American Cowardice and Middle Eastern Madness.

The BBC world news this morning was all about the rescue of the American airman in Iran. (As well as Trump’s childish invective about his intent to rain down – or even ‘reign down’ as the BBC journalist spelled it – the horrors of hell if the Iranians don’t do as they’re ordered immediately.) So let’s ask what this means:

The conflict in Iran is constantly being referred to as a ‘war.’ Clearly it isn’t. A war is a competition in which thousands, or even tens of thousands, of combatants on both sides are blown to pieces or at least simply killed, nearly every day. There is no place for a news headline on the rescue of one man in a real war.

This goes back to what I said at the start of it all; this is shooting fish in a barrel. This is the action of the big bully in the school yard beating up the little kid just because he can. And what do we say about bullies? We say they’re cowards. So where is America’s worldwide reputation going while trump bombs and blusters the hell out of a small nation? America is being seen as the world’s biggest bully and therefore its greatest coward. Do Americans, I wonder, revel in such a reputation? Somehow, I don’t think so. The bravest thing the America military could do at the moment is what gives rise to my current favourite, and hopelessly unrealistic, dream: It is to read the headline:

Military Coup in USA

Trump and Minions Arrested

Free Elections Promised in Six Months

*  *  *

So now let’s turn our attention to the bully’s sidekick, Mr Netanyahu and the Israelis:

It appears that antisemitism has been on the rise around the world ever since the terrible situation in Gaza. I predicted it would happen and so did plenty of other people. Antisemitism is a feature that’s been buried in the gene pool for many generations, just awaiting the trigger to bring it back to the surface. Gaza was that trigger, and excessively violent activity in Iran and Lebanon is feeding the trend. And so its rise is unsurprising.

But I doubt that most of the anti-Israeli sentiment is actually antisemitism, but rather anti-Zionism which is not the same thing. (And I’m constantly infuriated by supposedly intelligent people in establishments everywhere failing to see the difference despite it being plainly obvious to anybody with a measurable IQ.)

Zionism is the inviolable presumption that some mythical being called Yahweh, who was regarded as chief among gods, granted the descendents of Abraham all the land between the eastern Mediterranean and the River Jordan in perpetuity – theirs to take as a right no matter how much death, suffering, and destruction was caused in so doing.

(Let’s just add a rider here and question the very existence of Yahweh. Many see him as a mere myth. Some other religions claim that Yahweh exists but is actually a lower god at the base of a higher pantheon. Those of Gnostic persuasion call him the Demiurge and regard him as a flawed being, part good and part evil, and urge their congregation to bypass him in order to reach spiritual maturity. And let’s add another rider and point to those genealogists who claim that modern Jews are not actually the descendants of Abraham's people. These factors are all part of other arguments.)

OK, parenthesis over. I and most other reasonable people have no problem with the fact that Jews should have a homeland just like everybody else. Israel should exist and Israelis are welcome to be a member tribe of the human race just like all the other tribes. We don’t want another Holocaust, for heaven’s sake. We don’t even want another Diaspora, just some proper and reasonable balance. We want the whole of the human family to exist in peace and harmony. Instead we get tears, suffering, death, and wholesale destruction. And that’s why anti-Zionism is on the rise and often misconstrued as antisemitism.

And I suppose I’d better get off my rickety soap box now.

Just a Thought.

I see Donald is having a tantrum and sulking again with his ‘get your own oil.’  He’s showing yet again what a sociopathic, spoiled little brat he is. It would be quite amusing if it didn’t affect the rest of us, but it does.

You know, I really can’t imagine what some Americans have for brains when they put somebody like Trump into the White House. They did the same with Reagan and GW. Trump has no political experience, no diplomatic experience, no military experience… Being a businessman, I daresay he knows a little about low level math(s), but that’s hardly sufficient for running a powerful and complex country.

And I seem to recall that when he first started mouthing off about Iran, it was all to do with saving the poor Iranians from a cruel and dictatorial regime. Now he’s using his military might (and American taxpayer’s dollars) to kill thousands of them – along with his pal Benjamin, of course, who’s well practiced in killing innocents in large numbers.

