if fashion had a conscience, would it really look like this?

I don't buy many clothes, tending rather to wear out the items that were handed down to me by big cousins and big brother, or that I have collected for nowt over the last ten years. Now that my crotch and armpits are showing through, it's getting to that time in my life when I have to spend.

Coming soon to a Caswell near you...

paraskevidekatriaphobia

Do you suffer? Stay inside and lock the doors!
No, wait, don't lock the doors...
Oh, I don't know! God you bless you child!

thoughts of a poorly educated hollywood actor

I was accused of being a stumbling block to discourse (because I didn't begin with the assumption that capitalism is 'good'), was advised to give up my 'moderate socialism', and was subtly compared to a 'poorly educated Hollywood actor' all in one person's comment and blog. It bothered me. I had just finished an unlikely book which helped me vent, and I wrote this.

Thoughts of a poorly educated Hollywood actor
or
The surest way to corrupt a youth...
or
Every theory is autobiographical
or
We are all wrong

"The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently."
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Dawn, Sec. 297

When has someone read enough information to become an authority on a particular subject? Daily newspapers? Paperback books? Academic literature? Maybe they have to have written a few articles of their own before we can put our trust in them.

Hmmm, I'm not so sure. Of course, I'd be slow to accept the wisdom of any old passionate soap-box preacher who was told something by someone, someday he can't remember, but I would also hesitate to place my full confidence in any confident soul.

I suspect that we are all wrong. Yes, all of us. Just for a start, I suspect that every theory is autobiographical. All of us in our discussions- lay folks like me, plus academics and intellectuals- inadvertently bring our wishes (perhaps hidden, says Sigmund) and power struggles (says Friedrich) and self-serving ideologies (says Karl) to the table. The best possible scenario is that we are aware of this, and so critique our own thoughts, and analyse everyone elses ideas, in this light.

And then we've all had our teachers, looked up to certain authors or activists, had clever friends who think one way, known asshole acquaintances who thought another. Unbeknownst to us, it all adds up. Tragically, we get stuck in the mindset we've invested in, and then find evidence to support our ideas (Sigmund again- subconsciously, we are saving ourselves from the shame of being wrong). It is impossible to be autonomous. We must be careful of getting cocky, because we are wrong.

We are all wrong because we can't step out of our own lives to give a truly objective decision. This matters because we might end up embarrassing ourselves by yelling from the rooftops something with a bit of forethought and introspection we would not let pass our lips. (The embarrassment will, of course, only come when we later realise we are wrong - you maybe know some fundamentalists who are fully unaware of how embarrassing they are.) Much more importantly, this matters because in our ranting we may propagate some theory that harms others without us being aware that we support it for self-beneficial reasons.

Being wrong. This should be a humbling thought. I'm passionate about some things, even get childishly worked up about them, but it's nice to remember that I'm wrong. The more I read, the more I know I don't know it all. But this goes beyond that cliché to acknowledge we are always failing to have a sturdy foundation for our ideas: I am wrong. You are wrong. We are wrong. At the occasional best, this acknowledgement helps me to take the ideas of others more seriously. People I disagree with, even apparently fundamentally, have something genuine and truthful to bring to discussion. Even the soap-box preachers. But, (yes, spot the irony) I get really pissed off when I come across someone so sure of their position they speak with a tone of condescension, or even arrogance. Don't they know they're wrong? We're all wrong! Can't you see we all have holes in our theories and in our arguments? How much have you read to be so self-assured?!

I'll buy a punch bag.

bus

I get the bus to work most days. I wait at the stop just opposite my street. So anyway, a couple of evenings ago I was sitting there, at the stop. Waiting with me was this shifty looking guy. Just shifty enough, off-normal enough, for me to think I wouldn't like him if I met him. He was dressed in a suit, an Asian guy, and sort of squinted his way along the ground, never stood still or sat down. I don't know- it wasn't much, not a big deal or anything, but I just didn't like the look of him. We waited about ten minutes for the bus, at which point he perked up and made a rush out of nothing, creep-jumping his way in front of me to get on first. I knew it! He is a shifty character. I felt vindicated in my first impression analysis of him. I didn't like him.

Then the strange thing happened. Shifty got off the bus just two stops down the Lisburn Road. Why would you wait ten minutes for a bus to bring you 200 metres down the street? It wasn't dark, it wasn't raining... But as he got off, another man got on. A guy with dark skin, a scraggly beard, and a back pack. I know, I agree, the ensuing thoughts are embarrassing to say the least. They were embarrassing at the time. I hated my reactionary assessment even as I sat there on the bus. Was he in some way connected to Shifty? Had I witnessed some coded exchange? This guy could totally be a suicide bomber. And I told my mind to shut up, to get a grip.

Honestly, my head was frantic. Switching between fear and fairness. Trying to solidify a rational and more typical response. It was bizzarrely uncomfortable. I'll confess to having had similar pop-up thoughts before, these Pavlovian responses - like when people have knelt in prayer facing Mecca on flights I've been on. These thoughts are very easily discarded, but I reckon largely inescapable thanks to media hype. This was different, and it was the strange circumstance with Shifty that sparked it off. This time I actually felt it. Heat, pulse. I was embarrassed to feel it. I was offended at the possibility of judging people like this, that my core being would react like this. But I realised you don't get to convince your irrational fears to leave your head. I concluded to sit, ashamed of my fear, and blow up if necessary, rather than be one of those who gets off public transport every time a Muslim gets on.

But my Bomber got off the bus first, with his backpack I noted, before we reached the City Hall - the place my fear assumed he would detonate. (How embarrassing to write all this).

So, I got safely unexploded to work. I say 'work', but this night we were off to the Waterfront Hall to watch Marcelo Bratke, a Brazilian classical pianist, perform with two percussionists from the favelas of Sau Paulo. Bratke came on first. A large screen above the stage hosted projected images of his left and right hands playing different rhythms in a gorgeous melancholic piece by Heitor Villa-Lobos. It was staggering. He stood for the applause after this, the first recital, and then beckoned for his companions to come on stage. And on came, yeah seriously, my Bomber.

attention please

The Pedestrianist is walking. Goodness knows what I'm going to fill this space with - personal musical discoveries, thoughts of the heavenly, random political grumblings, a touch of creativity if I brave it. And goodness knows when I'll get around to posting these sorts of things. Goodness knows a lot of stuff. She knows I'll at least try and make every post readable. (Here you can say, 'thank goodness for that').