I’m pink therefore I’m Spam

Improbable behaviour + Imperfect leadership = Imminent Impeachment.
As Nobby-No-Mates, stalks the corridors of diminished power, the lacklustre Buffoon attacks his allies with petulant jibes, his auto-cued speeches delivered through a pancaked mouth, his conversational tics lulling us into a false sense of reality. Like a wet newspaper, its’ pages flapping and slapping in a murky puddle we try to read the saga of Trumpington as it comes to an end.
The mewling quim debriefs his supporters, abandons them, misleads them then talks in tongues to incite them, preparing them for another skirmish on January 19th.
I am so tired of the soap opera that we call politics. And yet my finger still types in 506 – CNN. Or Channel 4, or Tom Bradby or at a push, Fiona The Bruce. I think watching the news is a distraction from actually having to do anything about anything.
With a new buzzy headline I leave it until it’s been demoted to page five, the heats removed and I can deal with it. We now have too many words to read too many stories to understand. We now have mountains of muchness we are meant to know. Disseminating fact from fiction is undeniably exhausting, I now leave it to the minds who enjoy Sudoku. Sometimes I turn the sound off when Charlene White is in mid flow and read the subtitles, it’s like watching people dance without hearing the music, strange manoeuvrings.
Words and more words, phrases packed with cliches. Noisy barrages of more words. When the rain hits the skylight in the kitchen I can breathe a sigh of relief. I have turned off the cacophony and I can hear the sound of the weather. But it’s not like I’m being held captive and being force fed Nina Nanna, I do it to myself. I’m like the man who eats peanut butter sandwiches everyday and complains.
“Get your wife to make you something different.” says his colleague.
“What wife?’ says our man “I make them myself.”
I bring on my own gloom. I worry about the ‘what ifs’. I angst over the ‘if only’s’. I think about not thinking then get hung up on thinking that my not thinking is too irresponsible so I think about something grown up like what did Chris Whitty look like at school, and what does he look like when he’s climaxing, and I berate myself for such shallow thoughts so I take the plunge and think ever deeper thoughts like what does Chris Whitty look like naked and why does he look like a melting wax dummy. Then I worry that thinking about the very nature of thinking makes me a procrastinator because rather than doing, thinking about doing is just as good as doing, only we all know that that’s not true because thinking about turning the kettle on without turning the kettle on, doth not a pot of Earl Grey make.
So the days merge. The conversation is but a list of chores. A trip to the shop, once a week, to buy coriander and Sharon fruit. The rest of the time is whatever floats your boat plus telly watching and naval gazing.
On Wednesday I collected up all my crystals and put them in bowls of water and sprinkled salt over them, took them out into the garden put them on the table and left them for three days under the moon. When I collected them today they lay under a thin sliver of ice. After their moon bath, the rose and white quartz, the amethyst and lapis lazuli are sparkling again. It took me some time to replace them back around the house. I hadn’t realised just how much dust had accumulated so I sprayed polish over shelves and sponged window ledges, I collected up dead leaves from the fig tree in the attic and watered the Begonia Rex in the front window.
I put the radio news on at 5.00. God help me. Whilst preparing ladies fingers I shouted at Evan Davis “I don’t need to hear it anymore I know what’s happening'”. I turned him off as I mixed garlic, onions, and a squirt of tomato paste, slowly cooked them then stirred in some cream cheese and fresh tomato and laid the mixture into the open rounds of big portobello mushrooms. I sprinkled coarse black pepper and kosher salt over them, slid them into the bottom oven and got the ‘oosbind to turn the sound up on the TV. Here we go again with the 6.00 o’clock news
I am confused now by Boris with his U-turns and back tracks. Enough I thought. “I dont need to hear it anymore I know what’s happening.” I screamed at the news as I made a salad of spinach and green beans, carrots and white radish, lettuce, tomato and cucumber and dressed it with pure organic tahini. “Fuck off” I sighed as I switched channels to watch Matt Fry because I love him. There he was standing in Washington DC in front of short haired soldiers in army combats and I wondered who knitted him his big scarf, and then I thought however much I love him I’ve heard it all before and I know what’s happening. And what’s happening makes my heart hurt and my head ache.
It wasn’t always like this, was it, with rolling news, and microphone wielding commentators choking us with yet more information, but here I am doing the very same thing mouthing off publicly. To mouth off means you have to think, and thinking means swinging round a slalom of thoughts, zigzagging between what’s right and wrong, winding in and out of thorough thoughts and always reading the small print.
Well I don’t like the small print, haven’t got time. I give it to the old git who methodically pieces it all together then tells me what I need to know. I let him make the connections. Then roaring like a lioness I told somebody to turn the fucking television off whilst I poured cooked potatoes into a small frying pan added fresh chopped onion and a squirt of olive oil. Chucking expletives at the television, like so many darts, I muttered under my breath as I lay the table, I know what’s happening, I’ve heard it all before.
Jaques Loussier plays ‘Gymnopedie’ and the babbling stops.
The air is filled with mellifluous music as I lay out the dishes of hot food. We eat quietly. Conversation at a minimum because we know what’s happening and we’ve heard it all before. It is decided that hanging in now is the only way, holding on to the rails as the rollercoaster of 2021 whips us up and down.
For a split second thinking stops. All is quiet save for Erik Satie’s notes. I don’t want to be thinking anything. I want my monkey mind to stop its chattering so for the duration of the meal it’s just chewing and scraping and slurping that fills the kitchen. As the table got cleared I had a thought.
I thought were I not to think then what? ‘I think therefore I am.’
‘Cogito, ergo sum.’ said Descartes.
But my old dad used to say ‘You know what thought thought, thought thought he’d shat himself and when he looked he had’.
I think they were both right. What do you think?