Villains & Heroes

Civilisation, Power and the Stories We Tell Ourselves.

Why not use a Beach Boy’s title and image as a jumping off point for a few random observations and opinions? If there are rules here, then I’m happy to bend them. Sometimes the mind needs to empty itself. Thoughts are set down in loose piles, as if they might later be arranged into something meaningful. Like jigsaw pieces or Lego bricks, there is a hope they might connect. Often they do not. The material resists order. The result is not clarity, but exposure. Maybe a release of steam will occur, good for the plumbing and pressure levels of the inner sanctum.

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.” The final words of Roy Batty in Blade Runner, everybody knows this.

That speech lingers because it captures something uncomfortable. Experience is vast, fleeting and ultimately uncontained. Human beings try to impose order on it anyway. Nowhere is that more apparent than in how we construct and understand power in human systems.

Today’s leaders; King Charles III, Donald Trump, Vladimer Putin, Benjamin Netnyahu, Emmanuel Macron, Xi Jinping, Cyril Ramaphosa, King Felipe VI, Keir Starmer … and so on. Are any of them actually “great” in any positive sense? Capable or even steady? Some seem ineffective and useless. Some are plainly bullish, ignorant, cruel and stupid. Some cautious, clever, playing a long game maybe. These things don’t make them great. Their “thrones” are always shaky. They may suffer from hidden disorders, mental illness, poor personal hygiene, bad habits, blind spots or simply not care about others.

Kings, queens, rulers, leaders and politicians are human beings. They are not abstractions or inevitabilities. They are complex but recognisable, made of the same contradictions as everyone else. They act with mixtures of intention, error, self interest and, occasionally, principle. Some do harm, some do good, most do both. Many do very little at all beyond maintaining position until replaced. We all know that Donald Trump just wants his face and name plastered onto a Dollar bill or any significant building - and the odd “prize”. Putin wants Russia to swallow up much of Europe so he might be remembered as a “Great”. The clay that makes up their feet is clear to see.

Yet we persist in treating them as something more than human. Through birth, opportunity, talent, manipulation or force, they arrive in positions that most people will never hold. From a distance, they become symbols. We project comforting features onto them, imagining control, strategy and purpose where there may be none.

This tendency is not accidental. It is rooted in something deeper. There is a strain of madness in human beings, a drive to construct meaning even where none exists. The collective madness that builds temples, great walls, cathedrals, palaces and systems of belief. It simplifies the incomprehensible into fairy stories that can be repeated and accepted. Actions are carried out “In the name of God” or for the “Benefit of the State”. Flags, crests and banners are the cheap tricks waved on by power brokers. Historical references and dreamed of ideals. Costume and ceremony.

These stories do not need to be true. They need only to be convincing, and people have the need to hold onto them.

Once established, they become tools. They justify authority, shape behaviour and create the illusion of order. Complexity is reduced to slogans. Responsibility is displaced onto others. Blame is showered onto minorities, the weak and the stateless. The larger and more imposing the structure, physical or ideological, the more effectively it can intimidate and control. Ignorance does not disappear. It is organised. It speaks. It swears.

At the same time, human existence remains brief and uncertain. Three score and ten years, if you’re lucky. We measure time as though it belongs to us, yet it does not. We exist within it, not the other way around. Beyond that narrow span, the universe proceeds without reference to human concerns. We fumble in the dark. Building a local railway system that can run tightly, according it’s timetable, is useful but insignificant for the rest of the world and meaningless within the universe.

Against that scale, the idea of enduring political greatness becomes difficult to sustain.

Consider our modern leaders. They differ in style, in rhetoric, in competence. Some appear forceful but crude, others cautious but calculating. Some seem ineffective, others dangerously certain. None escape the patterns of history. They inherit systems they did not design and repeat behaviours that are well established. Mistakes recur. Responsibility is deflected. Loyalty is prioritised over principle. Cruelty is tolerated in the search for justice and stability. States degenerate into rogue forms where arms, brute force and shouting wins arguements.

This is not necessarily the result of individual failure. It may instead reflect the limits of the systems themselves. Power does not exist in isolation. It is shaped by incentives, pressures and narratives that constrain what can be done. Even those who intend to act well operate within structures that reward continuity more than change.

From a distance, it is difficult to judge any of this with confidence. Most people experience events indirectly, through mediated accounts, commentary and fragments of information. What is presented is filtered, rearranged or withheld. The full picture is never visible. You can’t trust media. You never could.

Reality, as it is lived on the ground, is constantly erased and replaced.

