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Folded and discarded imagination

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Folded and Discarded Imagination

[7 minute read ] 

Fiction

In the corner of my living room are the remnants of my former self. Like a snake shedding its skin I  left it draped over a chair; a husk that resembles me from a year ago. Almost translucent, it is difficult to make out in the silver dawn light that tip-toes through the window. But when Hakim, my avatar spirit protector held it up and Harrari, the abandoned alien whom I met in a small wood ten years ago, shone a light through it I could see that it is my size and has a vaguely human shape. What is interesting about it is that it represents a better version of myself while still being obsolescent.

       'Try it on.' Hakim mocked me as though I would be able to slip into the delicate shape of former me and wear the same mantle of creativity I once had; as though there is a zip at the back that can be drawn up to make it securely fit.

Harrari, the amazing alien, pushed an image of a vodka bottle into my head. She knows that it won't make me crave it. She does it to remind me why and how I have changed. But, unusually, she is being unfair. She knows my train of thought has recently been tempered by focusing on rigid aspects of life that demand convergent thinking. She knows that, unlike her, I have had to make sacrifices, and opportunities to wander aimlessly in a fantasy world have been curtailed over the last two years. But she is, of course, correct in her decision to remind me that I have drank too much over the same period.

The shape of myself is grey as Hakim lets it drop to the floor and I wince at his carelessness. But he is not careless. It is only an artifact from my past; a useless one beyond reminding me of who I once was.

Harrari picked up on my wistful thinking, 'It is not you; it never was. I detect her voice as a soft sussuration, like a swift breeze through a weeping willow overhanging a stream. 'You are greater than this. That is not your generosity or your honour or integrity. It is a small part of your imagination; fascinating, but no longer relevant. It is the shape of your creativity bound and circumscribed by your experience. You have grown since then and it no longer fits.'

I wasn't entirely convinced and a part of me sobbed at what I had done to myself; the image of the vodka bottle still fading in my head. I was irked at Harrari's honesty at the same time as grateful. I do forget about my mind, because I sometimes want to forget about me. She and Hakim know that. In fact, I haven't seen them for a while. More accurately, I haven't seen Harrari very much at all; she is, in the main, completely invisible to humans. It is to do with phase-shifting or something. Hakim, my spirit avatar, I have ignored and, miffed he has miserably hidden in the corners smoking his imaginary pipe; the one he likes to smoke when Harrari is near because he thinks that the imaginary smoke will choke Harrari's ability to communicate with me. He likes to pretend to pollute the air. I am not sure if it is his wonderful and unique sense of humour or he really believes it. Suffice it to say I am of a mind to say he is jealous of Harrari's abilities.

I promised Hakim that I will pay more attention to him. 

       'You did, after all manifest me to protect you in the spirit world while you slept.' He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes.

       'Sly and wheedling doesn't suit you, Hakim. Where is this coming from? I manifested you when I was sixteen, we know that. I did it to protect myself from my brother and you sat on my bed while I slept. Thank you. But he is dead and has been for years now. As a person he can't reach me anymore.'

       'From you! It is coming from you. I am nothing without you and you are letting things slip. That shapeless mess on the ground that was your imagination is still flexible, useless now but flexible. You have grown an armour that won't lie quiescent in nature when you take it off; if  you can take it off, that is.' 

       'You are rude and insolent,' I noticed Harriri fade in and saw her nodding. My Crikeyness! She can be beautiful, but she would be, wouldn't she? I had an inkling about what Hakim meant and realised that Harrari was agreeing with Hakim and not me. She winked and became ancient for a moment, like a woman who has lived a hundred lifetimes in eighty years. She probably has, I thought. She stayed semi-transparent and strangely sat down on the floor. She would never do that under normal circumstances because she is ever-ready to act and that means moving swiftly to another location. This is a full-frontal attack by a united force whom I call my friends, I thought. I didn't feel threatened but I did feel unsure of myself; it was unprecedented for them to gang up on me. This has to be important, I thought, at least to them. If it is important to them they must feel it should be important to me.

       'Armour? You mean I am using subterfuge to protect myself from something, don't you?'

Hakim was still rude but I could see he didn't really want to be so. His, 'Bingo! Give the man a prize!' came out as 'By Jove! I think he has got it!' I mentally thanked him for putting in the effort but still felt humiliated. It was, I suppose, his wont to make me feel that way.

Harrari, devastatingly ruthless and violent if she chose to be, could not be dishonourable or mean. 'You have lost your way. You have given yourself over to become fertile ground for the seeds of dishonesty and hate. You once held a idea that hate comes from believing lies and now you are listening to unfounded ideas built largely from heuristics. That is not you as you were when I first met you in the wood.'

       'I know.' I didn't know, but I cast the template she had woven over my current life and compared it to how it fitted over my life in the woods. She was right, I had and have changed; each time a little further from how I once was, never returning to a better me.

       'It is no good feeling sorry for yourself' Hakim chipped in. He kicked my old imagination disdainfully to add weight to his point. I winced again.

       'Hakim, stop it! You are kicking my good imagination.'

       'No, he isn't.' Harrari breathed, 'He is kicking something that you yourself spoiled and cast off as being unimportant to you. You humans like to honour the bodies of people who have died but you did not give the same courtesy to yourself. It might only be a shaving of yourself on the floor but your imagination is your greatest asset and you treated it as nothing.'

I knew she used the past tense but only just. I felt that she was hovering on using present tense and only decided not to because she realised I was listening. I should be kinder to my imagination. I felt her smile when I imagined digging a hole in my garden and having a ceremony for my past imagination. It wasn't a kind smile.

       'At least it is working now.' I countered. She made that moue of passive and weightless agreement. 'Meh!' is not in her lexicon; Nor mine as it happens, so it seems that I borrowed it from Hakim's current truculence. That must go, I thought. And right there I fully realised the scale and scope of what they were saying. I had given Hakim full autonomy to do as he pleased once my tormentor brother had died. Yet, here I was foolishly believing I should shape him to my will. What would be the point of doing that? I would be listening to myself mocking myself and only Harrari would have an independent say. I say 'only' Harrari. I should make it clear that she has, in the past, telepathically entered my head to smooth my thoughts so I could sleep. And I know she guided unwanted visitors away from my camp in the woods; except for the man who wanted to honour the loss of a Stirling bomber crew in 1943 in the same wood; the man who broke my tent zip. It was time for me to move on then and Harrari knew it, and he was a honourable man.

       'What would you have me do?' I asked them. Hakim picked up my cast off and now torn imagination and folded it. He placed it on the chair he had been sitting on and walked towards the door. 'I think you know what to do', he murmured.

       'What's going on? Are you still miffed at me? I asked what you would have me do; you and Harrari.' 

       'Do you want me to be so crass as to say you should treat me more kindly and listen to me more often. I would be like you have been for the past year if i said that.' He raised his eyebrows to make a arched quiz on his forehead.

