O I don’t know about masterpiece!
Before you know it we’ll be talking about classics, texts that have stood the
test of time. We need some long dead or even recently dead master to cast a
judgement from on high, deliberated mightily upon, brow furrowed. Scavengers
long held in vagabondage are grateful for whatever crumbs they are given
(steal?); on second thoughts cancel that idea of gratitude, it’s merely a scowl
from between stubs of blackened teeth.
From inside this dustbin I can
feel the vibration of the centuries, the excitement of destruction as Pinky and
Perky slash and burn in delirious screeches of delight, it’s all their fault,
its all their fault, don’t blame us, we are merely the plumbers brought in to
sort out the problems arising from the dour-one’s diarrhoea. But even allowing
for these inauspicious times, history informs me that I have to take the next
step. So I cast about, seeking a texture, a tone, a colour that I can make use
of, that gives me a clue. For I know that something is not quite right;
adjustments are needed. Radical or superficial, I know not. A sense that
there’s a gap between the system’s
hardwiring and where I find myself. The two don’t gel; square peg in round
hole, I’m in the wrong job except I don’t have a job – there’s merely the life
I make each day.
Fragmented family and no tribe:
is that the problem. Perky tells me that tribalism has gone into the dustbin of
history. So I’m free! Maybe that’s the problem – I’m too free, not connected
where I should be connected according to the blueprint for the hardwiring.
And age . . . it doesn’t stop does it – on and on,
drip by sodding drip. If I remember rightly I used to be hungry for life,
hungry for the future, and don’t get me wrong that hunger is still there in
homeopathic doses, but, or rather, BUT I’m groping around for the brake. How do you slow
this thing down? There’s only the accelerator, jammed and hanging by a thread.