Author: Ian Harris

Operating from Stratford upon Avon, the Stratfordian/Ian Frederick Harris paints from his studio (shed) at the bottom of the garden where the rest of the gnomes, elves and fairy's dwell in an effort to escape the world's Orcs. On This website you will find his artwork, his short stories and everything else he uses to prove he exists. Oh yes...of course...I'd almost forgotten...then there's his opinions...

Aftermath: Trump’s downfall

Aftermath. Trump’s downfall.
Contact was sporadic. It was hard to believe that a country that basically ran everything a few months ago was now so difficult to get hold of.
Trump’s downfall and sudden removal from office had caused a massive shockwave. And that in itself was a huge surprise. Wasn’t that what everybody had wanted. Wasn’t that what everyone had predicted. And yet when it happened the shit hit the fan bigtime.
Trump disappeared. As did his cronies. The VP. Bondi. Meon. Hegseth, Patel et al. All of them. To a man. To a woman. Gone. Hopefully, was the word on many lips, never to be seen again.
The general consensus was that they were dead. To put it bluntly, murdered in their beds, as some might say, deservedly. Others, conspiracy nutters of course, insisted that they had been transported to that place where Micheal Jackson and other stars of stage, screen and music (Epstein?) now reside. Whatever. Who cares? As long as there was some kind of justice to be had, was the general mood. Hopefully a worthy punishment for their many, many sins.
The point was, what the hell was going on now?
No-one seemed to know.
There was hell to play. Guns were drawn and fired in the aftermath. There were sides taken. Fat men in military fatigues waddled on to the streets armed to the teeth and fired on anyone who looked different. Just like they always did. But this time things weren’t the same.
Trump had gone and the downtrodden hordes had grown in confidence. Guns were a plenty and fire was returned, so it wasn’t long before the fat bully men ran, out of breath and wetting themselves. Very, very frightened they retreated to their bunkers to gorge themselves on the huge supplies of canned comfort food that they had stored up for Armageddon.
The streets were wild and vengeance was there to be taken. And quite understandably so. There were scores to be settled. Families to be avenged. ICE officers to be made to pay the price for their indiscretions and murders. A few weeks of blood and before long communications dropped out.
To be continued?

Grey skies ain’t gonna clear up.

I don’t know whether it’s the continual rain and grey skies that we get here in the UK on a daily basis that is wearing me down, but I don’t feel moved to do anything. Certainly, there’s no inspiration to paint. The sky, the airwaves are grey. Everything feels as though it is collapsing under some huge, damp and weighted, wet blanket.

Actually, I do know what it is.

It’s all those soft, pudgy, corrupt rich people who were under the impression that they could run our lives and are now, (oh God please keep the momentum going), getting what’s coming to them… (at least in the UK). It’s slowing me down because I can’t wait for the justice to come.

Unfortunately, some, like the fat, disgusting orange monster who appears unaffected by the present hoo-ha and is still in the White House with his fat, but tiny finger poised ready to do what he does best and kill another few thousand people, all in the name of helping them out (see Iran).

Sad to say, he may take a little longer to face justice.  But I hope, once the American people awake from their 239-year slumber, he and his slimy cohorts will soon face the guillotine.

Bondi, Patel all of them. I can’t wait to watch them shed tears and plead innocence on the grounds that they ‘were only following orders’, before they are dragged off to serve long jail terms. In the meantime, however, we have to steel ourselves and continue to watch their daily arrogance and the unbelievable stance they display. A performance that shows plainly that they think they can (literally) get away with murder. Of course we have seen it before. If you have ever watched any of the archive from the Nurenburg trials, you will have seen the mirror image.

For me personally it has always been the general American population that I have found difficult to deal with. I’m sure I’m not the only one. The rest of the world has spent years watching open-mouthed at Americans insatiable greed, mind-numbing ignorance and their real belief/religion if you will, that they are the most important country in the world.

However, probably, maybe, hopefully (all though I doubt it), for the first time in their (neglected/made up/forgotten) history, we might be witnessing a light leaking through a very thin chink in their armour.

I think if it were possible to find anything good about Trump’s rule, it would have to be that he might (a small might), have shown the average yank that they are breakable. That they can grow the bushiest beards and put on the most muscle in the tightest tee-shirts (and that’s just the women), but in the end they are, as the rest of the world has always suspected, bloated, fat and full of hot air.

