Monday, 16 April 2018

“If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.” ―1968 both personal and political.....

Words are so limited. However elaborate our vocabulary, the metaphors and images we use. Our joys , our sorrows can never be described fully. The descriptions, the fears that are indistinct and formless nevertheless are ghosts of great power .

Lecan commented on the limitations of language and of our inability to communicate fully clearly and with precision. Speaking to prove at the Penrhos bus stop about the Syrian bombing the two people I speak to are aware that this is all smoke and mirrors. They know what it is really about and each mentions oil and of the illusions of international politics. They mention oil and the nature of a world globalised economy. No one is fooled..

You have fooled no one Theresa ordinary people at Penrhos see through you and what lies behind your robotic have fooled no one and the clamour rises within and without the political system. There is a mighty judgement coming ...and as I glance into an unknown future both personally and for society as a whole.. somewhere deep within a core of hope begins to pulsate ,...ita been 50 years since 1968...but is the revolution personal, political or both,?..There are no clear answers... is this is an existential problem or perhaps meaning ,,,

“If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.”
“Why, oh why must one grow up, why must one inherit this heavy, numbing responsibility of living an undiscovered life? Out of the nothingness and the undifferentiated mass, to make something of herself! But what? In the obscurity and pathlessness to take a direction! But whither? How take even one step? And yet, how stand still? This was torment indeed, to inherit the responsibility of one’s own life.”
“But having more freedom she only became more profoundly aware of the big want. She wanted so many things. She wanted to read great, beautiful books, and be rich with them; she wanted to see beautiful things, and have the joy of them for ever; she wanted to know big, free people; and there remained always the want she could put no name to?
It was so difficult. There were so many things, so much to meet and surpass. And one never knew where one was going.” 
“She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the
effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing
him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there
fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of
him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her
“Was his life nothing? Had he nothing to show, no work? He did not count his work, anyone could have done it. What had he known, but the long, marital embrace with his wife. Curious, that this was what his life amounted to! At any rate, it was something, it was eternal. He would say so to anybody, and be proud of it. He lay with his wife in his arms, and she was still his fulfillment, just the same as ever. And that was the be-all and the end-all. Yes, and he was proud of it.”
“He felt he had lost it for good, he knew what it was to have been in communication with her, and to be cast off again. In misery, his heart like a heavy stone, he went about unliving.”
“And yet - and yet - one's kite will rise on the wind as far as ever one has string to let it go. It tugs and tugs and will go, and one is glad the further it goes, even if everybody else is nasty about it.”

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