God on Sex…

God wishes men to make love to their wives regularly. It’s a duty, a religious observance, so why block the bedroom door?

For men of independence, it is every day.

For labourers, it is twice a week.

For donkey drivers, once a week.

For camel drivers, it is once every thirty days.

For sailors, it is once every six months.

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So these are the lessons of becoming independent. Relying on nobody else to put food on your table means a better share in the end.

Blessed be the NUPTUALLED.

Madness, meditation, and madness.

She stops and nods at some of the patients come to stand around and stare out of eyes all red and puffy with sleep. She nods once to each. Precise, automatic gesture. Her face is smooth, calculated, and precision-made, like an expensive baby doll, skin like flesh-coloured enamel, blend of white and cream and baby-blue eyes, small nose, pink little nostrils – everything working together except the colour on her lips and fingernails, and the size of her bosom. A mistake was made somehow in manufacturing, putting those big, womanly breasts on what would of otherwise been a perfect work, and you can see how bitter she is about it.

Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, P11 copyright © Ken Kesey

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We are all constructs of our environment and upbringing. Murphy got caught up in a mental institution whilst some of us just get trapped in the other world.

I have watched madness close up. It looks like normality. The people who purvey it appear to be super-normal. These folks are the projections of a society that truly believes in what it is told. Everything is real, everything is as we see it, everything should be taken on face-value. And the androgynous being, striding the corridors of our chosen institution, is there to provide guidance and direction.

The basic fact is that once we are in, once we have bought the ticket, it’s hard to get out.

Meditation. That’s the answer. So I checked the digital world for help. I was met by beaches and gentle waves, trees and gentle leaves, streams and gentle flows. In the midst of all of this was the course, and the accompanying books, to help in the quest towards owning an empty mind. Nah, it’s just putting face cream over the wrinkles.

I have disconnected with the madness of all that I see around me. Going into schools and teaching as a supply/substitute teacher has opened my eyes to something that I long suspected, the world is going mad. Inparticularly, many of our younger citizens are now so anti-social that it is difficult to communicate with them. I have been in one school for just over a month and have watched its deterioration as groups of students roam unhindered along the corridors during times set aside for lessons.

I was told that it was, until recently, a good school. Then came a change of management. Then came the dilemma, how do we improve such a good school. The answer for many in that position is to bring about change, leave a mark, set down a better path to follow. In less that a year the school would be unrecognisable. It’s Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge ridding the world of adult reason and allowing unfettered anarchy to fill the vacuum.

The irony is that it was a strong, unswerving individual who made the school a good one in the first place. Not Nurse Ratchet, but somebody not to be argued with.

This is the puzzling crevice through which falls our reasonable understanding of freedom and democracy.

Too little and we are prisoners, too much and we lose the integrity of our reason.

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Psycho Paths Lead To Greatness

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There is something unnervingly hypnotic about a psychopath. The eyes have it. They stride into ours and rearrange what we think is normality. In some ways it’s akin to having a change of internal scenery with the sofa inhabiting a different area of the room whilst the armchairs are perfectly placed on the ceiling. When that happens, we are left to follow the madhatter down the hole.

Mankind likes a monster. We like the gothics of Dracula, Frankenstein (the real monster being the doctor) and a Mr Hyde (the real monster being the doctor). They tickle our fears whilst taking us into a realm of darkness that we can emerge from at the end of a reading or viewing. Once we leave the covers of a book or the darkness of a cinema, we are free to enjoy the sanity of the everyday. The only problem is that the everyday is more frightening than fiction.

Scientists at Harvard have come to the conclusion that psychopathy is a trait that many of us share. They even go so far to say that the more psychopathy we have the more likely it is that we will succeed in life. A lack of empathy, a conscious effort to make others see us in a false light, and a driving desire to turn everything to our own advantage. Aren’t all the self-help books for success all about this? Ask not what you can do for others but what others can do for you. And the sad thing is that the others find this trait appealing.