Whatever it is, they elected Trump.

So, it goes without saying, that there is something very wrong with them. They are, to use a Trumpism, losers. Like their Lord and Master, everything they touch turns to dust.

One can only hope that when this is all over, they would have learnt some humility. But of course, in our hearts and minds, we know that there is…

NOT A CHANCE of that happening.

…and give it a few years for this mess to cool down and you can bet your bottom dollar something like this will happen again,. Let’s face it…it’s in their nature. They can’t help it. The arrogance is their DNA.

WATERSIDE. You can do this. (A poem in the manner of Milk Wood).

It is not yet nightfall and the light on Stratford upon Avon is still good. There is a glow through the rain.
It is a pleasant evening.
Walk on. Walk on but keep your wits about you.
As you navigate the gigantic, clogged drain puddle that sits, that floats, like a small ocean outside the shop that is never open.
Be ever alert.
You will need your wits to avoid the soaking.
The dead drenching freezing fathom deep wet that you will get.
When waves pushed up by the wet wheels of passing vehicles coat you to the skin with pollution and ruin the best shoes that you always wear when you go to the theatre.
By the by.
Did you book a meal to burp up when seated in the auditorium because now is your chance?
For you are at the bottom, the lower end of Sheep Street.
Stratford’s street of a thousand restaurants. Some opened. Most closed.
Heed.
This is where the theatre sheep eat.
Where filling faces and bellies with enough warmth and comfort to sleep as the words pass over their heads is a must and a well-measured thing.
Heed.
Never too much drink for it is you to be moved.
Not the bowel.
To piss in performance is frowned upon. Hold it in patron. Hold it in.
Satisfied. Meal finished. Trough empty.
Plates cleaned as though dish washed.
Cutlery arranged as should be.
Bill, (not William) paid.
IT IS TIME.
Time to make way to the Holy place.
Religious in repetition, repeats and regurgitation.
But you can do it. Again.
You can make yourself comfortable to hear out yet another explanation another exhortation another expiration of hot breath. It can be done.
And you can do this.
As familiar as you are with the ever-present fighting swordsmen or maybe swordswomen in disguise.
You can do this.
You may have seen the cavorting and posing in tight leather or weathered brown cloth to tell the story you already know so well.
But you can do this.
The spectacular swing down from the ramparts with yet another attempt at meaning clutched between their teeth.
You can do this.
Over and over and over again. Year after year after year.
You recognise this. You know this.
And as always you will make much of the best bits that speak to you as old friends.
And then.
The ordeal.
If ordeal it was is over.
You. We. As a body. Must advance. Retreat? To the Dirtiest of Ducks. The doctor. The curer of all ills.
Where with luck the word churn and the senses burn can be dulled with the continuous infusion of alcohol.
Have no fear.
There is a night to recover in.
The morrow will bring and you will sing.
No head. No throat.
Just a bright new day…and moments…to quote.
You can do this.
Ian Frederick Harris.
thestratfordian.co.uk

A quick fix

e have become obsessed with the notion of success achieved by ‘a quick fix’.

Whereas once, a long time ago, the dream was to raise a happy family, have a good job and see our children on their way, we have now turned inward. The ‘dream’ that appears to permeate our every waking hour now has to do with being noticed. We all want to be famous. We see ourselves as somehow, ‘more’.

Not only have we become dissatisfied with our lot we are easily bored and absolutely dissatisfied. We want more than the 9 to 5 can offer. Money, (easy money), quickly, rather than a workaday route to a bigger house, has become the road to escape.

My plan was, on writing this to blame everything on the digital age and the growth of the internet but in moment of clarity I realised that was too easy and what was ‘old people do’.  I actually became suddenly aware and realised that it was probably all my fault.  That in fact it had all started some time before Bill Gates and the like got a grip on us.

I blame the Beatles and the Boomers (like me).

I confess.

The fact that we now have an insatiable appetite and desire to be noticed and recognised, is the fault of four working class kids from Liverpool. Oh yes, and us boomer idiots who took everything at face value without thinking.