       'But that is what you mean, isn't it?' I was annoyed because I like straight conversation. 'It's not about what I like, is it?'

Harrari saw where this was going and stopped me going any further. 'You are being confrontational, Martin.' She never uses my name and I could almost hear her patronise me with, 'We are only trying to help.' But she detected that I had picked up her intent, which was to show me how I have been; a pontificating pillock in my neighbourhood and in the supermarkets; patronising.

Hakim gently picked up the folded and dead imagination and handed it to me. He sat down again where it had been and just looked at me. I knew it was a kind look built from concern. He didn't need me to imagine him any more. That day had long past. He is as real as me. Harrari, of course, I have never had any control over; I should never try. One doesn't try to exert will on a entity that might be described as a Supreme Being by overly-religious people. She isn't a Supreme Being or God. She is an alien abandoned by her brothers when she didn't get back in time for their predestined departure. She had used the high tension overhead electric wires that cross the country to signal them but they never came back for her. 

We three sat looking at each other until Harrari faded and only Hakim and I sat in silence. I had gotten the message, and he is kind enough not to rub it in. He too faded, and sad for Harrari I told myself to wake up a bit and stop feeling sorry for myself. I hoped that I had reached the nub of my malaise and I might now focus more on preservation and not consumption. I hoped it would be exciting and the future would be spent more with Hakim and Harrari.

Ribbons of peculiarities

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Ribbons of Peculiarities

[5 minute read ] 

Opinion Mental health

I think one of the most difficult things in life is not only keeping track of all aspects of our lives but managing them successfully. I like to think that we have streams of existence; not so much as running bodies of water, more as ribbons of peculiarities. 

I think I am on fairly safe ground when I assume that most of us will happily stereotype successful people; some time ago it was bankers who were widely portrayed as being ravenous and uncaring beasts who set out to make personal financial gain at the expense of the known world and all its inhabitants. Yet, I feel we should understand that the only people who are devastatingly affected by 'bad actors' are those who have formed a fantasy world around themselves that has links to the same resources as the selfish and greedy monsters of the same world we draw our resources from, or even other worlds. Take for example having a mortgage on a home. What is the purpose of incurring a debt such as this? Somewhere and at some time in someone's thinking a fantasy was formed. Perhaps it was similar to this: 'If I buy a small house with a mortgage I can upsize as my family grows and eventually I will have no debt to pay, so when I retire I shall have more spending power and even downsize and have a lump sum to spend on holidays.' Pretty common I should think. But we might note that there are a lot of 'I's in there.

That is just one stream of existence, one ribbon of peculiar activity; although more accurately it is commonly called a lifestyle. To whit, the style of someone's life is devoted to securing sufficient money to pay debts, usually through work. To be honest, I am quite reluctant to use the word 'lifestyle' because to me it denotes a style of living that encompasses a whole life from beginning to end to the exclusion of everything else, and I am trying, here, to not only separate life into streams of existence, but also dissect it into manageable chunks. 

Single-mindedly aiming to pay a mortgage has opportunity costs; family time is reduced or fractured; deep relaxation is denied; and crucially to my mind, creativity is compromised; it might still be there but the outlet of it may be held in check. These are some other streams of existence. 

It doesn't have to be a mortgage, or a goal to feather a nest in another way, or even paying off a large debt. It might be attaining a degree or working towards self-sufficiency or aiming for owning a large business that is the goal. The overriding factor needs only be ambition. 

Ambition is one of the positive attitudes to have in life. Personal positioning in some kind of hierarchy is quite another. It is no wonder that fans of pop stars and actors express surprise that their idol seems really down-to-earth and friendly. There is an assumption that the position of the star has only been made possible by ruthless barging and guttersnipe tactics, including negatively framing other people. It should, of course, be noted that pop stars and actors are ambitious and  creative people. Meeting a multi-billionaire, on the other hand, might reveal some entirely different traits that were used to accumulate such huge sums of money. A loose conclusion to this paragraph might be that the accruing of wealth somehow attributes a positional stardom, at least among their peers. Taylor Swift - nice; Elon Musk - not so nice, perhaps. It is personal choice built with inadequate information, of course, that determines our feelings towards any other person.

I am a big fan of 'Black Swan' events. At risk of over egging the pudding because I am certain we all know what a Black Swan event is, I will just say it is an expected set of circumstances that directly affects our lives in an extreme form. Another way of seeing it is; any unforeseen event that disrupts our plans. And here is the nub of my thrust. Plans, and moving on from plans: 'systems'.

       'What would you like to be when you grow up?'

       'A refuse-collector!'

       'And how will you go about becoming one?'

       'I will go to school and learn about recycling and environmental issues.'

Its a plan but it needs a system for the plan to be implemented. 

John Gall, a systems theorist, (1925-2014) came up with the theory that all complex systems are derived from simple systems that worked, and that a complex system will never work without it first evolving through real iterative tests. That is why prototypes are made. Unfortunately, we humans cannot prototype our lives. How often do we hear the wail of regret: 'If only I could go back and start again?' Probably not often enough I cry; not that I embrace the idea that people should regret their actions or decisions.

It is easy to devote oneself to a simple system. Get educated while living with our parents. Get a job. Get a mortgage. Keep working to pay the loan. Retire. What a wonderful life! A psychopath might find that rewarding, but it really does demonstrate an empty mind to me. Where is the love and the social interaction? These are ribbons of existence most of us have that disrupt our simple systems of achieving a soul-less ambition.

I think, somewhat belatedly, modern businesses in the UK have determined that their employees need a good work/life balance. That attitude would be an absolute bane to me in job interviews because I don't have a plan with a system that is disrupted by work. I am so flexible that running water is positively solid when compared to me. My current constraints are only human fallibilities; I need to eat and sleep, and I cannot disassemble my molecules and reassemble them at any other geographical location.

There is inevitably something else that disrupts our dedication to our system; social hierarchy. We need to feel powerful. Most of us need autonomy. One of the first things we give up is indeed autonomy when we get married or have a romantic partner. We have to consider the feelings of the 'significant other'. How many of us ever considered how disruptive those emotions will be to our simple system? With emotional intelligence there comes a cost. 

Complicated and Complex are not the same.

On their website, the Simon Fraser University, a public research university in British Columbia, Canada,  offers 'Simple or Complicated' to be 'predictable; controllable and designable'. It gives 'Complex' as being 'Unpredictable, Self-organising and emergent'.

https://www.sfu.ca/complex-systems-frameworks/applications/complex-and-complicated-are-not-the-same.html

I would suggest that being in a romantic relationship instantly makes one's life complex, and 'complicated' and simple, has left the building. Only a divorce or dumping the partner brings autonomy back, quite simply because planning for a separation has a large degree of predictability and is indeed designable. For example, 'You have the kids at the weekend and pay x  amount of money for their upkeep.'  That is not what we want though, until we actually do. But that is the Best Alternative To a Negotiated Agreement (BATNA); the tacit agreement was that child-rearing would be shared in a single home. Unfortunately, the goal of paying the mortgage to attain an imagined freedom, and positional wrestling for power in the workplace, or even in a social hierarchy, get in the way of another imagined happiness. Why imagined happiness? If one of the partners envisioned a mortgage-free home, there is usually a fantasy that the other partner will share in the fruits of long years of hard work. In other words the simple system, although it is not consciously considered to be changed has a different outcome. And there it is, really. A change in an imagined outcome is the driver for a change in a simple system. 

