Little green man running? Why (I think of this as being the
fifties) did we always picture Martians as green? The same green that bombards
the retina in May and June until sun and rain dims its ardour. Green the colour
of life; red the colour of blood and iron and Devon earth.
Little green man running. The green gradually shifting, from
the tips of his little toes to the top of his head, to red as the danger of
bloody slaughter inches closer. Itchy feet on accelerators – revving high –
rage coursing through aching frustration.
Yes, why don’t you walk?
So much to do, so little time.
And in the midst of it all I have to broadcast the truth – O
if only I had access to it – moments of glorious, inflated, illusory (delusory?)
truth. O we are such dreamers: constructed of dreams – in six days of intensive
dreaming – then a day of rest, one whole glorious day off – can you imagine a
day off – how we long for a day off. We are a dream dreaming.
What would it mean . . . a (boringly) repeated complaint of
mine is to do with living alone. In other words it all comes down to me and
it’s only me that I can sort it out with. Of course, for others that would be an
image of glorious freedom – just imagine nobody to have to work it out with;
the arguments, the negotiating. So my day off would have to be around others. Getting up without an inner debate about it. A
slow start to the day – I don’t have to make a single decision – I can say my
piece and allow group process to do the rest.
Little green man running in joy and freedom; no anxiety – in
a word: carefree. Let us drink a toast (perhaps, elderflower champagne?): here’s to the
simplicity of joy and, if we’re lucky, all in glorious (Technicolor) sunshine.
Surely I’ll be due a day off in the not too distant future.