Communication

A few disparate threads of thoughts coalesced (at least in my mind) into this posting. A wet windy Widnes weekend tends to bring about some introspection - if only to hide from reality.

I suppose the subtext should be the sense of being just a fraction behind the wave and where plagiarism begins. I have spent a significant amount of time thinking about writing something longer than a couple of pages. Each time I get to the point where the idea does not seem totally outlandish, the real world comes along and says 'yeah, right, just read this'. Occasionally, I think 'if only I could get a good introduction, that would set the ball rolling' - then along comes Iain Banks - 'That was the day my Granny exploded.' from The Crow Road. Brilliant, never in a gazillion years could I come up with that one. So, the first line gambit fails, what about the 'Just start writing and see what happens.' approach? OK, sounds doable. Slap! There, in the Saturday Guardian Review, is the devastating critique of the book I didn't write - 'In between, in a Proustian spirit of digression, there are philosophical pensees of varying interest, as well as vivid evocations of adolescent hypersensitivity and confusion. All the dull stuff that most novellists would omit, Knausgaard leaves in.' Ouch. To say nothing of the beautiful plot development of John Irvine, the incredible imagery of Dickens, the skill with words of Roberstson Davies, the lyricism of Hardy, the wit of Terry Pratchet, and so on. I cannot get past the ankles of the troglodytes, let alone thinking of clambering up on the shoulders of the giants.

But then, there is the cliche that a thought, or an idea, not communicated might just as well never have existed. If we do not communicate, we might as well be dead. The places where conversation, discussion, the exchange of ideas occur appear to be being squeezed out by mass communication. Tweets, facebook, IM, texts are everywhere, but how often does a conversation occur? How often do we have the opportunity to listen to what somebody has to say, to digest it and to compare it to our own thoughts, and to respond. Maybe to have our  minds changed, maybe to change the minds of another. We sprint through the world in our own iPhone connected world, twitching to the pull of a thousand strings, in too much of a hurry to wonder where we are going and why. Too much information, not enough analysis. On an aside, David Cammeron (the English PM) sees nothing wrong with talking to the media barons, in an attempt to 'persuade' them to his way of thinking, his policy. Whatever happened to the theory of editorial freedom? The media baron should not be directing the political leanings of the journalist, newspapers should not 'sponsor' a political party. This is not unlike the blanket support of the Labour Party by the trade unions. Shouldn't happen, let each individual decide for themself who they consider most likely to represent their ideals in Parliament not because the Sun, the News of the World (RIP), the Guardian, or the Telegraph tells them to. Where (rhetorical question) is the ethical politician?

Lastly, photographs. I like to think that I take a photograph to convey some meaning, to communicate something. More often than not, I admit, I do not have a high degree of success. Sometimes, a series of images comes close to reflecting a mood. When I do get an image I am happy with - like the one at the top of this post - I find it is because the picture refers back to classical images I have seen somewhere else, in effect I am plagiarising (at best, paying homage to) other's work. I can live with the homage bit - at least it might encourage a random viewer to go and look at good photographs. I suppose I can deflect the plagiarism claim because I do not seek to profit from the effort. But it is unsatisfying.

None of this, you will be happy to hear, will stop me taking photos, writing stuff, attempting to communicate, but I need to find a place far from the electorinc world where real communication can happen. And it is still raining in Widnes.