Saturday, August 27, 2005
Whenever I watch television, I am constantly assaulted, as is everyone, by massive insults to my intelligence.
I have a game I like to play, which I call 'spot the lie'. Whenever an ad is on, I like to, you know, spot if not a lie, then definitely the half truth, that is included in order to dupe you into buying into the product/service. If it's an ad for insurance, then it's easy. Shampoos, easy. Fun times! This game is ridiculously easy while watching 'A Current Affair' and 'Today Tonight'.
What does this have to do with graffiti? Nothing at all.
Nothing except TV, anyway. TV is good, in the way that it can show you what huge chunks of the populace are thinking at a given time. Case in point, It has come to my attention that there is a general misconception here in Australia, that short people are "less succesful" in the business world. That somehow, when you're not succesful in business, you shrink. Both adults and children made the assumption, and they were all clearly dead wrong. Not that i care. I'm 6'2''.
So here's the link with graffiti, here in lovely old Australia.
There is another ridiculous assumption kicking around, that all graffiti is BAD.
The paranoia goes like this- there is 'good graffiti', and there is 'bad graffiti', except that when you encourage 'good graffiti', through community programs etc, it helps to spread the 'bad'. Therefore, it is in the best interest of the community to eliminate ALL graffiti, with extreme prejudice.
This reminds me of a Nazi book burning, in the way that you have a bunch of otherwise intelligent people, who are so caught up with the latest chapter of misinformation, that they turn on art.
I'll be the first to admit it, you're damn right there is good and bad graffiti. There is good and bad everything. But instead of talking in terms of good and bad, let's call it what it really is 'constructive' and 'destructive' aerosol art.
There are artists out there in the world, who paint with such incredible skill, passion, creative vision, and individuality, that the thought of a world without them is just ludicrous. And they paint with cans. They have broken down the walls between graphic art and traditional art, and are pretty much solely responsible for the current look and flavour of popular culture. Without these innovators, the world would look very different. The TV would look different, your sneakers would look different, all the tour posters, record covers, magazines, architecture, fashion, and product design, would look different. They spend thousands of their own dollars buying paints, just like any other legit artist. And in a few notable cases, it has paid off, as they have contributed their art to media campaigns, and even the corporate headquarters of consumer giants like Nike. Their contribution to the look and feel of our popular culture is massive, and yet if I say 'Delta', 'Daim', 'Kid Acne', 'Twist', 'Kab101', 'Banksy', 'Dave the Chimp', 'Henry Obasi', 'Ryan McGinness', 'Green Lady', 'Struggle Inc', Melbourne's own 'Burncrew', 'Marquis Retna Lewis', 'Merda', 'Robbie Bear', 'Mephisto Jones', 'Phil Frost', 'Paul Bowman', or 'Mike Mills', most of you will have no idea who they are. But you have seen their work, guaranteed, whether it was on the street, or on a Beastie Boys record cover. At least you know who knifey is.
You don't really need me to explain this category. You see it all over the place, and it looks like shit. Especially in a city like Melbourne, that is based around a Victorian model of back alleys for the sewerage carts to collect from. Most cities don't have this, but we do, so it basically amounts to a 'come tag me' for every toy who wants to get up. These guys like to 'keep it real', as if this is New York or San Francisco, or Los Angeles. And that means stealing paint, and making sure you can see their shitty, unoriginal attempts at tagging everywhere you go (I'm looking at a guy called 'Def' in Melbourne here). They are out for fame, not art, and they show no respect to the rules of street art, which are basically "show respect", and "never paint on stone, or peoples houses". These idiots are fine (in my opinion) when they restrict themselves to train lines, but it pisses me off no end when I see they have made a trip downtown in the middle of the night, and have covered EVERY AVAILABLE SURFACE with a lame tag that looks like a limp noodle. I also include most stencil artists in this category, because stenciling requires little or no talent, and is currently enjoying a massive rise in popularity with first year design students everywhere. They cover everything in their quest for street legitimacy, when it's the paint version of a machine gun that fires shit. There are some amazing political and satirical stencil artists, as there have always been. But the trend biters are destructive, no question.
People paint on walls for two main reasons-
1. They love painting, and want the world to have their work, for absolutely free. They want to add colour, vitality, and life to neglected back alleys, and main streets too. They just love it.
2. They are fucked up and misunderstood, and they take out all the lack of love and guidance they have experienced on the wider community, just like any other kind of vandal. But it isn't the fault of the art form they choose to bastardise.
There are other reasons of course, but those are the 2 that suit this rant. There is a guy called 'Teror' in Melbourne, who is about as prolific as you can get with tags. His reason for being everywhere is because his parents own an art supply store, so he gets all his paint for nix. Because it's easy. The side of my house has a Teror throwup on it, about 8 feet long and five high. I don't love it.
So I'm not some hip hop purist, trying to convince you of the honour of the art. I couldn't give less of a crap about either hip hop, or keeping it real. What I'm into is art, and this is the point, so are a lot of whart the media erroneously called graffiti artists/taggers.
