Tiring

Oh my. It has been a whole week since my last entry. I have no excuse. I suppose I just haven't been thinking about things.

That's not entirely true. Last night, Lucy and I had an interesting conversation about death. We reasoned that for animals to understand the concept of death, they have to be able to make a mental connection between other animals they have seen die, and themselves.

Is a chimpanzee capable of looking at a dead family member and extrapolating that, as a similar being, the same fate is awaiting themselves? Probably not.

That's why novels written by chimps are so lacking in existential considerations. They're mostly about tire-swings.

Of course, I loved the first Tire-Swing novel. We all did. It seemed to fresh and exciting. "A new literary voice!" we all proclaimed.

But the second instalment highlighted the shallowness of the genre. Monkey A swings on a tire-swing; Monkey B wants to swing on a tire-swing; Monkey B swings on a tire-swing.

It was a case of the Emperor's New Clothes, except that it was an ape emperor (King Kong?), and there were no clothes involved at any stage.

Then, of course, came the merchandising. Tire-Swing hats, Tire-Swing notepads, Tire-Swing barometers. There was the movie, the TV special, the Christmas single. It was everywhere and it was meaningless.

We all started to realise what fools we had been. Suddenly, the image of a tire-swing - which had been so vibrant and relevant - began to seem laughable and incredibly unfashionable.

Some people burned tire-swings. Others: monkeys. Those long debates about the distinction between monkeys and apes seemed as lame as those about Blur vs Oasis, or New Coke.

Every now and then you see a couple of Tire-Swing novels in a charity shop. Maybe a battered Tire-Swing annual (with the wordsearch completed: "tire", "swing", "tire-swing").

The lesson here is that understanding and discussion of death underlies all real art. It is the futility of existence and the inevitability of the grave that prompts us to reach for truth and beauty; and send beacons of creative fire into the void. Art is a search for immortality.

Not for tire-swings.

Unless the tire-swing is some kind of metaphor. Which, given the length of this post, you'd expect it to be. But it's not.

It's just a tire-swing.

Just a tire, on a rope, tied to a tree branch.

Monkeys are idiots.

As are apes.

***

Yes, I am hoping to get sent some free tire-swings as a result of this entry.