Should Malcolm ever refer to his stat-porn (courtesy of a nice appliance of cyber-science at the top of WordPress’s dashboard, giving an hour-by-hour ticker), there is a source of constant wonder.
Why do certain posts, some from years long gone, still get “hits” on a daily basis?
- Is there a worldwide conspiracy among school-teachers around the known world, leading web-savvy students to rip off that reflection on Paul Gallico’s The Snowgoose?
If so, Malcolm must have contributed to more than his fair share of “projects” and book-reviews.
At this distance Malcolm wishes he had taken the thoughts a bit further. For example, the female character is “Fritha”, and frith is a fine Old English word — friðu — which covers a range of interpretations depending on context:
- freedom from molestation, protection;
- safety, security.
Now there’s a further opener for exploring the novella as allegory.
And Jenny Agutter as Fritha, circa 1971, remains the perfect image. Whoever at Penguin Books scrapped that cover deserves to burn in a philistine-graphical hell.
- Why does a contrived combination of unrelated observations — a pneumatic test of social networks, a visit to the Sloaney Pony on Parson’s Green, and a 1989 one-hit wonder by Fraulein Gabriele Kerner — get daily visits?
Malcolm assumes that is because persons of a certain age have the soundtrack running in a corner of the mind. Or they just like red balloons. Last time round Malcolm inserted the original German video. Let’s have the 2002 update this time:
On the other hand … there does seem to be a small school of exegesis based around this song.
First of all, to what “genre” does it belong? Wikipedia ascribes it to Neue Deutsche Welle, and appends a suitably inflated explanation. That, Malcolm sagely recognises, is a dialectic well beyond his comprehension. Then there’s the tortuous explication of the lyrics — both the original German by Carlo Karges, and the English rendition (but hardly translation by Kevin McAlea): these musical bathyspherists don’t quite plumb the imaginative depths achieved by fellow-analysts on the likes of American Pie or Bohemian Rhapsody, but they do their best.
To celebrate reaching post number 901 (Malcolm had missed the actual milestone with the previous) he reflected on a journey across mid-America, including South Dakota and down through Colorado.
This involved a skitter through John Steinbeck’s revisit in Travels With Charley, and then a personal note about a bit of the old Navajo Trail and the town of Cortez (and its gem of a New Age bookstore, which seems to have passed into history, but whose fob was on Malcolm’s key-ring for many, many years):
In this case, again, Malcolm assumes his trivial aside is being mined for a school book-report. Good luck to all who sail in her.
This was a turgid paste-up of journalistic views on the ConDem cuts programme. The forced link was through an image of Malcolm’s Dear Old Dad puffing his briar and offering a bit of well-worn Hallamshire wisdom. For some reason Malcolm used Magritte’s The Treachery of Things as an accompanying visual image. It must have seemed a good idea at the time, but why does this post get several “hits” each and every day?
Now, looking back, what Malcolm should have done was to subvert Michel Foucault [Peindre n’est pas affirmer] on Andy Warhol’s Campbell soup cans. That would have allowed him to include such deep thought as:
To allow similitudes, on the other to multiply of themselves, to be born from their own vapour and to rise endlessly into an ether where they refer to nothing more than themselves.
Which prompts the obvious response: Huh?
Though “vapid” is the precise adjective which applies to ConDem “policies” two years further on.
Just one more …
Well two (or even three), actually.
There seems to be continuing interest in the relationship — much disputed — that once existed between “Gids” George Osborne (now our upright, prudent and fiscally-moralistic Chancellor of the Exchequer) and
- Why does that and the other of Malcolm’s outings on the liaison seem to have a regular following?
And, hand-on-heart, this really is the bottom line:
- Who, apart from the obvious, takes such a loving interest in a minor — though singularly unpleasant — SpAd as to Google “Sheridan Westlake” on a regular basis, and therefore end up here?
Anyone with helpful hints on why these postings (especially that Sheridan Westlake one) run-and-run might drop Malcolm a clue or two (mredfellow “at” gmail dot com should do it).