A pretty good summing up of what is happening the NHS atm.
'I haven't got a speech. I didn't plan words. I didn't even try to. I just knew I had to get here. To stand here. And I knew I wanted you to listen. to really listen, not just pull a face like you're listening like you do the rest of the time. A face like you're feeling instead of processing. You pull a face and poke it towards the stage and we la-di-dah, we sing and dance and tumble around and all you see up here is not people, you don't see people up here, it's all fodder. And the faker the fodder is the more you love it. Because fake fodder is the only thing that works anymore. Fake fodder is all that we can stomach. Actually not quite all. Real pain, real viciousness, that we can take. Stick a fat man up a pole and we'll laugh ourselves feral because we've earned the right. We're so out of our minds with desperation we don't know any better. All we know is fake fodder and buying shit! That’s how we speak to each other, that’s how we express ourselves is buying SHIT! You know what, I have a dream? The peak of our dreams is a new app for our dopple, an app doesn’t exist! It’s not even there! We buy shit that aint even there, you want something real and free and beautiful, you couldn’t… it’d break us. We’re too numb for it, we might as well choke. It’s a wonder we can bare it, it’s any wonder you can dole it out in meagre portions and only then when its augmented and packaged and pumped through ten thousand pre-assigned filters, till there’s nothing more than a meaningless series of lies while we ride day in, day out, going where! Powering what!?! All tiny cells and tiny screens and bigger cells and bigger screens and FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!
— Black Mirror:15 Million Merits, Channel 4, Charlie Brooker
Some books seem like a key to unfamiliar rooms in one’s own castle.
—Franz Kafka, Letters to Friends, Family and Editors
Why are you doing this, Derek? I asked myself as I walked home. You shouldn’t be out standing under these cold stars. You shouldn’t have the stamina to do this. The answer was that I didn’t have the stamina but throwing my arms around him was an act of defiance that kept me alive. Some shy from this sort of contact, from giving affection to a stranger.
—Why are you doing this - At Your Own Risk: A Saint’s Testament by Derek Jarman
Bees @ Topshop GIF
It always starts the same way. I am in the garden airing my terrapin Jetta when he walks past my gate, that mysterious man in black.
'Hello Roy,' I say. 'What are you doing in Dusseldorf?'
'Attending to certain matters,' he replies.
'Ah,' I say.
He apprises Jetta’s lines with a keen eye. ‘That is a well-groomed terrapin,’ he says.
'Her name is Jetta.' I say. 'Perhaps you would like to come inside?'
'Very well.' He says.
Roy Orbison walks inside my house and sits down on my couch. We talk urbanely of various issues of the day. Presently I say, ‘Perhaps you would like to see my cling-film?’
'By all means.' I cannot see his eyes through his trademark dark glasses and I have no idea if he is merely being polite or if he genuinely has an interest in cling-film.
I bring it from the kitchen, all the rolls of it. ‘I have a surprising amount of clingfilm,’ I say with a nervous laugh. Roy merely nods.
'I estimate I must have nearly a kilometre in the kitchen alone.'
'As much as that?' He says in surprise. 'So.'
'Mind you, people do not realize how much is on each roll. I bet that with a single roll alone I could wrap you up entirely.'
Roy Orbison sits impassively like a monochrome Buddha. My palms are sweaty.
'I will take that bet,' says Roy. 'If you succeed I will give you tickets to my new concert. If you fail I will take Jetta, as a lesson to you not to speak boastfully.'
I nod. ‘So then. If you will please to stand.’
Roy stands. ‘Commence.’
I start at the ankles and work up. I am like a spider binding him in my gossamer web. I do it tight with several layers. Soon Roy Orbison stands before me, completely wrapped in cling-film. The pleasure is unexampled.
'You are completely wrapped in cling-film,' I say.
'You win the bet,' says Roy, muffled. 'Now unwrap me.'
'Not for several hours.'
I sit and admire my handiwork for a long time. So as not to make the ordeal unpleasant for him we make small talk on topical subjects, Roy somewhat muffled. At some point I must leave him to attend to Jetta’s needs. When I return I find he has hopped out of my house, still wrapped in cling-film. The loss leaves me broken and pitiful. He never calls me. He sends no tickets. The police come and reprimand me. Jetta is taken away, although I get her back after a complicated legal process.
There is only one thing that can console me. A certain dream, a certain vision…
It always starts the same way.
© Ulrich Haarbürste