a beautiful revolution: blog

Think, before you think

I awake at 8am. Suddenly I feel the first thought of the day festering in my brain. I use all my superhuman powers, and resist the temptation to listen to it.

Many moons ago, my therapist explained that one's first thought of the day was critical. 'That first thought' she insisted, 'would send the powers of Quantum Physics into a hive of activity. Your first thought, would inevitably become the destiny of your day'.

In the bad old days, when I still suffered from 'The Depressions', my first thought of the day would normally be a negative one: I am an idiot. Everyone hates me. I shall never wander through a perfumed-lady-garden ever again, I might as well have been born a Jessie. I am doomed, etc, etc, etc. And sure enough, the rest of my day would prove to be a disaster.

I get out of my bed and wander to my kitchen. I turn on my laptop and make a coffee. [Still no thought - has been thought]. I pour my Fairtrade Costa Rican coffee into my favorite mug, look to see how many emails I have received from my adoring FANS, and make my way to the bench in my garden. [Still no thought - has been thought]. I light a cigarette, and as I inhale the first nicotine-fumes of the day, I think: It seems to me, that the life of an Eskimo Man would be a marvelous life to lead. I bet there aren't any borderline-personality-disorder females knocking on his door asking: Would you like to spend a wild-weekend away with me – in Cornwall – in a pink tent - no catch, in Eskimo Land. Oh how I should like to live in such an uncomplicated place.

I drink the rest of my coffee in silence and contemplate what Quantum Physics might do, with the first thought of my day.

An adventure both epic and pointless

I enter the newsagents and order my cheap-cigarettes. The shopkeeper smiles briefly at me, before giving me my change: one five-pound note and several coins. As I leave the shop, a huge gust of wind grabs the five-pound note from my hand and throws it into the air. I chase the five-pound note down the street. Eventually, it lands on the road. For fear of certain death, I do not rush out onto the road – instead, I wait until the hurtling cars have passed. 

After several anxious moments, it is safe for me to retrieve the five-pound note. I pick it up. It is very badly torn. And so, without a moments hesitation, I return to the newsagents and buy another packet of cheap-cigarettes. The shopkeeper is quite clearly perplexed by my actions – but I do not care – the five-pound note is clearly cursed and I do not wish to carry such karma in my pocket.

The book called bible

A man holding a black book in one hand and a placard in the other approached me in town today. The man's placard read: Jesus Loves You

'Have you read this book?' asked the man.

'What's it called?' I asked.

'It's called the bible,' said the man.

'What's it about?' I asked.

'Jesus,' said the man.

'Who is he?' I asked.

'Jesus is the son of God... he came to save us many years ago and one day he will return and try again... would you like a free copy?'

'No thank you,' I said. 'I prefer fiction myself'.

The man said he would pray for me - which was nice of him.

A Fatal Tale

'What are you doing?' asked the cat.

'I'm hiding,' said the partially blind mouse.

'What are you hiding from?' inquired the cat.

'Cats' whispered the mouse.

'But I'm a cat,' purred the cat.

'FUCK !' yelped the mouse.

'It's okay,' smiled the cat, 'I'm not very hungry at the moment'

But it was too late - the partially blind mouse, presuming the worst, had thrown himself from the tree and was now lying dead on the pavement below.

Real

I am reading books. Strange books. Books which suggest that nothing is real. The Ikea table before me, isn't real.  It only exists in my mind. It is nothing more than 'sense-data'.

I look at my Ikea table and ponder its existence.

I move to a different corner of the room. The table is still there.

I tap the table. It makes a noise. A real noise.

I close my eyes for 11 seconds. I open my eyes - the table is still there.

My Ikea table is real. I am sure of it.