Contrary to what the movies might have depicted, they are not the knife-wielding demons of movies like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs or Patrick Batemen in American Psycho.

Many are walking among us, leading completely normal lives, and are even some of the most successful members of society, precisely because of their psychopathy. These are the ruthless business people who do whatever needs to be done, regardless of the human cost.

Newsweek

Research suggests somewhere between 0.2-3.3% of people have psychopathic tendencies.

We may work with one. One of them may be our boss, headteacher, member of parliament, or church leader. We may even be married to one.

HOW TO TELL IF PEOPLE YOU KNOW ARE PSYCHOPATHS

Antisocial, the medical term for psychopathic, personality disorder is defined as having unpredictable, erratic and overtly dramatic behaviours.

According to the NHS, a diagnosis can be made if any three of the following criteria apply to the person’s everyday personality:

  • Repeatedly breaking the law
  • Repeatedly being deceitful
  • Impulsive behaviour or being incapable of planning ahead
  • Being irritable and aggressive
  • Having a reckless disregard for their safety or the safety of others
  • Being consistently irresponsible
  • Lack of remorse  

 

When studying texts from the Second World War, ones that deal with the death camps, I am often at a loss to explain why decent people sat back and let it happen. Other, apparently normal, folks actively participated in those evil events. I look at my students devoid of explanation and some way off understanding. My job is to inform them, make them the type of decent human beings who will heed the lessons of the past, but I too was part of the generations growing up after the war and we have not learnt. Indeed, we now seem closer to psychpathological politics as we have ever been since then.

Could it be that we are beyond being saved?

Or could it be that we are predisposed to act and think in this Fascist fashion?

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Could it be that this is the path to success?

 

 

Another Brick Out Of The Wall.

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It’s a little hazy. The photograph has lost its clarity. The time has lost its surety. We have all become a little vague in the snapshot of history.

Back then history was being created. The iron fist of Soviet imperialism and ideological subjugation had run its course and the real world was breaking through. Western democracy was drawing out the poison from a totalitarian regime and, along the way, freeing its people to participate in its dream of meritocracy. The world was safe.

I heard that the creative arts fell back somewhat after the wall came down. Writers, painters, poets and dancers suddenly lived in a world that was free. The thing that had covered their skies for so long was now no more. There was, for the masses, that thing called freedom. The Soviet was no more. Life could only get better.

So, in came the nineties. Some of the older despots were pushed into retirement. new politicians took the stage and the people were their audience. Things were possible. There was a chance to marry materialism to socialism. Not only could we be well-off, we could be well-intentioned. Old conflicts such a Northern Ireland were negotiated towards a peace-deal and Protestants and Catholics stopped killing each other.

For a short time there appeared to be hope. We could move forward as a world, destroy inequalities, learn from past mistakes. The wall had truly come down and we were free to simply be.

And yet we can’t be without our blanket of economic security, no matter how flimpsy that protection really is. Another Wall Street. Another crash. And all that was good with the world was gone. From hope to despair within three short decades.

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And we all ought to stop and think about how much this is all worth. As people break through borders to find new hope. As countries rebuild borders to keep them out. As America builds borders with its neighbours.

What is it all worth?

The Moon and Masturbation

EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT!

Luna gives the adjective lunaticus. This appears in the Vulgate (405) of the Dalmatian Christian writer Saint Jerome (Eusebius Hieronymus, 348–420) as an epithet for “a moon-struck” person, whence “crazed, insane, lunatic.” It was used of epilepsy, from the notion that the seizures were precipitated by moonlight. The paroxysmal nature of the disease was thought to be dependent upon the phases of the moon.

Lexicon Orthopaedic Etymology

 

I was just wondering if it was the moon-landing that was responsible for my oft’-felt bouts of mental illness. It was probably about his time that things started to happen for me: walls closing in; God-bothering; sleepwalking. In previous times, I could have been successfully charged with being a witch. In a much more benign age, I would have merely been sent to a mental institution, a place I know that at least one on my relatives went to. This is my claim to a luna-lineage.

