Saturday, 7 May 2016

Telling you how it is. Oh dear

It doesn't matter how many times I point out that the personae in my writing (Mad Cyril, Ghost Face Critic, whoever), there remains an assumption that my blog represents my actual opinions and activity. It doesn't matter how often I affirm my ignorance or stupidity - or publish a big picture of a tombstone with 'I was only being provocative' all over it - the belief in my sincerity remains unchallenged.

On the other hand, I can't read anything without finding a subtext or occult meaning. I'm looking at the list of Green MSPs, and wondering why they didn't manage a fifty:fifty split between male and female. I've started to believe that most socialists arrived at their opinions by chance, since their aggression towards Conservative voters suggests a lack of the compassion that would guide me towards social justice. The vitriol directed at an electorate that would dare vote Tory (and I say this despite my intense dislike of Cameron's policies and utter disrespect for their neoliberal philosophy) embarrasses me. 

I can only speak for myself, and I don't know myself. I write out of compulsion, a need to work out my thoughts, to try to find out what I think. I read to learn. I know that I don't read without context, without filters (to the extent that I regard art as a mirror, which is vanity, all is vanity...). 

But let me whisper it. I believe that the 

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