On Rain and Raging.

Today was quite a wake up call. After all those months of almost totally warm, dry, sunny weather, today was a classic the day went glooming down in wet and weariness sort of a day. Cool, heavy cloud cover, breezy, and persistent mist and drizzle. I could have just said that it was dull and dreary, but I like quoting the odd few lines of Tennyson I know.

*  *  *

The news this week has been full of the usual stuff which makes me rage at the powerful people doing their level best to bring the human condition down into the sewers. Usual suspects – Trump, Putin, Netanyahu, the large corporations, and a few lesser players. I suppose it’s fortunate that I had little time or opportunity to rage on the blog because I was becoming tired of the process.

I was, however, surprised to learn last night that after bringing in the National Guard to make DC beautiful again, Trump has now militarised no less than nineteen states out of the fifty in his ‘war’ against immigration. I suspect that he’s suffering a Julius Caesar complex in attempting to turn the American Republic into one ruled by an imperial system. And that suspicion was further encouraged by what I thought to be the most blatant move to date: Emperor Trump now grants himself the right to ban the Palestinian delegation from a meeting of the United Nations General Assembly just because the UN building is in New York.

And that reminds me of a video I saw on YouTube recently. The commentary claimed that America’s unwavering support for the hard line Israeli government, irrespective of how many children they murder and maim, is rooted in the indoctrination of the American people into the principle of Christian Zionism. She made the point very convincingly. Whatever next?

Celebrating the Number 13.

All my life I’ve had the usual superstitious response to the number 13. It seems that most superstitious people do. The number 13 is widely regarded as being associated with dark portents and bad fortune generally.

Oddly, however, I’ve noticed through most of my life that it doesn’t seem to work. The presence of the number 13 has mostly been uneventful and sometimes even beneficial.

Well, last night I watched an interesting video about the ‘hidden’ 13^th astrological house which is associated with the serpent (whose name I don’t remember but I doubt it matters very much.) The point is that this serpent is central to the spiritual progress of the human creature, and not the bad guy as it is presented in the book of Genesis. But the nature of the serpent runs counter to the need of control exhibited by the religions of the Judaic school, and that’s why it was vilified and shut out of the astrological canon. (As an aside, the implication also being that the bad reputation of the number 13 has nothing to do with the number of apostles at the Last Supper.)

I’ve long known that the serpent in the Garden of Eden was regarded in the Gnostic tradition as the true saviour of mankind, not the cause of the Fall and the justification for men to regard women as second class beings. I rather like that interpretation, and if I had any life left I would seriously consider having a serpent tattooed somewhere about my person. But since I probably haven’t, I won’t bother.

Incidentally, this is the 14^th post this month. Coincidence I expect. And I’m hoping that it will lead to a rash of visits to the short story The Thirteenth Tree at the other site. I might also mention that The Thirteenth Tale is a very enjoyable novel.

Infested With Influencers.

There’s a video appeared on my YouTube recommendations with the title

Man arrested for liking bacon

I took a quick look. What happened was that a man who clearly objected to the spread of Islam in Britain was in the vicinity of a new mosque and shouted ‘I want bacon.’ 

And so I asked myself: Was this man really arrested for liking bacon? It didn’t take many milliseconds to see that the answer was ‘no, of course not.’ The perpetrator would clearly have known that his remark was openly provocative. In other words, he was deliberately inciting religious – and probably racial – division. That’s why he was arrested, not for liking bacon.

So should he have been arrested at all? Personally I would say not, because I feel that the war on free speech and bringing the law down on every statement which might be deemed divisive or insulting has already gone too far. But that isn’t the point, is it?

The point is that the woman running the channel clearly sees herself as an ‘influencer’ and is prepared to throw reason to the wind in order to continue to do so. Either that or she’s a big head with very little brain. The latter is equally likely because it seems to me that ‘influencers’ are becoming just as big a stain on rational society as advertisers. They’re just a lot less subtle.

Sportswashing?

It’s been a feature of life over the past one or two decades that elite sport has risen greatly in prominence. New competitions have emerged and continue to be added, like the Indian Premier League and ‘the 100’ in cricket. When I was younger there was only the international, full format game and the regional teams which also played full format. And then the limited overs game was introduced. That was followed by the even more limited overs game given the catchy title T20. Now we have the 100 with even fewer overs, and they all exist at the same time.

In professional football the European club competitions have greatly increased in size, thus providing so many more matches that the successful clubs are complaining that their players are becoming burned out. The number of races in the F1 motor racing calendar has increased, and the major current story is that of elite women’s football and rugby union attracting big attendances and media coverage which would have been unthinkable just a few years ago.

And the media coverage itself is interesting. Sports-related stories and issues which once only appeared on the sports pages are now making the front pages of the general news, and even issues of only modest significance are sometimes taking the banner headline spot.