I cannot stress enough the difference, and I'm writing this with the genuine hope that the next journalist who is about to drop an expose on the war on painting, will see this while googling for research, and will contact me or ANYONE AT ALL for some perspective, should Rupert Murdoch allow for it. I know blogs are awesome in this way, because editors of magazines who would never return my requests to submit have been emailing ME lately, all because of this blog. Journalists get in touch (unless you're from the Herald Sun). And other artists do too, which is amazing. Blog Power 4 eva.
It's easy to overreact to something as in your face as destructive aerosol art, and i guess for most people it would be easy to assume that that is the only kind there is. But that's dangerous thinking, isn't it? Because there are literal geniuses of painting out there, who's art is nothing short of a gift to the world, or the wall it's painted on. If it all went away, this world would look stupid. And ads for cars, sneakers, beer, and Department Store chains would all go back to being about whatever we had before rad graphics came along.
If Robert Doyle had his way (and he won't), all aerosol art would be banned. This just highlights what a knee-jerk, ill-informed retard he is. He can flap his stupid mouth as much as he likes, but he will never stop aerosol art. And I'm not trying to be all tough and 'you'll never beat us'. It's just a fact. You can outlaw it and the sale of cans as much as you like, and guess what? YOU WILL ONLY MAKE IT WORSE. If you make it even more gangsta to go piece up, more disaffected white kids from the suburbs will brave whatever jail terms are on offer, just to stick it to you. Then you can send them to prison, and kid yourself that they'll come out reformed, when they'll actually emerge as a much more dangerous class of criminal instead.
But if you did the sensitive thing, and worked with the community to engender a sense of pride for that community, and encouraged high-quality public art works by aerosol artists, then the little shits might just see the difference, and the problem would go away. Seriously, what's better, pride in your community, or a police state? You do the math (because Robert Doyle is clearly unable to).
If we follow Robert Doyle's logic (and I would never propose that we do), it's simple majority rules, albeit, rules through misinformation and bias. So being gay goes back to the morally outrageous pile, we would reinforce the glass celing for women in the workplace, fire up the white australia policy, and pass a law that would make being Aboriginal a Federal offence. Why not? You can construct an emotionally appealing, yet logically poor argument for just about anything, if you put enough spin on it. Basically, it could be illegal to be a person who wasn't enough like Robert Doyle.
Fuck that. I'd rather have some personality, and live in a fair country that embraces multiculturalism, and runs on informed logic. I'd also like to fistfight Robert Doyle, so if you're readng this Robert, please get in touch.
The funny thing is that Melbourne is on the world map as a leader in street art culture. That's a huge achievement, and translates into real dollars for the local economy. The city council knows it. That's why they hosted the Twist exhibition at the meat markets! Twist did the exhibition (as well as painting the world famous water wall at the National Gallery of Victoria), then promply hooked up with a crew of Melbourne taggers and sprayed "Twister*' on neglected buildings all over town. And you paid for it! Ha, ha, I love that part. Twist is a serious artist, who started out as exactly the kind of public menace everyone is so worked up about lately. But he still has a street edge (about a hundred miles wide), so expecting him to act any different would be plain stupid. Point is, the city council is slowly realising that graffiti does not necessarily equal bad, and they are providing spaces and opportunities for artists from Melbourne, and overseas. And this is good, even if for their part, the majority of artists concerned act like drunken snowboarders on tour with Iron Maiden. They can't help it, that's just who they happen to be.
I wonder if all the other cavemen turned on the cavemen that painted on the walls and ceilings of their caves, and locked them up? Because this phenomenon is nothing new. Only lately it seems that donating art to the community is a crime.
Don't buy into the hype, people. Let culture live, and mutate, and thrive. Because your cities could be so much more than dirty black walls and billboards. But most importantly, don't be blindly led by people who have no passion or love for anything other than political posturing and money. Art is good, just like music. Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater. In just the same way as music is good, just not at 4 am on the street outside your house, the same can be said for art. And don't confuse those dicks scratching their name into the train windows, with the guys and girls who risk getting massive fines and or thrown in jail for painting something amazing in an alley off Chapel or Brunswick streets, and spending all their own cash to do it. A decent can of paint costs anything up to $30, and they don't go far. It's easy to spend hundreds on a piece. Would you nail a hundred bucks to the wall of an alley, to express your love for art?
"Stop me before I paint again"- Banksy.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
*please note- not all art on this page is from Australia (despite the title), but heaps of it is. It's just whatever dope shit I had on me at the time.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Which is tough, because, it's 3.05 am on a Monday, and I'm kinda bored with video games, reading novels, and reorganising all 27 Gigabytes of songs on my iTunes.
I've been a shut-in for months, and I've only just caught up with myself and realised it. I've avoided almost everyone on Earth, making exceptions for the people I live with, and whoever is working the register at the supermarket.
I want to meet someone.
I want to touch minds with someone, and learn something I never knew before. i want to expose myself to something different, like a song, or a poem, or a story. i want to hear about someone else's life, pat their dog, help them carve their mountain bike up and re-weld it into a street chopper.
Maybe it's one of those stupid and overly romantic thoughts, you know, when what you're imagining will never even remotely live up to the reality, should you see it through. A 'noble gesture', I think they're called. One of those "what the fuck was i thinking?" moments, where your entire focus is concentrated on how you can extricate yourself, while causing the least amount of possible offense, to whoever you caught up in this, your latest hair-brained idea.
