Random Musings
The lunatic is on the grass
The lunatic is on the grass
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs
Got to keep the loonies on the path
The lunatic is in the hall
The lunatics are in my hall
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And everyday the paper boy brings more
In the distant grey haze where dwell my high school memories there’s the fuzzy-shaped recollection of an English teacher less strait-jacketed than the rest. Perhaps that’s a misjudgement. English teachers, no matter how staid and austere in appearance or manner, all seem to carry a belief in their own sheen of bohemia. Something to do with images of smoke-tinged intelligentsia in dingy rooms discussing the novel that’s going to change the world. A belief that erupts on odd occasions in a striving to be seen as funky. Or with it. Or sick. Or whatever particular euphemism passes for cool in their decade of choice. Whatever the case, this particular teacher once used Pink Floyd’s ‘Brain Damage’ in a lesson on… imagery? poetry? metaphors? The actual point of the lesson has long since vanished - if a point was ever reached - but I do remember the debate over lyrical intent that sidetracked the lesson.
And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon
The debate rambled…as such teenage discussions will… through meandering fields of insanity and its causes, the loss of innocence, the pressures of conformity, and eventually came to rest in a focus on the media and all its myriad faults. Bright-eyed with discovery and smug with that indolent superiority so beloved of teenagers, we dissected its influences and its crimes, its flaws and its power. Secure in our knowledge that our generation would not make the mistakes of the past, we made judgements and denunciations, confident that when we gained the reins there’d be wholesale reformation. In our time to come, we’d ensure there’d be no media-centred demands for conformity of thought, no hidden between the lines demand for compliance, no TV programs enforcing stereotypes.
To an extent, perhaps we managed that. The media today is a far more wide-ranging beast than it once was. Magazines and newspapers, TV programs and documentaries all at least give lip service to the original intent of political correctness, catering to a far greater scope of opinions and beliefs than thirty odd years ago. And lessening its once all-encompassing power is that newcomer to the ranks, one of ‘our’ greatest achievements, the internet. Offering a chance for the multitudes to take the power into their own hands, it gives by its very existence a promise of sharing beyond the realms of borders and countries, stereotypes and conventionality.
Or so one would think.
The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade
You make the change
You rearrange me ‘till I’m sane
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me
Such a fascinating adolescent, the internet. Cyberspace has become my favourite haunt, a place where the human race is on display like never before. So it saddens me immensely, disappointing the remnants of that so self-righteous teenager from so long ago, that much of it becomes an exercise in a demand for conformity. Forums and communities become places where a strict set of guidelines outlines the rigidity of thought required to ‘belong’ and any deviation is set upon by descendants of the howling mobs who burned witches at the stake for their refusal to toe the approved line. Fan creativity - be it fic or video or art - is only judged worthy within narrow parameters of approval and heaven help any who step outside the defined ‘canon’.
And the anonymity of it all makes those raised blades so much harsher than ever before.
And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon
The lunatic is on the grass
Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs
Got to keep the loonies on the path
The lunatic is in the hall
The lunatics are in my hall
The paper holds their folded faces to the floor
And everyday the paper boy brings more
In the distant grey haze where dwell my high school memories there’s the fuzzy-shaped recollection of an English teacher less strait-jacketed than the rest. Perhaps that’s a misjudgement. English teachers, no matter how staid and austere in appearance or manner, all seem to carry a belief in their own sheen of bohemia. Something to do with images of smoke-tinged intelligentsia in dingy rooms discussing the novel that’s going to change the world. A belief that erupts on odd occasions in a striving to be seen as funky. Or with it. Or sick. Or whatever particular euphemism passes for cool in their decade of choice. Whatever the case, this particular teacher once used Pink Floyd’s ‘Brain Damage’ in a lesson on… imagery? poetry? metaphors? The actual point of the lesson has long since vanished - if a point was ever reached - but I do remember the debate over lyrical intent that sidetracked the lesson.
And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon
The debate rambled…as such teenage discussions will… through meandering fields of insanity and its causes, the loss of innocence, the pressures of conformity, and eventually came to rest in a focus on the media and all its myriad faults. Bright-eyed with discovery and smug with that indolent superiority so beloved of teenagers, we dissected its influences and its crimes, its flaws and its power. Secure in our knowledge that our generation would not make the mistakes of the past, we made judgements and denunciations, confident that when we gained the reins there’d be wholesale reformation. In our time to come, we’d ensure there’d be no media-centred demands for conformity of thought, no hidden between the lines demand for compliance, no TV programs enforcing stereotypes.
To an extent, perhaps we managed that. The media today is a far more wide-ranging beast than it once was. Magazines and newspapers, TV programs and documentaries all at least give lip service to the original intent of political correctness, catering to a far greater scope of opinions and beliefs than thirty odd years ago. And lessening its once all-encompassing power is that newcomer to the ranks, one of ‘our’ greatest achievements, the internet. Offering a chance for the multitudes to take the power into their own hands, it gives by its very existence a promise of sharing beyond the realms of borders and countries, stereotypes and conventionality.
Or so one would think.
The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade
You make the change
You rearrange me ‘till I’m sane
You lock the door
And throw away the key
There’s someone in my head but it’s not me
Such a fascinating adolescent, the internet. Cyberspace has become my favourite haunt, a place where the human race is on display like never before. So it saddens me immensely, disappointing the remnants of that so self-righteous teenager from so long ago, that much of it becomes an exercise in a demand for conformity. Forums and communities become places where a strict set of guidelines outlines the rigidity of thought required to ‘belong’ and any deviation is set upon by descendants of the howling mobs who burned witches at the stake for their refusal to toe the approved line. Fan creativity - be it fic or video or art - is only judged worthy within narrow parameters of approval and heaven help any who step outside the defined ‘canon’.
And the anonymity of it all makes those raised blades so much harsher than ever before.
And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon