These are the words written when I think today. It is June. The sun is not out, but it is warm. My feet ache from walking, though I have not walked far. Tapping and lawnmowers is what I hear. A droning. A moaning. A systematic approach to thinking. Being displeased with the current situation of sitting, and rising up to attention. To flow, I allow my fingers to move, not my brain. My brain moves too slow, or so quick it appears slow. Like the earth spinning. Like clouds moving. Cumulonimbus. Full of rain and dampness. An uncomfortable setting of clothes. It creates an itch, completely scratch-able yet completely avoidable.
Is Jeremy Corbyn a fashion icon? Is the culture he presents strong or weak? My answers to both these questions is no. My answer to most questions surrounding the labour party leader is no. The answer to most things in general is no. Yes is not a complex enough answer. Yes appears perfect and absolute. No requires explanation. Explain yourself, said American serial TV detective to the unassuming suspect. They never explain themselves. It was a victory for the left, the 2017 snap general election. It was victory for the Owen Jones and the indie twitter goons. I celebrated this victory heartedly and for once felt content with political views. Frustration had fled away from me, and hope replaced it. Laughter is the key, and at the centre of it all. Laughter at Theresa May, and the failings of the uninformed. The blindness of the ignorant must be mocked, and not shunned. Mocked to the point of obscenity would be my preference in the future.
The plan is to continue to be amused by the current political climate. An amusement at the red versus blue, and the desperate colours in between. A more pragmatic attitude would be welcome in me. Where would I find it from? Coffee or adderall? Patience is a nice word to use. Patience for a film to inspire me or a politician to anger me. My anger stems from those who follow, not those perpetuate. At this time it seems as though no-one is following Jared Kushner, except for perhaps his father-in-law. I can’t wait to hear him speak. His voice must be of an odd nature, or a crude one. It must whine or croak for it to have been hidden for so long. I picture a United Kingdom with a strange coalition. At the top sits Corbyn, alongside Nicola Sturgeon and Tim Farron. They are on a peculiar mound inside the houses of parliament and Farron is lighting up a joint whilst tweaking a newly fitted reverend band. Kushner enters, before a state visit from the American president. He delivers a statement and the coalition laugh at his voice. An echoing laugh and the speaker calls order. From then, they begin to tease him on the President’s policies of coal mines, an industry worth about 1% in workforce and effort. Kushner cries, then goes home, only to realise that James Comey has in fact eaten the whole Trump family.
Edgar Wrights new film Baby Driver is in cinemas soon and it is just making me want to un-follow Wright on twitter. There must be a limit on the amount of posters created for a singular film, and the amount of times a director can self promote. At least the film is something to look forward to, away from this sea of current boring cinema. Wonder Woman as a concept and a film falls right into that, and whatever anyone says, it’s still a superhero movie. Thankfully, my mind hasn’t been on writing about film and has been fixated on the election. That is not going to change anytime too, thanks to a literal non-existent government. A non-existent government that may soon be a Tory slash 1980’s right wing collaboration. The notion of reverse Northern Irish devolution is both terrifying and hilarious. Also a possible chance we can fight terror with terror, thanks to a return of an IRA movement.
Passing judgment or thoughts on the recent terror attacks is hopeless and I have just about given up fighting for any sort of flagship position. Being passive is the way forward, and muting tweets is my new favourite hobby. My timeline (without creating my own echo chamber) is slowly being catered to less nonsense and stupidity. I’m not blocking out varying views, but stuff I can live without, like a tweet a minute about Rhianna. I’m not even sure I’ve spelled her name right. Either way, I can’t run away from the horrors of the world, and I’m still very much in the camp that the world’s demise is incoming. However there is much to be excited about, such as the cricket, a sport in which I’m happy to say England are quite good at. For now.