Like a whole host of silly things (tin-foil swallowing babies, for instance, or skunk juice) my recent reference to crop-circles appears to be bringing a new audience to these noble pages of mine. The question is: do I want this site to be flooded with crop-circle junkies? At the risk of causing offence, I am tempted to say ‘no’. Here follows an open letter to all such souls:
Dear Crop Circle Junkies,
A part of me admires you. You devote a fair portion of your lives to the pursuit of a truth that most probably doesn’t exist. There’s a certain charm in that. But let us be honest with ourselves – your particular conspiracy theory hasn’t the legs it once had. In fact, the legs it has now have grown hairy and unattractive. Anybody in their right mind would cover those legs up. The idea that aliens have the time and/or desire to descend upon our earth every now and again and cut shapes in the fields of English farmers has, over the years, grown stale. Most of us came to the conclusion long long ago that crop circles are cut by men in the midst of mid-life crises, masquerading as citizens of Pluto. Their patterns are perfectly pretty, I admit, but there is really no need for you to be so over-keen. Your time could be better spent.
How, you ask? Here’s an idea. Instead of traipsing around Wiltshire on the lookout for extra-terrestial life-forms, why not spend a day or two charting the history of the realist novel in Hungary? Or how about an afternoon spent discussing space and structure in postmodern Prussian poetry with a group of friends? Or if you simply can’t leave those corn fields behind, why not indulge in a spot of Active Reading whilst you’re at it? You could always combine your crop-circle viewing with a bit of Fernando Aloisi? No?
If none of those activities tick your funny little box, you might consider helping me out with my own crop-circle quandary. It’s more of a translation issue than anything else (I’m beginning to seriously doubt that the reference is to actual crop-circles) but still: the story in question does have something to do with people waking up in the morning and finding pretty patterns where once there were none. In your case, fields. In this case, a man’s hands. What possible meaning could one derive from this? And don’t say aliens, please….
May the treacle of culture continue to drip upon your faces,