Hinges, articulations, joints, junctions. Eyes swivel suspiciously, uneasily. Danger is just around the corner. Waiting for me. Waiting for you. Itchy alert spine. Intestines on high alert. Alone I am unhinged, disarticulated, disjointed, broken, disjunctioned. The way through cannot be seen, imagined.
When I saw in a pre-election news sheet the Labour Party using the government’s phrase, hardworking people, I was very disappointed and in that moment realised that something much more was needed, that I needed something much stronger from them. Not to go along with Daily Mail propaganda. I want them to be leading the debate about what sort of world we should be valuing, what are the values that I could join with. There is what might be called a soft fascism sweeping Europe. Yes it’s a protest by those who feel sidelined, left out of the debate and the only people who are giving these protests a voice are those who would victimise identifiable groups such as immigrants, asylum seekers, the unemployed, those on benefits.
As the paradigmatic ideology of globalisation under the sway of multinational corporate capitalism begins to crumble (or at least the cracks are becoming visible) without any viable alternative in place the intensity of contested views, riots, and protest covering all shades of opinion, increase and tend towards violence. Anxieties and fears are cranked up, talked up by opportunistic politicians.
What sort of response can the Labour Party give? Perhaps nothing. Weakened by too many years worshipping at the trough of the City of London, ashamed of so much of what Blair/Brown did. It must be a sort of corruption.
Unhinged I flounder around seeking something to connect to. It’s got to make sense in a world where everything is subjected to doubt and scepticism.
Who are the craftsmen and women who can rehinge me? Where will I find them?