Life is unpredictable. Our needs change as we get older; other people change as we get older; the environment changes as we get older; our values change all the time - we decide what is worth more or less of our time. 

Maintaining equilibrium in a changing world is difficult. One of the prerequisites for good mental health is the ability to deal with, and adapt to, change. I find it incredibly difficult to understand many aspects of the modern world, not least is that I have never desired or sought to be rich or popular. I have never really had a simple plan with an absolute outcome. Some might call that feckless. I have to consider that I don't make plans because I know things will change and I will find it difficult to adjust. I am, in that respect, quite unforgiving.

So many books

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So many books

[4 minute read ] 

Opinion

I have so many books to read; fourteen! It is not a lot over the six month academic 'year'. Yet, they are not books I would read for pleasure. I absolutely have to forget that they cost me more than £125 otherwise my resentment will interfere with my focus on why I am reading them. I am beginning to think, though, that I don't like the omniscient point of view; a narrative that allows the thoughts of characters to be written in stories. I know that it helps to develop characters in the readers' minds but I am an action kind of reader.

Having detached emotions by default I tend not to put much effort into connecting my emotions to moments of relaxation; not that reading these fourteen books is relaxing for me because in the absence of OU guidance for my module I have to make copious notes on anything I consider to be remotely relevant. I am just wildly guessing, but I suppose I am focused.

Having been steeped in marketing and logistics for many years, studying with The OU is like a crash-course in a different subject, even over four or five years. Even during summer, which is not my academic term, I cannot realign my studies back towards marketing, economic and logistics. These subjects which are really a bunch, are so familiar to me that I feel so much more comfortable wallowing in those text books than the ones I now find myself compelled to read in a preliminary fashion. 

I probably have a different style of learning to most people. It is one that I established when I think I was about eight or nine. back then we had BSA (I think) assignments to complete that tested for comprehension. There was a little story of perhaps one hundred and fifty words and and then some questions that related to the text. I would read the questions first and then read the text, mentally marking where the answers were. Then I read the questions again and write my answers one by one. It was efficient to do that and it had no negative effect on my secondary school achievements. Given an outline of what I am supposed to learn in October onwards I would be able to make notes much more efficiently. In fact, by October, I think I might have finished the modules before I even start them. Achieving a good degree is secondary to understanding the wider scope of the subjects, to me. 'Getting it right' is key in contrast to proving academic ability to others; at least it is for me. 

       'Yeah, I got a third, but I know the subject inside out and back to front. I spent a lot of time reading outside of the scope of the degree modules. I find that not being constrained by bindings and circumscription allows me to approach my work and social life with a fresh attitude that brings with it some novel questions. Can I have the job? or do you want me to just keep my head below the parapet and nod when you speak?'

It would never be a good thing to say that, I propose. I approach my future in a bipartite way though. Everything I study can be applied to both PAYE employment or self-employment. So, I am fairly flexible in my speech. Some might say, careless. Hmmm, I suppose so; too much free-reign and hedonism in the past perhaps. But, I was left to my own devices when I was sixteen and two months old so what can we expect of me? Should I have run away from my bullying enabler older brother guardian and put myself in care? I think, in retrospect, that is precisely what I should have done. I did run away from him once at 5am, to live in Sherwood Forest. I was a bit of a romantic fool then. I got tired and hitch-hiked back again; more fool me! However, it was around this time that I bought my first thesaurus and set me on the path to autodiadatic education and then further education at night school, and then daytime college. Who knows what I would have become if I had been in care? A misogynist? A plagiarist and cheat? An invisible banality? A kind and thoughtful community leader? I am none of those, but I do get my emotions in gear sometimes now my fraternal tormentor is dead and I help my community.

I am inclined to rewrite history in my head and imagine different futures lately. I like my imagination, no, I love it! But it is intangible and ephemeral and having no substance and there being nowhere to direct it, it is an invisible gim-crack, a bagetelle, a folly. Oh, I frame it so negatively with blunt but tasty words. It is almost believable that I am distracted by my disdain. That is not so; but most people might chuck a reality-checking statement at me such as, 'You have your head in the clouds', or 'You are off with the fairies again.' or 'Daydreaming won't pay the bills!' Because I know all this I have to check myself and manifest something tangible from something intangible if I am to deny opportunities in other spheres of my life. Most people, I think, would immediately think of writing for a living. I shan't be doing that though; there is a reason why not, but I can't quite see enough of the future to know precisely what it is just yet.

I can't help thinking that I have wasted enough time and i really have to leap to the capstan and haul my anchor up. Yet, I also feel like I am still on a lee-shore (wind blowing onto the shore making sailing away extremely problematic for square-rigged ships - like HMS Victory).

I suppose my imagination is a sailing ship with no engine and since I espouse modern assistance, a metaphorical engine, I shall find myself becalmed and adrift. I really don't like the trail and impact that modern technology has though. Analogue books are on the verge of obsolescence and only those who plan for the world to be knocked back to the same kind of existence the people of the 1960s and 70s had, can be inclined to honestly believe that publishing only analogue books will provide sufficient money for the opportunity to write to be viable in the near future. 

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Cadwell NOT Caldwell

Animal Party

[4 minute read ] 

(slightly graphic content in the second full paragraph - brief allusion to torture)

The badgers and the Muntjac deer had a party in my garden last night. There were plant pots scattered over a wide area. If these creatures had opposable thumbs I am sure I might have found a few half-smoked joints among the yellow grass. The temperature overnight gets as low as 14^oC, where I live. A good time to throw your body around in time with nature's beat. 

       'Hey Babe! Wanna dance?'

       'Forget it, Buck! We are two different species!'

None of the usual slugs and snails were there so none of the four-legged animals got sludge between their toes or over their freshly shined hooves. Actually, all the badger girls were safe from the Muntjac bucks because deer wait until autumn before they start their hunt for a partner. It is then that their awful bark rings out. Females (Does) also similarly bark. There is a Muntjac that lives in the undergrowth just beyond my back garden fence in a neighbouring pasture. Muntjac barking, to me, sounds like the agonised screams that humans having their skin pulled off might sound like. It really terrifies me.

On occasion, I have been camping in autumn. years ago, when I was awakened and first heard the muntjac bark I ran away from my tent into the the nearby village square; from my  tent, through a dark spinney, along an even darker tree-lined lane thronged by more trees, and finally into the light of old-fashioned street lamps where thatched cottages had been for generations. It was probably a full mile of hearing the 'tortured humans' in the dark woods and fields behind me. I stayed awake the rest of the night, cold under the clock in the village square. Dawn brought me back to some sense of reason and that awful ragged buzzing feeling of poor or no sleep. 

