4th June 2017

Those who cannot remember will forever be haunted. So it is that Londres is one of the most haunted of cities. It cannot remember carving up the Middle East, it cannot remember the centuries of divide and conquer, the divisions of which live with us now. It cannot remember the warnings of those who did not want to invade. It refuses to remember even sending British extremists to North Africa a few short years ago. And so violence appears among us, as though uncaused. The leader of the Opposition names its cause, and is castigated for it.

Last week I spoke to my brother, who almost in the same breath said that he the only remembers the good parts of our childhood, and that he is sometimes haunted by an unaccountable melancholy. Not so unaccountable, I thought. He thinks himself fortunate to remember mostly the good times, but forgetting has consequences.

I have been reading much about the rebel history of Londres. Many names crop up, intriguing writers who I would like to read. Yet I cannot find any trace online of some of the classic writers of this Island’s most radical period. Their writers are easy to find, of course.

In the first half of the nineteenth century there arose on the south bank of the Tamesis, on Blackfriar’s Street, a venue, the Rotunda, populated by radicals of all stripes. It put on radical theatre of a political nature, provoking audience responses, educating and entertaining. It hosted most of the radicals of the age: the founders of the working class trade unions, the advocates of Owenite cooperation, the agitators for democracy and reform. For a few years this hotbed of radicalism stirred up Londres, to the point of causing concern to the rulers. It was infiltrated by police informers and vilified in the press. Key leaders were arrested and imprisoned.

The Rotunda’s Wikipedia entry is several hundred words long. It has one sentence on the venue’s radical history. And so our rulers propagate the idea that radical agitation is alien to the Island. It is not alien to the Island, and nor is the violent suppression of it. I think it is the violence we would all rather forget, and so it is the violence that haunts us.

4th June 2017

1st June 2017

Yesterday I was in the Great Southern Park to look at the toxic caterpillar plague. I walked around the park for a while after the tour and saw a jackdaw sitting on the head of a deer, staring at me. It seemed an ominous sign.

In a woodland area I sat and read about cities as sites for capital accumulation, and the effect of this on people. Democratic control of cities seems the only solution. We are far from there, and getting further. I know from experience that while our local planning authorities are nominally overseen by elected officials, in fact the whole system, both through legislation and through case law, is so centralised that even the minor democratic element is a farce. Nobody who has any power or influence seems to care about this, presumably because they are the ones who get their own way.

Last night was a social one, like the end of the world wasn’t coming. The evening was warm and the pizza was authentically Neapolitan, apparently. I talked about my childhood a little to The Organiser, who surprisingly hadn’t heard about it before. I forget who I have told. I discuss different sides of it with different people too. It is a story with many angles, but still I sometimes feel a little bored with telling it. Your past is your past, and you don’t get to leave it behind, or never entirely.

I spent much of this morning on the phone to my sister and the Dancy Meditator. It was good to talk while wandering in the park. Still, I have a slight tension in my stomach today, I think from the long list of people I have to communicate with for various reasons. Connected life is not always healthy. When the apocalypse comes there will be so many people to talk to. The end of the world will be incredibly busy.

On the way home the crows in Burble Park were gone, replaced by the annual fair, all screams and motion and flashing lights. I saw a clown deep in discussion with a police officer beside a tree. What on earth can such a meeting mean? Nothing good.

1st June 2017