The gilded age and the days of liminality..

The gilded age and the days of liminality.. These are the days without name between Christmas and the New Year; the days at the end of a decade and the start of another, between Brexit perceived and never done, these are the days when life is suspended and the problems go on. These are the days when crisis comes and clashes with the discourse of the family unit and of the family fireseide. These are the days for the peak of domestic violence ruled by alcohol and anger. This is the time when the refugee, the homeless and the lost do not fit. Behind the walls and the fireside another reality exists . This is the day I return in this period of liminality for one day to tend, sooth, inform and facilitate. This is a strange day for me in the therapy day between world's, and years.

I too exist in this liminality of past and futures to be. The bus is quiet and my mind turns to the figures and ghosts of imagined years and decades to be, that have been and still might be. It's dark and unreal I glance at houses as I pass no lights can be seen as those within sleep, hide or deny this time of year. The Christmas lights occasionally shine for a Christmas gone and a New Year to be.
As it begins to dawn on many that while they voted Tory the expect the workers rights given by Labour and the EU.i have to force down the schadenfreude within myself to stay silent. As Johnconia prepares to be birthed out of the relic of the British state the bus heads towards Pontardawe and on to Swansea. Perhaps the unpleasant dreams will not arise into reality and my cynicism be dashed .Perhaps these thoughts are the product of liminality where I am still unformed and unsure. Perhaps they are a defence against possibilities and fears, perhaps I show off and reveal my own defence or cleverness. These days of liminality between the decades and holidays ask much of us. As Brexit claims to be done we find it undoing so many things. As Johnson claims a new golden age I sense instead a new gilded age born and slouching towards 2020. I reflect on Johnson's boast of Etonian schoolboy Greek and am reminded of the Iliad where Homer stares " Hateful to be, as the gates of Hades is the man who states one thing and keeps another secret hidden in his heart. This is the gilded age of a toxic racist Britain set in a polluted sea, fed by chlorinated chicken and on the path to a Singapore like state on the edge of Europe. This is xenophobia writ large, as the sheep bare their throats to Trump's crocodiles and the corporate wolves of the boardrooms. It is not that Brexit is done or that we have our country back instead others have taken control and ii is millions of the vulnerable and outcast that are done for. Welcome to the nightmares and ghosts moving through the liminal days at the end of 2019..