It was these four ‘rascals’ who showed us boomers that, anyone could do it. Anyone could become rich and famous. We were suddenly festooned with colour and sounds we hadn’t heard before. Our sad little lives changed in what seemed overnight, and… we caught the bug.  We were fooled yes, but we walked willingly, straight into a trap of our own making.

We (boomers) interpreted the fact that as they (The Beatles), came from where we were, it meant we could go where they went. In short, if they could do it, so could we.

In truth, they did in fact break barriers. The class thing cracked. Doors opened up to the obvious.

Holy Mother of God, there was talent within the working class. The notion that the working class were more than rough labour with dirty fingernails and tattoos of anchors and saucy ladies, could indeed harbour poets, painters and musicians. It was true. Amongst these uncouth people there were talents that with nurture (money), could prove lucrative.

Inevitably, those with the filthy lucre noticed the profit potential and the realisation that there was ‘gold in them thar hills’ struck home.

For us of working-class origin we noted a way out from the sheeple pen and so, as you do, away we went.

Or so we thought. Away we went, totally forgetting the one basic need that everyone who wants to forge a new path so absolutely needs, talent. Talent and the fortitude and where-with-all to work at it. What we really wanted (and some of us still do), was ‘The Quick Fix’, an easy way out. (The need to escape is strong in this one).

Anyway. None of this is an apology or a plea to return to some golden age. It’s just a ramble amongst sad and sorry thoughts. A note on evolution and what can happen when there is a sudden shift in what we believe is the norm. An experience of a social revolution that I now realise can take some time to recover from.

The need for an easy life is still there. Success without too much hard work continues to pulsate in the background. The 9 to 5 still exits (unfortunately), albeit in different forms. Some of us are still dissatisfied and would give anything to escape. The trouble is time has moved on and life (for some) has become easier. And it has become increasingly more difficult to define what it is we want to escape from. Hey ho.

I call them Orcs.

    I call them orcs because there is no other designation I can think of that adequately describes such a disgusting mass of bodies from the Darkside.

The Darkside.

Where the ignorant dwell and the irrational breed. A place where those without humour and foresight live (and fly flags).

The Orc cares for no-one and saves its bile for those that are different.

If Orcs come across anyone that looks, speaks or behaves differently than the Orc does, it has one response. HATRED. Actually two. ANGER.

HATRED & ANGER loom large in an Orc’s life.

Unfortunately, the Orcs have crossed over. They have left the Darkside and now make their homes amongst us. Orcs live close by. They live next door and work at our sides. Orcs have so perfected the art of disguise* that they can even present as our friends.

The Orc’s one desire is to promote the hatred that burns inside him/her. Now, with stones overturned and into the light, the Orc has found a freedom (which it wishes to deny to everyone else), to spread its bile. 

——————————————————— 

Unfortunately, we must accept at least some of the blame for the rise of the Orcs.

Not only have we supplied the perfect vehicle that enables the Orc brother/sisterhood to spread its disease, but we have also continued to feed said vehicle. We have allowed Social Media to carry the highly infectious germs of Orc-ism. We can no longer deny the fact that the likes of Facebook (et al), infect and convert others to Orc-ism, on a daily basis.

Social Media, once a blessing, is now a curse. 

Social media a place where evil finds a voice. A place where TRUTH & FACTS are muffled. A place where Orcs find for the first time in their disgusting live, a place to broadcast without hindrance, its vilest lies.

We are at war.

And as in any war, the enemy have their spies and infiltrators. There are amongst us (those that are not Orcs), traitors and the like who would promote the Orcs and their poison for reasons they would best like to keep to themselves. However, it has become increasingly obvious that power is the key.

The Orcs by their very nature are easily led. They have no morals, no basic education and are totally ignorant. They operate purely on gut feeling. In the dark world of the Orc there is no need for evidence or facts. If something is different or requires brainpower or an effort to understand, that is a good enough reason to revert to what the Orc does best, HATE.

The spies and the infiltrators amongst us have a need (for want of a better word), soldiers. Followers who will hang on to their every word. So, promotion of a particular kind e.g. Racism. Homophobia etc, will attract an Orc to your side instantly. Should you need unthinking followers to bend the knee and hang on to your every hatred, call for an Orc.

Indeed, no better example of trumpet blowing for the recruitment of Orcs, is to be found in the once ‘Land of the Free’, America.

A land where Orc-ism is in full flow, slowly eating away at the basics of Common Sense and perhaps more worryingly, JUSTICE.