But enough of the infamous Blood Brothers in DC and Jerusalem. We’ve had a fine day in the Shire and that was nice. And the new horses on Mill Lane came to say hello. It would be good to say ‘all’s well that ends well’, but heaven knows what this world might sink into before long.

The Footnote.

I made a post last night around the quandary over whether or not to get another car. After the decision was made I reasoned (if that be quite the right word) that choosing not to get one was a victory for instinct, and perhaps some deeper spiritual need, over logic, a practice which has gained some currency in recent decades. But then I had another thought and said I might add a footnote. This is it:

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m subject to a lot of depression. It’s been with me since I was a child and has grown worse with advancing age. And I’ve noticed a strange feature attaching to depression which I don’t suppose non-depressives realise.

Depression usually has no obvious trigger; it just happens. That’s part of the difference between being truly depressed and merely being in a bad mood. And our brains are wired in such a way as to function on the basis of cause and effect. So if there is no obvious cause, it makes a certain kind of perverse sense to seek or even create a cause for the depression. And so we tend to find the means to do ourselves down, to deny ourselves something we need in order to make life easier or more pleasurable. The depression is now vindicated and has a right to exist.

It follows a practice common in parental attitudes when I was a boy. If a child was crying for no apparent reason, a parent – usually the father for he was expected to be the disciplinarian – would utter the firm threat: ‘Stop that crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.’ Whether it was common in British culture generally, or only in the grimy, industrial environment in which I was brought up (an environment in which the grim existence among factories, coal mines, steelworks, and slum habitation had instilled an essential mentality of stoicism) I wouldn’t know.

And whether that was the reason for my declining to buy the car, I also wouldn’t know. But maybe some of my odd ideas do, after all, have some basis in fact.

Walking the Wasteland.

I don’t understand why, according to Blogger stats, this blog has received over 14,000 page views in less than twenty four hours. They come, apparently, from more than twenty countries scattered around the world. And yet no one is speaking to me either to react, agree, disagree, or discuss. Nobody ever does, and frankly I’m glad they don’t because I know nothing. I’m no kind of influencer and wouldn’t want to be. That sort of thing is better left dangling from the pallid fingers of celebrities and presidents who delude themselves with the notion that fame and power endow them with the mind of a genius and the wisdom of the ancients. About the feeble minded who follow them no more need be said.

But I do have strong suspicions. I suspect that what we are conditioned to regard as the only true reality is actually just the final frigid 10ft at the summit of Everest, and that it’s enveloped in a dense mist hiding the variety of riches running rampant on the lower slopes. And that leads me to wonder on a daily basis whether the death of the body is not so much an ending as an awakening.

So how do I find out whether I’m right or not except by dying? I can read everything from the Bardo Thodol to the peevish pronouncements of the Catholic Church to the pointless and probably fraudulent NDE experiences presented as ‘proof’ on YouTube. Why believe any of it? How can they know? (And what is their motivation for making the claims?)

And I’m becoming ever more disenchanted with this mortal realm, this icy summit littered with the detritus of disinformation and general dishonesty. Fakery is everywhere, usually driven by pecuniary or bigoted self-interest. It’s a realm in which the hum of mother culture draws the Line of Axiom – an invisible but highly potent barrier between that which may be discussed and that which must be accepted without question because it’s set in extra-reinforced concrete. Such is a major mainstay of political, commercial, societal, religious, and media practice everywhere.

The result of these suspicions is that they leave me wandering under flat grey skies in a featureless no man’s land. I used to relate to the culture which reared me, and to the people who mostly occupy it, but I can’t do most of that any longer. The culture seems to have too much wrong with it and the people speak a different language from me. Daniel Quinn did warn that once you’ve heard the hum of mother culture you can’t un-hear it, and he was right. To me, the hum is growing louder and so there’s no way back. Equally, I can’t walk forward with confidence either because a landscape without reference points offers few satisfactory clues as to what direction I should be taking.

