Cutting The Ribbon

Welcome to my new Blog.

Warning: May Cause Drowsiness! Do not read prior to operating heavy machinery.

Today I've been adding some more art to my FaceBook page. Some of the pieces I've chosen I had not previously encountered. Like the one by Ernst Faust titled "Armoured with Flowers." I've just been browsing for things I like, formulating an opinion on them and writing it down. Then of course, comes the inevitable insecurity and doubt of my comprehension of the work. So I toddle off to Google the piece (and the artist), to make sure that the canvas I thought was 'pretty' wasn't actually a painting by a child-murderer, of a woman who enjoyed raping kittens with a cheesegrater. (That is a disturbing, though mercifully impossible image, which I am frankly apalled to have watched fall from my brain and onto this unsuspecting page.)

Selecting and researching these artists and styles has - as do most intellectual pursuits - left me feeling decidedly thick. I know that a lot of intelligence relies on recieved wisdom and facts which have been taught - rather than understandings that have been learned, but I don't mix in broad enough circles to widen my range of reference. It is impossible to teach yourself things you do not yet realise that you have to learn. I could read about the great Surrealist painters, discover the origins of the genre and memorise the names of its masters. Then I will only forget it all - because I will never have the opportunity to discuss what I think I know, with anyone who could challenge, correct, or corroborate my understandings. Instead I look up the key points, and then tire of trying to improve my recalcitrant mind.

On a lighter note: I donated over 1000 grains of rice today, by playing a word game. I was offended that the answers were so easy. It irritated me that everyone could probably choose the correct definitions of the listed words, from each selection of four. I do realise, however, that the easier the answers are, then more of them will be answered correctly. This will, in turn, mean that more rice will ultimately be donated. This epiphany sits uncomfortably alongside the knowledge that a small - admittedly egotistical - part of myself, would rather people remain hungry then eat rice that my sulky superiority deems to have been unjustly won.

I think I have yet to get the hang of this charity lark. Maybe I should stick to buying a poppy once a year - and occasionally giving tins of Butchers to tramps, for their dog on a string.Incidentally, council estate thugs and amiable vagrants are the only people you ever see with a dog on a string. The closest middle-class, well-housed people get is soap-on-a-rope - and to be honest, how many people do you know who have had one of those since Jimmy Saville stoped handing them out to kids who wrote in to Jim'll Fix It?

The bigger question for today is why am I so tired yet remain unable to sleep. Even the tortoise woke up from hibernation today. Which is one better than me. (Though, curiously, that's the second time I've had occasion to mention tortoises today. Different tortoises you understand. Telling the same anecdote twice would be wholly unremarkable, and show a very limited imagination.)

I think now would be a good time to try and sleep. After reading this, I'm sure you're all already there. x