Change is a many-splendored thong, slipping itself so snugly over your bits one day only to reveal rather more of your hirsute danglitude the next.
We love change, but sometimes we hate it.
Was it Isaac Newton who said, “in a world of constants, the fickle is our inspiration, our irritant, our demise”? No, I think it was me.
I suppose the idea of change appeals most when we’re in the driving seat of the morphologimobile (with our thongs tucked away in the boot, ready to be sprung). We choose this thing or that thing or the other thing to pursue or alter, and use the keys of our wherewithal to evidence our fancy. Our only limitations are our imagination and the skills we can bring to bear on our material assets — which is why, very often, the only changes we make are in the hairdo or GET RID OF THAT ANNOYING FLY department. It’s as if we kind of imagine the wrong kind of imagination sometimes.
However, mis-imagining (or under-imagining, or quasi-imagining, or whatever term you wish to apply to that mad urge to mess with God’s perfect creations that resolves itself only into an act of fruitless vandalism — like maybe you turn all of your thongs into a quilt and superglue yourself a cranium-only afro) is far preferable to being party to that other form of change, namely “Circumstances Bearing On Down From Without Which Move Right The Hell On In”.
Such changes are resource stealers. You may still have firings of all manner of imagination but if your material assets are in a state of flux (erring on the side of All Thinges Reduced) then there is littler to be done, all of which impinges upon your capacity to spring home-grown change (from the boot of your morphomologimobile where, up until very recently, you hid away thongs and knitting patterns for quilts and caterpillar afro wigs) á la voila.
There are billions more people in the world than there are of you, many of whom have more than enough power to compel your thong-depleted vehicle of change into the long grass. Some do this deliberately; others are just driving about like idiots. Either way, Titsupness abounds and it can scupper the best-laid plans and de-orbit all the plan-generating whizzy brainy atomy particles necessary for cerebral juggling.
This is why it’s essential always to carry flint and a hamster.