I have hitch-hiked across Europe and slept on frozen snow in minus 10^oC in France with no kip-mat or anything under me and not cared if I froze to death because I was so tired. I have had hypothermia and hitch-hiked the wrong way as a consequence; and threw away expensive stuff to lighten my load, even pens and pencils, but kept heavy books. Nothing makes sense with hypothermia. I have slept in forests that I know have wolves in them and expected to wake and find a wolf breathing into my face. I have remained seated and not turned around when a knife fight broke out behind me outside a Greek restaurant, while my companions all leapt up and ran a distance away. I was only irritated that I had to shout for them to be able to hear the end of my story. I have climbed cliffs freestyle and had to reverse my journey back down; a much, much harder feat that takes three times as long to move the same distance. I have taught myself to sail, with no engine, in the rapid tidal waters of the twin River Medway and Thames estuaries, even sailing near to the sunken liberty ship SS Richard Montgomery that is so dangerous with its WWII explosives still leaching away that it might spontaneously explode. I have been visited by aliens and spirits in dreams and I am fairly sure in real life. But I have never been more terrified than when I first heard that Muntjac deer for the first time in the 'dead' of night. Go on YouTube to hear one.

If there was such a body as the Society for the Protection of Cellar Spiders, it would be annoyed with me. I used to have quite a collection of them scattered around my home. These harmless and seemingly dead spiders, due to their stationary positions, when they do move are quite simply the most graceful creatures I have ever been fortunate to witness. They move incredibly slowly and it seems they place one leg gently down and then think which leg to move next and carefully lift it and move it forward. If any creature reminds me of ballerinas, it is this spider. The reason SPOC, if it existed, would be livid with me is because by leaving windows open overnight I have let Garden Spiders in. Garden spiders are fast predators and meditative spiders stand no chance against them. They are eaten before they have finished a single phrase of their mantras. There are now no cellar spiders on my ceilings. I am really quite disappointed. I am not sure why though, because I have only ever seen one move, so they don't provide me with much entertainment. 

I think the housefly that has lived with me for the past five years has finally died. I have used about six cans of fly-killer during that time and it survived them all, even if the moths, driven crazy by the added flowery smell did not. I know my tongue has suffered from exposure to the active ingredient permithrin. I have to say I don't miss the affections of the housefly. Briefly touching my lower legs is just too intimate for my liking.

Sally's cat that lives next door is still wary of me and won't let me near it. It did, however, blink at me three times yesterday to say I recognise you are stronger than me. It might have meant 'Hi!' though. Because I keep my reading glasses on outside (they are a really low prescription level) I can out-stare any cat; they all think the glasses are the edges of my eyes; which means, to them, I am the dominant creature out of the two of us. I also have to be mindful that whenever I come across curious dogs being walked by their pack leader that I do not look directly at them when I hold my hand out to be smelt, because I wear the same reading glasses wider afield in my village, recently finding long sticks for my garden.

I keep forgetting to look out for the bats that should be flying outside my home. Perhaps there are no flying insects for them anyway. I am fearful that my neighbours will think I am a weirdo if I just hang around and stare out my front door. Once they start hurrying past the damage is already done. I would need to run after them down the road to tell them I am okay.

        'Wait! Come back! I am not weird. Come back! Stop running! Wait!'

There is no other way out of my road than past my home. I think it might be prudent to have someone with a starting pistol further up the road if I wait outside to see the bats. I might have to disguise myself as bags of rubbish or get in a big cardboard box so the neighbours can't see me, just to see the bats. I really don't want the neighbours to know I am in a big box or pretending to be a pile of rubbish.

I'm not weird. Honest!

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Prestige and Status

[6 minute read ] 

Reading a news story on Sky news online this morning about a man who pretended that his Jaguar I-pace electric car was malfunctioning and kept accelerating on the motorway, I thought I might have a look at the cost of such a vehicle. Apparently, this chap ran into finance difficulties and still had £5,000 to pay on his, so he faked a dangerous malfunction hoping to somehow get relief from the debt. A used I-pace might cost £13,000. 

I went to Jaguar's own I-pace website. Just like all television adverts for cars there is no information on the car, just pictures. I was also struck by the focus on allowing the customer to 'build' the car to the customer's specification. Do people really buy only the skin of a car, the look and the prestige that is associated with the name? I think yes. But many people also choose potential partners on the same basis, including the name.

My perspective as far as I know has always been from a functional position. Crudely, this means will the car go from A to B? How much does it cost to run? How reliable is it? Probably the most important factor which likely draws me to a vehicle is, is it suitable for the job I have in mind for it? Much as it might be fun to use an American school bus for the school run, it just isn't practical in the UK, if only because parking is an issue. Ripping fun though. Some girls might like to be delivered and collected to and from school in a pink Sindy or Barbie styled car, as might some boys. Some boys might like being dropped off in a tow truck, just as some girls might. Realistically, the safe bet is probably an expensive SUV though, isn't it?

This is about prestige, not pride. In a world that puts fashion before function I pride myself on repairing my clothes, where I can; and riding a bicycle whenever I can. I pride myself on using only old bicycles that I fix up and haphazardly repair. There is no prestige attached to wearing a pair of shorts with a patch over a back pocket where the habitual placing of house-keys has worn a hole. But I am the sort of person who will just up and go to the local Co-op still wearing muddy clothes from digging the garden. There are no people I want to impress by wearing clean and tidy clothes. That is not to say that I only wear dirty and scruffy clothes. I live in a village and we have two allotments. The only people who I might try to impress are the ones who grow vegetables and cook from scratch. But that is just me. There are plenty of people in my village who are convinced that manicured lawns and perfectly creased clothing is paramount to demonstrating their success. They, credit willing, might see a car in a television advert and think to themselves, 'I like the shape. The maker has a good reputation. It is suitably expensive to be considered an item of prestige.' Just how the television ads ends with a couple of facts, these people might, as an afterthought, recognise that the car will go from A to B when B is 500 miles from A. 'Ah, Jolly good!'

It might seem that I am pillorying these types of people. I am not, Each to their own. I just wouldn't want to be married to one of them, or have one of them at my wedding reception or birthday party. These types of people perceive different problems than I do from the same set of realities. I grow tomato plants in the local clay soil, some people in my road say there is nowhere for them to grow tomato plants. These same people put all their food-waste, grass clippings and hedge trimmings in the green recycling bin, while I put mine on the garden. I fail to understand why people with gardens are allowed to have green bins.

       'Gardens are for enjoying. They should have emerald green manicured lawns and a six foot fence all around so no-one can see in. They are private places where the family can relax.'

       ''Gardens are where food can be grown and relaxing takes the form of nurturing plants and providing a safe place for insects and spiders.' I would counter. 'It is a place where we can dispose of our compostable waste and by doing so improve our environment.'

