Never Hit a Jellyfish with a Spade

My apologies for my seemingly constant reference to women in my recent postings, but for some reason or other they seem to be the only incoherent ‘adjective’ in my life for the past year or so. I’m not going to go into the details for fear that my mother might one day read this and realise that her little boy, has been cheating on her – with floozies! Those would be her words, not mine. In fact, that’s my imagined mother; the real thing is actively trying to negotiate my trade from what she considers ‘enemies of the state’ in areas which fall within ‘the axis of evil’; namely any woman coming from anywhere beyond the outskirts of the village from which we are from.

But seriously, I’m in trouble, no – fuck it – I’m darn right confused! Yes! No! No! Yes! You – No – Him Yes! Now! Tomorrow! Yesterday! Last week! Han’s the German! Tea! Space! Two Hour Phone Calls! Big! Small! More! None! Friends - Sex! No Friends – No Sex! No Sex - Peppermint Tea! (yep that got me too)
‘U’re a f***ing moron – let’s hang out!’ U’re wonderful and amazing – but I’m f***ing a moron’

To be honest I’m a winger, i.e. I like to ‘wing’ things, especially when it comes to topics about self, blah, blah blah, analysis, psychotherapy etc – self help books do nothing at all but make someone else very rich. Hence I plan (should I ever have anything of note, or even better, of importance to say) write one.Call me naïve, but I just think it’s another form of cultural idleness and time filling – I don’t see the people from the village I referred to earlier ever worrying about such profound ideas as, how ‘Stillness Speaks’ or how to, ‘Never Hit a Jellyfish with a Spade: How to Survive Life's Smaller Challenges’. ‘Dodo you God darn blasphemous philistine – get in touch bro. Get in touch.

But I guess buying your food in neatly packed packets from a ‘local supermarket’ and having 200 channels to watch might make you understand existence and purpose a little better than that crouched old man smiling as he makes his daily 45 min to pay a visit to his old friend's widow, the sun bleaching his horizon, amidst the clamour of wrestling okadas skimming through the traffic, passenger heavy, two or three at a time in Arsenal and Man Utd football jerseys. Sweating, even in his best shirt, his toes browned and camouflaged in the dusty earth. Perhaps it’s the thought, that on his arrival, he’ll be presented with a cold glass of water, some hot freshly made eba and efo, with goat meat from the family of his good friend’s recent son in law. Or maybe he’s just smiling, who knows. In the end a man’s thoughts are his own.

But far from the old man, who may, like mother, be a composite of literally fantasy, a collection of ideas formed through photographs and a reality skewed by the desire to document, record and perceive every moment like movie sequences and stills – the question is, who’s better of? Which leads me back again, women and men become fantasies, ideas of each other that become blurred and then defined by the words and visions of others. Others who like to talk, write, analysis, provide options, resolutions, case studies, therefore because we have to talk, actions it would seem are not enough and subsequently the idea of ‘the now’ is a myth.

The truth it would seem is always the future – always the point of arrival. Even the old man has to imagine what he’ll have on his plate when he arrives.