A gathering or market place becomes student accommodation. A refugee camp becomes a resort. An oasis becomes wasteland. A natural landscape becomes an opencast mine. Agricultural land becomes a waste storage facility. Rivers die a slow death and forests burn. Each transformation is explained, justified and absorbed into a new narrative. What came before is forgotten or rewritten. The earth is scorched, then concreted over.

This is how civilisation presents itself. Not as a stable achievement, but as a continuous process of revision.

The question then is not whether power can be trusted. History suggests that it cannot be trusted for long. Even when used responsibly, corruption and distortion remain close. Systems degrade. Intentions shift. Outcomes diverge from promises.

The more difficult question is why this pattern persists.

Part of the answer lies in the gap between reality and the stories we tell about it. Civilisation is often defined as progress, as the advancement of knowledge, culture and organisation. It is associated with writing, institutions and shared structures. These definitions describe what is built, but not necessarily what is sustained.

A civilisation may be technically advanced and still profoundly unstable. It may produce extraordinary achievements while simultaneously creating conditions that undermine them. It may celebrate knowledge while encouraging simplification and distortion.

In that sense, civilisation is not a fixed state. It is an ongoing negotiation between competing forces. Between understanding and ignorance. Between cooperation and self interest. Between truth and the narratives that replace it.

This is where the unease arises. The world contains remarkable things, and remarkable people. There is no shortage of creativity, intelligence or care. Yet alongside this, there are persistent efforts to construct systems that produce unnecessary harm, confusion and inequality.

We recognise this in the good ideas that are launched with hope but quickly turn sour:

• Much of the connectivity potential of the internet is ruined by almost unrestricted social media, gambling, porn, toxic news reporting and AI fakery.

• Health care, medical and welfare systems that began as “for the people” services now becoming unaffordable and exploitative.

• Retail goods made on an industrial scale to inferior standards but sold at higher prices.

• Utilities owned by faceless corporations who outsource services to the lowest or unsuitable bidders at the expense of reasonable standards.

• Basic foodstuffs, supply chains and products tainted and corrupted by dangerous, often unsustainable methodology, forever chemicals and additives.

And so on. No one ever seems accountable for these cycles of degradation.

The contradictions are difficult to resolve. They resist any simple explanation. Perhaps the most honest conclusion is also the least satisfying. Human beings are capable of building meaning, but not of stabilising it. Power amplifies this instability rather than resolving it. Civilisation, for all its achievements, remains only a thing buffeted within a shifting set of values and standards .

Like the moments described by Roy Batty (ironically a fictional and non-human character), much of what is built and experienced will disappear. Not because it lacked value, but because it was never as solid as it appeared.

What is civilisation? What does it even look like?

1. An advanced state of intellectual, cultural, and material development in human society, marked by progress in the arts and sciences, the extensive use of record-keeping, including writing, and the appearance of complex political and social institutions.

2. The type of culture and society developed by a particular nation or region or in a particular epoch.

   “Mayan civilization; the civilization of ancient Rome.”

3. The act or process of civilizing or reaching a civilized state.

The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, 5th Edition.

Then there’s the small matter of art, science, philosophy and invention’s place in the progression of civilisation and our collective history. Kenneth Clark’s 1969 TV series Civilisation is widely seen as high point in documentary content, styling and as a personal historical testimony. A good place to start any knowledge gathering. It’s available here and there online, via DVD or in book form.

Whatever or wherever human civilisation is right now remains arguable, but we are close to the centre of it. It persists whether or not we are willing to face up to it’s bumpy reality and somehow, we must find our own peace within it.

LinkedIn Speak etc.

"I try not to judge a fellow based on the standard of his footwear but sometimes it's difficult not to pass a constructive comment if standards slip."

Now reads:

"In the dynamic world of professional growth, I always strive to embrace individuals beyond surface metrics, recognizing the value of potential over appearances.

However, in the pursuit of excellence and high standards, it’s essential to offer constructive feedback when standards waver.

This is not just about footwear, it’s about commitment to excellence and continuous improvement.

Together, let’s champion resilience and elevate every detail that fuels our collective success." 🚀

#Leadership #ContinuousImprovement #ProfessionalGrowth #ConstructiveFeedback #ExcellenceMindset

Source Material

Summer in some city. The bar was open to the street and the heat came in along with the flies. The table needed a wipe but nobody bothered. The beer was good and cold and the men were already talking things up before the sun had properly gone down. I’m just a number these days. An aged and greyed out form. I’m across the room. They talked loudly and with certainty about things they had most likely never done. Maybe just a game. An illusion. A power play. Words filling the gaps in time. A few beers make the stories flow easy. I can tell what’s going down.

