12th February 2020

‘We are beneficiaries and victims of our experiences. What we decide to assimilate is a choice not a prerogative.’

In a perfect world life would be like a very expensive stove, with a regular automatic self-cleansing mode. Some magical process that removed every speck of grease and tarnish superficially showing upon our surface, but more importantly a deeply penetrating renewal that reinvigorates those hidden areas a simple rinse can never reach.

Am I alone in my constant accumulation of clutter, or are we a species in general rapidly and irreversibly adapting to the condition of pack rats? Fascinating and compelling as each new arrival or purchase might be, I am more and more inclined to question their necessity for my ongoing happiness or wellbeing. The same applies to information as does with objects.  I would suggest that perhaps ten percent of the constant stream of additional input funneled daily into my brain has any real or intrinsic usefulness. Much is simply   explanatory, adding yet another overly specific shade to the color green, or equally uselessly opinion, as if my own ‘self’ in not already sufficiently replete with personal bias and phobia.

Writing can be remarkably unburdening.  Producing a blog, which at best is a stream of unfiltered thoughts vaguely interwoven into a semi cohesive design or at worst an expulsion of internally propagated effluent and bile, is perhaps the nearest to ‘self-cleansing for the soul’ presently available.  True, one could have the courage of convictions to stand at street corners, raised high upon an upturned orange box, spouting a very pointed and personal ideology for passersby to listen to, ignore. laugh at or commiserate with at their convenience, much as a million very intense men and women have done previously. Or equally, with the same very tiny audience and minuscule effect, take the message to the blogosphere, same words, same intensity, but safely encapsulated in a much more protected and safe space.  Public speaking for wimps and cowards one might easily postulate. Naturally, I would rather think it a simple measure to avoid the unpleasantries inclement weather can assert.

My first experience of political discourse was at Speakers Corner in Hyde Park,  London, which for those for of you not in the know was and still is a location set aside, hallowed ground you might say, for the exact purpose of carrying on the historic tradition of protected open-air public speaking that commenced in Grecian and Roman times.

Amateur orators are permitted this safe space to deliver addresses on any subject within the bounds of public decency without interruption and verbal or physical intimidation till either their voices dry up or the gathered throng withers away from boredom, pressing engagement or to join another crowd around a different pulpit but a few feet away.

I admire such public speakers greatly, not only do they by necessity brave the elements, but even in a this most civil of environments suffer the accusatory or questioning stares of an often hostile crowd gathered more for their own amusement than any notion of  absorbing knowledge. Mine own rather insipid words delivered, if not anonymously, from a wholly unreachable place never have to face the indignity of castigating expression, audible hilarity or tutting consternation of a live audience.

Unadulterated, without mechanical filter or distorting veil, with hopefully self deprecative truthfulness, my intent is to gently prod, cajole, embolden the same freedom of expression in others as this form allows moi, me. As I once chose the anonymity of pseudonym but now choose natural identity, I beseech you gird on your armor, take up the cudgel and express yourself, if for no other purpose than your soul’s own integrity.

Monetarily, the wondrously transient creature that is transcendental reality slips from the obtuse to the actual, then just as suddenly vanishes in a puff of rainbow glitter but recently exhaled by a strangely apt passing unicorn.

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