How much should you tell your computer? Tonight I don’t care.
Today was not a good day. I don’t want life to be like this, but it is. It just is.
My girl is upstairs waiting for sleep to come, I know she is hurting, hurting so bad and what can I do? I can do nothing except what I usually do, be me stubborn and angry or angry and stubborn in the wrong way about things I can’t control, probably tilting at windmills, big wind generating windmills that don’t actually generate electricity or spoil the countryside or use more energy to make than they produce in their entire lifetime and there is always something isn’t there?
There was an old man who lived a few houses down.
He walked slowly along the footpath, I assumed on his way to the pub each day. In my head he was called Jim, hop along Jim. He was lonely, or looked lonely. I knew he was lonely.
So what did I do?
I did nothing. As usual I did nothing.
‘and at once I knew I was not magnificent’
The police stood outside his house today, then the white overcoats and face mask and on the way back from the shops a stretcher. I didn’t look. H___ wanted me to ask, but I didn’t.
As usual I did nothing. So I don’t know. But I suspect and that fills me with sadness. He was so lonely. Did he have any family?
Worse, you knew this or guessed this and what did you do?
Then there is THE ISSUE.
It can’t be ignored. And Jesus and God and the Holy Spirit it’s killing us so can you cut me a bit of slack? Won’t us give us a break?
That’s unless of course you don’t really exist because it’s at times like this that it just seems so lonely and silent that I just can’t see it myself. I tried to imagine you standing in the corner of the bedroom last week, what you actually might have looked like. I couldn’t do it. It was an Obi Wan Kenobi type hologram, a wisp of mist in the corner when what you want is a real and physical, for real flesh and blood, suffering yet risen reality. What I got was a shady corner of my imagination.
Or a book, or books and letters and versions and exegesis and preachers and church on a Sunday morning with a pipe organ and red hymn book, blue ‘Glory to God’ and ‘The Source’ and cups of instant coffee in a soul less church hall with uncomfortable looking middle class people and mention (probably) of The Queen’s Jubilee.
This is what we get. Jesus, it’s hard to believe.
How much can you tell the computer?
This much. And there’s more. But nobody will care. It’s just lonely old men and the money you didn’t earn because you are you and there is no job that is good enough for you or suitable for you and you won’t go and work the production line of Moy Park chicken or something (because you’re busy tilting at big wind generating windmills or something) and the work you do do is not valued as work because it’s not paid and competition and better train harder or ask the right questions and answer to prove that you are the most suitable person for the opening.
There is the money you forgot to put in the bank to pay for the rent that you remember about on a Saturday night on a special Bank Holiday weekend meaning that you will probably be charged by greedy banker, or something like that. So you can work hard and still not get paid.
Thing is, stretchers and old men, banks, THE ISSUE, church of clay feet,me being me, entropy is not what I want defining and embittering me, or scaring me, I don’t want that.
Miracle please…stretcher me through a hole in roof, I can’t do it myself.