Plainly, I have a different attachment to my environment than some other people do. I can not fathom why anyone would sweep away the detritus they produce by living a life that realistically is shaped to impress other people; other people, mind, who are carefully selected and have similar values; namely they shape their lives to impress other people who again are selected according to specific criteria, one of which might be for example - they do not take their kids to school in an American school bus. I know, it is me that is weird and not them. They are the modern normal.

My tomato plants have all flopped over and true to their form lie across the ground. They naturally do this and readily grow roots from anywhere the stem or stalk touches the ground. It, however doesn't suit the grower which is why we stake them upright. Usually, I cut the straight young trunks of young ash trees bordering my garden to use as stakes but I have so many plants this year that I have had to forage from wider afield in the village. 

       'If you are looking for the raspberries and blueberries they are further up that way.'

I had no idea what the dog-walking woman was on about. It is highly unlikely that blueberries are growing in our village and I have never seen wild raspberries. 

       'No, I am collecting waste branches to act as stakes for my tomato plants, but thanks.'

       'Oh, I have just cleared my garden. I had to make three trips to the tip with branches and clippings.'

Oh well, I thought. Chalk and Cheese.

Yesterday, outside ALDI, my favourite place for meeting people, I had a quite long conversation with a woman about why people in North Africa have air-conditioning and we don't in the UK. The conversation moved onto humidity and how her Council had fitted extractor fans in her social housing home that automatically come on when the interior humidity is above 60%. This is the weirdest thing for me. I had already primed myself by previously looking into the efficacy of having these types of extractor fans fitted in our UK homes. 

       'The average outside humidity level in the UK is 67%.' I told her. 'Simply opening a window will cost you money.' That is almost true in Summer.

       'They are constantly on.' she despairingly replied. Well, they would be, Anyone with any sense opens their windows first thing in the morning and in the mid evening to let the cool air in. Right now at 07:29 am, the outside humidity level where I live is 72%. However, I should say that my windows have been open for hours now and the inside humidity level in my living room is only 54% and 4 degrees higher than outside. So, it is not as straightforward as I would like it to be to be able to make a strong point. However, I do know that de-humidifiers used to be really expensive to run. ScrewFix have one for £79.99 that uses 300 Watts per hour (a bit more than a large plasma television). It is programmable. The extractor fans Councils fit in their houses are a similar price. But here is the puzzling bit. A four inch (10cm) hole has to be made for each fan in the wall or ceiling of the home, which work is contracted out to a third party (expensive). I suspect that the cost of this might be close to the price of enough solar panels to charge an appropriate battery that would run a dehumidifier which does not need a huge hole in walls to run. The drawback, of course, is wholly within the scope of my rant. The person who buys a car for the prestige it imbues upon the owner is the same person, I suspect, who just wants to shunt warm air out along with moisture because they cannot lower themselves to manual work such as emptying the dehumidifier of water once it is full. Just like just shoving garden and kitchen waste into green bins is easier than providing a specific area in the garden for its decomposition, forgetting about humidity levels is desirable in the same way. 'Job done, I no longer have to think about it'.

       'Empty the water out? Perish the thought, dear!' For me though, that is water I would put on my plants. I would not feel guilty about that since I would have made the water myself. We should consider heat-waves and drought to be the new norm, I hear.

According to https://qualityindoorair.co.uk/how-much-water-should-a-dehumidifier-collect-in-a-day/ a small dehumidifier might collect between 4 and 9 litres of water a day. That in old money is about one to two GALLONS a day for watering tomato plants in a drought! The cost with no solar panels for me would currently be 300 Watts x 24 hours = 7.2 kW x £0.24 per unit = £1.72 + £0.50 standing charge = £2.22 per day. Plainly, I need to seriously think about getting solar panels.

So, are Councils pandering to a modern value that negates concern for the environment? Are they deliberately avoiding supplying efficient methods of reducing damp and mould in homes? We might need to understand that all landlords became directly responsible for damp and mould control in October 2025, and the Councils are still in catch-up mode. I cannot expect someone to have any inclination to come up with a good solution when any solution will do. 'It will do' is, after all, the modern way of doing things.

I think the black Jaguar I-pace in the drive means that guests are not expected to be told to 'mind the dehumidifier' when they go to the bathroom. It really is a status thing, isn't it?

Jaguar's 'Build your car' feature on their website plays on our desire to be in control while being creative. There are video and computer games that were quite successful that use this aspect of humanity, such as 'The Sims' and games that allowed interior home design. It is a modern fantasy-made-real scenario.

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mental health

More mental health

[3 minute read ] 

I have PTSD. I didn't have many of the symptoms I think i have until a psychiatrist told me I have PTSD in 2016. Everyone suffers PTSD in different ways and childhood trauma is much different to trauma experienced as an adult. Think how you might describe every wave in every ocean and you get some understanding that each of us, sane, insane, troubled, smoothly happy, angry or at peace is experiencing life in vastly different ways and at different speeds and volumes too. 

Just like believing you have the force 'that can' creates the force 'that can', being told you have a reason to feel a bit less than you feel you should be feeling means that we can easily create a self-fulfilling prophecy. Much of my inability to operate at a level that I feel I should be able to operate at is down to poor sleep patterns and a poor diet. I am old enough and ugly enough to know what makes me tick. Saying I get fatigued in the afternoons is a denial that I am a morning person who is unfit and probably skipped lunch. Of course, there are many people who have real diseases that fatigue them; that is a given but I am not one of them unless I want to say my nervous energy drains me. 

the truth of the matter is that I own whatever trauma I experienced. I was handed a poisonous plate and I was compelled to eat from it. That was a series of meals (events) that changed the way I thought and still think. Yet I know this and now everything I do and think is entirely my own doing. I should like to blame evil monsters and psychopaths but at least one of them is dead and another might be by now. 

Getting treatment for PTSD is difficult. I argue that because I have had it for so long it is now a psychiatric malady because the dendrites in my head (we all have them) that connect the axions in my brain and allow thoughts to form are so hard-wired that psychology-led treatment has to first destroy those dendrites in order for me to form new ones; in effect I need to be completely rewired. That, i argue means taking medication that shuts down the highest thinking for a time so the dendrites shrivel and die, then or doing that process psychological work can be done of the mundane day to day stuff such as any misanthropy. Usually, conversations with mental health staff gets no further than that. They won't believe me when i tell them that believing something that is not true is no different to seeing something that isn't there. It is all down to perceiving intangible things. The psychiatrists I have seen disagree with me on every point.

So, I am nuts, crazy, and misaligned. That makes me the same as everyone else; the difference is, I don't fantasise about living a life that I planned long ago. That isn't meant to pillory the public. It really is choosing the red pill over the blue pill in the matrix. 

