Lost in the mist…

figures lost in the mist

I’ve been a bit lost recently.

Not the ‘manfully driving around tiny country lanes refusing to ask for directions’ or ‘wandering around the local Lidl licking fridge windows’ kind of lost but the listless, lacklustre, (alliteration ridden) lost of the middle-aged, middle-class man. A man in the middle of his life, struggling between the sweet dreams of ambition and the painfully setting concrete of reality.

Is this ‘The Crossroads’ that they sing about? Am I standing on a dusty intersection in Buttfuck Idaho playing a beat up guitar hoping that a demonic venture capitalist will snap my soul up after they spot it on Instagram? Is this the beginning of the end and therefore the end of the beginning? Am I at a junction with choices or have I arrived? Destination: Middle Of The Road.

Maybe it’s the rancid cultivation of racist, misogynist, homophobic rhetoric that has obviously been festering in people’s dark, personal petri dishes apparently without observation. Removed from the dank recesses of private notion, shoved past the barrier of common decency and now thrust into the sunlight to flourish like bindweed. Throttling the free of thought into a gasping heap of hyperbole. How did that shit happen without anybody noticing?

Well the answer is that it was always there. But these notions are cowards and need cohorts and an Emperor to embolden their passage from the night out into the day. Give a candidate a hint of nationalism, a pinch of populism and a fair smattering of good old fashioned bigotry then sit him astride a media train that is careering so far to the right it can never get back to the rapidly rusting tracks at the centre and it’s bound to end up in a giant clusterfuck.

The generous part of my nature would like to rationalise that recent polling decisions by the voting masses have been borne from a desperation for change. Lifetimes of poverty, ignorance or social injustice culminating in an avalanche of political ineptitude. Maybe the lackadaisical liberals and lefties have been too busy sipping frappe lattes with sprinkles to notice all the bed sheets getting eye holes torn into them and the pitchforks getting resharpened and that no now means yes. Thoughts and attitudes from every side ebb in and out of the argument but the core of my being constantly returns to the simple fact that you should never reward somebody for bad behaviour. Especially by giving a lifelong, tangerine tinted, numpty narcissist the keys to the White House and a big red button to play with.

Perhaps I’m standing on a wall. A big beautiful wall that was once demolished by progression of thought and the passion of a changing world but the foundations were being stealthily rebuilt by a huge army of tiny minds with a desperate desire to shore up an Empirical resurgence of hatred. Do I have to choose which side to leap from? Will what remains of my dwindling faith in humanity show me which side to fall? As I peer down it seems there are chainsaw wielding clowns to the left of me and orange faced jokers to the right.

It’s probably time to go surfing…

1 comment

  1. Your paternal grandfather had a fit of this sort of thing before you were born. (Well before, there was no connection.) He took the dog and walked to Wales… Not sure what the equivalent would be, surfing would probably do it.

    P.S. “the core of my being constantly returns to the simple fact that you should never reward somebody for bad behaviour”, as you will remember this was always my mantra. Remember the coleslaw. xxx

    P.P.S. Nice photo.

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