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muttering

Lately I've been muttering. About what is not important. The topics and opinions covered in these mutterings have no parameters or rules. It's a freeform conversation with a sympathetic listener.

I have muttered at bus stops. I have put my head on the pillow, muttering. I have woken up, muttering. I touch base with myself at least eight times a day, just in case there are updates. Some see muttering as strange. (Indeed, many mutterers avoid such censure by wearing fake Bluetooth dongles on their ear). I see it as a valve, easing pressure, anywhere, anytime, from the windy wilds of Glencoe to the walk home from the pub.

It is rare that a stranger will actually challenge a mutterer. The fact of the muttering causes value judgements to be made by those within earshot and immediately creates tension in the relationship. This, even when the points being made by the mutterer are interesting and irrefutable.

I imagine a festival of muttering: call it “Aye, I’m Right”, where like-minded people fill a room with their mutters, lowering their voices and their eyebrows, throwing glances at potential soul mates and friends. If young people will take part in a so-called silent disco, I can certainly round up enough old men to fill an arena with a gigantic and genuine outpouring of individual and collective angst.

Such an event could be recorded and released as a podcast. Think: ten thousand innermost thoughts expressed in half-baked language liberated from the rigours and rules of syntax and even common sense. This is therapy writ large. This is a silent majority freed from silence. A muttering majority - a constituency of citizens who know best what's wrong with society, but whose voices are ignored, feared or simply condemned as the hapless lip-trips of the disaffected.

 

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