Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. The Fiery Brook runs past the front door. He is at a bus stop and a drunk man asks to use his cell phone. He has a protective boot on one foot and staggers leering at women on his crutches as he begs for a cell phone so that he can call his family his son his daughter to come and pick him up no one is going to come and pick him up no one is going to give him a cell phone. He has forgotten Bahrain like everyone else has forgotten Bahrain where the Spring was crushed the petals of the eager young flower was pressed into the dirt by a big British made boot where all the other springs are broken and twisted and rusting already through the sodden mattress that is the lie of revolution then he has a coffee and he feels better about his failures and then he reads about white supremacy and feels ashamed but his shame is not the point of reading about white supremacy but there it is and then he gets his computer fixed which he is very excited about because he was sad that it wasn’t working and couldn’t get online to read about things and to write about things and then he wonders at the way that the BBC seems to be above criticism and he wonders if the new Dr. Who will be any good and wonders if David Tennant feels he has failed because he is back being the Doctor again without a new success to his name and he wonders if Matt Smith fears that the same fate will now befall him and then he wonders why he is wondering about the lives of millionaire actors when he should be wondering why activists are always subject to criticism and marginalised and business leaders are venerated and lifted up on pedestals and the flames of revolution are simmering the pancake of freedom in the saucepan of hope and it is time to flip that emancipatory pancake so that there can be a better day for everyone. Then he become disillusioned by The Daily Show and The Colbert Report as they act as release valves for the system and then he wonders if anything is worth anything and then he considers that it probably is but he doesn’t know how to activate that for a better world. He eats some burnt toast with lemon curd. It is one of his favourite things. Then he thinks about all the different ways he can say I love you and then he wonders at the fact that PR companies are employed by terrorists and governments as important arms of their own particular war efforts and realizes there is no longer any need for satire because Life has jumped the shark and jumped the sofa and wagged the dog and screwed the pooch and dropped the ball and been run out and fumbled the catch and squandered a valuable opportunity to be deemed worthwhile. Then he brushes his teeth, humming happily to himself. Then he sleeps.

Published by

The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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