At the cost of sounding like a thorough phlegm-head [which, Irony will have you know is what I am a poster-girl for these sinus-swollen days] there are some very serious goings-on in the vast otherness that I exist amid – my home, the universe, the world, my country, my neighbourhood, Blogspot – weddings in the offing, State elections, nuclear deals, dwarfing stars, and daily updates [not necessarily in this order].
But I [as differentiated from them] like the delicately balanced simile this is, have been busy having my head soaked [and indeed bloated] in a deep deluge of insatiable ignorance. There is so much not to know, and I certainly haven’t reached the end of it.
While I’ve been busy, it seems much has happened.
So it should come as no surprise that of late I’ve been reproached for my 'abysmal levels of awareness and involvement in present goings-on’. That I say it should come as no surprise dear reader, must not be construed as a telling sign of my diffidence or the hint of an apology, instead it is an affirmation of what I have firmly believed all along – that keeping abreast of current goings-on makes Jack a weary, cynical and undeniably nosey boy. Everybody else’s business becomes the natural preoccupation of Jack’s curious mind, which soon finds itself so filled with irrelevancies that Jack rapidly transforms [in visage and thought] into a sour old incontinent bag of opinions.
Let me tell you how.
I’ve always maintained that a head filled with ignorance is like a good wine. Keep it as far away from the winds of change as a bottle in a dungeon rack, and the cork so tightly packed and soaked that centuries may pass but the wine remains true to its essence; full of delicious rot and sweet intoxication. This is pretty much how I’ve preserved my sanity, dear reader. Pickled it in the narrow and exclusive reserves of abstinence – from general knowledge and common sense – firm and unshakeable in foundation, bound by an impenetrable sheath of arrogant disdain, floating aloft seas of miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam that the tide brings in each day [which has such a tiresome, common, almost vulgar ring to it – ceaseless and bound by routine, like the motions of a very sprightly, eager set of bowels.]
As you’ve gathered no doubt clever reader, the defences of my head are more easily comparable to the well-packed, densely grained cork of an exotic wine that to retain its clarity, purity and distinctness of bouquet, must be shoved down [or up] the narrow neck of persistent non-involvement.
But consider this: what if the wine were protected by nothing more than a cheap tin foil cap which constantly echoed in sharp metallic tips and taps the clattering goings-on of the world? And what if one of these clatters were to puncture the tin?
Then, my friend, the wine would become infused with the poisonous air of awareness and shortly, one would have vinegar for a brain. Acidic, sharp [no doubt] and bloody sour, spilling involuntarily through the puncture over anything that’d dare accost it.
Is that how you would ever want to envision the texture of your mind? If yes, then you’d probably best use it in spicing up conversations at roadside chow stalls, or cleaning toilet bowls, or starring in The Shining [which is not a bad deal if you’re into that sort of thing.]
If not, then you’d best embrace ignorance and ennui. Post haste.
Don’t be Jack.
Posted, because after a month of abstinence and clarity I have nothing of greater importance to say. Because I care. Because you, fine reader, are that important.