 

Below is a list of reasons that could have prompted a stay in the local loony-bin.

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I must admit that the first thing that drew my eye was the inclusion of masturbation. It gets five mentions, and this is not counting the implied listings. On second glance, after stopping again and considering the implications of Deranged Masturbation (there is a disturbing picture in my minds’ eye), I read, Novel Reading. Now, I think that I tick a number of these boxes although I have never fallen from a horse in war. I did, however, like Ralph Harris’ hit song, Two Little Boys. Now, however, I find this less palatable that it appeared in 1969, when it was first released. There’s that year again, spooky. There is something to my original hypothesis.

 

I was seven when a bunch of adventurous Americans set foot on the moon. I was seven years of age and the world was still in black and white. I was seven and sitting crossed-legged on the parquet-flooring of my junior school’s assembly hall. I was seven and the universe had touched us. I was seven and life, for a moment, offered unlimited possibilities. Being seven meant that the men from the moon had almost another fifty years to work on my mind.

Now, don’t misunderstand me, I am not blaming moon-men or masturbation on my mental fragility; I have never met a moon-man. But now, things are starting to make sense. What if, on re-entry, one of the astronauts still had some luna-dust beneath his finger nails? Ha, ha, I hear you say (voices again).

 

And yet there is method in my muddled machinations.

Psychiatrists were once known as alienists because they cared for individuals who were thought of as alienated from both society and themselves.1 In the past 150 years or so, the terms psychiatry and psychiatrists have become more prominent and are used almost exclusively. Despite origins in the mainstream of medicine and the medical training of its practitioners, psychiatry is often not seen as a medical specialty or as scientific.2 Other medical professionals might see psychiatry as touchy feely and lacking intellectual rigour, resulting in poor recruitment and retention.

Dinesh Bhurgra   first published The Lancet   August 12th 2014

 

A big IF, but what IF that moon-dust got into our atmosphere and started to work its magic? People wouldn’t be thinking of me as some undercooked fantasist who spent his time inventing any range of reasons why he’d started to bark at the proverbial moon, would they? Look at the dates. August 12th is just a couple of weeks after July 21st and, considering that alien incubation roughly takes place over thirty-five years, it’s definitely possible that Dinesh, if I may be so familiar, had stumbled on something. Is it not strange that other members of the medical elite failed to take psychiatry seriously? The words, ‘touchy feely’  suggest that it is a practice performed by art or drama teachers. Hey, I’m onto something here. They can’t get people to apply for the jobs that psychiatry has to offer and, when they do, they can’t keep them. Something is rotten in the state of mental illness. 

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You may have gathered that I am writing this as a way of warding off the darkness. The last few days, it has been waking, stalking me, trying to pull me back into its embrace. It’s a real thing, not touchy-feely but Scary-Mary.  In the middle of the night, while everyone else sleeps, it creeps up  and suffocates me with its black pessimism. It sucks the wind from my newly-found sails and leaves me at the mercy of some approaching squall.  And when I wake, finally wake, to the world of my wife and children, there is something tainted about my belief that hope is just beyond the horizon.

 

So I sat down this morning, with my old friend and Apple Mac in order to summon up the words to drive it off into it’s own world. 

I didn’t know where any of this was going before I started to write. I still have only a nebulous idea, but it has brought it out into the open. We have glimpsed each other across the battlefield and now I am able to mask my anxiety. It seems a long, long time ago since this thing turned up in the middle of the night and kicked my arse all over the house. It kicked so hard that it almost kicked my out of my own life. Yet now, I think I know a little bit more about it.

 

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Every day, in every way, I getting better and better.

Say it quietly.

 

Love of a Bargain

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Perhaps I was born with the need to fall upon ‘bargains’ like a bird of prey upon its ‘prey’.

