Sometimes my belief in machines just evaporates, which leaves me in an somewhat exposed position as a newly converted blogger.
When signing in - it tells me my email address doesn't exist or the password is wrong, but quite often it doesn't really mean what it says, apparently it is toying with me, or even having a laugh. In the main i suppose I prefer a machine with which i am communing to have a sense of humour, but supposing it gets cranky.
I am probably overwrought by the end of the serial on the gog last night, where the State, with the power of the IT machines, trounced all the socially aware angelic hosts ranged against it. No happy ending.
Eventually people were injected with a Tag, nothing could be done without leaving a trail, and the Tag could be electronically adjusted so that nothing could be done that wasn't approved of, like entering a public building; leaving the country etc. They could ban me from the library van, tho the laptop on the van has to be downloaded back at the main library so I could hide in the interim.
Then on the steam radio they were discussing companies selling the info gleaned from our computer use to one another so we could, in time, be advertised into submission. Actually i very rarely read adverts, so I am probably a non person already.
Of course a Blog is a literary way of revealing myself and my activities...............
So I will declare that tomorrow I am going to see the Russians, or at least the paintings in the Royal Academy exhibition. I will drive to the station and pay the extortionate fee to park, which at least relieves me of the guilt of not having taken the bus as I am suffering for my comfort and that must make it OK.
Buy a concessionary day return and bumble round London on a Travel card. Tag. Tag.
No problem as long as we have a benign government, but when is government ever that?
These days I tend to feel a non person anyway; obviously things are going on, and I should at least March against Them, but I increasingly feel impotent. I am an old lady, it will all happen no matter what i think, or after I am dead. Strangely relaxing in a way.
I do write my Amnesty letters and pay towards Greenpeace to junket around having a heroic time on my behalf: but then I wonder if I ever am a political prisoner whether anyone will write on my behalf.
I know it is possible to get excited about opinions. When I was at Greenham [only visiting] and the police rode their horses at moi, and others, I did surge forward very recklessly, livid with rebellion. Maybe living in the country where most opinions are somewhat reactionary has drained me of outrage, and ambition, and energy, and excitement.
Maybe going to London will recharge my batteries, or merely reassure me that there is life in the old bitch yet!