—————————————————

But there is hope.

Orcs are ill disciplined. They cannot, will not, hold the line. They are cowards. And crucially, they have no argument once the consequence of their actions starts to reveal themselves. They will always retreat.

History, (of which they have no idea) tells us so.

The past has seen the Orcs rise and then, just as rapidly, fall. Their path only ever leads to disaster. Their bricks and mortar are rarely properly made. What they hurriedly build soon crumbles.

We know that Justice always prevails but unfortunately, there are casualties along the way.

Which is why, in an effort to reduce the damage already done we must act fast.

The removal of the Orcs and the traitors that lead them is of the utmost importance and it must happen NOW.

No delay. NOW.

 

* Beware, some Orcs are now beginning to parade openly and think nothing of raising flags to announce their presence.

Written in haste. Removed in anger.

This was meant to be a piece comparing America’s ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) with the Gestapo. It was an article that would have expressed surprise that in a country awash with the guns, the reaction, the push-back to such a violent body has not been more, violent. It was not meant to advocate violence but more an expression of amazement that the reaction to fight Fire with Fire has not been prominent.

‘Even when only one side is firing it can still be a civil war’. (Ian Frederick Harris).

The question was, where are the American people?

Anyway, I thought Shakespeare might help.

———————————————

Trump…

‘Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars
And brought in matter that should feed this fire;
And now ’tis far too huge to be blown out
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.’

King John

 ‘The bay-trees in our country all are wither’d
And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;
The pale-fac’d moon looks bloody on the earth
And lean-look’d prophets whisper fearful change;
Rich men look sad and ruffians dance and leap,
The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,
The other to enjoy by rage and war.’

Richard III

‘War gives the right to the conquerors to impose any condition they please upon the vanquished.’

Julius Caesar

‘Sound trumpets! let our bloody colours wave!
And either victory, or else a grave.’

Henry VI Part 3

The arms are fair,
When the intent of bearing them is just.’

Henry IV Part 1

‘And when the drums of war have reached a fever pitch and the blood boils with hate and the mind is closed, the leader will have no need in seizing the rights of the citizenry. Rather, the citizenry infused with fear and blinded by patriotism, will offer up all of their rights unto the leader and do it gladly so.’

Julius Caesar 

Something in the air

the outsider art of Ian Frederick Harris
‘Relaxing in the Garden of Tranquillity’. Acrylic on 12″ x 16″ canvas. £60

I don’t know about you but there’s something in the air. I know not what, but it feels like something BIG is about to happen.

Thinking about it carefully and taking into consideration the way the hairs are raised on the back of my neck, this feeling must be based on something on the scale of…

1: Instant annihilation.

2: The return of the Messiah formerly known as Jesus.

The truth is, either way, I must admit I am not looking forward to any of these things, for these reasons.

ONE: No-one wants instant annihilation. We all like a surprise now-and-again but instant annihilation is a step too far.

(Admittedly, and on the hard to find plus side, a theory of such a sudden death that exists in the mind of people who study such things says, We/I/You won’t know much about it as it will all be over in a literal flash).

& TWO: I do not want to be around when Jesus cottons on to what we have done to His and His Father’s planet. Boy, is he going to be pissed off. We all know what He is capable of on those rare occasions when He loses His cool.

(This time I believe it will be a little more than the turning over of a few tables).

One can only hope that that these feelings of dread will pass and the hairs on the back of my neck will settle down. That these dread-filled thoughts are merely a symptom, a consequence of sharing the same space in time as the present lunatics who think they run the Earth.

One can only wish that my feelings of close and present danger, are merely hopeful misinterpretations of what is going to happen to the present slew of despots and dictators.  Monsters, who are making life particularly unpleasant for the innocents attempting to live a ‘normal’ life everywhere. One can only hope that what I am ‘picking up’ are the sictator’s (see what I did there), death throes.

Perhaps I am having a premonition of what is about to happen to them. Maybe, hopefully, they are about to get what history shows us, they always get.

What they deserve.

America eats itself.

I should be in my shed, painting. Instead, I am watching a horrendous spectacle. I’m watching as…

America eats itself.

