a totally different environment with totally different rules' experience. 

But now there's something else bothering me. When a body dies it begins to decompose, and in very little time it begins to smell bad and gets worse as the days progress. What a horrible thought. I hate bad smells.

A Sudden Shift.

I just relinquished my undertaking -- reported a couple of days ago -- and picked up my book of Virginia Woolf 'short stories' again. (I had some time to fill while attempting to re-boot my ailing computer, and it was too early to make my night time cup of coffee.) 

 

Well, what a revelation. Everything I said about dear V's style went completely out of the window. I thought I'd just try to struggle through the first paragraph, but instead read two pages and didn't want to put it down when my computer needed assistance.

It's a pretty straightforward narrative, you see, about a group of bored young women deciding that they must get out and discover the world run by men before they so much as contemplate bearing a child. They've become suspicious, you see, of the notion that the women populate the world while the men civilise it. And it's full of Virginia's keen observation, lively intelligence, capacious imagination, and subtle wit.

I am now persuaded to open a new label down below, a Virginia Woolf label. And that means I have to scroll through the last week or two's posts to find suitable players to enter the new team. It won't be a trial, and it's nearly time for my late coffee anyway.

Forget the Stereotypes.

I was looking down the women's rugby WXV results earlier and saw that there was a game between Hong Kong and Brazil yesterday. Intriguing, eh? I thought so. And tonight YouTube was showing highlights of the match, so I watched them.

It was notable -- to one of my sensibilities -- that none of the Brazil team looked like a beach volleyball player, and few of the Hong Kong side looked Chinese. You just can't trust your expectations, can you?

(And for those Americans of the MAGA persuasion who don't know that the Romans and Arabs used different numerals, 'WXV' is shorthand for Women's 15.)

On Me and Virginia's Style.

Reading Virginia Woolf can be quite challenging. I'm currently working through an anthology of her short stories, only they're mostly not stories at all, but observations and flights of imagination.

She had the kind of mind which, it seems obvious to assume, never stopped observing, and she observed every little detail of people, places, atmospheres, social situations, and whatever else which I can't be bothered to think of. Nothing, it seemed, missed her gaze which decanted into a mental world in which every nuance that could be caught on the radar of her five senses was dissected and described in minute, often lyrical detail. (No wonder she got depressed, poor woman.)

The difficulty comes from the fact that she tells it all in rapid, staccato fashion, which first leaves you a little breathless and then increasingly confused as you try to hold the pieces together into something resembling a narrative. At least, that's the effect it has on me. Virginia's perception of a narrative is not what most of regard as a narrative: a string of connected facts leading logically from one step to another to form a mental journey.

I have to admit at this stage that part of the problem lies with my habits. Living alone and having little contact with people and the outside world apart from observing the landscape and the animals, my life has become organised into a series of routines. (I suppose it's because they provide structure in an unstructured, personal existence.) And my routines are such that reading is naturally done at night. That can be a problem because at this time of year my house is cold at night, since I decline to switch on expensive electric heating until at least October. Being cold can make you tired; and being tired can make you colder. It's a vicious circle which works against the appreciation of complex wordsmithing, which is why tonight I considered giving up the attempt to make sense of Virginia's 'short stories.'

But is that reasonable? Virginia Woolf was clearly highly intelligent, blessed with a keen observational faculty, and possessed of a complex imagination. No doubt it's why she is considered a leading pioneer in the development of stream of consciousness writing. My paltry routines surely provide a poor excuse to give up on a writer of much substance. It's interesting, too, that I had little problem when I read her novel To the Lighthouse a few years ago;

And so I think I'll put the book aside until the storage heaters go on in October and the office is warmer. And perhaps the near daily hassles which life has been throwing at me for the past few months will also have eased. (Hassle is something else which makes me tired.)

Lay on Macduff.

All this evening I've wanted to make some sort of a blog post, just to prove to myself that I'm still alive, but I've been too tired and too drained by the business of struggling through the daily round. Today has been another difficult one. Usual things -- transport hiccups, nurses' appointments running late, no morning coffee, no lunchtime food, lots of time spent sitting or standing around like a lemon. And then there were the daily glitches, the most irritating of which was the fact that tonight my computer refused to play YouTube videos. It got half way through one and then stopped and said 'hold; enough.' You wouldn't think a computer would be able to quote Macbeth, would you? Mine can, even though it can't play YouTube videos.

And I've got a post sitting in 'draft' waiting to be finished and posted. I started writing it last night but stopped when it began to hurt my brain. It was a commentary on Virginia Woolf's writing and was becoming almost as convoluted. Maybe I'll finish it tomorrow.

 

But I did finally provide a phial of blood for medications-related analysis this afternoon, only this time they also wanted a urine sample. The nurse gave me a little bag containing the newfangled apparatus which is more complex than the simple old specimen bottle. She spent approximately three seconds explaining what to do, and then left it to my befuddled brain to get it right. I think I did. I was also concerned, however, that the examination and analysis of bodily fluids might occasion the accrual of consequences, and that brought the dark mist back down on the matter of future prospects.

But for now I'm going to call it a wrap. I'm feeling unusually oppressed by the metaphorical cow dung being thrown at me nearly every day, and I'm feeling bereft of company now that all the people with whom I used to commune in cyberspace have gone. Sorry this is a miserable post. Miserable people are such a pain, aren't they?

A Good Surprise and a Mind Aghast.

Well, what d'ya know. I mentioned recently that I'd written a letter of complaint to the infamous BT, and also that previous letters of complaint had gone unanswered. Today I had a phone call from a personable young chap in BT's complaints department, wanting to discuss the nature of my current issue. He listened, he understood, he agreed, and he said he would raise the matter with the relevant people. (And he apologised, in writing, for the previous lack of response.) We even had a chat about certain technological issues I've been experiencing. So let's hear it for Ashley from Tyneside. Good chap, Ashley.

 

*  *  *

So what about Trump offering every adult American $5,000 if the Republicans win the midterms? This is quite astonishing even by Trump's bargain basement standards, so I'll offer my thoughts as they occur to me (if you don't mind.)

1. It seems that Trump is becoming rather more desperate than he would care to admit.

2. I think this is the kind of thing you must expect if you put a big businessman in charge of a country. Big businessmen tend to go through life wearing polarising glasses, which see dollar signs clearly but very little else. They're also prone to the certainty that every individual has his or her price, and every situation is solvable by simply throwing money at it.

3. Trump's statement amounts to a naked attempt to buy votes. Apart from striking at the very roots of democracy, it insults all Americans by casting them as latter day Esaus by presuming they will be willing to sell their birthright for a mess of pottage.

4. Given the above, I don't see how a serious legal challenge can fail to be made.

5. Even if Trump is allowed to maintain his outlandish proposal, he has failed -- as usual -- to say how the expenditure of several trillion dollars would be financed.

6. When he made his proposal to some Republican gathering or other, the BBC reported that it was met with 'rapturous applause.' It should have been met with stunned silence. This suggests to me that the delegates at Republican gatherings come from the same litter of swivel-eyed loons as the UK's Tory faithful.

Apart from that, I don't really care. Why should I?