Eight and a half- part 1

Empires, regimes, businesses even people destroy themselves from within and two ever present factors present in that self-immolation are arrogance and a disdain for the lessons of history.

Once you’ve been through a disaster, self, man or God made assuming you survive, you become much more sensitive to those little fluctuations in the sensory seismograph that suggest maybe something similar is about to hit you.

Most of the time the oversensitivity generates over expectancy and it turns out to be a false alarm, but occasionally a little tick, a ripple at the edge of the pond, a louder than normal butterfly’s flap or a single domino starts a sequence that then becomes self-fulfilling.

For everyone, there comes a moment when accompanying the inevitable disappointment of life’s delivery comes the sudden realisation that lies are the rule, not the blind optimism of a song being sung in the right key, but a discordant fusillade of notes and noise that each of us have to face, pick our own melody from and hum, foot-tap, whistle or dance. For the rest of us  we have nothing but our miserable existence and an ambition to create a semblance of sense and society in the midst of the chaos.

Survival means the search to draw others into the same pattern and mixture of sharps and flats as we can.

When that happens it defines who we are and who we always will be.

As it materialises within our consciousness the subconscious part of our body clock stops ticking; its second hand ceases its imperious sweep towards another minute, hour, day and another experience. Instead twitching the same interminably repeated memory it masks its blatant scream and as you  don’t realise it,it whispers that secret of your future success or the choice to reject it and spurn its tainted offerings.

Businessman, janny, painter, plod,

Sittin there at yer big brown desk wae yer PA outside firing admiring and protective glances at yer freshly pressed suit, yer one item on the desk at a time. Your self-assuredness and the faint erotic odour of Calvin Klein wafting by as you pick up your squash rackets and head for a limber up with that old school ‘chum’ of yours You are the same wee boy (we’ll come on to wee girls in a moment) as you were when the lies if the world crashed down on your life. Maybe you were seven and a half or ten and a half. But we both know that it happened. One day for some reason you stopped ageing, as we realised that the whole shebang is built on an all pervasive distillation and recirculation of lies. Everyone is involved. It is deliberate. From your six and half year old mother and father to your eleven and a half year old distant relative who left these shores under a cloud of shame and is now the prime minister of Australia (according to your nine and half year old sister) but is actually languishing as a janny in Caldercruix with a satellite tracking bracelet and an exclusion order from every concept of original thought.

The whole feckin thing is one huge tapestry stitched together by falsehood after falsehood, woven with deception and gilded with the fool’s gold of fraud.

You stop ageing then and become an initiate into the essential characteristic of a successful life……..a cheat, and the sooner you are taught this or learn it by default or disaster, the better your prospects will be as long as you never ever ever reveal that you know this great secret and hold close the fact that you are still seven and a half.

Even Mother Nature is part of the great con!

There are no exceptions even the Dalai Lama, the Pope, Mick Jagger as well. No one can avoid it, not even Danny Baker! What? Surely not Fanny, (sorry there, I obviously mean Danny….genuine keying error but serendipity convinced me to keep it in), Baker? I had always been eight and a half. As far as I could remember I had always wanted to be eight and a half. Even when I had been four and a half, or five and a half I had wanted to be eight and a half,. And after I had apparently left eight and a half behind I had not only secretly wanted to be eight and a half again, I was eight and a half. I would never get any older.

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4 thoughts on “Eight and a half- part 1

  1. Kilbowie Kelt says:

    Great stuff , Estadio.
    You are a gifted guy.
    Funny, the way things affect us.

    My eight & a half was 1944.
    I remember writing it down on my jotter & being excited by its beauty. I was nearly seven. Well, I would be seven later in the year. That’s near enough.
    I was already more than six.
    I had no idea why writing 1944 at the top of the page was so special. Nearly 70 years later, I still don’t.
    I only knew that it was.
    I had never previously been aware of writing the date of a new year in my jotter.
    I re-wrote it several times for no reason whatsoever.
    I have never subsequently felt such euphoria about writing down the number given to a particular year.
    I didn’t know the war would soon be over.
    I didn’t know about such things & scarcely remembered the noise & the building shaking & being thrown into the coal bunker in the lobby.when the sirens sounded.
    I only knew that I was back from my 2 year ‘holiday’ in Donegal & that I was back with my daddy, in my own house.
    That was more than enough.
    I can still smell it & touch it.

    1944.

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