The God Idea by the Rambling Bricklayer; Many of us use pleasantries to appear happy and yet we are dead inside. Fine is a word often used by someone distraught. Throughout our lives, due to our external language, I doubt many people really understand us at all. We could probably count on one hand those that have a full grasp on who we actually are. We really need to get to know someone quite well, or at least share the same affinity as them, before we can bypass the fine and pleasantries to allow them into the reality of our mental state. Surely trust must be deployed first, which without God can take a great deal of time, years even.  The essence behind much of our language is based on highlighting what we know, or to promote our opinion giving us self-fulfillment. We become more valuable amongst our colleagues if we choose the right words and make it appear that the source of our knowledge is so hard to come by. We become, or so we believe, the cherished diamond amongst our friends and colleagues by collaring the right worldly terms, and perhaps by mocking others that are just outside our allotted group who fail to share our like-mindedness.

Here is the openning chapter of my first book


To benefit this book I shall revisit some old literary friends and begin a professional research programme. After all, I must show professionalism and assure my reader that I know exactly what I am talking about!
While sitting here by my kitchen table pondering over some old writers names like one would over who to invite to a wedding, I’ll compile a list of all those authors that I will re-read once again to restore my literary knowledge. Lying scattered on the table beside my list is a pile of scribbled notes that I am sure will one day add up and make sense. While scribbling further the front door opens, and within a minute or two my wife walks into the kitchen bringing with her a breeze of warm air. With her knowing look and pensive smile she can sense that I am wrapped up in my new project. She fills the kettle without saying too much. While the kettle speeds up my vacant gaze ventures beyond the window into distant space where I can retreat and think, how will I compete with my old scholarly friends again? The kettle clicks off bursting my vacant bubble bringing me back to my wife in the kitchen who has offered me a coffee.
“No thanks love”
While folding my completed list and placing it in the back pocket of my jeans I wonder, have I forgotten to add anyone? Patting myself down for my keys, searching the table top, where are they?
“I won’t be long love; I’m just popping out for an hour to the library”. After picking up my keys that were hidden beneath my notes, pulling on my jacket and closing the front door, I walk to the library to seek out particular books to use for quotes and references. Within ten minutes, with my head tipping sideways every now and again, I stroll up and down the library corridors while reading some of the old names that are written on the ragged spines. My thinking wanders back to a time when my view was so disturbed even such a small task as this was impossible. How things have changed?
After finding a seat amongst a group of empty tables and chairs I retrieve the list and my old friends Karl Marx and Sigmund Freud are there in first and second place. Setting out my stall with all the necessary books pulled from the shelves I begin my research. On opening the first book, which was called Das Kapital by Karl Marx, I found it impossible however to complete a single paragraph. A heavy sinking feeling weighted me down and overshadowed all other thoughts and after less than a few minutes I realized that the depth of the words that once had such a grip on me was gone. It became clear to me that the task I had set was going to be impossible to complete. After a quick rethink I placed the book beside the pile and picked up the next one, which was a collection of lectures by Freud and the same weighty feeling occurred. The words had the same gravity as perhaps finding an old shopping list, they meant nothing at all, so again I simply slammed the book shut smiled to myself and thought here you go again! I thought of my wife and how she knew. Having to be all knowing and be able to show my reader that I know exactly what I am talking about when referring to certain intellectual writers, when in truth I never really had a clue in the slightest what on earth they were banging on about. All those that professed to know Freud at university (which I attended as a mature student) hadn’t even a nodding acquaintance to any mind altering obsessions or depression and were all bound up in representations, meaning, reason and intellect. To be sure, I doubt many critical writers really understood the essence of how Marxist and Freudian interpretations have indented various individuals and societies around the world...see Amazon for more...