Here's how I suspect it works:

       'Hmmm. I think I am different to everyone else. I wonder why.' Bingo! the pills are presented. Self examination can only lead to a dual personality state. It can only lead to measured behaviour which isolates an individual from a group if the members of the group act spontaneously. Because they never considered themselves to be different they never had to choose which 'pill' to eat. Watching oneself and comparing oneself to others is the certain course to mental unease, or if you can master it, complete peace and satisfaction.

After years of self-analysis I have concluded that it is my high IQ that separates me from the average person, and not my PTSD. When someone sees in colour and everyone else sees in black and white it is difficult to use the colour of the sky as an example to explain a mystery. Years ago, a friend of mine said, 'I wish I was not so aware'. I knew exactly what he meant and I recognise that he considered his high IQ more as a bane than a boon, just as I sometimes do; but only when I am in the company of others. One lesson I must learn is to keep my mouth shut; hide my light under a bushel, if you will.

Right now, I am deepy troubled that the external examiner plainy failed to perceive the derivation and complexity of a creative writing EMA I recently submitted. That worries me intensely. If they override a tutor's marks I am doomed towards a low degree. Not acheiving my potential because someone else lacks a high IQ will crush me; quite simply because i was held back by a low intelligence psychopath brother who tormented me into self-doubt through public abatement. 

When I say I am control of my PTSD, I was fantasising for a bit; any bully can trigger it and any low intelligence authority can destroy me.

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If you believe in meritocracy, you can leave now.

[2 minute read ] 

The philosopher David Hume held that we are saddened by other people's sadness because other people make us, by their sentiment and action, sad or happy; happy people make us happy. Perhaps this is why I heard on LBC that there is an idea that the CV (curriculum vitae) is considered by some recruiters and employers to be insufficient in securing an interview.

Certainly, whenever I have had job interviews in the last ten years the interviewer seems keener to understand how much I will contribute to the fun factor at work. The LBC radio show host was floating an idea that employers and recruiters are potentially seeking social-media style videos from job applicants. I suppose this provides an opportunity for the candidate to impress upon others their sociability and cheerfulness while gushing about how excited they are about a potential opportunity to work in a field that they would 'just die for'. I don't 'do' social media. I think you can tell. However, if I follow Hume's drift (above) I can understand that it is better to have 'smiley' people in the workplace than moping and morose people who scowl from corners; it is better for morale and that means greater overall work-output. But is that really what is behind the interviewer's incessant probing into job applicant's ability to brighten a room with witty conversation? I think not.

I have been an employer and whenever I conducted job interviews I was concerned about honesty and integrity foremost. Will this person come to work when they are needed? Can I rely on them to do the job? Can I leave them to just get on with it, or will someone have to waste their own time babysitting them? Once that is established I would decide how much contact the potential employee would have with customers and in what fashion. Then I would train them for that specific position, or entreat them to defer any inquiries made by customers to another member of their team. My approach was, if everyone is there to work and not stand around chatting then it really doesn't matter if someone is miserable. Today's employment is mindful of the impact it has on work-sociability. A strange fish to me.

I believe in meritocracy which should mean high quality output. I think most of the UK, today, believe in 'It will do!' so long as everyone is happy, so employ the friendly average-ability person.

       'Yeah! I like this person.'

       'Can they do the job?'

       'They'll learn. They'll have a friendly team around them to show them the ropes.'

       'I suppose you are right. And in any case who wants to come to work and be miserable during the slack periods. No, we must make sure that the workers when they are idle are comfortable; that they enjoy being idle and will divide their attention between productivity and seeking fun.

Well, Ring-a-Ring-a-Roses!  Too harsh? I expect many people would think so. I, however, have worked in a number of countries in which I have not known the languages very well. You just get on with your work and gain satisfaction from that. I am also someone whose parents disappeared when I was sixteen. I can never understand how relevant social interaction is to some people; most people. I forget that people need to feel validated and find comfort in being important to others on an emotional level, and that even at work people cannot put aside their craving for social interaction. 

I fail at job interviews with a single sentence: 'I don't bring my phone to work.' I immediately see the interviewer inwardly scratch their head as they try to process why anyone would not want to be available for an aimless chat; why they have no need to be boosted by the attention of others, or why they would take a job that doesn't bother them enough for them to need to seek emotional succour outside of their own work satisfaction. I watch them leap at the mental hurdles and fall. They only seem to fall once before they make a decision. They don't get up and try again. 'Oh, that doesn't sound like me at all!' they think. 

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Internalised Conformity

[4 minute read ] 

A long time ago, I used to read anything: cereal boxes at breakfast; the ingredients on cake wrappers; even the address on the plastic wrapping on multi-packs of toilet paper. However, I rarely read the little quotes that acted as prefaces or indicators at the very beginning of books. I would just dive right into the story. These quotes were included by the publishers, editors and writers to provide an idea of what to expect in the story. Usually they always seemed to be wistful. Writers might regard these quotes as foreshadows or foreshadowing. 

Just like moving home to a new area and not knowing that one end of a road I pass each day in the new town or city would be the best route to take me closer to where I want to be because I never read the street name at both ends, and then one day making that choice to pay attention and discovering a short-cut, yesterday I made a similar link in my head.

A long time ago, I was struck by the title of a Wilbur Smith book, 'The Angels Weep' and on this occasion I read the little quote in the first few pages:

...But man, proud man,

Dressed in a little brief authority,

Most ignorant of what he is most assured,

His glassy essence, like an angry ape

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

As makes the angels weep

 - Isabella

Act 2, scene 2, 146 - 151

That quote, particularly the angels weeping bit, stayed with me for many years. I couldn't remember the words but I remembered the angels. A while ago, I found that quote as a picture file online and saved it, and read it today. In the Wilbur Smith book the reference was not included. It is from 'Measure for Measure' by William Shakespeare, a play I need to study under the auspices of understanding how literature relates to power and whether it writes back to power. 

While it is not the other end of the 'road' I frequently pass and it does not provide a shortcut to anywhere, it does make me feel more at home in a place I have lived in for a long time. Of course, I am talking metaphorically; the 'place' is of course where I am in my learning, in my education and level of understanding stuff. It is to some extent the elusive 1% that helps to bind many strips of information together into a cohesive whole. Perhaps one day the address on the toilet-paper wrapper will also be as poignant. We know the ingredients on the cereal box is ever relevant.

Well! That was a private moment!

Striving to read and retain information is a self-imposed directive that I ruthlessly impose on myself. On a motorway, I hate missing my exit. There are two reasons for this and the first is by far the worst part for me. Suddenly I am lost; not so lost that I can't find my way back to the correct route but instead in a position of not knowing; not knowing how far the next exit is. The second reason I hate missing the exit is because I was asleep; I never know whether that exit was a restricted exit - can I come back down the other carriageway and still exit at this junction? Do I have to make my way across country, through congested towns? Of course, SatNav would take care of getting me to where I need to be to continue my journey but I eschew technology as being inferior to human understanding. Technology tends to be linear in its approach to providing information. Maps show me both ends of a street and how they link one place to another and SatNav just gives me a route. I cannot learn from SatNav.

