Yesterday I did various practical things with visible results. It left me feeling good. I pruned the tree in front of my house on Commune Walk to reduce shading. The exercise was the most invigorating thing I’d done for a while. I also did some DIY too boring to record, but with satisfying results. Making things or doing things is good for mental wellbeing. I forget this.
I woke this morning having dreamed of a rag-tag rebel army in a civil war. H, friend of the Maltese Coder, was living in the rebel army camp and they had run out of money. I had to plot a difficult route across Londres on my velocipede, getting hopelessly and dangerously lost around the Lee Channel, in order to take my old mobile phones to him. He planned to sell them for the scrap value, in order to raise money for food.
The dream may have arisen from reading about Hampden, the civil war martyr who gave his name to Hampden clubs. Coming between the Corresponding Societies and Chartism, Hampden clubs also mostly met in taverns and promoted the highly controversial idea that people had the right to determine their own fate, as far as was reasonably possible in an indifferent universe. The movement eventually lead to democracy as we know it now, which for a time felt like a major triumph.
Parliamentarianism has long since stripped that victory of its sweetness. You might think that once people realised a vote every four years did not give them control over their own lives, they might once more have returned to meetings in taverns to determine the next steps in granting themselves the right to make decisions about their own lives. Rather than leaving the decisions to a bunch of arses. But no such meetings have happened recently, or so few that history books will not record them. Which is not to say that nothing happens.
I turned on the calculating machine this morning to see that a resistance group (unarmed) had scrawled ‘Police and UKBA not welcome in Savage Cross’ along the frontage of the doomed local Post Office.