Mythology meanders down the generations, fables of half-truths and illusions. Take for example the Scandinavian legend – the troll. Folklore has it that these were ugly cave dwelling troublemakers, plotting against mankind, scuffling in the undergrowth, bellies close to the ground, peeking from the hedgerow, evil eyes scorching in search. “Let’s steal the horses.” “Contaminate the chickens.” “Nah, I say frighten the fledglings.”
And so, life goes on, dangers anew.
Was it as a result of this tale of tiny terrorists that the toy developed? You remember – the toy troll? Plastic squished nosed dolls with electric shock hair. I had one and in fact many years later my daughter had one. I’m sure it still lives with us, up in my attic amongst her other saved toys – the rag doll with pleats, the Sylvanian Families, the doll with long blonde hair, no more like a baby than a granny moil.
‘What’s that?’ ‘Google it.’ ‘The good old internet.’
Ah progression, but trolls live on, social media their cave. Shoulders hug the light of a laptop as keyboard warriors tippy tap the keys, a ballad of venom oozing from gnarled fingers, meddling tweets, accusations, criticisms, insults whizzing through cyber land. “Fake Tears.” “Madman.” “Go Home.”
While I understand that a troll is someone who @ the person they are condemning publicly, is it not trouble-making enough to attack someone online where hundreds can view it, jump on the bandwagon until the contents spill out, some poor soul pounded to dust under it?
“Who gives a **** what that person feels. I don’t know them, can’t see them.”
Indeed, the critic can’t see them or their hurt anxious face, neither do they see the good deeds, the highlighting of minorities, the inside mechanisms of running clubs, businesses. Disgruntled people are unable to see the good for being bad, wanting us all to stroll through their misery and sadly many of us do scramble in the dirt, mud thickened minds weighted down and miserable, got at by hobgoblins.
As Bob Dylan asks, ‘How many times can a man turn his head and pretend that he just doesn’t see?’
Maybe we’ll find the answer ‘blowin’ in the wind.’
Jan Finlayson November 2019
Jimjan's Journal 