oh, well, whatever . . .

whose jigsaw is this anyway?

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So what have we got today?  Globalising Gordon bestrides the world like a culled ostrich. His jowls are flaccid, but oh how they deceive.  His gestures are pure Henry Ford. When he speaks his hands puncture and rivet, pummel and fix the stubborn Presbysterian substance of his project. Gordon’s man is a machine within the big machine of the world. Choreographed by robots, for robots.  Will is nothing more than a particular case of the general doctrine of association of ideas, and therefore a perfectly mechanical thing.  Would you call this life ordinary, Gordon?

 Ordinary people have holes in their socks. That’s the usual definition, isn’t it?  Ordinary people only smile when they’re happy.  Ordinary people aren’t like Galileo.  A Stephen Hawking voice in my head says to me that we only need to find the missing pieces. The world is a jigsaw. But it looks like what we’ve got here are the pieces from any number of jigsaws. The trick would be to get rid of some pieces, eh, Gordon?  (When did you last do a jigsaw, Gordon?) The Jigsaw Theory tells you the world makes complete sense – if you’ve got a big enough table and infinite patience.  I want to tell Gordon that there’s only one jigsaw and that’s the jigsaw in his head.

But this theory too falls to pieces. The question becomes: who cut up reality like this?  And more to the point, who supplied the scissors?  Gordon has left the room. The ordinary people mend their socks and go for walks by the sea.  Gordon says that God made the jigsaw. So why didn’t he leave us the box lid, Gordon?  Because he doesn’t know what the picture is either?

Margaret calls me. There’s a rainbow over the sea.


Written by yammering

April 18, 2008 at 10:51 pm

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