The fantasy is this: go somewhere unpretentious, like Fitzroy for instance, and strike up a conversation with some random person at a pub. And just talk. Just, shoot the shit, and be natural, and hopefully have a good time.
This is wrong for so many reasons.
For a start, Fitzroy is about the most pretentious place I could go. Secondly, I hate pubs. They smell. And not in the good way. Thirdly, what do random guys in pubs talk about? i can't say I know, but I'm 100% positive I don't care, and couldn't put a good face on it. Sports? Girls? Work? TV? Honestly, kill me now.
So, I run my "C:\Program Files\Autoanalyse.exe", and it tells me quite bluntly that I'm bored, and that, as usual, I'm making the mistake of thinking the answer to my boredom lies somewhere outside of myself. Ah yes, I've been here before.
This is the feeling I get, just before bad things happen.
Bad things happen, I should say, to other people. I'm usually left just as intact, but also just as bored, as when I started. Past 'bad things' include: innumerable relationships, at least eight career changes, a stint in the armed forces, three trips abroad, nine dogs, a cat, two chickens, and the biggest tattoo you have ever seen in your life.
I think about those past relationships a lot, and I always think they were better than they really were. Like Rebecca for instance. She was stunning, there's no other word for it. Everywhere we went, everyone stared at her, then looked at me with a look that said "How exactly the fuck did you land that?" Their expressions of disbelief made it clear they all thought I was a master hypnotist, and that they felt terrible for the day when Rebecca would awaken to see she'd had sexual relations with me.
In truth, she hunted me, and I was so phenomenally bored at the time, the thought of playing outside of my league felt like just the ticket.
She was a smoker, and although she never did it around me, and she always smelled amazing, it carried on her breath. I tried to tell myself it was fine, and that I have to just accept people for who they are, without trying to change them. I should count myself so lucky, to have such an amazing and sweet girl, bending over backwards trying to convince me to see her seriously.
I tried, and I thought I was doing great, when one evening in summer, after a long, slow, and sweaty afternoon of sex, it all fell apart.
I was laying on my back, trying to cool off, and Bec crouched naked above me, gently blowing on my face. Her expression was one of total devotion, you can't buy care like that for anything. I was her entire Universe at that moment, and at that moment, all I could think about was how unpleasant her breath was.
So I ended it then and there.
My friends (there are only three) all thought I was insane, and warned me to go beg for her forgiveness instantly, because I would never get another chance with a girl like that. They were wrong, obviously. I have girls like that after me all the time. The secret is to not want them, then you can't get away from them. The second you actually need someone though, and you're all alone in the desert.
That's how it is.
I think it's better to just fantasize about people anyway. No relationship has ever lived up to my own fantasy of it. It's a sad fact about fantasies, that they fade and die along with the relationships they are connected to. But while they're going, you really can't beat them.
I'm not happy unless I have someone to fantasize about.
This may sound easily solved, but you'd be surprised. As with all simple things, I like to overcomplicate them as much as possible, and sometimes more. There are rules.
Rule number one: The fantasy must revolve around someone you know.
You don't have to have gone camping with them or anything, but you should at least have their number, and for them to know you by first name instantly, should you call them. None of this "Which knifey are you again?" crap, ya hear? Simply fantasizing about hot models or porn stars will not work. Besides, experience has shown me that if I do fantasize about a model/porn star, i will invariably meet them and become friends with them some time down the track, as improbable as it may seem at the time of fantasizing. Trust me, it's awkward enough, without crushing on them too. Besides, I don't like acting typically. Keep 'em guessing, that's the way I play.
Rule number two: You must have at some time, experienced an ambiguous moment with the crush, that you may or may not have translated the wrong way.
For example, my new friend Anna gave me a ride home from a bar one afternoon, after our first good chat. Both of us had to go and get ready for our respective jobs (Her: Real Estate Agent, Me: Tortured Artist Stereotype). I leaned in her window and told her I had fun, and that I'd call her sometime soon, so we could do it again. She smiled, said "Great!", then said "Kisses...", and presented her face for the customary peck goodbye. Melbourne is a very cosmopolitain city, and there are strict rules to adhere to when pecking. South of the river, anywhere between one and two cheek pecks are acceptable, although with two, you must alternate cheeks. North of the river, you generally just kiss the air, unless you're in Fitzroy. Then you kiss them on the lips. We weren't in Fitzroy, we were in North Melbourne. She kissed me on the lips, then drove off. If that isn't a pants-blastingly ambiguous moment, I don't know what is. Total mastie-fuel 4 eva. But i could have it all wrong, and she may kiss all her friends (new or otherwise) that way. If I tried to take her to the next level the next time I see her, I could get laid, or i could get a kick in the nuts. That's what makes it so hot...the not knowing part. Write this down.
Rule number three: The fantasy must easily be the most stupid avenue you could take under the circumstances.
If we continue on with Anna (and who knows, I just might) as an example, we find that my best buddy has an enormous crush on her, and it would rip his heart out, and utterly destroy our friendship for all time, should he discover that we have had sexual relations (which we haven't). Now we're really cooking! face it, with a mix this combustible and juicy, it's almost my responsibilty as a fucked up human being to just throw this baby on the fire, and eat it while it burns. The forbidden is one hell of an aphrodisiac, just ask any Catholic Priest in charge of young boys. Also, my girlfriend (five months and counting) would kill everyone involved using only her mind, should she discover any wrongdoing on my part. The kiss was borderline, if only because I genuinely didn't see it coming. Anything more would be very, very bad, and therefore, exceedingly forbidden and therefore, hot.