I was brought up in the 60s, post war, but not yet post poor. In truth, bargains did not exist back then. There were no reductions for ‘sell-by-date’ as there was no defined date at which something was ‘best before’. The rule of thumb was that if it stunk to high heaven, was mushy to the touch, ticked all the boxes of ‘rank’, it was not good to consume. Sometimes we consumed it anyway and this steadied our constitution.

I heard the rumour that spicy food was invented to hide the taste of food that was well into the dead zone. In northern England, there was no such thing as spices and, during the mini ice-age that descended upon Yorkshire during my childhood, there was little chance of anything ‘going over’.

The early part of my life was spent eating food that was only seasoned by conservative smatterings of salt and pepper. Only when I reached the age of sixteen did I discover the joy of curry.

No, that’s not fully true. My elder sister went to work at a store called Marks and Spencer. This was a posh store frequented by those people who had the money to indulge their indulgences. The food was so expensive that it was light years away from any diet that we could ever expect to participate in. That was when I first heard the term, ‘waste’.

Waste was the stuff that hadn’t been sold. It was the foodstuff that was likely to go off if it were to be saved over the weekend. And good old M&S thought it a good idea to give it to their employees for a very reasonable price. So followed lasagnes, chilli con carne, curries, pheasant pies and a whole range of sweet dishes most men had never previously dreamt of. Our family table became a cornucopia of all things tasty and exotic. My cup runneth over.

My love of good food continued alongside my love of a ‘bargain’. So when some bright spark in Europe decided that it was a good idea to label foods with ‘best before’ a whole frontier of bargains was suddenly declared officially open. Could life get any better?

As an older shopper I no longer have the desire for a bargain (he lies). No, I have. I just don’t tell any body. Actually, again that is an untruth. I love bargains especially when they come from relatively expensive stores. And it is that completion of the circle that brings around Marks and Spencer once more.

My town is moderately wealthy with lots of silver surfers who are often really quite wealthy. Some time ago, I started to adjust my shopping times in order to slide into the ‘best before’ reduction slots. This allowed me to grab a bargain whilst also playing the role of a modern hunter-gatherer. Things were going well until the ‘silver surfers’ began to turn up.

Before long the aisles of M&S were crowded with the trolleys of these affluent pre-dead. They had a certain way of pushing their trolleys by bending over them and using the potential energy of a promised fall to propel the shopping vehicle forward. They would wait in aisles waiting for the moment to pounce, and boy could they pounce. Once infront of the food reductions, a number of them would block off the entrance to ‘bargainsville’ and pick away at their leisure before leaving with a ridiculously and amoral amount of ‘best before’ at ridiculously and unethically low prices.

The world had turned.  

Farewell all that is good with waste.  

Checking Out My History

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There’s a woman I know who had an idea for a book. She entered a competition for ‘Women of Substance’ with this idea, and only this idea. She won and got a book deal.

The book was written by both the publishers and her with the publishers doing an inordinate amount of research. She wrote about what she knew best and what she thought about the most, herself. The book sold quite a lot and she is still living off of its popularity.

At the heart of the book was the heart of her success. Her prose were not so special. Neither was the story of her life (which bookended the real tale). The thing at the heart of it all was the revelation that her great grandmother was a woman who was found guilty, with her male friend, of the murder of her abusive husband. They were both sent to the gallows together and were the last couple to do so before capital punishment was repealed.

With this in mind, I set off to find my own past. Surely, between me and my wife, we could find a murderer, sodomite, or just an everyday lunatic who was locked up in a house for the insane and met every night with lupine howls.

I started the search and was confronted by how little our parents had told us. My wife has circumstances that make it doubly difficult to delineate a family tree. Having known next to nothing about my mum and dad’s families, even the discovery of maiden names of great grandmothers or the name of my father’s absent dad brought up a lump of sadness that was unexpected.

My continued search will be for the sake of discovery and to tell the story of ordinary histories.