THE IDLE PARADOX

my fellow blog fiends
over the last few weeks of bloglessness
i have reached a most sombre conclusion
it is this
that being idle is bloody hard work!
for the aspiring idler is forced into daily conflict
while he shirks the dull routines of modern existence
all around him swirls a maelstrom of bother
disturbing and distracting our heroic idler
into always being busy doing nothing
for therein lies the paradox
to be busy is to achieve very little
save for boring oneself to death
in the role of a tiny cog
maintaining, servicing and consuming
greasing the great wheel of the slave culture
on the other hand
to be idle is to be productive
to think, to enjoy, to create
to luxuriate
yet it is these three jewels
thought, joy, creativity
which are anathema to the botherers
the interferers
the bores
those whose purpose in life is to control and subordinate the idle
to the daily tedium of wage slavery and commodified leisure
sold to the unwitting in the form of jobs and careers
supermarkets and shopping
i-phone and internet
television and take-away
theme park and leisure centre
yes, it is a constant struggle
to keep one's head
while all around others are losing theirs
to espouse life-affirming anarchy
in a death culture of state-corporate collusion
and yet it is a battle worth fighting
a cause worth supporting
a war worth waging
so will you join me, my fiends?
will you take a stand?
will you plant an idle flag in the dirt?

LITTLE WING

Little Wing is perched on her boulder
Trying to catch the Big Fish
Little Wing, she thinks of her father
And his departing wish
Little Wing, she stares at the water
So clear and so deep
Little Wing with a weight on her shoulder
With a promise to keep

Little Wing
Hear her sing
Above the river’s roar

Little Wing, she sits in her classroom
Waiting for lessons to end
Little Wing is lost in a daydream
Pondering what Father said
Little Wing returns to her boulder
Waiting for Big Fish to bite
Oh it’s been a long day
It will be a long night

Little Wing
Sweetly sings
Above the river’s roar

Big Fish has lived a thousand years in this bourne
Each year it comes back home to where it will spawn
And Little Wing, she knows her tribe’s destiny
Is flowing with the river to the sea

Little Wing, she stands on her boulder
Raising her spear to the sky
Quick as silver, straight and true
Like an arrow it flies

Little Wing
Hear her sing
Above the river’s roar
Little Wing
Sweetly sings
Above the river’s roar

Little Wing, she clutches her prize to her chest
And home to Father she walks

THE GENTLE MUSIC OF A BYGONE DAY

resting against the spreading bows of a tree
a young woman plucks languidly at a six-string lute
a faraway look in her eyes as the notes chime
beside her a demure maiden with flowers in her hair
reclines on a fallen tree
her dispassionate gaze falling on her musical score
beyond the two figures
a gentle stream meanders through a rolling bucolic landscape
a path leads invitingly across a stone bridge
winding gently away
over the lush green hillside

QUOTATIONS

have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful
or believe to be beautiful
so said the great victorian polymath william morris
oh william
i heartily agree!
but such a thing is easily said
with a large inheritance to live off
a retinue of servants to keep your house in order
and an absence of internet shopping or car boot sales
how distant morris' aspiration seems
as distant as the victorian era itself
this morning
i awake early at six thirty
and pad down the stairs to fix a nice cafetiere of coffee
two hours later
the cafetiere remains empty
the culprit?
a marathon session of tidying and cleaning the kitchen and garage
it all starts innocently enough
a quick sorting out of the recycling before the binmen arrive
then things go progressively downhill
as i try to clear some space around the kitchen boiler
to allow the gas man to do his annual check unimpeded
and strip away layer after layer of unwanted stuff, dust and grime
in the process of this operation
i unearth literally mountains of supermarket carrier bags
just a few months ago i recall throwing out hundreds more of them in sheer desperation
to an uncomplicated idler like me
living like this is utter anathema
what's that other quote from fight club?
the things you own end up owning you