Ryanair made £1.1 billion in half-year Profits in 2017: (Part 2)
There’s a song and its words go:
“Everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die”
This lyric is the received stance on the pairing up of the Siamese twins of pollution and production, of wastes and productivity, of consumption and wanton deterioration. We are assured we all want to sort the problem; but are all happy to accept that no-one is seriously going to attempt it. It is part of the developed world’s malaise; that it no longer will stare obvious facts in the face. Instead there’s a kind of lamentable and sentimental wistful regret about ‘unfortunate’ things which are thus mentalised into a category similar it its fatalism to our attitudes to Acts of God.
Ironically we all carry with us in our feeble hearts that mental apprehension, which equates with what might be called a Church of England way with words, and which pollutes our inmost conscience and so nullifies our firmest resolutions. This the way which says to itself that we are ‘saddened’ and ‘disappointed’ in ‘events’ and hope for ‘better things to come’ and so on and so on. Nothing concrete; nothing specific is stated, nor considered, just so much wind; nothing is meant but a revelation of our desperate ennui for accepting ‘sai la vie’.
Many of us as a consequence have lost that foresight to see that actions and inactions have their consequences; and that for us to avoid duties and responsibilities on which we ought to act or else desist, is for us to atrophy in our characters and so to allow ourselves acquiescence in widespread decline and general social degradation.
And so it becomes more easy daily for us to bypass the pressing, even the essential, questions and problems of life, and of the world, and so carry on regardless with our too frequently self-absorbed lives and their trivial pleasures, and so to dismiss serious thought, proper consideration about what we ought to be doing, doing for our own sakes, for our children’s sakes ,and importantly for the sake of those peoples elsewhere in the world who suffer bearing the brunt of the mal-effects our dolours are assisting.
I believe that we as advanced consumer societies are deliberately being shielded from realising such concerns by a broad-based concord of conspiracy, applied across the whole of The Western World, and which hides from us, and diverts us away from, and tells us all is OK and so on, as if we were a flock of penned sheep or else string-worked puppets. The truth is kept from us so that we continue our lives happy to be consumer-fodder for those deceivers and malefactors, those who have the sway, the power and influence, and also the means to sort these pressing problems of the world and of our race and of all our floras and faunas. But these people simply do not want to sort these issues out; because they do not care about them sufficiently in their hearts to want to do so. They want to carry on regardless – doing what they do care about excessively; making money, creating wealth, as like Ryanair and as like all industry and commerce; and continue to spew out their wastes and messes onto the planet generally; so that they continue to enjoy their pristine apartments and snappy suits, whilst dumping in everyone else’s backyards.
A lovely lady I knew called Rose, she is now dead, used to say to me how she got livid at people she saw who kept their homes spotless and wore smart and debonair clothes, expensive scents and perfumes tiepins broaches, make up, hair and so on, but as soon as they left their own front doors they would treat everywhere else around them as if a stinking rubbish tip. They would litter, spit, deface, defile, insult, deride, mess and treat all as if cheap and nasty. I guess most of them were entrepreneurs? Entreprenuers certainly fit the bill and run par for the course.
Here is Lord Tennyson writing a poem upon The Lotus Eaters, a group of shipwrecked men having become enchanted on Circe’s Isle, and who spend their days in a smooth soothing lethargy of serene daydream, and they go spooning about themselves getting home to their wives and families but never caring to raise a finger to obtain these ends. Seems to me to be our case here in The West:
“A land where all things always seem’d the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, “We will return no more”;
And all at once they sang, “Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”
Read the whole article at our metanomalies blog: https://metanomalies.com/ryanair-made-1-1-billion-in-half-year-profits-in-2017/