There are many such men in the world. They are brave in the telling. They have fought with boxers that were never in the ring and caught fish that were never in the river. They have written books that no one has read and fought in battles that were fought by other men. They have loved and lost, but not lost much. They are not bad men, mostly. They are only foolish but they do not know it. You can see them and hear them every day. The first sentence from their lips usually gives them away. A humble sounding brag.

They won’t ask you any questions. They’re afraid that you might just top them with you’re easily located truth. You’re too quitely spoken. You possess a stillness. They can’t quite read your eyes because they refuse to meet them. Missing out on the people skills. No desire or ability to read the room. So they throw in every little thing that they can. It’s over your way like a stray missile. The game of the low man. Not everyone is equipped to be a master of the human condition.

They speak about the things they say happened to them. Wonderful and odd.
But none of them have done very much so you stay entertained by you’re own quiet bluff. You listen to them and you let them talk. It is good practice for a listener. Material might come your way. They need to hold the floor. Sit back but lean forward. As if you’re a believer.

One man says he once sailed through a storm that would have broken a battleship in half. He says the mast was gone and the sail torn like some T-shirt in a dog fight. The coastguard talked him home. He made it. Yet the boat sits tied up at the harbour and it has never been farther than the two bridges. He couldn’t follow the instructions on a pizza box.

Another man says he understands war and conflict because he has read many books about them. He’s watched movies and documentaries too. He speaks of courage and of fear and of command. Spur of the moment decision making. He’s excited by the danger. He’s an “expert”. But he has never heard that first volley come in overhead or seen the way a man looks when he knows he will not get up again.

They speak well and they speak often. They tell you how they “really told” people or called them out. They could be lawyers in another life. They say they welcome debate. They think that minds can be changed, but they can’t change their own. The bar room grows full of their voices and the truth grows thin in the air. They might have a fully formed theory but it never quite arrives. Everyone is entertained but then they go home gnawing on their thumbs.

I listen to these men because they are useful. They puff out their chests. They fake authority and depth. They are the raw material of stories. You take the way they boast and the way they sit and remember. That queer way they look at a woman when they think she is watching. How they high five and back slap. The things they pretend to like. I judge but I don’t condemn. I capture. You take their vanity and their foolishness and you put it on the page. Down there on the page. In the early morning ink.

Then they become real. A reality that throws a bucket of ice water over them.

That is the strange part of it. In life they are shadows made of talk. On paper they can become something else. Pencil thin but characters. Blind men looking for the light switch. Fictitious idiots that might carry a story for you. Concentrate and they’ll give you the next line.

The trick is to listen long enough to know the value of those stray conversations, set within the moments of accidental literary inspiration, that are just floating out there.

Pizza Night

It can be done. How to survive, with or without pizza in your life. Click on the image.

AI & Fulfilment

Follow the yellow box road, right along here - click.

Nebraska

Click here to open this up in Substack. It's a quick read if you're strapped for time.

Various Bits

Various bits to display - click here to read.

Magpie

Oh, the magpie brings us tidings
Of news both fair and foul
She's more cunning than the raven
More wise than any owl
For she brings us news of the harvest
Of the barley, wheat, and corn
And she knows when we'll go to our graves
And how we shall be born

Chorus:

One's for sorrow, two's for joy
Three's for a girl and four's for a boy
Five's for silver, six for gold
Seven's for a secret never told
Devil, devil, I defy thee
Devil, devil, I defy thee
Devil, devil, I defy thee

She brings us joy when from the right
Grief when from the left
Of all the news that's in the air
We know to trust her best
For she sees us at our labour
And she mocks us at our work
And she steals the eggs from out of the nest
And she can mob the hawk

Chorus:

The priest, he says we're wicked
For to worship the devil's bird
Ah, but we respect the old ways
And we disregard his word
For we know they rest uneasy
As we slumber in the night
And we'll always leave out a little bit of meat
For the bird that's black and white

One's for sorrow, two's for joy
Three's for a girl and four's for a boy
Five's for silver, six for gold
Seven's for a secret never told



Written by: Davey Dodds

Album: Mount the Air

Easter is Weeks Away

Easter is weeks away but Christmas is my nightmare.

I have long desired to testify against the holy weight of things,

to lay my worked on hands upon the altar

and whisper that it is lighter than it looks.