So what’s going on here? Well, first of all we know that elite sport is a major component of the entertainment industry. And we also know that it’s controlled by a tiny number of excessively wealthy people who want there to be even more competitions to produce even more games to attract even bigger attendances and therefore make even more money. Is that what sport should be, I ask myself.

But what if there is another underlying aspect to this trend? As the world grows ever more brutal and societal control by governments, the Establishment, the corporate world, and the media ever more widespread, something is needed to distract people from the process. Could that something be sport? I daresay the BBC could tell us, but I doubt they will. Or am I growing ever more cynical as I get older?

(This post was jotted quickly because I’m busy, so it might need editing.)

Dwelling on a Dark Road.

The message from Trump is transparent: Ukraine doesn’t matter. Only the interests of the power blocs matter. Ukraine is just a pawn in their game, and so humanity is still living in the age of the conqueror. That’s a shame, and more to the point: what will it take to end it?

And let’s not forget that Zionism is at the heart of the Armageddon prediction. Are the two dark views of the future connected? How would I know? (And maybe we should be taking into account the possibility that the real players are hidden.)

On Precocity and Putrid Personalities.

The most prolific flowering plant in my garden is a yellow one which spreads everywhere and is disturbingly dominant. The flower might be described as a large – but all yellow – daisy, or a small sunflower. It’s the undisputed favourite with bees and butterflies.

I often watch the aforementioned insects and note how picky they are. A bee will fly from flower to flower, apparently prodding each one with its proboscis (I think that’s what the feeding bit at the front is called) before settling on the sixth or seventh in line and then proceeding to feed.

But they all look the same to me, so how does the bee decide which one to use?

Meanwhile, the Shire continues to be a little precocious in the matter of signalling the onset of autumn. Many of the trees and hedgerow shrubs are now dotted with yellow, especially the lime trees which are usually the first to drop their leaves. This is normally the September look. The leaves on my favourite copper beech are no longer claret red, but a dirty and drying shade of brown/green. The wheat fields have been harvested this week and all that remains are a few straw bales which haven’t been taken down to the farms yet. And what particularly concerned me recently was seeing a flock of swallows lined up on a telegraph wire. That’s usually their preparation for the return to Africa, again about a month early.

*  *  *

Meanwhile on the international front, the BBC headline on the Alaska meeting regarding Russia’s war on Ukraine runs: No Deal, No Ceasefire. There are pictures galore showing Trump and Putin smiling sweetly at one another, and Mr Trump is reported as saying that the day was a great success. So what success is he talking about? Maybe it was; I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t be bothered to read any further, being sick to the back teeth of a world dominated by American and Russian Presidents.

And while I’m on the subject of prominent personalities, I’m moved to wonder whether Mr Ben Gvir of Israel knows what a ‘cheap shot’ is. (Do they have that expression in Hebrew?) He certainly should. And that leads me further to wonder how the phrase ‘unbelievably obnoxious’ would translate into Hebrew, Aramaic, Arabic, or whatever language was dripping like stale vomit from Ben Gvir’s mouth down in the cells.

Minor Mutterings and a Messiah.

It was my ex-wife’s birthday yesterday. The last time I saw her she was 29. She’ll be a lot older now and sometimes I amuse myself wondering what she looks like. It doesn’t take long for me to stop being amused.

We think of wasps as buzzing little pests intent on annoying us and looking for an excuse to sting, don’t we? This year I’ve seen several drinking sedately from the birds’ water bowl. My attitude to wasps has changed accordingly.

I just read an old comment string from the lovely Zoe of Pennsylvania/NY. It was dated 8/1/2011 (or 1/8/2011 if you must insist on being American.) I thought ‘7 years later…’

My pear tree has been in my garden for nineteen summers and has never fruited. I learned that it was because, unlike apple and plum trees, pears are not self-pollinating. Today I discovered a pear growing on the tree, so either somebody else locally has now got a pear in their garden, or it’s a rare example of Immaculate Conception.

Baiting the Comfy Trap.

Yesterday I had a text message from my mobile provider telling me that my subscription is being increased by over 100%. Today I had an email from my ISP telling me that my broadband subscription is being increased by approximately 25%. (And all dressed up in friendly language in a pathetic attempt to convince the gullible that the capitalist, corporate machine is not really as heartless and psychopathic as it must surely appear even to the gullible.)

The message is becoming more and more obvious with each passing day.

What’s obvious is that the corporate world generally, the technology wing especially, and Establishments all over the ‘developed’ parts of the planet have quietly been constructing a trap and calling it progress. Almost all functions involving any sort of communication are now done by email, text message, or online facilities. Anybody who wants to live a conventional life in these cultures is now required to have well-functioning computer equipment of some sort or other, preferably several sorts. And that means that the providers of these facilities are now free to rip us off as much as they want to, no matter how outrageously.

