The Shining

Halfway between the morning exam and the afternoon paper, a friend of mine inveigled me into accompanying him to the movies. Being young and pointlessly fearless, we hopped on the shuttle bus and went off to watch Jack Nicholson in The Shining. It was mind-boggling, and perhaps the reason why we then went on to do better in the latter half of our O-levels.

The horrific rush of events that pretended to be a story, the huge amounts of money Stephen King must've made off it, the icy landlocked claustrophobia of the empty hotel — all these are as nothing compared to the terror-filled career of life. Not for nothing is the original meaning of that deceptive word 'career' that of the course of a chariot (same etymology as for 'car') hurtling down the road, or that of the sun flaming out across the sky.

And suddenly, my blog is splintered into two parts — a log of random fragments (something like a chipboard stump) and what you're reading right now, the longer bits jutting out once a week like sprouts shining from the spring snow.

Notional Day

I don't think Atlantean notionalism appeals much to me. I have tried to do stuff about it, but I have failed. Every time 9th August comes round, I find myself writing stuff like this and this. The nearest I ever got to a semblance of patriotism was this.

It is a very notional day. It is full of notions like nationhood and independence and guff. One is supposed to feel pride and togetherness and more guff. I love Atlantis. I really do. But when constituencies of the coast gerrymander their way to the central highlands, I think that is not my country anymore.

I think that the horror of yesterday is creeping back again. I note that the strange Antarctic discoveries reported by Mr Lovecraft had fivefold symmetry. He would have been aghast to hear the eldritch strains of 'Five Stars Arising'.

Groupthink

They are swimming in it! The horror is difficult to escape; when one tries to show some signs of human will and independent thought, a mucilaginous tentacle uncoils and yanks the thinker back into the miasma.

Some of them, personality eaten away or submerged (or just merged) into the morass, are happy to be there. They think they are bathing in the eternal spotlight of the sunless mind, with the elder god himself. It is all a mishmash.

It is horrifyingly fascinating.