In a book on psychology, 'Simply Psychology' by Michael Eysenck, there is a chapter called 'Social Influence and territorial behaviour'. I have the book open on a page that has a section subtitled as 'Kinds of conformity' (p260 Psychology Press Ltd. 1996). There are three main reasons to conform according to Kelman (1958) 'compliance, identification, and internalisation'. Briefly, they seem to be in order of actually wanting to conform. Complying with the majority even if an individual does not agree; Identifying with a role in society that someone has chosen; and conforming when someone is really in agreement with the views of those who are seeking to influence them. 

I suppose I like to conform to my own idea of what I should do. I am, however, not the first to read widely or do it deliberately just in case it reveals the other end of a metaphorical street of learning. My sister bought me a book on Psychology for my thirteenth birthday. I suspect she was thinking, 'Heal yourself, weirdo!' at the time. No matter; it was the best present I have ever received because it provided me with an idea that there is a conduit to understanding. I wrote about nostalgia a while back with a knowledge that we all might conform with a majority. If my family are in agreement about how an event unfolded in which we all attended and it differs from my memory, I have to conclude that any nostalgia I have is fictional. That would be like having the carpet whipped from beneath our feet, I suspect. Scary Monsters!I got the idea of nostalgia needing to conform with the memories of a majority from reading books on psychology. Wide reading has never been wasted. 

I am delighted that reading everything is 'internalised' in me. I continue to conform to my original idea, when I was sixteen, that everything is important and anything could be the missing 1% that provides the key to unlock the bonus prize of making sense of things. 

Indubitably, next year I shall be asked to consider power and corruption as Shakespeare showed it in 'Measure for Measure' with Angelo taking control in the Duke's absence. Just reading the play is like following SatNav for me. It will start at the beginning and finish at the end and it will, despite any sub-plots along the way that Shakespeare intended to enhance the journey, still be quite linear for me. The whole journey I might consider to be run in a train carriage at night. Being able to see anything outside, through the window, is nigh on impossible. Yet, if I re-read 'The Angels Weep', which for me is an easy and very enjoyable read, I am certain I will be able to glean something that will allow me to appreciate what Shakespeare was saying in 'Measure for Measure'.

Of course, I have already started to read about what was going on at the time of writing 'Measure for Measure' and I know where Shakespeare got the plot from. Linking the two will certainly add to my comprehension of the play and its intended audience.

Jumbled and Slow

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Jumbled and Slow

[3 minute read ] 

If you don't get any dream-sleep or sleep that includes Rapid Eye Movement (REM sleep) for about seventy-two hours there is a good chance that you will not be operating within your normal thresholds of satisfaction. No, really!

I am not a sleep expert or an expert on anything really, however, I know a little bit. For example, if you take some of the cerebrospinal fluid out of someone who is tired and put it into someone who is refreshed from good sleep the recipient will be instantly tired and wish to go to sleep. Here is another thing: many drivers micro-sleep which is why they think the driver ahead suddenly braked on the motorway ahead of them; they didn't but it seems so for someone who can actually be micro-sleeping from between a quarter of a second and a full three seconds. Yes, three seconds! At 70mph (112kph) that is 93 metres! The quarter of a second is 7.7 metres travelled. In case you are wondering - in a 20mph (32kph) school zone the distance travelled for the same times are 26.6 metres and 2.2 metres respectively.  Another thing: if we can make 5-hydroxytryptophan in the brain we will feel sleepy. I seem to remember that eating digestive biscuits will do this; just the biscuits. Feeling sleepy at the wheel? Stop for a break and get some energy from seven or eight digestive biscuits. Full? Then let's go! (Best not do that).

A good few years ago the police stopped calling 'accidents' on the road 'RTA's (Road Traffic Accident) and now call them 'RTC's (Road Traffic Collision). I think we know why.

Do you want to be able to hear every word the teacher at school says? According to word-timer.com the average speech speed is 130 to 150 words per minute or, without too much maths, slightly over two words per second. Just two seconds of micro-sleep means four or five consecutive words are missed. 

Here are twenty-two words. If they are spoken out loud which four consecutive words would you prefer to skip? 

Stop for a break and get some energy from seven or eight digestive biscuits. Full? Then let's go! (Best not do that).

Does the sentence make any sense with four consecutive words missing? If not, then skip the whole sentence, eh?

Players who Play

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Player

[3 minute read ] 

Bird

Apparently, the Love Islander, Amber Davies, who is currently playing Elle Woods in 'Legally Blonde' in a musical in Dublin, called out someone in the front row for filming the whole of Act 1 on their phone. 'We don't need to film everything.' she said on her Instagram video between Acts. (BBC 14 July 2026 online [13 July 2026]) https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c14y35erdg2o

While, I am not one of those types of people who would ever film anything on a SmartPhone, I can sympathise with the audience member who is just doing what is normal for them. That is the 'spirit of the age', the zeitgeist. Personally, I think it is great that the types of people that think they should record everything in their life that they find interesting or amusing and don't fully live the experience without a SmartPhone, actually go somewhere like a play or musical. After all, when the general public first got their hands on cameras, in the early 20th Century they never stopped recording their children's growth and achievements, weddings, funerals, and holidays; nothing has really changed. If people have video cameras that fit in their pockets or bags then they should be expected to use them, right? It is not their fault that they were sold a soul-destroying lifestyle by marketers and have been influenced by peer-pressure.

On the other hand, I can fully understand that players on stage are frustrated by videographers at their performances. If you have never been to a play you might not realise just how intense and intimate the environment is. One really should go in there excited and come out moved, not pleased that they can watch a video of a performance they only saw through the lens of a camera on their phone.

I take umbrage at Rosamund Pike's outrageous call from the stage last month during her performance in the West End play 'Inter Alia', '"You know who you are and I'm not going to single you out," (BBC 1 June 2026 online). Pike told one section of the stalls in which she hoped that someone texting during the show was a doctor and that their message had been 'very important' (BBC 14 July 2026 online [13 July 2026]. Many texts are crucial to a continuance of life and procedure, and my retort, if it was me texting that night, might have been somewhat sarcastic. 'Actually, I am a counselor and someone is in such a mental condition that they feel they have nothing left to live for. I texted to say I am busy because I am watching a play and they should just suck it up until the play ends.' Rosamund Pike that night made the audience gasp and then cheer because someone silently communicated. I suspect the audience is allowed to whisper their praise of her though.

That texter might have even been a play critic; someone Rosamund Pike might find to be influential in her life. I wonder if the notion of digital devices being used by the audience is quite such a sticking point for her in that case. I suspect it might still be so. Actors are devoted to their work and performances, and rightly so.

I have a general negative approach to texting and filming on phones on the basis that they are forms of entertainment providing dopamine hits for the participants when fun should be had in other ways. Texts, for me, are to convey important information only and only then when a letter is too slow to get to someone. I realise hardly anyone agrees with me that a phone should just be a phone that is scarcely used. But, the world has embraced technology as a need and not a want and it is here for the foreseeable future.

