Eight years of silence. Contempt will bring that to any mind capable of thinking beyond the modern paradoxes of the prescribed thought control. What better way to define how little you think of somebody’s behaviour than to not bother talking at all, well not in any creative sense at least, and certainly not through a blog. To stand, nay, sit, in a far-flung foreign field, that is not so foreign anymore, and watch the steady disintegration of a once cherished culture should imbibe a subtle grin of, ‘told you so’, but as culture disintegrates so does the building blocks of a historically defined self, and the grin turns to a grimace of sadness as the beast eats its own tail, too stupid to know otherwise. No longer British, but never to be the other, certain never to open my eyes and join the massed ranks of the degenitalized delusional religion uttered as woke, as there are much better ways to wake up. Small minds won the day, at least on the battlefield of reality, and killed reality in the process.
Why begin writing again, is easy to answer…money, a living, a retirement, buying useless junk that gets used once and is then forgotten, saved for the rainy day that never comes in its fleeting form. I should be thankful, I’m still here to begin this work, having not received the cheap funeral of a mob hit, yes, painful, but at least it saves relatives paying for a very pricey funeral. Stumbling through three mafia hits, where the intention was to slowly torture me to death in a cellar somewhere, but somehow in a drunken haze always missing the time to be bundled into the back of a van, only to be sobered by the psychopath’s tools of power trade a little later. Opening my eyes the following day with a horrific hangover, at my home, to be mentally tortured due to the screaming paranoid schizophrenic in the flat beneath me in Camden shouting his threats on me and whatever voice was tormenting him. It had got quite tough, and just a little shit, with even the daily act of staying alive a concern. Escaping was paramount, and had been for some time, after handing my first book to a friend for proofreading some years before, which led to being blackballed and kept in an open prison called society, due to my friend wanting to tag his art name across my work. But that was all covered on the trustworthy site of Facebook. Maybe here I will give it all away, as the process of getting old is to be enjoyed, all the threads of why the world is such a mess can be found somewhere in the pages yet to be written. I do, after all, have to make money, after teaching for the last eight years, and having a wife and family through most of that time, I need to support my family, and make back some of what was lost and find some comfort in old age. Teaching never gives much time for writing, but I will have to return to it if this site cannot pay the bills.
Contained here will be an attempt at a daily blog on growing plants and raising livestock on a small holding in Tropical China. It may be an allegory, it may not, it rather depends on my mood that day. It will deal with turning a rice paddy into an herb/vegetable garden by trial and error, the absurd arguments in cross cultural marriages, growing plants not suited to the environment. etc, etc. Another thing will be a third creative work titled, ‘Waiting for Walter’, which will grow from my years in education, the working eight years of no time for anything but work, the stable years after being ripped off with my first work. I might do some teaching if requested, as I will set up a link for it, but will charge a fortune for it, as trying to teach creativity is not an easy task.
