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
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.