Rule number four: The fantasy must never involve anything other than sex.
The dirtier the better. Changing rooms, toilets, in public transport, the park at dusk, her parents bedroom, a confessional, or in the pool while the elderly ladies are doing their low-impact aerobics, it's all good. But if your mind strays to thoughts of quiet nights by the fire and plasma tv, you need to abort the mission at once. It's not a fantasy, it's an impending relationship attempt. They have their own set of rules, first and foremost being, there are no rules, and to forget everything you think you know about relationships heretofore, and to just submit to the crushing reality that is, your heart going someplace it's never been, without you having any control over it whatsoever. Good luck with that.
Rule number five: If at any time, the fantasy appears to be easily realised, it will become worthless. Instantly.
Yup, if you can have it, you don't want it. If you can afford it, it's not good enough. As long as it remains just out of reach, you're in the hot zone. But the second you get that feeling, where you know you're in the drivers seat, and all you have to do is park, get out of the vehicle, and blow it the fuck up. I used to have the maddest, longest, hottest crush on a woman (not a girl) called Jacqueline. All we ever did was fight, we couldn't stand each other. God it was hot. Our paths crossed all the time, no matter how hard we tried to avoid each other. And we'd be at each others throats like you would not believe. Everyone we knew in common was blown away by the ferocity of our arguments. We would get so personal with each other, she would break down in tears, and I would shake with absolute rage. I hated her. But when i was at home, i would think of this Italian woman, with her long dark hair, and perfectly sculpted everythings, and before you know it, I'd have a smile on my face, and a whole lot more laundry. As fate would have it, we both ended up being involved in a project together, unbeknownst to the both of us at our time of agreement. And at the very end of our respective involvements with the project, we found ourselves alone together. I could feel her just hating the shit out of me from behind my back, but I was too preoccupied with thoughts of backing over her in a tank, to let them distract me too much. Then, without any warning to my mind (this always happens), my body turned to face her, my mouth activated, and I said "I think about you when I masturbate. I think about what it would be like to kiss you, to slowly undress you, to explore every part of you. I could fuck you like you've never been fucked before, and the thought of it gets me off harder and longer than the thought of any other single thing." Thus having confessed, i sat back and awaited my derision. Jacqueline leaned forward, that perfect mouth smiling, and she said "I know. I can't keep my hands off myself when I think about you. I can tell the kind of body you have under your clothes, and it drives me crazy. I watch your cock moving in your jeans when you walk, and all I can think about is you fucking owning me." We sat in utter silence for a few seconds, then we both cracked up at exactly the same time. "Are you serious?" I asked, she replied "Yeah! Are you?", to which I replied "Totally!" The tears rolled out of our eyes, and when our laughter finally subsided, we both sighed contentedly, and that was the end of it. We never fought again, and we never flirted either. She knew the rules, and now, so do you.
But fantasies aren't all plain-sailing.
Like everything in my life, I have gone to an enormous amount of effort to discover new and exciting ways I can derail myself, and potentially fuck myself over better than anyone else could fuck me over.
Normally, when you're writing on your blog page, and you ask a question, it's usually rhetorical, right? (Do you love how I just did that?) Oh! I'm unstoppable! Anyways...we can dress it up in all kinds of ways, like "Maybe it's just me...", or "Don't you just hate it when...". And it's normal and we're not going to act surprised when people respond and say "No, it's not just you, I do it too!" Then you can kiss each others asses, and BAM! You're stuck having to leave nice comments for them for a few weeks until some other ass-kisser comes along and takes over.
The point is, I don't actually expect anyone to respond similarly to what I'm about to say. I know I'm not special, but i do think (read: hope) that no-one else goes through this thing that i go through, because it sucks, and not in the good way. And that thing is this:
In just the same way as most of us experience a diminishing range of ability to imagine stuff as we grow older, my abilty to fantasize has also changed.
I am so insecure, that it has crept into my fantasy life.
I get rejected, even in my fantasies!
If that isn't the saddest and most pathetic thing you have ever read, I don't want to know what is, because I'll probably lose all will to carry on.
So there I am, hands down my pants, grabbing at all my hard parts, and doing a little dance that looks stupid but feels utterly amazing. I'm thinking about you (and if you're a guy, and you're reading this, just go with it, because I'm not about to rewrite the whole thing for dual genders). I'm thinking about you, and we know each other, and we've shared an ambiguous moment, and it's a really bad idea, the worst idea even, and it's just sex and nothing more, and I make my move, and you look disgusted and tell me I'm a stupiddumbjerk, and I lose my erection, and feel really sad and pent-up and generally unsatisfied. And I'm all upset and rejected and hurt, and I'm just wishing I could get myself off without getting rejected by my own fucking private fantasy.
I mean Come on !!!
I should be able to take off and fly if I want! I should be able to punch Godzilla in the face, and stab him to death with his own broken teeth! I should be able to knock King Kong out, rescue Fay Wray, and do her relentlessly on the freaking roof of the Chrysler building, or the Empire State, or wherever the fuck ever.
