Waking up to hear the news that the country (or the Parliament, at least) is once again in a state of nervous breakdown [diverse alarums] isn’t anything new these days, not over this side of the pond or just about everywhere else.
I may have already spent most of 2019 looking like this:
But anyway ~ the road is long, life is short, and there’s always the ever-burning coals of radicalism to keep one happy. There’s probably a paper to be written that this is what happens when you reduce the democratic impulse to a binary, once-every-few-years process. But whatevs. Frankie Boyle is back, and he sums it up much better than I ever could.
Future Astronauts are minimalist, soundscapey chill-cool. Their music is free and they support mental health charities, so go check them out.
Feck 2019, as in – to refuse it. To deny the power it holds over us already.
New Year is a weird time for all of us mired in the Gregorian Calendar. It’s the ultimate Alpha-point; it is everything new and promised and time-starting-again. In its most hopeful aspect the New Year promises everything; a magical window of opportunity through which all things will become possible. This is the year that you finally get solvent, or take up yoga, or become the best version of yourself…
///feck you, 2019 – where were you for me last year, the year before that-?///
Walking out today, and the air felt fresh and sharp; twangs of sap from the growth plucked from the oaks, ashes, and chestnuts by Storm Bronagh that passed by a couple days ago. Bronagh may be gone, but she still has straggling gusts chasing at her skirts – making these old trees creak alarmingly, and setting up the jays in the wood.
It’s breezy. Not quite ‘wild’ and not exactly what Britishers might call ‘a good stiff breeze’ but it’s getting there. When I pass by the cul-de-sac of houses, I am met by the thrumming whurr of telephone wires vibrating with the wind.