The Theatricality of it All

Sometimes you can't help but like the characters you shouldn't: they have the best lines, the best anecdotes, the right amount of sarcasm at a level that is acceptable and tolerated by those within their circle, as well as you, the reader, though you might think they're getting away with more than is just, but then this is a novel and you cannot be certain how much of this character is real or fictional, because if based on a real person he or she can be exaggerated, yet if true (but the real person is unknown to you) they can come across as so unbelievable as to make you assume their character has been exploited by the author simply for the act of appearing in their novel.
Maybe when reading (and enjoying) satirical personages, how they came to be and why shouldn't be contemplated, because it does if meditated on too deeply lessen their comedic effect, when their manner, although somewhat egotistical, is free and mocking and their chief attraction. Their utterances eloquent but abusive and delivered with smug smiles and curling lips and ridiculous flourishes. Their heads and hearts swelled with their own self-importance and pride as their opinion is sought, although unasked for it's often still given and listened to with the same awe, even if clumsily put or lacking in conviction. Snide comments are their bread and butter; truth is not necessary. Truth as in an accurate and true account of whatever they're relaying, truth as in their own held opinion. That's not their purpose as an addition to a house party, nor their aim.
Such characters are the entertainment: there to distort and to provoke; to be deliberately disagreeable and generally to amuse, if they're in (and as a host you hope they are) good humour because if they're not they can be either very dull or very cruel. Neither is what you the host or you the reader want, for what you want is for them to shock, to titillate, whereas if they refuse to engage or slump in a corner then the party, even if you're not actually there, is a ruined affair.
Their craft is this part they play: a role they made for themselves and perfected, and which is soon, if successful and popular, expected from them. A mask they have to wear which although it gets them invited everywhere can be tired of if for some reason they don't, won't or can't perform. An act such as this must not give way to normal human emotions or display them unless doing so furthers the farce. If they disappoint too often they'll soon be out of favour and forced to find it elsewhere.
Friends, in their proper sense, are rare, but then such characters, as they've made themselves, don't look for any, for if they did so the mask would have to slip, and then they fear they'd be found out, which as it happens many actors of different genres do, though for this type of whom we are speaking it's more related to their intelligence rather than their acting ability. They will be discovered to be merely pontificating and to, in actual fact, have very little to say for themselves. They have no opinions, but that of others. Any knowledge they have has been gleaned from reliable and unreliable sources and so they evade careful questioning, but are unafraid to turn a scrutinising eye on those who attempt to discover them. They are well-read, but only enough so that they can repeat verses and passages made fashionable; they know a little politics, just enough to get by; they know the intrigues of the social circle they happen to be in, enough to gossip or spread lies; and they know plenty of tales about people whom they profess to have met or heard tell of, though usually the persons and the circumstances are fabrications.
Their audience, however, is captivated, though not all wish to be and yet they find themselves nibbling like a greedy fish at what looks to be a most convenient wiggling snack to then find it's nothing of the sort but some man-made inedible resemblance on a concealed hook which is incidentally tied to a line. More than a couple of lines that in a very short time produce laughter, with and against the orator, and uncontrollable shaking; even on rare occasions silent shaking, as with their convulsions the sounds of laughter are swallowed or choked on, sometimes too with tears that make their eyes glisten like stars.

Picture credit: The New Spirit in Drama and Art, 1913, Spencer Gore

A Man at Ease

A man sits in shade with his eyes closed, not thinking and not doing anything, just sitting and enjoying the autumn sun and yet miles away. You might think if you chanced upon him he was resting from his labours – a spot of gardening maybe, a bit of weeding, a bit of hoeing, raking leaves and lawn mowing possibly – for he has the look of a gardener and his apparel hints that might be the case: lightweight shirt and trousers, both bit a bit creased and dirt-soiled, especially the elbows and knees, a sturdy pair of dusty brown loafers and a straw hat with a black band, but if any of these suppositions are true then they weren't done from pleasure, but duty.
That much I do know about this unnamed man. Though I don't know his character or him personally. I wouldn't be able, for instance, to recommend him as sound or wise or provide a reference as to his nature, nor an accurate account of his life.
No, but if I chanced across him as you did, I would be able to state with some firmness that he wasn't the type to undertake physical labour as a paid occupation. He doesn't mind doing it when it needs to be done but it wouldn't have been his life's work. His is the mind of order, and that extends to property – that he's the sole carer of and in possession of – although his frame doesn't often lend itself to these particular tasks. Still, he's not one to shirk and he'll give anything a go, knowing it's more satisfying to use the body rather than engage someone else's sweat and muscle.
Let the mind wander, could well be his motto at such times, and which he will have employed to good effect on many occasions. He might even think of himself as a leaner, better educated and not so discontented Mr Polly, who is whiling away his remaining years, which others, if he himself drew this comparison, would dispute because he seems the very opposite embodiment of Alfred Polly; and yet something in Polly's character appeals to him on some whimsical level.
But right now, as you've observed, he's sitting quite peacefully in front of a whitewashed wall and in the shade of some shrubbery and apparently not (as far as you can tell) thinking; you're close enough to see his brow is unlined, his eyelids aren't fluttering and his chest moves at a sedate and steady pace. Each rise and fall a long count of three as if in the role of seeker in a game of hide and seek before proclaiming 'Here I come, ready or not.' But as he's not (we've assumed) thinking I'll assume he won't be counting either, so that this is just a relaxed posture of well-being which to you, the beholder, presents itself as a delightful picture, because even though his left leg is crossed over his right and his arms are neatly folded suggesting tension in his wiry frame, he seems entirely at ease.
At enough ease to be spied upon at any rate, for I'm almost certain he feels your sweeping gaze. His is not the countenance of a man asleep; no, he is very much awake and present in his surroundings though his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, are fully closed. The shutters down as if the sun were too fierce, when the light has only a muted brightness and doesn't glare or shimmer as on a hot summer's day.
You, I think, have reached the same conclusion as I that he's listening – to the gentle wind rustling leaves and to the flutings of birds – and is sitting upright, rather than slouching, to appreciate its quality as if it were a recital by a symphony orchestra. Perhaps on other occasions he faintly hums along, but then nature has a vast repertoire of tunes so that the same notes heard are rarely in the same arrangement that he thought so sublime; it will be easily surpassed by another.
His position then, if we follow these presumptions through, is that of an participatory audience member for he has provided his own means - a chair from inside has been brought outside, and he has attempted to make himself comfortable by removing his jacket and casually draping it over its back – in order to, for a moment, feel at one with the world.