I mentioned recently that I’m currently without a car. Well, I was offered one – just an elderly but reliable runner – at a knock down price, and I’ve been agonising over the decision for a couple of weeks. One part of me recognised that the motor car is probably the most visible icon of modern, developed society. Indeed, some cultures – most notably the US – have gone so far as to build their infrastructure around it. Its identification with a culture from which I now feel largely remote was the reason for deciding against. On the other hand, I still have to operate within the culture to some extent for practical reasons, and a car would provide me with more opportunity, convenience, and freedom. That was appealing, and yet I still rejected the offer.

But I’m tired of typing now, so maybe I’ll make the post about the epiphany which this brought about (regarding its relevance to the depressive tendency) another time.

Minding Mini Damsels.

The first was a little lady of around 2-2½ standing alone and forlorn at the top of Sainsbury’s supermarket. She was breaking her heart, poor mite. The tears were flowing, the nose was running, and the chest was heaving pitifully. It was clear she was lost, but I couldn’t tell what she was trying to say because it was too garbled in her distressed state. I persuaded her to come with me in order to find whoever she was looking for.

And so she did. When we got to the far end of the aisle and turned the corner I spied a middle aged woman – presumably granny – hurrying along the bottom lane and evidently looking for something. Reconciliation was effected and all was well.

And then I noticed the interesting part. Granny’s first words to the now quieting victim were: ‘Let’s get that nose wiped first.’ I imagine the mother’s first action would have been to give the child a reassuring hug, so maybe mothers hug and grannies wipe noses. Is that how it works? The female of the species continues to delight and intrigue.

The second mini maiden to flatter me with her attention was a little older at around 4. I was standing outside enjoying a quick rolly and idly watching the comings and goings through the big front windows. I noticed the child sitting on a packing shelf while her mother was scanning her shopping through a self-service till, and then the child noticed me and did a double take followed by a smile and wave. Couldn’t resist that, could I, and so I smiled and waved back.

And thus began a game which lasted 5-7 minutes. She kept shifting her position, then smiling and waving, and I had to keep smiling and waving back. Eventually her mother finished the scanning and my right arm received the relief it was beginning to crave. ‘That was fun,’ I said when they came out of the shop and walked past me. ‘Thank you.’ The mother didn’t appear to notice me.

And then I was struck by a thought. Maybe little Miss Wavealot was rehearsing for the day in about fourteen years time when she will be consumed by the irresistible urge to entrap passing sailors on shore leave. Maybe I should make every effort to find a black velvet band in case I see her again. For who knows what state the world will be in by then, and black velvet bands will be the new gold dust. I’ll be dead of course, or at least too far gone to notice.

On Fairies, Firsts, and Football Coaches.

I painted part of a wall today, and when I was clearing up I found three drops of paint on my desk which is on the other side of the room. I examined the possible scenarios by which three errant drops of paint could have found their way to the other side of the room. None were entirely credible, and so I settled on the only available solution: I have a paint fairy.

These little varmints clearly take delight in transporting wet paint to parts of the room where they have no logical right to be. The same thing happened in my kitchen a week or two ago. So now I don’t know whether to speak harshly to them, plead with them to behave, or be glad of the company.

*  *  *

This week’s firsts:

The first butterfly – a Peacock.

The first ants – two outside and one in the kitchen

The first bumble bees.

The first dandelion flowers.

The first bluebells – that’s pretty unusual in March.

The first bat hunting around the house at twilight – great Hurrah for that.

The first hare I’ve ever seen dead on the road.

The last one gave me pause for thought. Apart from being a sad sight, it reminded me that seeing a hare is supposed to be an omen of misfortune. So what does it mean if the animal is dead? Does that magnify the misfortune or reverse it? I’ll try not to worry.

*  *  *

I was reading a football match report today which included an interview with the coach. Not for the first time I noticed that football coaches speak a very strange brand of English. It’s similar to the standard version but with enough differences as to be highly irritating, and the most notable feature is its complete misuse of tenses. I’m inclined to wonder whether football coaches learn this weirdly irrational habit in football coaching schools, or whether they’re not actually human.

17th March and All That.