I think if players are irritated by audience members using devices to record their performances they also have to refuse to perform wherever there are cameras, microphones, electric lights and sound mixing desks. If they promulgate an idea of purity in experiences, they, for me, really have to mean it. But, of course, electric light is so common these days that we don't really see it any more, do we?

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Closed loop bombast

[5 minute read ] 

(Links open in new windows)

I might be stretching it a bit but I think confirmation bias may envelop believing oneself is correct in one's thinking solely because of the usage of a language is echoed in the same country as one resides. That takes a little bit of explaining or untangling, I suspect. 

In England, in my world, a sweater is the same as a jumper. In the United States of America I believe a sweater is a sweatshirt and is worn by athletes, and, who many United States of America citizens call, 'jocks'. I have only come across the word 'jocks' in a derogatory sense. I think 'Biff' in 'Back to The Future' is a 'jock'. Apparently, jocks wear United States of 'American English' sweaters, which are sweatshirts with motifs and designs on them, so John Travolta in 'Grease' goes from a leather-clad tearaway greaser to become a jock by the end of the story. But 'Grease' was set in the 1950s and originated from a 1971 stage play. (The film was released in 1978.) Perhaps a jock wasn't scorned as being a fool back then. Maybe there was no such thing as a jock before 1980.

I have always been one to allow my scope of attention and belief in possible realities to expand as far as it can go and then try to bring everything into focus, carrying with it all the anomalies I discover in the sifting process, as well as any common themes throughout. The idea that some citizens of The United States of America think that their version of English is the only correct one largely comes from YouTube videos mocking United States of America citizens. I suppose if one sees enough of them one really does start to believe that there is something to it. Yet, any compilation by dint of its intent to be a collection of similar episodes or occasions will, of course, give a distorted reality if it is taken to be indicative of an average. It would only take a number of these videos to confirm to a viewer that the first one they saw is accurately portraying a nation as foolish.

Reading a book means to me, placing myself in the same environment the characters are in. It would be strange to criticise a writer who has set a story in the Antarctic, where it is always cold and treeless, for not mentioning birds-song or sun-bathing or deck-chairs. Likewise, it would be foolish to criticise a writer for using the language of a country and its citizens as being incorrect. For example, a 'servo' in Australia is not a 'servomechanism' in British engineering. Roadside rescue and repairs might be puzzling if there is any confusion between the two in Australia.

British roadside vehicle repairman: 'How do you do? May I hazard a guess that I am arrived at the scene of a breakdown and you are the driver of the vehicle?

Australian driver: 'Orrr, You're right there, mate!'

After a period of meticulous looking and testing and brow-mopping with a handkerchief: 'I say, my examination is complete and it would appear you need a new servo.'

       'Orrr, it was fine yesterday and I like the folk who own it.'

       'You don't own it?'

       'It's been in the family for years.'

       'Your family owns the car?'

       'Nah, I own it.'

       'But not the servo?'

       'Nah! I don't own the servo. The Henderson's own the servo. I went there yesterday to fill up and get some beer. It's late so it's shut now. Is is going to be closed for good?'

Australian's might call a service station or even a petrol station with a fast-food outlet a 'servo', but in England a servo is a servomechanism: that is 'any motor-driven system with a feedback element built in' - SparkFun Electronics

SparkFun Electronics

A servomotor or servomechanism often has a closed-loop feedback system. An electric fan cooling a car engine is an example of an electric or electronic servomechanism with the fan as the motorised element in the system and an electronic thermometer determining whether the fan is on, off, or at what speed it runs at.

Of course, most writers might steer clear of vernacular that could confuse their readers but they understand that the version of the language they are using may be different to how other countries understand it. If they cannot fathom this, I suggest that confusion may ensue.

An example of 'closed-loop' thinking is deciding that a piece of writing should be changed to suit one's own way of thinking. A gun hidden under a coat does not have to be a snub-nosed 38 simply because not everyone outside of The United States of America knows what a snub-nosed gun or a 38 is. In England, for example, I can snub someone with a snub-nose.

Like the English road-side car repairman and the Australian there is just a mess if we do not understand how each other's language is used. Closed-loop thinking, I suggest, comes as a result of over-confidence born out of instilled self-belief through belonging to a particular group of people. If something doesn't fit the distinct set of concepts or thought patterns of our schooling or social group, we are wont to reject it.

But what happens if closed-loop thinking, or possession of a belief system that derives from confirmation bias, is endorsed by a psychology degree or a PhD in psychiatry? Oh no! We could have people who are convinced that everyone else is wrong AND be in an influential position. It only takes the belief system of a nation to endorse the thinking of a citizen of the same nation and we have a closed-loop feedback scenario.

I came across someone who insisted that British pop music of the 1960s was not influenced by drugs. This was someone who's PhD on 1960s UK pop music rested on that premise. This person had never heard of the Kray Twins, the 1960s east end of London gangsters, who resisted selling drugs unlike their main rival gang in Liverpool. This person had never heard of 'Mods and Rockers'. This person managed to make a case for drugs being entirely absent from the 1960s music scene. In any case, this person asked their dad. So there! However, if this person wished to show that any musician that did take recreational drugs never had a hit song or was otherwise successful, then they would be able to endlessly preach that. Of course, if you find only what you seek you won't recognise anything else as being relevant or useful. And Mick Jagger and Keith Richards don't have drug-related convictions from 1967 specifically, Mick Jagger was charged with illegally possessing four tablets containing amphetamine sulphate and methylamphetamine hydrochloride (meth), and Keith Richards for allowing his house to be used for the purpose of taking drugs. A third man at Keith Richards home was convicted of being in possession of heroin.

bbc.co.uk On this day 

The weird thing is, this person with a PhD in psychiatry told me that they had asked the Rolling Stones manager about drug usage and was told that there was none in the 1960s. 1967 was also the year that The Beatles released 'Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band'. It is not a particularly trippy album but it does have 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds' on it. The Beatles, of course, denied any link to LSD or acid though. So where did they get the lyrics from?

I have come across someone with a degree in psychology directly telling people on a creative writing learning course that they are just plain wrong and how else they should think; people who have approached creative writing, rightfully in my eyes, with an open mind. They were hoping to let their imagination fly while trying to build suitable viewing points to show everyone else what is going on. I mentioned that the person to which his comment referred was practicing with different ways of understanding writing. His comment has been subsequently removed by the learning platform.

It is a dangerous world if we just take anything at face value; operate with a closed-loop confirmation-bias method of understanding our world; trust that grandiloquent writers or orators are honest or correct; or accept that a qualification denotes a learned person who can give an objective view or honest account of things.

Here is an interesting site for Beatles fans. I have no idea how accurate it all is:

dmbeatles.com history 1967

An example:

Thursday May 25th 1967 - John's Rolls Royce, psychedelically painted, is delivered to John's house from J P Fallon (Coachworks). 

Clever marketing or just fascination?