Picture credit: The Gardener Vallier, Paul Cezanne

Vainglorious Living

Can nobody see what's being foisted upon us? Does nobody care? More debt, more debt. Options on how to pay taken away, encouraged to spend more, to spread the cost and never pay off, never in our lifetime, so that the debt never goes way but essentially stays and hangs over our heads like black marks; and most of us have fallen into the trap of fixed rate, fixed term deals where companies take a fixed fee every month, rather than quarterly, which has to be paid by debit or credit card. Card, Card, Card!
Are we blind? Yes, but madder are those who stick to SVTs (Standard Variable Tariffs) and cash, whereas I, being of that camp (although they may have got even me to switch now), think it sensible, as do those who want to pay for what they use and not what they might in future, and to budget as suits their individual needs. We're told to live within our means and yet no system currently supports this.
This address (to the public at large. Well, to the few readers present) is more than a little late in coming and has been, before now, addressed to kitchen cupboards, living room furniture and the bathroom mirror, and yes, one or two points may now been different and this economic push to spend, spend, spend and not save may have quickened or slackened, but I couldn't, after having delivered it in a muddled rant-like manner to appliances many times over, restrain my fingers any longer from typing. Frankly, all eight digits and two thumbs were flexing and itching something chronic, and the only solution was to finally let them trip over the keyboard.
Buy now, have now, pay later or never at all. Pay up-front (i.e. in full) and be worse off. Don't have the money, borrow. Don't save for bills, for emergencies, for holidays etcetera, spend it and worry when the unexpected happens, then take out a loan to cover the costs. Don't pay for your degree, take lesser paid jobs so you don't have to and have the debt follow you everywhere (where is the incentive to do anything else? where are the jobs?), and build on top of it e.g. rent, work expenses and commuting hell. EVERYTHING can be bought on debit and credit! and with no receipts so monitoring your own habits is difficult. Got paid?, gone by tomorrow. Overdrawn?, be more overdrawn by the end of the month. In the red, what's new?
We're doing everything big business and banking wants, to a certain degree because they, surprise, surprise, want even more. They want constant transactions and data. They want cashless, because that's how they make their money. We must be crazy to be giving in so easily, lured by speed and ease of use, and yet it's not enough, it will never be enough, and so they might, just might, engineer a crash, to get rid once and for all of cash hangers-on and savers.
In some ways, this idea scares me more than the possibility of war (and certainly more than Trump, although I imagine he could be all for profit at the expense of consumers), because if the circumstances were set up right, what could we as civilians do? If such a crisis occurred, it would happen quickly, with little warning, as would the resolutions put in place, and there would be no, or little, public opinion in the matter. Oh yes, there might be a temporary backlash, a small demonstration but numbers would be few and the plan would still be forced through. The plan to penalise savers for saving, to slash interest rates to nil, to wipe out paper currency, and to charge for any services that involve a bank employee somewhere. Some of it's already in motion, some of it's coming...
It reminds me of Saint Sebastian, tied to a post or a tree and shot at with arrows. Or maybe we've had that part and were rescued and healed (from the previous financial crash and recession) by ministers who informed bankers in no uncertain terms we weren't ready and bargained for more time; and now the Emperors (they number more than one and are either ridiculously young or middle-aged, with some more vainglorious than others), fed up with waiting, are nearing the point where they'll club officials and even more of us to our deaths (depression, insolvency, and precarious living) if we don't yield (and permanently) this time around.

Picture credit: St. Sebastian, Botticelli, sourced from Museum Outlet.