Yesterday I woke up tired. I woke up with a feeling neutral and grey and crushing. Now all I have is apathy and lethargy and all the other ‘gies. To the point where all true emotion I once felt has been siphoned out by spirit-suckers who sucked my life-force through the marrow from a dislodged shinbone I didn’t notice. Quiet and calm and hollow, now.
I think I know the guys who done it. Not personally though no, but in faces on LCD screens and in newspapers and subtle changes in the wind. Today is a new day, but not a good one.
I’m reading One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey for the second time now. It’s a literary novel about a mental institution in America in the 1960s, told from the perspective of a Native American patient who spends his days pretending to be deaf and dumb, sweeping the floors of the hospital. The hospital is run like machine clockwork under the autocratic rule of head Nurse Ratchet, until one day the system is upset by a renegade new admission: Randal P. McMurphy, whose larger-than-life eccentricities are a crowbar in the cogs of its machinery.
But the story is really about the way homogenous monolithic societies who are run for and by perfectly programmed robots, deals with the danger of freethinking subversive spirits. It makes them uniform, re-dressing them in the garms of white middle-class adequacy.
I wouldn’t say the 2015 UK general election had any Randal P. McMurphys, not by a long shot, but there was a voracious hunger at least in the minds of the young, for a change in an antiquated system that didn’t work for them. But that idea was churned into bone meal by a middle-class hysteria fearful of the constitutional unknown.
I guess just like in Kesey’s famous novel, our society dealt with wild new things it didn’t understand with the same conviction. With the only way we knew how.