Woke up this morning to find that all the airports in the UK are in chaos. No hand luggage is allowed on board, queues are running right out of the doors and onto the runways, women and children are crying, short flights are being dropped, long haulers are stuck on the tarmac and swarms of people are bedding down on terminal floors with no hope for a quick move, phones, sunglasses, pens and baby milk bottles are being ground under foot and kicked across concourse floors… The familiar hysteria surrounding the news these days.
What was once greeted with a gasp of horror is, of course, through familiarity, now watered down to a very sad, very tired sigh.
As ever, one simply feels further disenfranchised and under represented in the world as politics, religion and history spiral further and further from anything one can actually emotionally engage with.
I remember when long bouts of unemployment merely revealed the opportunity to sign on with the enterprise allowance scheme, sleep in til the afternoon, stay up all night and attend free life drawing classes at art college. Now it seems to automatically lead to a fiery wish for jihad and a longing for martyrdom – when will it sink in to the culture to realise, address and challenge the fact that is always the poor, disenfranchised, desperate losers who are led into perpetrating acts of hate, willful distruction, and terror by wealthy, ambitious men? All terror, veiled in religion may simply be class warfare in disguise – internal abuse – manipulation… a world of shame. After all, who was it who said the world of men divides into two… those who move things from one place to another, and those who tell people to move tings from one place to another.
The ambitious politician and – to borrow Burrough’s line – “the religious son of a bitch” have so very much to answer for. Of course, the only true artistic response is negation. What else can one do?