God I hope my Mum isn't reading this.
Point is, i can't do any of these things, i can't do anything at all, because the people who control my fantasies aren't me, they are a committee consisting of every girl that has ever dumped me, every mean kid at school, every person, in short, who has ever been a c**t to me, ever, in my whole life.
And that is PATHETIC, with a capital P, y'all. I have to cheat, and fantasize that the fantasy is happening to some other guy (usually a friend), and I am vicariously getting off because whatever he's feeling feels so good, even though I don't get to feel it. Like, it's so hot, it gets me off, even though it isn't happening to me.
I'm in the crazy situation, where I'm so insecure, I can't enjoy a simple fantasy life. Instead, i have to 'make do' with reality, where my insecurities don't get in the way. is obverse even a word? 'Cause if it is, it should be in here somewhere! If I meet a girl, and we talk, and she looks at me a lot, and smiles, and makes a couple of digs at me so I don't see she's ready to be seduced at the drop of a hat, 'the committee' doesn't have a say in the matter. If she likes me, she likes me. And if she wants to have sex with me, the committee can't stop her.
And for some reason, I find myself in situations like this a lot. Either there are an inordinately large number of horny women in Australia, or i have met all the ones their are, despite the odds against such an occurrence happening. I haven't followed to see where these situations would take me for a long time now, like i said, i have a girl, and I'm doing my absolute best not to fuck it up. But if I were single, I have no doubt I would be living my fantasy life in reality, like I have done for years before now, without ever getting to have a proper, uncensored fantasy life in private.
And for someone who is a total hermit, that's a strange way to have it.
So, in the spirit of you all liking me and thinking I'm great, help me out, by sharing with me one of your fantasies. They don't have to conform to my rules, just make them real and honest. Oh, and relatively legal. Sodomy and sex in public are welcome, kids and animals, no thank you. Change names if you like, whatever. But hit me up with what you think about, and if you can go deeper and say why it works for you, that would be even better. Because it's the psychology of our fantasy lives that really appeals to me, more than the Penthouse Forum-esque descriptions themselves (as good as they are).
I'd love to hear what really confident and succesful people fantasize about. Do people like that even blog? Do thet even exist? What does Tony Robbins fantasize about in private? Please, don't let it just be his wife! What does someone who has it all, and knows everything secretly get off on? What about cops? And politicians? We all know what Presidents get off on, and to be honest, i think it's fair to speak for all of us when I say we were somewhat underwhelmed (although, to be fair, I saw a show featuring Monica Lewinsky a while after the scandal, and she looked freaking gorgeous...all of a sudden).
But most importantly, what do you, good people of the world, secretly desire, and how (and where/why/who with/when...)?
I think fantasies speak volumes about who we really are, underneath all the layers of superficiality. I don't think we can escape our fantasies, and I think some people are even tormented by them.
Let it out.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
My Mother would just die if she knew one one-hundredth of what I write on here.
Of course she would. She's old-school like that, but it's also because she has a lot she'd rather stayed hidden. We differ in this way. I love my Mother, and for the most part, I do what she says. I know I'm her favourite, out of all my siblings, but even so I haven't seen her in years, and for all I know, may never see her again. She's fine with this. We are very private people. But I like to confess, and this would hurt her, because she doesn't want the ghosts of our collective past to haunt our respective futures.
So I come to this place.
Not so often any more, but I do when I can. It's different now. Now that I've verbally puked all over my old 'fans', and my regular readers are all wet over whoever is new on 'the internot', I can kinda just do whatever the hell I like, and not try to be entertaining. Like a fresh diaper, just waiting for the inevitable.
I don't want to cry about my childhood. It was so long ago, I can barely even remember last week any more. Besides, I'm over it. All of it. I'm sure my love/hate relationship with myself was spawned from this time, but I see it as it's own entity, rooted in behaviourism as it may be.
I don't want to cry about anything really. So I don't. That's one of the ultra-awesome and mega most massive things about being all growed up. You don't have to cry if you don't want to. I doubt I could , even if I wanted to though, which is one of the bad things.
I'm not sure if it's me, or if it's societal, but I just feel so disconnected from everything. Politics...blah. The environment...blah. This war or that war...blah blah blah. I used to feel a lot when I was a kid. We all did, didn't we? But I'm not so sure the kids today feel much of anything, not the ones I see anyway. And the things they do feel are normally hormone-driven big mountains of nothing. Kids stuff. You know, like politics, war, and the environment. I guess it makes sense. You do anything for long enough, and you'll develop callouses. I just didn't know it worked emotionally also.
When I think about who I used to be, I'm practically unrecognisable (apart from the fact I appear to never age). I used to talk all the time, I used to have endless crises, I used to need to be around people. I kinda feel like I'm just waiting to die, because I've pretty much given up. I still do things, of course, and do them to the best of my abilities. I just don't hold out any hope of it meaning anything, or being big and/or shiny.
I think the main component of change was when i realised I don't give a crap what anyone else thinks about me or what I do/think/am. Good or bad, I really don't care, because I don't respect you. I'm not trying to be nasty here, just honest. Why honesty when I don't respect you? I really don't know why, but that's me. I don't want to get in anyones face about anything, I don't want to offend or upset anyone. But I don't respect anyone, and I want to be truthful about that. It's more to do with humanity itself, not individual humans.
