This blog, which is my first, is something of a stream of conscience, like many blogs. But this is ill-conceived, generated from the most appealing of the random thoughts which pop and fizzle in the arc of my skull. So, I imagine that I will be consistent in writing blogs, daily for the first couple of weeks, each time pick a thought which idles by in one of my vacant moves and becomes the subject of my little talk, some lines, a paragraph, perhaps a page, though format and system insist on remained undisclosed until laid bare with the confines of invisible lines.
I choose to go with more a unplanned sort of writing, leaving MOST typed sentences up as they’ve been written. Now this planned aleatory composing doesn’t imply that I will take my sweet time in producing every a post. For there mus be discipline. DISCIPLINE! That seem with Hathi dressing up his troops in the original The Jungle Book film is always fun, and instructive in so far as a abjures his troops to always keep their equipment (trunk, tusks, body) in tip-top-top since you never know that a “dusty muzzle”
” Let’s have a little spit and polish on those barracks!” The Colonel goes on to reprimand and educate his troops, from laidback seargeants to a wife sidecracking out the side of her mouth about her husbands seemingly growing senility, his sudden musings to his team about that time when, for bravery, he won the Victoria Cross.
Here, my childish smiles evaporate and I’m left with Disney’s possibly innocent valorizing of a very problematic, to put it lightly, British Raj in India. Simply the fact that the despoliation of the subcontinent came through taxation (with the bayonet as a prod) through banditry is unsettling, with practically half of India’s wealth drained from the coffers of its kings through British looting (loot=theft):
” Between 1847 and 1855, the company annexed nearly 65 million hectares and extracted vast amounts of loot (ironically, a Hindustani word for plunder). Under a punitive taxation system, it demanded money from even the poorest farmers, regardless of their income or seasonal returns. Every year between 1765 and 1815, writes Tharoor, wealthy colonists, or nabobs, pocketed about £18,000 from India, returning to England as a new and not partcularly admired nouveau riche class, unashamed “of their cupidity and corruption”. – (Shashi Tharoor demolishes the ‘gauzy romanticism’ of British Empire in India by Sally Blundell / 08 October, 2017)
Don’t worry. I’m not going to go on and on in this blog detailing things that have been amply and more eloquently discussed by Shashi Tharoor in his ‘Inglorious Empire: What the British did to India”. (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2018/feb/23/inglorious-empire-what-british-did-to-india-shashi-tharoor-review)
But as you see, I begin this post with a declaration both of intent and action, first blood. We could have a field day with that image, that metaphor. What bridge am I crossing, from where and to what? What meanings invest in such crossing? In particularly, having cross the phora (bridge), I must now defend the place to where I have crossed. This bridge and its crossing is ‘first blood‘. Let me be transparent:
- In fencing, which is a sporting sublimation of swordfighting, swords clank and high-treble strike-swish-and-cut one another, suddenly away from the fray in wide bounding lateral sweeps to disengage, only to recommit, with determined looks inside the masks and slight twists of the body to point in to the plane of contention in a complicating move towards the linear, over and over again, asthmatic gasps of sound screeching here-three-sweep then again and this may or may not go on another few attacks, parrys, feints, bodies straightening up and backing off, and going in again, until finally, too much fun’s been had with this