The majority of people like to have a leader. To have someone to follow is a comfort as well as a way of abdicating responsibilty. Leadership is an essential skill and without leaders, society would cease to exist. Good leaders produce successful groups, whether in business or in sport or any other field, and when things go wrong it is the leaders that take the blame.
Unfortunately many people are so easily led that the media can exert a very powerful influence and can govern the way in which people behave. The press has been guilty in the past of whipping up hatred against many minority groups; gays, hoodies, black people and asians have all been subject to media initiated campaigns that have more or less instructed those who like others to think for them, to hate others without really knowing why.
The press can castigate a political party, reporting their own versions of the facts in order to turn the populace against them and thereby control the electorate and the outcome of elections. Advertisers spend ludicrous amounts of money to sell useless things to people, and it works. Human beings are gullible and potentially so very dangerous when following blindly.
Tomorrow is a perfect example - More of the aristocracy are getting married in order to produce more aristocratic mouths for the public to feed. The media have hyped the event to the extent where it seems that the vast majority will be glued to their TV sets so as not to miss a second of the procedings. There are flags and bunting in the streets and parties organised, real money spent on worthless trinkets and trivialities and the whole of the fashion industry now hangs on whatever clothing hangs from the royal bride to be. What a lot of nonsense!
Thursday 28 April 2011
Thursday 21 April 2011
Having recently spent a wonderful week with my grandson, I have come to the conclusion that people of a certain age should be prevented by law from becoming parents. Being around a child is physically and emotionally draining as well as all consuming. It is hard work being a parent, and even harder as one gets older. Children need, and demand attention, they learn from constant interaction between the world and those around them, and it is a parent's duty to put the needs of the child first. For many this comes naturally but that does not make it any less of a full time and very difficult job. There are no opportunities to throw sickies, or to take a long lie in when you have been up half the night changing beds, mopping up sick or changing smelly nappies. Babies need routines and you change these at your own peril.
I love Oscar in a way that I never imagined possible. He is simply amazing and I will do everything that I can for him, but I know that I could not cope with his demands on a 24 /7 basis. I am too old and lack the energy, and yet there are women of my age who still wish to become mothers, and men older than myself who still become fathers. To me it seems sad and strange that a parent should not have a chance of watching their child grow up and to put a child at risk of becoming an orphan at an early age seems irresponsible to say the least. Parenting is a massive responsiblilty and should never be taken lightly, and yet is it a biological function that we take for granted, most parents rushing into that territory without thinking things through. I guess that if it were possible to think through the issues fully, to imagine the pains of birth, and the trials and tribulations that come with it, then parenting would very soon go out of fashion. For those over 60 however, there is no excuse.
Tuesday 5 April 2011
Sadness
It is raining and I find myself at a loose end. It is a time of change for me and I am not comfortable with some changes, however I have to remind myself that I have been lucky and have no cause to complain.
I just finished a wonderful book; reading it that is, I don't think that I have a book in me. Jostein Gaarder's The Solitaire Mystery. He is a Norwegian philosopher/theologian who writes about philosophy in terms that even I can understand. Rather akin to a modern Alice in Wonderland, he looks at the world and at belief, through the eyes of a child, and it is through the eyes of innocence that the world looks wonderful and mysterious and fascinating. As I get older, this is much harder to recapture, and my experiences with other people amplify my cynicism to the extent that I am finding it harder and harder to believe in anything or anyone. A valued friend and colleague once said to me - "The only thing that you can rely on others to do is to let you down." By and large he has been proved right. So I find myself withdrawing again and looking for hints of that wonder and amazement that only the natural world can provide.
William Blake - Auguries of Innocence
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
I just finished a wonderful book; reading it that is, I don't think that I have a book in me. Jostein Gaarder's The Solitaire Mystery. He is a Norwegian philosopher/theologian who writes about philosophy in terms that even I can understand. Rather akin to a modern Alice in Wonderland, he looks at the world and at belief, through the eyes of a child, and it is through the eyes of innocence that the world looks wonderful and mysterious and fascinating. As I get older, this is much harder to recapture, and my experiences with other people amplify my cynicism to the extent that I am finding it harder and harder to believe in anything or anyone. A valued friend and colleague once said to me - "The only thing that you can rely on others to do is to let you down." By and large he has been proved right. So I find myself withdrawing again and looking for hints of that wonder and amazement that only the natural world can provide.
William Blake - Auguries of Innocence
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.
A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.
Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.
The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.
The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.
The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.
The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.
He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.
The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.
The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.
The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.
It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.
Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.
The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;
This is caught by females bright,
And return'd to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven's shore.
The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar's rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.
The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer's sun.
The poor man's farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore.
One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands
Shall buy and sell the miser's lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.
He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.
The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar's laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour's iron brace.
When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket's cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.
The emmet's inch and eagle's mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne'er believe, do what you please.
If the sun and moon should doubt,
They'd immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.
The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation's fate.
The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding-sheet.
The winner's shout, the loser's curse,
Dance before dead England's hearse.
Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro' the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.
God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.
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