Remember by Christina Rossetti

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

 

by Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894)


 

Fun facts: She wrote the words of the Christmas carols “In the Bleak Midwinter”, set to a tune by Gustav Holst, and “Love Came Down at Christmas”. Also if you’re thinking ‘is she related to THE Rossetti?’ The answer is very likely yes. The family had a lot of connections and successful members.

The title of J.K. Rowling’s novel The Cuckoo’s Calling is based on a line in Rossetti’s poem A Dirge.

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The British General Election Process 2015

So it’s that time again…

This year Facebook lets you put a thing on your page to say ‘yes I’m a voter’. That just seems like such a needlessly arrogant thing to have. Not because you have exercised your civic right, if not duty, but that in posting this are you not casting judgement on those who have not? Some are not eligible and it seems damning to demean them with your morally onanistic self-regard.

But then again there are those who could have voted but chose not to often for ridiculous reasons including, but not exclusively: Someone told me not to as a protest e.g. Russell Brand which is no different than political apathy as an act due to the same result; ‘they’re all the same’ – which leads to extreme far right parties getting power as they did in France; ‘couldn’t be bothered’ – deserve whatever the socio-political results are for them due to their apathy. Yet no doubt these self declared vox populi are the same people who will be down the pub later loudly condemning the government for their actions and having an opinion on everything declaring ‘if I ran things it would be different!’ But they don’t because they couldn’t even take the most basic political step of voting let alone running for political positions. The only way they would have power is through force and is the practise of tyranny so perhaps its best these people stay away from politics and accept what more, hopefully, level headed people have voted for.

The British voting process in brief step-by-step:

  1. Walk to the Scout’s Hall nearby… There are a lot of polling stations around the county and you could have voted by post if you notified them with enough warning. (You should look up some of the odd places they use due to a lack of suitable public places available).
  2. Give the card with my voting details on it to a staff member… I don’t have to – It says so on the card you don’t have to present it. They don’t check your ID. You could be anyone as long as you had a name of a local resident and got there before them. I took the card and they took it from me… so is it required or not? They check it. Still no proof you are who you say you are… well except I know one of the polling staff so they may acknowledge the name and face don’t match.
  3. (Take a moment to note the badly dog-eared doorstop sized novels lying next to a selection of gossip magazines and a few half eaten packets of biscuits.)
  4. They cross my name off the register… with a pen and ruler. It doesn’t seem the most sophisticated way of marking off who has voted.
  5. They give me a piece of paper with the candidates listed and say cross one box only… lest you spoil your vote and it is discarded.
  6. Go to the voting booth… i.e. a high table you stand at which has screens on it so no one can see what you are doing.
  7. Cross a box with a stubby pencil that really should be given a bit of a sharpening during the day… There must have been injuries in the past. Maybe they should replace it with a stamp or that ‘dented paper’ system that caused a lot of spoiled papers during USA elections when Dubya was given the presidency.
    Fold the paper… It feels pointless but I suppose it keeps anyone in the immediate vicinity seeing/guessing who you voted for.
  8. Put it in the ballot box… Probably need to shove it in a bit later on in the day as all the folded sheets will have unfurled inside thus filing the potential space.
  9. Leave… They say thanks, you say thanks, we all thank each other on participating in the political process (look at some of the children’s artwork which adorns the walls as I leave bright luminous things mixed with felt pvc glue stuck collages).
  10. (Back into the car park of the red brick Scouts Hall and a short walk back home…
  11. Bask in the self-righteous glow of having done your civic duty once more. Maybe watch the election night tv including channel 4’s alternative converage i.e. satirical comedy while BBC is serious and everyone else… are a mystery.

In the end the Conservative party won a majority which surprised many, Ed Balls quit as Labour leader, Nick Clegg quit as Lib Dem Leader in results which could easily make you think its the end of the Lib Dem party as they lost so many seats, Nigel Farrage stepped down as UKIP leader, the SNP dominated Scotland and took many seats and it was close run but there were no coalitions which seemed inevitable to commentators.

But of course what you want isn’t analysis but fun! You want interactivity!

Here is the Political Compass quiz to go do. It’s been around ten years now! It is lots of fun! Available in English, Spanish, Portuguese and German… you would think they would do at least one new language per year. Waste of potential market potential there unless other nations have their own version…
http://www.politicalcompass.org/

Here is Political Compass’ assessment of the parties for the UK’s 2015 General Election.
http://www.politicalcompass.org/uk2015

Get your friends to do it too and compare notes! Maybe (i.e. more than likely) you’ll have similar views but maybe, MAYBE, you will have completely contrasting views and get into a very heated debate a.k.a the stuff of dinner parties that started off oh so well until someone had one too many drinks. Oh the thrill of it is palpable… or not. At least it wouldn’t be as bad as this…


As for my own political views… well that is my business and not something that affects this blog 🙂

Comment, like or follow the blog – all are welcome.

Thoughts While Visiting Cardiff On A Quiet Saturday In February

Opticians are always young women. Where do they go afterwards? Optometry isn’t something you just study in order to go work somewhere for a few years then move onto another career… Do any men do optometry? Maybe it is just me and all I see are young women in this career? I went into a number of stores and passed by a few opticians and I saw no male staff.

John Lewis: More makeup means a woman looks like she has more of a jib… an attitude displayed by the jutting out of the lower lip in a defiant manner though there is nothing to challenge the in their immediate vacinity as they only go certain places, wih certain people so such a gesture is a display of a close minded individual indicating their prejudice to anyone who does not fit into their social caste. In hindsight maybe she was just a very confident shoplifter who made people around her think she was meant to be there unlike someone with a heavy coat and deep, opaque, bag wandering around with ‘eagle eyed action man’ darting glances observing their surroundings.