I like some people right now. I think they're pretty amazing in a lot of ways. Some people in the world are so amazing I can't think of a single thing I don't like about them. And I'd like to keep it this way. But experience has shown that if I get close enough, or spend enough time around them, I will find something sooner or later, be it an opinion, or an act, and that one thing will make me lose all respect for them, and we will part the ways.
So as you can see. my respect is nothing much to strive for. It's fickle, like the rest of me.
When you don't like people (and I include myself loosely in this category), and you don't care what they think, suddenly your whole life's purpose to play music and write words for them loses its juice. So you stop.
You still play and write of course, but this time it's for 'you', and not 'them', and there will never be any payoff at all, let alone a big break or some other youthful ideal that used to act as an intense and neverending fuel. You'll just record a bunch of stuff, and save it to your computer, and you'll write a lot of stuff, and save it to your computer, and you'll die, and whoever finds your antiquated G4 in ten years from now, when going through your belongings on behalf of the landlord, will smash it for fun, and there's your life's work gone right there, forever, just like all of us and all our lives collective works, and every trace of both humanity and the planet we're riding on, when the sun one day swallows it all whole.
"Paging Dr Nietzsche, we have one of yours in the laundry room."
It sounds very negative I know. But the difference between what I'm writing, and being a Smiths fan, is that it's only negative because we generally try to look on the brighter side of life, not because it's wrong, because clearly it isn't. I do like the Smiths though. Let's just be clear about that.
I think I finally know myself now. I know I don't like myself much, and that I'm incredibly flawed, bordering even on the moronic. But I'm ok with that also. I have finally accepted the reason I am perpetually stumped by the people around me, is because as much as I have tried to kid myself into believing I'm not so different, I am. I am so different, that when they see me walking down the street, they have not only no understanding of why I would be so different to them, but they also couldn't care less if you paid them. I am about as far removed from the cheeky swaggering Aussie bloke stereotype as you can get. Somewhat predictably, I'm cool with this also.
I speak quite softly, i don't make a lot of noise or commotion. I am quite a composed sort of person. I am not the life of the party. I like to stand or sit in a corner and watch proceedings, until I've seen about all the drunken out-of-it-ness that I can handle, and then I leave. People think I love myself because of the way I look and walk around, so I guess I must have some kind of arrogant air about me. I think it says more about the observers personally, that's their deal, so to speak. Some people who know me from online are shocked and disarmed when they meet me, because I am generally very pleasant and smile a lot. Most people also, and somewhat erroneously assume this means I care. Not so. I'm just being nice, for the sake of it. I like manners. At the other end of the scale, I like fighting too, and even half an excuse is sufficient, depending on my mood. As I said, I'm far from perfect, and I know it. I know the kinds of people who bully are in desperate need of understanding and some kind of compassionate counselling and help, and so it makes me a rotten and selfish human being to go after them as I do. It makes me worse than them, because I can't hide behind ignorance. And I'm not even remotely likely to apologise for it. So there you go.
This is sounding quite noir. I didn't know what I was going to write when I turned on the computer. I didn't know this was coming.
I guess, in the same way I mentioned developing emotional callouses a few paragraphs earlier, that it works for anything. Stare at the sun, and you'll go blind (apparently). I used to do it for days when I was a kid, and my eyesight is still perfect. But like I said, I'm different. People need ever-changing stimulus in order to feel like life is working. Being comfortable all the time feels horrible. Getting mugged could be the best thing to ever happen to you. It might make you feel human. I love adversity. I never used to, but now I love it. When things don't go my way, it adds some spice to the dullness. Gives me something to strive for. I like striving. I don't like existing.
Which brings me back the the top of this vent.
We're all changing, right? Collectively, we're all numbing up. We don't want to know the people on our street. The only people we want to know are the ones that are like us, or are better than us, or can do something for us. We've all subconsciously swallowed this Coke-commercial reality, irrespective of how intelligent we are on paper. We don't consider others, we couldn't give less of a fuck, as long as they don't hurt us. We're a planet of ultra smart dogs. Pack mentality/moderately gregarious. Loyal to more powerful animals. Dangerous when hungry.
We want to hide in our headphones or mobile phone when we're in public, we want to go back to our safe homes and tune into whatever entertains us/defines us the most, and just consume that mass culture for as long as it remains entertaining. We want to hide from each other more than ever before in history, while at the same time we want to show ourselves like never before. We want our photoshopped photos on the internet, we want to construct false realities on our blogs, we want to get ourselves heavily into debt to buy cars we can't afford, to impress all the materialistic people we want to sleep with. Dermatologists, hairdressers, boutique stores, tanning salons, all seeing piles of our money, in an endless quest to look like movie stars.
And by 'we', clearly I mean 'you'. i don't go for any of that. I may be a fuckup, but at least I created my own original malaise.
If I could sit down with God, in front of his computer, and have him pull up just one file for me, it would be this: I would like to see what life would be like if everyone simultaneously just dropped the bullshit and decided to be real, all at the same time. For most people, i think it would be their first time. I know it's a terrible stereotype, but the suburbs are infested with people who have never had an original thought or idea in their whole lives. They have never said/done/been anything but a clone of whatever is cool at the time, through all the time they have in this life. Stereotypes exist for a reason. And it's not only confined to the suburbs, but you know what I mean.