The only way out of this trap is to cut loose and take to living in a tent, a car, or a van. Difficult as such a move would be, at least it’s still possible in Britain. Over in America it seems it isn’t. If you do that in the land of the free (dare I for once offer a hearty LOL?) you will be regarded as a vagrant, accused of being either mentally ill or addicted to illegal substances, and locked up. So how far will this spread and how long will it take?

It seems to me that the western world is primed for revolution, but of course it won’t happen. Why? Because the American middle class and its equivalent in other cultures has been carefully softened up by the lure of convenience, lifestyle obsession, and the imperative to climb shamelessly on the backs of others in order to be ‘successful’ as defined by the Big Brother system. It’s a sort of mob mentality in lavender.

The only people likely to take to the streets in protest are the PBI (an abbreviation of the British phrase ‘poor bloody infantry’). And when they do, the Establishment will revile them as criminal, mindless mobs, while the other mob – the lavender variety – will nod knowingly and call for more containment facilities. It’s happened before, even in the UK when Mrs Thatcher preached the American Dream and tagged us to America’s coat tails. And it's fascinating to note that Orwell saw this coming even before I was born.

*  *  *

Last night I had another of those awful dreams I was having some months ago – trying to negotiate a dark, depressingly wet world in which everything was falling apart; and every apparent road out led inevitably back into the nightmare. I woke up at 5.30 feeling trapped and terrified, a feeling which lasted until I took a walk up to the fairy glen above the village. Hardly surprising, is it?

Back to the Ladies.

While I’m in the mood for writing things down I thought I might mention that all the significant women in my life had a song to commemorate them. All except one, that is. The Lady B, who was probably the most significant of all, never had one.

Well, she has now. I found one this week which caused her face to rush into my consciousness most alarmingly. And I’m not going to tell you what it is, so there.

On a lighter note, I was walking up my lane this evening, armed with bucket and spade blades, to collect some more horse dung which I saw there earlier. I heard a swishing sound approach me from behind and turned to identify the source. Three cyclists – two male and one female – were peddling past me at speed. The two males ignored me, but the female, who was youngish, splendidly constructed, good looking, evidently fit, (and blonde), turned and smiled at me. I was too in awe of the moment to smile back and they were long gone before I recovered my normally dull senses, but that sort of thing makes my day. It does.

I haven’t said much about the female of the species lately, have I? Songs and smiles seem to have a habit of renewing old peculiarities.

Paltry Notes and Lost Connections.

Considering how serious the last post was, let’s have a few things of minimal consequence to redress the balance.

Ever since last Thursday when I made my previous post I’ve had odd thoughts running through my head which seemed worthy of the telling. But I never had time to write then down, and so they drifted away on the wake of the ship as is usually the case with thoughts which don’t find a home quickly. Accordingly, I’ll have to fall back on trivia if I’m to maintain my status as a blogger of sorts.

*  *  *

Yesterday I was sitting on a pile of plastic bags containing peat outside the entrance to B&Q on the retail park. Several middle aged women walking past smiled at me for some unaccountable reason, and one of them even spoke. ‘Comfy?’ she asked. ‘No,’ I replied, and that was the end of another unpromising encounter. I must have been in a good mood actually, because at least it was a conversation of sorts.

Today I walked a quarter of a mile equipped with a bucket and two spade blades in order to collect some horse dropping I’d seen lying on the surface of Church Lane. One has to take the opportunity quickly in such matters because vehicles have an unfortunate habit of squashing them onto the tarmac. And then I walked a quarter of a mile back with the same accoutrements only with the bucket all the heavier for being full of horse droppings. I must be in training for something. After that I spat on my hands and began the big job: weeding and digging the vegetable plot which was the intended recipient of the horse dung.

(What’s brown and sounds like a bell? Duuung! Yeah.)

It was a productive if boring day yesterday, but I got through it with nothing worse than some pretty excessive fatigue symptoms.

*  *  *

Do you know, every night after a couple of scotches I have an overwhelming desire to write to the priestess. The gist of the message would probably be something like: ‘I do miss you, you know. But don’t give any thought to the matter, much less ascribe significance to it or imagine I’m trying to re-open contact. I’m even less worth knowing than I was the last time I said that.’ I don’t, of course. Too circumspect, and we INFJs have a reputation to maintain.

*  *  *

Another odd thing which happens every night – without exception – when I’m on my way to bed is that I remember a film I saw years ago. It was called The Vanishing and I think it was originally made in the Netherlands and then re-made by Hollywood. It’s a rather disturbing tale about a man’s relentless obsession with discovering why his girlfriend disappeared one day and was never seen again. Why would I think of that every night? Maybe it has something to do with old and lost connections.