St Davids II Shopping Centre: Store workers are dressing very casually recently… no it would be more appropriate to say they are dressing stylishly but it is increasingly hard to tell who is or is not employed at the shop. I saw a girl with fake tan, platinum blonde hair and wearing a white dress with smudges of primary colours on it and only realised she worked in the shop when she started to handle stock by the arm full. One day someone walked up to me and asked me to help them as if I were a member of staff when I wasn’t. As much as I wanted to go along with it and lead them into purchasing the least appropriate item my morality stopped me and I informed them to go hence to the nearest optometrist and purchase a pair of corrective eye lens with which to better conduct themselves. Also to perform an act of masochistic onanism upon themselves post haste. I find shops are too casual nowadays.

Card Shop: I saw a card with a very funny phrase. I noted it down on my phone and will use it in due course. I suppose I could do that with any card that had a good idea. Especially those Hipster lookin gones where the image is a very basic doodle of a joke. Its all just a question of morality as I doubt the staff will walk up to you and ask what you are doing just assuming you are texting someone and it is none of their business.

Park Plaza: Privileged women enter the reception taking one of the few footstools for themselves across the room next to one of the open fires. The youngest looking one, face reddened by makeup and skin cleansers removing the top layer of dead skin fro her face, looks blankly ahead in doing this act. Hair crisply styled, grey hoodie, leather gilet and jeggings. All very expensive items no doubt but also very generic looking. Tall. Very, very, thin. Model, sickly, physique unfit to bear children without medical intervention. The caesarean scar no doubt would be a badge of honour for their motherhood being too posh to push’ unlike the common folk they view as cattle, worthy only being beasts of burden, to ensure their ongoing lives of luxuriating being sustainable. Her companions who did less look older due to makeup and what looked like dyed blond hair contrasted against black shawls hiding their physiques apart from tree trunk legs held in by calf high boots.

They read self-help books. They look the sort. On audiobook of course while they work out at the gym, if not running down the narrow country road holding up traffic, to ensure as many people as possible see them leading a ‘morally responsible’ healthy life as endorsed by social doctrine. It is the only tie sweat is allowed even if it means purchasing non-running makeup to wear especially for this act.

‘Own the space you inhabit’ – self-help books often state such a mantra but in practise it is an endorsement of acting in a sociopathic manner. It is a vicious circle in which the advice tells you to act like those who do not consider you and in turn you become such a person to someone else who themselves goes seeking advice only to be told to do the same and thus the ouroboros of societal behaviour perpetuates itself leading to a loss of humanity for the sake of perceiving one’s self as ‘alive’ according to the perceptions of others.

It’s a vicious circle. The polite etiquette the British are known for is gradually being eroded away and will be lost one day. Every generation fears this believing it will happen within their life time but although it is put aside as a foolish notion it is happening much in the way that even with beaches the coast is gradually eroding away gradually no matter how slowly it is perceived to be doing so. It can be padded and defended with certain concrete defensives but one day it will be irrevocably lost. What Henry James’ generation feared in ‘Daisy Miller’, where we adopt the brashness of American societies ever revolving need for conquest and self-empowerment, will finally come to pass.

In thinking that I am being unfair with this notion I dismiss it and go to the toilet.

There are three urinals against the wall. A man in the standard uniform of t-shirt and blue jeans of the casual relaxed yet casual smart man stands at the central urinal with his legs wide apart. ‘Own the space you inhabit’. He is breaching the understood social convention to use the furthest urinal and leave at least one urinal empty between users. In the scenario he should have taken the furthest and I the one furthest from him. But no instead he had all three to himself.

I go into the lone cubicle and do not hear the taps nor the hand drier, the latter being directly outside the cubicle, being operated so I have to assume he also left without cleaning his hands. Obviously he intends , like a feral dog, to smear his scent all over the place to mark his territory I suppose. The hand drier has that slow uncomfortable heat like the breathe of an old age pensioner invading your personal space speaking to you or hugging you in a deathlike grasp betraying their age.

Outside Walking from Queens Street towards the New Theatre: Along a wrought iron fence walks an old woman. Face like crumpled leather. Hair dyed gregarious ginger. Spindle legs hang out of a very heavy fur coat giving the impression she is in fact wearing a modifiyed gorilla costume. Danging out of the arms are her hands clad in red leather gloves and a cigarette hangs lazily from her right hand the smoke and ash drifting onto everyone behind her wake.

Two compatriots walk with her. They are of similar age in luminously sun-bleached yellow and pink padded coats respectively. They walk three abreast spaced just enough to give the impression you could wak past them but in approaching realising you do not in fact have enough space to do so. By which point the still warm ash has drifted onto any exposed skin burning you.

I thought I saw my English teacher from my first year of Secondary School. If so she hadn’t aged so it couldn’t be her. She always looked like the stereotype of what you would expect a young female literary student to look like. She had a doctorate when she taught me. Why would someone with a doctorate teach in a Comprehensive School? I didnt know then and I don’t know now.

Apparently there are only 500 ‘real’ people in the world and everyone else is just a bit player. However there are multiple coexisting dramatis personae consisting of 500 people all overlapping so it is not the cause of an existentialist crisis for anyone.


A few days away.

Nothing to say.

Here is a rambling number of notes.

I read too many things but Charles Bukowski and Daniil Kharms.

More to follow. What it is cannot be said… because I do not know.