We're programmed from early infancy to respond to physical beauty. It's in our genes. We worship beautiful people. This is awesome if you're beautiful, until you age, and then you have to spend the same money everyone else does trying to recapture the looks you had, and everyone else wants. We also worship rich people, which may also be in our genes. makes sense from a pack mentality. Doesn't make sense from a more evolved perspective though. We go apeshit over these far-flung concepts like 'the economy' and 'cool', that, as much as they are a part of everyones lives, and are all over the world, there is not one physical thing on this entire earth that someone could point at and say definitively, and for all time "That, right there, is the economy/cool." We get ourselves so worked up over the pursuit of sex, over body shapes and physical accoutrements to aid in their discovery/posession, in having wads of paper, or even more strangely, wads of paper that only exist on computer screens. We break our fucking backs trying to get an edge over everyone else in the looks/popularity/cool/sexy stakes, like we never learned a goddamn thing since High School (and we haven't). You could be a molecular biologist every day, but you're still hoping to buy that Lexus. And for what?
So we can end up with some girl that looks like Victoria Silvstedt? So we can fuck her every night, and maybe even talk to her? So we can be seen with her? So a few years later, when your ego and self-esteem have adjusted, you can get bored with her, and want someone else just like her, but with black hair, or who is Japanese? And so we can repeat this process til we die, and call it a life?
I was at a party with Victoria Silvstedt a couple of years ago. She was right next to me, and for the life of me I couldn't think of one thing I wanted to say to her, other than "Do you like your life?". I'd like to ask everybody that question, except there's no way to make them be honest.
At the end of the day, everything seems to boil down to the pursuit of sex. Money = sex. Power = sex. Being hot = sex. I've had so much sex I'm thoroughly bored with it now. It took me way too long to realise it though, to the extent that I am seriously considering sending out apologies to every girl I have slept with for the last 6 years, for just using them, instead of actually having sex with them. I was a lousy lay, because I was basically getting myself off, and not giving anything at all. How could I have not seen that at the time? Incredible, but I didn't. And I bet there are an incredible number of you out there who do exactly the same thing, and don't know it too. Like I said, I'm disconnected. So now I don't go for sex at all. I don't look for it, don't respond to it, don't have it. It's a nice feeling knowing I may have bags under my eyes, and having no reason to worry about it any more. Freedom, at last.
If you've read this far, it's safe to say you're not one of these people. You're someone who thinks, and has opinions, and is searching, not just for mass-media-stimulus, but for a spark of reality. You may totally disagree with everything I have said, and are reading every sentence, just cursing me, and wishing you could smack me in the mouth. I can dig that. I'm jealous you can feel so much. I hope you find an answer, I hope you can break out of this Pavlovian stimulus/response cycle I always go on about, that we call life. I hope you can discover a meaning or a reason behind it all, and that it is positive and brings you happiness, contentment, and above all peace.
If you can do that, please shoot me a line, because I'm heartily sick of not giving a shit.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
You know you're old, when you start seeing the differences between you, and "the kids nowadays".
There's no denying it, when you repeatedly catch yourself saying things like "back when I was a teenager..." So, I've just decided to face it - I'm OLD. I'm 34, and even though I reportedly don't look like it, I've decided to stop running, and to just let it go ahead and ass-rape me for all it's worth.
Why not? Make a day of it.
It's not like life has beaten me into a decrepid and creaky submission. I'm OK. I have been through plenty in my advanced years, but i can still whup-ass at GTA-3: San Andreas, and play guitar like a...well, you know. I wear jeans and trainers every day, and all my shirts say 'Iron Maiden' or 'Motorhead', just like the current state of street fashion dictates. My shirts are 18 years old, but that's just between us. I ride home- made custom junk choppers, and sneak into movies without paying. I masturbate, and wipe up my cum with my socks. So what's the difference?
Well, I'll tell you. It's them.
"Back when I was a teenager", I remember if someone older walked in, and was cool, we'd respect them way more than we would if they were our age. Example: Andy Goodman was in his early 30's when i was 17. He played drums, and freeloaded off his millionaire parents in their insane beachfront mansion in New Zealand. He was into surfing and hot models called Margot, and being wasted 100% of the time. In my eyes back then, he was like the coolest guy ever, because he was older. If I met him tomorrow, I'd think he was a waste of space, but a fun guy to have at your BBQ. I hope he doesn't Google himself.
Point is, we respected age back then. We weren't so arrogant to think we had all the answers. We didn't. But just so long as you weren't a teacher, a parent, or currently working in law enforcement, you could be OK by us.
Fast-forward to modern times, where we all fly around in rocket cars and have lightsabre duels all day. To kids now, age isn't cool, it's a disease. In some ways, I like what they have done with the whole 'being young' thing. You can have odd, high maintenance hair, and lots of tattoos, and you can cry whenever you want, even if it's in the middle of a song you're singing. Especially then. They've constructed this whole post-hardcore/emo scene where they get to sing about their issues (don't tell them they have the same issues as every other teen everywhere), glorify suburban life over the current inner-city stereotype, and make being into metal cool again.