Notwithstanding my lamentable lack of literary aspiration at the moment, it would be remiss of me not to mention that today is 17^th March. It matters to me, you see, and not because it happens to coincide with the feast day of a certain ancient Irish cleric. It matters to me because it’s the birthday of somebody else.

It sends my mind wandering casually back to a day nearly two decades ago, and the sight of a comely maiden walking her little dog along a little lane near her house. On the surface she was unprepossessing – rat’s nest hair, plain dress representing no sort of style, and a total lack of paint on lips, eyes, or anywhere else. And yet she was compelling in a way I found difficult to rationalise. Eventually she became the Queen Regnant of my consciousness and has remained so ever since.

And so today I wanted – as I do every 17^th March – to send her a birthday greeting. I can’t do so because I undertook nine years ago to remain silent unless approached, and approached I never am. (And I regard undertakings to be sacrosanct.) Yet send them I do, silently through the ether from what has become a somewhat impoverished consciousness, in the hope that it will be received at some deeper level. It carries with it my regret that I never explained to her that there was never any hint of the libidinous about my interest. I simply ached for her presence and her good opinion. Nothing more.

*  *  *

And an almost totally unconnected little curio: I discovered only last night that St Patrick’s Day was treated in Ireland until relatively recently – some time in the 1970s if I heard correctly – as a religious observance requiring pubs to remain closed. It appears that the message never made it to New York. Maybe the telegram rests still in what remains of the post box on the Titanic.

(I’m doing deconstructed communication again. I wonder why. Just be thankful I didn’t make the intended post on Trump’s latest attempt to convince the world of his inadequacy. It’s the one thing he’s very good at.)

Doubting Even a Reset.

I’ve had so many posts running through my head recently but lacked the will to type them up. There is, however, one subject that keeps prodding me insistently, so I’ll make it mercifully brief:

Let’s face it, Iran desperately needs a regime change. Not for the sake of America or Israel, or the rest of the world come to that, but for the sake of the Iranian people. They suffered when Iran was a monarchy, and they've continued to suffer ever since. Let’s also face the fact that the USA, Israel, and Russia are also desperately in need regime change, in that case mainly for the sake of the world in general.

That’s the start of the issue. It goes on from there, but I won’t presume on anyone’s patience by wading through individual factors, presumptions, and considerations. The final line in the argument is simple enough: the human genome is defective and needs excising from the human animal. From time immemorial humanity has allowed itself to be ruled by those with the will and determination to achieve power, wealth and (dare I say it?) greatness on the blood and suffering of the innocent.

And so getting rid of the likes of Trump, Putin, Netanyahu, and the Ayatollah won’t cut the ice. It will take a global nuclear war or environmental catastrophe on a scale greater than the Younger Dryas to do that. Or maybe even that won't do. There are those who believe – with some evidence that is not unconvincing – that it has happened before, and yet still the angels continue to be ruled by chimpanzees utterly lacking any ethical or humanitarian dimension.

So where do I go from here? I haven’t a clue.

Understanding Donald.

I saw this morning that Trump referred to Keir Starmer's intransigence with the statement ‘we’re not dealing with Winston Churchill here.’

Well now, have you noticed that whenever anybody disagrees with Donald Trump or declines to toe the Trumpian line, his immediate response is always to hurl a cheap insult at them and imply, at the very least, that they’re ‘losers’?

I should think the psychologists must love studying him. I’m not a psychologist, but I suspect I’m not too far from the truth in suspecting that he’s a prime case of arrested development as a result of defective potty training.

Meeting Mrs Lopsided.

I spent five minutes this morning renewing my fond acquaintance with a lovely lady collie dog in Mill Lane who I haven’t seen for several weeks. And then an elderly woman came walking uncertainly down the path holding a new-looking smart phone which appeared to be troubling her. She told me it wasn’t actually hers, and then said ‘A man keeps telling me the time. I don’t know why.’

For those unfamiliar with the appellation, Mrs Lopsided is the delightfully dotty MC of the 1955 Ealing comedy, The Ladykillers. It’s in the top half dozen of my favourite films. If the French have M Hulot, we have Mrs Wilberforce (AKA 'Mrs Lopsided'.)