Welcome to my blog which has been
loving the hot sun and loathing the Olympic hype which last night saw the
opening ceremony that, from the few seconds I saw, was totally spectacular and
as meaningless and transient as any show could be. This past week I’ve had to
leave the radio off because of the intolerable jingoism of the BBC and the word
‘excitement’. How excited are you? asked the phone-ins before cutting to a
crowd cheering stupidly at a fake torch or at some other technological
trickery. I’m sure Shakespeare had some suitably cutting remark about
ostentatious frippery and a populace so stupid as to put away their knowledge
of their bondage and to take to the streets to wave their flags and admire the
show that has been created for the single purpose of deluding them and ripping
them off of their money, pride and sensibilities.
Well done the british. Thick as shit.
Why can’t we be the ones not to turn-up to the governmental and corporate
displays of largesse? So embarrassing. If you like to watch a race between a
bunch of people you don’t know, as I do, then watch it but what the hell is all
this nonsense about? Let’s face it, most of these athletes will end up injured
and slightly crippled, obese, and redundant by time they’re 35. Don’t you
aspire to that? Are these meant to be our heroes; muscle-bound morons being
famous for running a hundredth of a second faster than anyone else? Words like
‘heroic’ and ‘unbelievable’ and ‘incredible’ will be used, all utterly inappropriately,
unless perhaps we have a black power salute or some similar overturning of the
consensus.
Meanwhile, does anyone know when the
10,000 metres is on? There’s a race I don’t want to miss.
---
Narada, one of my oldest friends, came
round this morning and we talked about the Olympic opening ceremony. I admitted
to my curmudgeonly attitude and in his presence was willing to mellow. After he
left, I switched on the radio and, sure enough, the first thing I heard was an
interviewee earnestly explaining just how excited she was. Turning to the news,
I discovered that according to the press the British people as a whole have
bought into the ‘feel good factor’ of the Olympics and that they agree with the
politicians that we shouldn’t think about the economy, or Syria, or our
education or of anything except whether or not some young lady from Nottingham
can swim/run/cycle faster than another young lady (depending on your
definition) from outer Mongolia.
…As it turns out, the british girl
came third. The two leaders dominated the race and fought to the last. ‘But we
don’t care about them,’ said the commentator, ‘we care about the british girl,
becky allington.’ This was followed by a chat with Becky Allington lookalikes
from her home town who said, ‘We’re not disappointed, she did us proud,’ in
such sad voices that we knew they were disgusted and will never feel quite the
same about her again. (Before the race she was the gold medal holder.)
***
You may remember that I included here
a first draft of a story that I subsequently called ‘Barmi. I showed it to a
friend who showed it to a friend of his who gave it to his friend who wants to
publish it in a short story collection. When I was told this I went into my own
‘excitement’ and immediately sent off an entire novel ‘in case they’d like to
read that too’. Then when I went to bed I couldn’t sleep because my mind was
getting two novels published and preparing an acceptance speech for some
literary award.
That’s excitement for you; an
adrenalin high, a sleepless night, difficulty in being still. Another drug; up
then down.
---
Which takes me to ketamine. This is a
horse and baby tranquilizer/anaesthetic that is remarkably popular with a
section of the local youth. Prompted by someone who wants to experiment with
it, I read a book called ‘The Little Book of Ketamine’ by Kit Kelly which, bar
being written before the connection between ketamine and bladder damage had
been established, is as fine and impartial report as one could wish.
Like LSD, mushrooms, sometimes
alcohol, ketamine is an entheogen, i.e. it can give you experiences of
divinity. In my own single trip on it, I experienced myself as Dennis Potter.
Or that’s what I tell people I experienced. In fact it so long ago, I’ve no
real recall beyond feeling absolutely lovely shortly before the come-down
began. When I realized I would come down I said quite clearly, ‘I don’t want to
come down. I mustn’t take this drug again.’ I think it was just the sheer
horror of having to rely on such extreme drug to feel happy that made me take
that attitude but there might have been more to it.
What is most fascinating about K is
that it has been used with alcoholics with extraordinary results, similar to
those achieved only by LSD and with the same catalyst, an experience of death
and rebirth. I asked the would-be imbiber what experience she wanted and she
said, ‘I want to experience myself as not me.’
From what I read, even the keenest
experimenters with K would finally give up on it as a tool of enquiry and
experience. Ultimately, I suppose, it is entirely a matter of one’s inclination.
If you want to trip around a few universes, go for it. If you want the
alchemist’s stone, you won’t find it on K, or if you do, you won’t be able to
bring it back.
***
On Thursday July 26th, my middle son's wife gave birth to a daughter; my first grand-daughter. She awaits a name. My ex-wife, the son's mother, was visiting me at the time the phone-call came. This seems nicely appropriate. Our son's birth was extremely easy but within a week he had pneumonia and may have died on us.
But didn't.
So it goes.
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