But I have testified to nothing.

The evidence dissolves in my mouth.

Proof abandons me in dim corridors

like a disgraced envoy,

like monkeys in a back room

tapping faithfully at their bright little machines.

The feasts arrive in their robes of weather.

They bow and withdraw.

No one keeps vigil

except the shopkeeper polishing his till

and the devout who kneel before a calendar

printed in red.

But the hot cross buns,

ah, they are another gospel.

They appear beside the Easter eggs

like rival messiahs sharing a shelf,

and I make no complaint.

I am not a difficult believer.

I have entered the order of the bun.

Two a day.

I have been faithful for one entire day

and already I feel the discipline

settling on my shoulders

like a modest shroud.

There are no revelations yet,

no troubling visions.

Sometimes a face emerges

from the flour and the glaze,

a human arrangement of sorrow and heat.

On the upper bun

there is a grimace, unmistakable,

angry perhaps,

or merely puzzled

by what has become of His dominion.

The cross rests there

like a question He did not mean to ask.

A comedian once murmured

that God is out of His depth now,

and I think of Him

wading into the darkened bakery

after hours,

robes damp with doubt,

searching the cooling racks

for an explanation.

And somewhere in a mythical Yorkshire village

two rival bakeries sharpen their knives of pride.

The ovens glow like minor suns.

They will call the story Top Bun,

and it will be spoken of as a comedy,

though everyone will understand

it is about hunger,

and the small, sweet wars

we wage

in the name of bread.

Anonymous.

Nixon's The One!

I know the actual post is posted below but I liked the way this graphic came how and I was eager to use it. So I did. Click it and you can read it again, possibly in a clearer layout with a better font etc. etc.

Economics

I live as though a midnight nurse might appear anytime and ask for my symptoms. Of course they vary hour by hour. Dawn cracks open like a soft-boiled egg and pretends everything’s fine. I no longer step in puddles. I detour. I strategize. A relaxed stroll in cheap shoes can apparently lead to pleurisy or some Victorian inconvenience. First you get the sweats. After that you’re on your own.

The Knitpic café doesn’t make money. It just washes it's face when a white tour bus coughs up some retirees. Lochs, Castles and Bridges road trips. Then it shuts on weekends, because logic is optional. The toilets are closed too. They will be fine. You can probably guess my financial future.

I have a feeling of not knowing. It stays with me. I stand outside of things and watch them move. I do not always understand how they move or why.

I think about the men and women who design birthday cards. The ones who draw flowers and bright balloons and write small jokes in some careful script. They open Esty shops. I think about the people who shape up plates and cups, or print patterns on tablecloths no one will really remember a year from now because they’re not Ikea. They must earn their keep somehow. Most of it is made far away, in China, where the provinces are all different from one another and the work is hard and constant. So I imagine. I’ve yet to visit. There is talk of energy there. Of a work ethic that does not stall or complain. Brutal or just kind in a knowing, human way?

Here it feels slower. As if a man must be nudged out of bed. As if he must be promised money before he will bend to lift. And even then he gives no more than he must. But why should he give more, when the men above him take more than their share? When managers talk of discipline, tight lines and teams but reward themselves first. Who has more “rights”? Shareholders; they’ll let you drink the poisoned water for a profit.

Finance is a dark room to me. Investment and industry are words spoken with confidence by men in good suits that fit their bad mood. We are told the markets will correct themselves. That traders will be fair. That prices will find their proper level. It is like handing the keys for the till to a man who has already shown you his dirty money stained hands. He still calls on you to trust his speculations. I smell phoenix schemes.

There is a faint ringing in my ear. It comes and goes. It sounds like a signal carried on under the noise of the day. As if something unseen adjusts the dials. Turn down what is good. Turn up what is bad. You will have what we decide. They say it plainly. We will have what we can take. Easy money. Avert your eyes and don’t trust your senses.

The ringing stays.

Toothpaste costs seven Pounds a tube. Oral-B. Instant coffee costs seven Pounds a jar. Nescafe. A pint of beer costs seven Pounds in a clean city bar with polished taps and a quiet floor. Seven British Pounds - might be Bucks or Euros where you are. The numbers increase and repeat themselves like a joke told too often. Don’t believe a man who laughts loudly at his own joke. He’s not really laughing. Neither are you.

People shake their heads. They are angry. They are tired. But they get on with it.

The ringing goes on.

Now I blame Richard Nixon. I found the root. A lot of things grew up from that. Nests of snakes. Still putting their eggs out and about. There, that’s your economics.