The unfortunate truth as far as I am concerned, is that Donald J Trump has taken up residency in my head, rent free. The unfathomable plight of the American people and why they have allowed HIM to happen consumes me…anyway…this…

It’s obvious that I am not the only one in these here parts to be watching in astonishment as America eats itself. Things have got so bad that the jokes about ‘the orange one’ etc are no longer funny.

So much so, that the TV shows that are brave enough to criticise the President by showing never ending clips of his ridiculous statements or behaviour, are in my opinion becoming tired and ineffective. Once upon a time, humour was a powerful weapon that could be relied upon to slow down the progress of the most powerful wannabe dictator. Not anymore. They have cracked all the jokes, shown all the videos and the Fool is still there.

Trump is as he is portrayed. Stupid and dangerous. The radio and TV stations of sensible America are merely telling the truth as it is and thereby have lost any barbs that they might have had. It can tell its audience nothing new about its corrupt President.

The time has come to stop laughing.

The ‘joke’ is over. Time to get serious America. Time to get serious or die.

Trump is as mad as a box of frogs. He is a conman, a narcissist. He is greedy and a grifter.

America, Trump will destroy you.

It’s all been said and it’s all true. It therefore follows that the truth because of its constant repetition holds no longer holds shock value. The surprise, the step back in ‘shock/horror’ effect has dissipated.  The TV stations are merely telling their audience what they already know.

In short, main street media has lost its edge. And is now merely feeding the masses who hate Trump with what they want and expect to hear. And it is these feelings of audience self-righteousness and the ‘told you so’ effect, that is keeping them from rising in anger from their over-stuffed sofas. They are too ‘comfortable’.  And under the mistaken allusion that the TV companies/personalities will fight the battle for them. They need to wake up and organise before it is too late. Which it might be already.

What also amazes me is the sycophantic Republican party. Their complete lack of realisation that they cannot go on like this is embarrassing. Their day, (sooner rather than later one hopes), will most definitely come and no amount of money and guns will save them from the fury of the crowd. Or should I say, mob.

History has shown us many, many times that empires will fall, some quicker than others. And the way America is isolating itself from its one-time friends and allies, this could be one of the quickest falls from grace ever.

It doesn’t take a great brain to realise that when the fall comes revenge will be taken, and heads will roll. If I was a present-day Republican decision maker, I would already be feeling rather uneasy and wondering about the future for me and my family.

Meanwhile the orange slob sits in the White House appointing idiots to the most powerful jobs in the administration, and for a purpose.

It means that when the consequences of their crazy decisions become too much for Trump to bare. He will deny all knowledge of the decisions made and blame the idiots he himself appointed.

Easy come – easy go.

A man walks into an art gallery…

A couple of weeks ago I put my horrendous self-doubt and disbelief behind me, became very brave and entered the doorway of an art gallery/shop I’ve always admired with a view to asking the shop-owner if he would be interested in displaying my art.

Needless to say, I felt a complete imposter and fraud, noting that my art, compared to the art displayed, was extremely messy (in a childish sort of way), unframed and absolutely, compared to what was on show, underpriced. The voice in my head was loud and insistent…’who the fuck do you think you are’?

Anyway, the owner couldn’t have been nicer. He put me at my ease, we exchanged cards and he said he would check out my website. I kissed his feet (not true) and left feeling pleased with myself.

I haven’t heard a thing since.

Hope and Beauty

12:38:47

So here we are in the first month of the year and here I am, depressed. Empty. Devoid of any sign of Hope and Beauty. Either would do but…

One: I find myself ‘blocked’ and stumped on what I need to paint (and boy do I need to paint). Nothing has popped into my head which is how it usually works. ‘Not popping’ is not only unusual but is, worrying. But then again, other things occupy my solitary brain cell.

The point being. Two: How can I justify time and space on such a frivolous pastime and ‘useless occupation’, when evil bastards/monsters like Trump are killing innocent people the world over?

I know, I know, ART out-trumps Trump (see what I did there) every time. Art doesn’t kill, it informs, it offers hope and promotes beauty. It keeps people like me, sane (ish). At least that’s what I try to believe.

Unfortunately, ART (I think) doesn’t flourish in the dark or when evil is afoot because ART needs to be seen to be believed, and human waste like the aforementioned have a way of keeping hope, and beauty out of sight of the masses whose main concern, is at the moment, to survive.

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