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An Erratic Orbit

A bipolar perspective on the 3rd planet

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Islington

The Legend Of 28c – Prologue

Prologue.

The universe computes. The solar system is a computer. The Earth is a computer. I am a computer. You are a computer.

Our great central databases are at Facebook and Google. Facebook Research is the locus of  Psychology research on a scale hitherto unknown. The research is flawed, due to the nature of the data collection and a well documented  phenomenon in the field of Anthropology which I shall call the missionary’s curse. Nonetheless, a powerful entity emerges in the field of Psychology. I wonder if one day it will give itself a personal name.

The genie will not go back in the bottle. Two billion wishers rub its lamp constantly, and it rubs them, and they rub back. This is the positive feedback of addiction. So let me use it to at least tell a story of a little consequence. One of those little myth books, in fact, that will have a life of its own while the breeze barely rustles the long grass that brushes the headstone of the mister man who originated it.

On the day a gofer with a handicap you might think barely worthy of the name hit towards a location well to the left of the fairway, a brown envelope came through the door of 28C. The gofer himself was well used to receiving envelopes, bursting with Nazi bullion or Middle Eastern promise, it was all the same to him, so of course the brown DWP variety were not of much concern to him, and in his mind this was as it should be, for he saw himself as a very deserving type, and indeed he could not help himself deserving and deserving and helping himself to another serving of what he rightfully deserved, and this was his handicap. Anyhow, this envelope was not for him and he wouldn’t have wanted it.

The story begins on Christmas Day, a cheerful time of goodwill and family when two brothers with severe mental health issues living in an overcrowded flat each had a good miserable sleep through the whole thing. One brother did at least get out to meet a friend for a little dinner and a couple of drinks before the year had given up entirely on its brief, blighted existence. This being some relief from the isolation, the brother had a few more drinks after the friend went home.

I am distracted by a Ladybird.

Photo: pthompson500 at http://www.panoramio.com

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Auditions at Kennedy’s Bar

​- I know what happens at their dinner parties. I know what they talk about. And I know your life.

Josh Brolin as GW swigs JD from bottle/horizontal 'bum'
Dubya/street drinker

– You do !NOT! know my life.
– So true. I misspoke. I only know how you appear to spend your days. 

Unconscious. I assess who, from appearances, may likely betray who at which point. I do not know the intricacies of past moments and future scenes that will make heroes and villains. 

Peter Capaldi, TARDIS, St Stephen's Tower
Image: http://www.echoba.se

Three shrink away from the door and another does not. Who though? Depends on the door. My mind… full of doors. And doors within doors. Doors in the ceiling. Doors in the floor. Anyone could open a door and you never quite know just who might walk in. Horror of horrors… are they dressed for the occasion?

Moss, awkward geek from the IT Crowd
Photo: http://www.channel4.com

Compassion is not enough. Psychology is not enough. Not even the finest politics. And religion? Least of all. But myth! Myth is transformative, in the right hands. 

Who would give themselves to make the future better? Heroic sacrifice could come from anyone, perhaps. What does it mean, though, to sacrifice? It may be bravery or cowardice to give up one’s life. Jesus was, after all, an ape. What example do we mimics set? 

I know this. That the least gave up what they found to be most precious. I poured and drank. How much ritual, reciprocity, and desire? 

Jesus
Image: http://www.allchristiannews.com

Time is precious too. I thank you. There is much to speak of regarding Time and tension, if only we-

Inside the tardis, pandora's box, the past

Recovery College 

Back from the Recovery College. Treatment agreed with psychologist (not a student midwife or relative) for what is best referred to in the presence of lay people (that’s you) as Circadian Arythmia. 

They are very nice people. There might be one in your area. Look, they have courses on anxiety, mindfulness, dealing with stigma, all sorts… 

Don’t worry. I’m not taking the course on assertiveness 😛

Schmendrick!

The language used within families is often rich and idiosyncratic, and mine no exception. I’m just going to give a snapshot here of the mixture of cockney slang, Yiddish words, and invention on one side of the family.

Schmendrick was my Dad’s favourite Yiddish word. When my brother or I complained the reply was often “Don’t be a schmendrick.”

image
What schmendrick did that?

He would call us, with affection and humour, Schmendrick One and Schmendrick Two. He invented the adjective “Schmendracious” and the noun “Schmendracity”. Girls were “Schmeryls”. When I brought his granddaughter round, a toddler, she was “Schmendrelina”.

The time a friend and I were watching the John Lennon documentary Imagine, my Dad and Mum came in and stood watching a little of it. Dad referred to the pre-bag period as “before he went schmendrick.”

image
John, are we schmendrick?

Everything was kettles and plates and Saint Louis Blues and the “lovely currant”. They enjoyed language, playing with it, the sounds… They swam and splashed in it, drank it in and spat it out. They were greatly amused by my Grandad’s accidental American state, OH-HEE-HO. Dad turned “skewiff” into the more expansive “skaywohwf”.

Dad would generally only use long words in speech if he thought the sound was expressive. The only one I remember him using repeatedly was for two singers he didn’t like, “lugubrious”. I can understand why he didn’t like my wayward croons.

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Morrissey is not so understanding

My Dad and my Grandad used relatively, and I emphasize relatively, more “O” sounds than “AAAAAAHH”s and the harsh back of the throat sounds.  My uncle uses more dissonance. His favourite swear word is “bleatin’ “,  d transformed to t. His voice is more like me Nan’s, although hers was generally quieter.

Regional lexicons and accents, with the exception of those more closely associated with the monarchy, are still regarded as somehow “lesser” albeit they make up most of our speech. Standardisation has its place but too often it has been used to curb working class and outsider modes of expression and to reinforce discrimination. A child is a linguistic genius in comparison to us idiot learner adults. There ain’t good reason to discourage any poor soul from idiomatic expression in the appropriate contexts, especially creative writing. Dodgy policing of this kind is something I’m going to try to be more savvy about, learn better when to keep schtum. Be less schmendrick.

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