The Forestry Of My Mind

I'm angry right now.

I think I am, by nature, a very passionate person. When I believe in something I will put my whole being into defending that thing, so I try not to let myself become too involved in many world subjects. There are are however a few things in this fetid little life that genuinely make my body revolt in fury. These things are in order of importance:

1. Whale Hunting. This is by far one of the greatest crimes we humans, in all our power, carry out every single day. One day, all of the Whales will be gone, but I can guarantee it will not be the way of the Dolphins ala Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It makes me want to scream when I think about these beautiful creatures being butchered alive for no real good reason. Cultural heritage can fuck right off as far as I'm concerned.

2. Paris 'Oh my Gaaawd that's so hot. Look at my little dog, I dress it in clothes like a people person!!! I'm so pretty and cool, gimme free stuff cos I'm amazing.' Hilton. (Oh yes, I'm her biggest fan clearly). What a useless human being she is. What does she do? Gets paid obscene amounts of money to act like a total moron and flash her underpants (and everthing else to boot) at the paparazzi. Is this girl incapable of getting out of a car with her legs together?

I'm sorry if I've caused any offence. But I think the hormones are raging and I needed an excellent rant against humanity because, and again I'm sorry, we're pretty fucking ugly as a collective race. I appreciate that there are decent people (many of you read my blogs and for that I thank you), but as a whole? Pretty shitty.

Save the Goddamn Whales.

I'm reading a novel by Markus Zusak. It's called 'The Book Thief'; it's set in 1939 onwards through the Second World War.
It's narrated by Death, and as the blurb says, 'he's never been busier'.

When we gave Death that capital 'D'? I have been thinking about who decided to personify him - it - and transform it - him - into that elusive figure: that cloaked, scythe wielding skeleton we know so well.

I can imagine that it would be quite comforting for people to think of Death as some Regular Joe, going about his job like the rest of us slobs. We're paying his pills with our sicknesses; our fatal injuries are his collaterol, we're the down payment on his house.

Death's just your average schmoe working the Nine to Five of Eternity. Except he doesn't get to go home like the rest of us. We're paying for his house but God knows he never gets to live in it; Nine to Five in Eternity counts for All Time. The title's just a formality.

Soul Taking's a difficult career. You don't get Tea Breaks; Death doesn't have time for a quick cuppa and a crossword puzzle...he's just too busy. His wife and children never see him; in fact his wife's having an affair with the Pool Boy, but don't tell that to Death if you see him any time soon. He's stressed enough as it is.

Why the scythe? Why the Cloak? Am I the only one that thinks it's not the most efficient of uniforms for the Grim Reaper himself? I've always seen him as a suave, suit and tie kind of man. More business like, smart, reassuring to his clients. It's not the most comforting of images is it? That the last person you meet would be this huge, cloaked chap with a sinister lookng weapon in his hand...but it would be all right if you met this handsome man in a pin strip suit, hair slicked back, clean shaven, weilding a brief case with the contract of your life inside.

"Sign here to move on to the next life," he'd say with a dazzling smile. "It's quite literally a once in a lifetime deal."

Sure thing, just get me a pen.