Thing is, if you're over 25, you're pretty much not welcome- even if you're Bob Mould from Husker Du, and you pretty much kicked off the whole thing in the first place.
Check it out- I'm now of the generation that 'the kids' blame for fucking up the planet! *scratches head a lot.*
These kids have taken teenage rebellion to such an extreme that it's so all-or-nothing and you're-either-with-us-or-against-us now that their manifesto (written in tear-stained mascara) reads more like Bush foreign policy than good time party fun at 16.
I was MSN-ed a while back by some 16 year old plastic vagina from Myspace.com, who read my profile, listened to one of my songs, peeped my pictures, and decided I was cool. So we're chatting about music, and how hot I am, when she asks me my age. I told her, and like all the food in Africa, she was gone. Instantly.
I could just picture her in her parents house in Orange County, California, shivering and desperately tring to rub off all the old-person germs I had infected her with from across the internot (sic), smearing her foundation away from her orange skin, and uneating all over her keyboard. I didn't feel rejected, but i did wonder what the point of it all was. One second I'm so cool she can't believe she's chatting to me, the next it was as if I had shot fish guts out of my cock and all over her face, all at the drop of some arbitrary number that has no bearing on my life an more than my drivers license number or address does.
Who do kids think they are anyway? With their cynicism, and their bad manners? Who do they think came up with that shit in the first place? I'll tell you who - OLD PEOPLE, that's who! Like me!
It's like they had a secret teenagers-only summit meeting, and a consensus was reached on all the things that they would label as cool. Things like Converse sneakers, breakdowns in the middle of songs, and wearing their sisters mascara, irrespective of their gender. Then they all agreed that from this point on, they would all believe they had invented these things (not late 70's pool skaters, original oi punks, and Robert Smith in that order), and that no further correspondence would be entered into. That's like me deciding 'your car' is 'my car', and me just taking it right in front of you like C.J. from the Grove Street families. And that sucks for you. Being cynical wasn't something these kids earned as armour against their lives, they've co-opted it as a fashion statement. It serves no real purpose, as a lot of these kids I'm talking about are extremely well catered for (read: spoiled senseless). Fashion is expensive, y'all. Besides, everybody knows poor kids listen to Snoop and Dre, not Poison the Well and Coheed and Cambria.
So what does this all mean? Well, probably nothing.
I'm just exercising one of the many rights bestowed upon the aged, namely, the right to rant and rave, and shake your fist or rolled up newspaper at God, even if you're all alone in the middle of a park, and not be arrested.
I have decided to start a new movement. I wanted to call it "fuck the kids", but I thought the Catholic Church might think I was trying to move in on their territory. So I'm going with 'All kids are assholez" instead. Note the 'z' for added flava.
Basically, it's all about rubbing shit in the faces of all those little separatist age-nazis, by confronting them with the truth of ULTIMATE REALITY. And that is this- old people are like zombies. We may never be young like the kids again, but given a long enough time line, we're pretty much guaranteed to make you one of us eventually, even if you kill us all. So suffer in your jocks, you little shits.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.
And that is this- I don't think that many of us out here in Australia have actually done it. Grown up I mean.
It's like, when we finally emerged from the oily, sebacious gland pus of teenage behaviour, and eventually gave way under the crushing weight of jobs, bills, and trying to still feel alive, we forgot the inner component of growing up, and just kinda made a lifestyle out of going through the motions.
Being adult to me, isn't about resembling an ad for a home lean company, or any ad for that matter. If you could watch my everyday life as an ad on tv, not one of you would be even remotely interested in buying it (unless you were in prison).
My girlfriend doesn't look all pretty in a cashmere turtle neck reclining on the Italian leather sofa. She's friends with people like Mick from Slipknot, is a pro bartender, and could crush your spine one handed, without physics being even remotely problematic. I don't have a car. My puppies are very dangerous if you haven't been introduced to them. I can't remember the last time I ate anything even remotely related to actual food. But through it all, I do have one thing most people do not.
Remember that? We're living in an increasingly litigious age, that has fed off the decline (in Western culture anyway), of personal responsibility. We're so self-involved now, that we make excuses for the most appaling and antisocial behaviours. It's all "me, me me" now, which would be fine if you didn't have to coexist with "us, us, us". Help the woman lift her pram into the bus, and thank the driver on your way out. People look at me like I'm insane when i do this, but hey, guess what? He's a human being!
Don't preview all of the ringtones on your new phone in the elevator. Don't throw your chewing gum on the pavement, some of us have carpet you know. Don't ever smoke anything around another living creature ever. Don't tailgate. Use manners. Don't spit, it's gross, pig. And if you drink so much you do something dumb or otherwise out of character, suck shit. You still did it.
Why? because we all have to share, and be considerate, and get along. If you decide you're more important than everyone else, then the whole thing falls over, and the next thing you know, someone is stabbing you and taking your wallet, because they've just realised they too, can be more important than everyone else, and they are tougher than you are. See how that works?
You know the world is fucked up when it takes a heavily tattooed rock guitar player from the ass end of Australia to tell you how manners work.
Be nice humans. You don't need to be a hippie (thankfully!) to see it will eventually come back to you.
This is knifey, from 'the internet'.