Metaphors and similes strained out of me by the twenty pence tea leaf catcher, snatcher, devoider of thought
The Silver Band plays out my way, littered by cracked snails' carcasses and a crushed egg sarcophagus.
Slugs feet crush bamboo canes, tirelessly tormenting the tomatoes, who reach desperately for the wall and the sky.
The logistics of laundry is never more acutely felt when there is little left to launder but linen and lampshades.
Spitting neighbours, empty favours, unnecessary rhymes to convince of sublime...
The cat chases milk collars, distracted from the execution of hair toggles by the scratch, skitter and stubborn stare.
I never knew how to write and I was never more aware of this than now, when I want to, there is no coherent creation to be borne. A train of thought, a pointless aching consideration of why. Why what? I have been wondering about the nature/origin/reason of tradition, and quickly concluded that it is a 'social construct' (forgive the horrid phrase) that despite the superstition, religion, age, cultural/regional roots etc, the initial conception and growth of a tradition must be to create a community, to breed familiarity and commonality among people, to aid loyalty, a sense of belonging to a group of people.
Although people will share interests with others, is it possible to be entirely independent in an interest, to not feign interest in a certain aspect of a common passion so as to strengthen an alliance (albeit on false ground).
Is it possible to agree to disagree and accept another into the fold, to trust their loyalty in spite of differences, to respect them as an individual within the collective. Or are we all six again, devising a reason to ostracise the child we don't like, and coercing others to isolate them also, rather than simply stating that we don't like them.
*ramblerambleramble*
