Tuesday, 28 July 2015
It's a sad fact that forevermore, the old market town of Stoke Mandeville...
will be synonymous with one man.
Rattling through Buckinghamshire this weekend as the drizzle fell upon the verdant Chiltern hills, for two minutes the train stopped at the sleepy station in question. And one could have been lulled into thinking that with Jimmy now six feet under, his murky past might also have been laid to rest.
Let's keep our fingers crossed then that Jimmy hasn't found physical form... in anyone else.
Posted by dropthebeatonit at 14:11
Tuesday, 21 July 2015
Happiness strikes me as some smarmy piece of shit prince from a Pixar film i pretend not to know the name of who's just busted in the room and begun spewing smarm all over the place from his eyebrows.
You can't count on this buttmuncher. If you let him, he'll make you feel good about yourself, but experience will tell you to be wary of him. As quickly as he comes around, he'll drop you and move onto the next coolest guy in the banqueting hall, while you're left there on your tod thinking what the hell happened. The problem with happiness is that it is transient. Or to smash the Word Of The Day bomb that landed on my desktop this morning, it's ephemeral. Like the smarmy piece of shit Prince's affections, it doesn't last. Coming and going like you know who.
Interesting thing about happiness is that you only really begin to investigate it, once you start feeling like crap. You only start deconstructing the fickle piece of shit Prince once he's deserted you. It strikes me that happiness can't be a constant. Because happiness is not a permanent state. Contentment might tick that box, but contentment is a different thing altogether.
Happiness is a high.
And from great heights we must inevitably descend.
People who are perpetually happy are morons.
And it's probably a cover up anyway.
I mean one hundred per cent, off-camera, i bet even the Chuckle Bros had beef.
I've got some fresh2death ink on my left arm. It's the last line of a poem called Desiderata.
Tat is straight as an arrow. Guns just make it look crooked.
Out of context, the line smacks of some homo mantra better of written in Hindi. But what makes it interesting is that it's the parting shot of a very long poem that touches on all sorts of incredible stuff; silence, love, death, truth, courage, and more. But the author chose to end with this.
When all was said and done, badman Ehrmann still deemed personal happiness as the grail of all our worldly objectives. But crucially what he was saying wasn't be happy. He was saying more than this. He was saying strive to be happy. Because the world is a cruel playground, and much of your time in this playground will be spent running from the 6ft 8 skinhead with the thyroid problem who's constantly throwing shit at your melon with unerring accuracy. Every single break-time. Whether you like it or not. The striving is important, because odds-on there'll be times in your life when you'll have forgotten what happiness feels like.
You can't be happy all the time. Just look at the Chuckle Brothers.
Actually it seems that they can.
Whatever. My point is this.
I think we should be wary of this hallowed Pursuit of Happiness.
You can't just be happy. Perhaps you shouldn't even strive to be happy. Because happiness should never be an objective. Happiness is a by-product of something else. Happiness isn't the beer garden of some country pub at the back end of a 36-mile hike through the Lake District. Happiness is the fleeting moment when, rounding a corner into a glen, we clock a host of golden daffodils. It's something that creeps up behind us and taps us on the shoulder, and just as quickly as it appears, it's gone again. If all we aim for is the beer garden, we run the risk of disappointment. The beers won't be cold enough, and some bell in flip-flops will be working his way through the last 4 yorkshire puddings left in the kitchen.
If we set out our stall on happiness, we'll never have enough of it.
Same thing as chasing a high.
And that never ends well, however good your shit is. Toni ever strike you as that happy?
Contentment on the other hand is different. Contentment doesn't need highs.
Contentment counts its blessings, and is fine with the way things are.
Contentment is looking in the mirror, and the mirror looking back and saying yo.
Contentment is The Fonz.
I watched a lot of Happy Days without ever understanding how Fonz got to be as cool as he is. He was just cool. I don't remember any montages of him busting around in a leather jacket as a kid, or his moms telling Richie and Chachi how her little Fonz had a tricky adolescence. All i remember was whenever he walked into a room, chicks on the soundtrack went fucking mental. Fonz was cool. He was cool because he was content. When he looked in the mirror, he didn't need to do shit. Not because he looked great already, but because when he looked in the mirror he knew who and what was staring back at him.
This is all a question of semantics, these are all just words, but if the search for happiness can be downgraded to being cool with contentment, then Fonz can teach us a lot.
Fonz was cool because he was true to himself.
And contentment, ergo happiness, has a lot to do with personal truth.
Like Shakespeare said..
This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
The truth is one of the most difficult concepts to get our heads around, because we spend so much time trying to force-feed it with what we want to justify. So it becomes blurred and indistinct. But at the end of the day, the truth is so obvious. It's so clear. Nothing is more simple than the truth. Our problem is that we've become experts at pulling the wool over our eyes and blinding ourselves to it. In 1953, a Palestinian diplomat at the League of Nations smashed it out the park. When asked a question by the League, on the rack, he replied simply...
that is a very difficult question to answer, so i will tell the truth.
Deep, deep down, 20,000 leagues under our posturing and day-to-day fronting, we know what our truth is. Each person's truth might be unique to them, but it isn't anything else. It's just the truth. Like the fruits of 83% of my flatmate's well-intentioned stints in the kitchen, the truth isn't easy to stomach, which is why we soften it with self-pity and cheapen it with our protestations. But it's still always there.
And then... on the skies we can sail.
Every King, every councillor, every CEO, every underground carpark attendant, every Neo-Nazi, every pious priest, every Sunday League ref, every mother, father, son, daughter, pet hamster blahblah, resting their heads down on their pillows at night, in the depths of their solitude, knows what the hell is actually going down. I think so. Beneath layer upon layer of justification and erring our inner voice is ever-present, softly whispering to us from a private interior room, what is right and what it is we know we must do. Whether we can hear it just depends on how hard we try to listen. Perhaps this is what is really meant by our moment of truth.
And guess what sets you free, apparently.
- to chief the wisdom of pretty much the only other blog i read -
The happiest people in the world are those who have just been freed from some sort of shackle.
Fuck happiness, aim for contentment, through truth. Then we'll get closer to radness.
Heard it here first buttmunchers.
Posted by dropthebeatonit at 15:08