Saturday, November 15, 2008

Absence makes the heart forget what it was originally looking for...

I've been away again, for way too long, and once again, I'm thinking I should spend more time writing.

Not for my old fans, who I either never hear from, or have all added me on facebook.

But for me.

I need to write the things I do, and although I don't do it for attention, it is nice to feel like people hear you, or you're a part of something bigger.

But most of all, it's because for some reason I can't fathom, I let my beliefs fall by the wayside, and kinda let myself submit to someone elses needs/wants/demands. I used to be quite direct regarding my boundaries, but for the last 8 months, I've let who I am be dictated to me, which is never healthy or right.

So for better or worse I have a million bottled up words and stories inside me, and I recognise the need and the correctness in letting those parts of me have a voice and exist, in this, my corner of the internet.

I like my words, and I like to come back to them (some more than others!), and read them with fresh eyes. I think they should have the opportunity to find like minded friends. I even think they can make the occasional day better, or night more amusing.

I sometimes think in quite small bursts, and I write that way too. Sometimes the greater meaning is implied and contained in a hint or a suggestion, without the need for a novel.

If you get it, I hope you like it, or are inspired, or challenged by it.

Because these are my paintings, these are my grand works, and although they're constructed entirely of words piled upon each other, the design is mine, and they each house a different purpose.

I'm standing on a lonely mountain, after a long hard climb, and it's raining words if you stand there.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

The future...

"The future...!" (Said by Orson Welles in that big, classy voice of his). Oh, it's one exciting-as place allright!

It's where cures for breast cancer, the death of impermanence, and killer robots that can speak fluent mandarin Chinese all hang out.
It's where mass production of fully electric cars by the major manufacturers is hiding. It's where the end of this sentence is (was!)

That's the god thing about the future. You can just sit back and wait for it, and it's sure to roll up eventually. You just have to be patient. Some people worry about the future, to which I say "Don't worry, it will be along presently!" Makes sense, right? Not like some people, who wait their whole lives for the past to come back, or who want "this moment to last forever". That doesn't sound so good.

I get bored easily.

I loved Def Leppard in the 80's (apart from the ridiculous lyrics of course), and I even like them once in a while right now. But listening to them non-stop from the 80's to now would have been a bit tedious. If I was still enjoying my first kiss, I think I'd be more than a little frustrated by now, but having said that, if I was still having my first orgasm, I'd be retarded to object to it. That's one of those exceptions you occasionally hear about. But on the whole, I think it's great that the future comes along an gves us all new orgasms to have. I mean, experiences.

When I was a depressed teenager, I wrote a song called "The future has yet to hurt us". Clearly, I wasn't getting laid a lot back then. But fast forward a few years, and a bazillion orgasms later, and I'm generally a lot happier.

If they administered orgasms in hospitals, society in general would a be a lot happier too (although it's hard enough to get a bed already!) The massive poplularity of naughty nurses video titles attests to the demand of this valuable public service. Who knows? Maybe in the future...but I digress.

The thing about the future, the real thing, that has nothing to do with sex or technology (seriously, why bother reading any further?!), is that it comes.

Nothing will stop it from coming, apart from your death, and then it will only stop coming for you. Besides, in that case I dare say you'll be past caring.

This is more advice to myself really but if you can squeeze some juice out of it to, go right ahead...

I have this idea in my mind (where all my ideas come from), a daydream almost, where, it's the future, and I am happy, and everything is all right. And that's nice. But my experience from the past tells me everything won't be all right, unless I make it all right.

And so I know that lovely vision of the future won't come to pass without a lot of effort and attention.

So maybe there is some juice in that for all of us after all?

We people tend to just hope and believe the world and society and culture will change despite us doing just as we do, in the same way we all believed we were going to be famous for something, just by sitting at homer playing Atari. You feel me, right?

Gandhi said "Be the change you wish to see in the world", and like most things, he was right. We're so lazy. Let's get Orson Welles back to say it for emphasis:

"You're so lazy, people of the earth!"

So let's avoid that situation where we're stuck listening to Def Leppard for ever, and change the record, and do a little work, and grow a little, and watch as everything around us gets so much better, so much sooner.

Anything that just falls in your lap is just worthless anyway...easy come, easy go. If you worked for it and made it happen, it's ridiculously meaningful. Nature is sick like that.

So the next time I'm lying on my bed, dreaming about the future, where everything is nice, someone please remind me to get off my ass and go practice, or save some money instead of spending it on nothing really, so that in the future I'll have some skill, and I won't have starved to death.

Or even better, so I can just lie on my bed and daydream, about the future.

Some say laziness is simply resting before you need to, that it's a form of organisation. And I guess they're right, if by "organisation", they mean gambling.

I'm not the gambling kind, so I think I'll maybe just listen to Gandhi, and be the hange I want to see in the world.

See you all in the future.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

c(her sigh) = λ.f

She looks like a runner, who has been bundled into the back of a van, given a hairstyle and a nice dress, and unleashed upon the unsuspecting town.

She is straightforward and pretty, without the slightest hint of artifice. Her handbag has so many sequins on it, it looks as if it's in the process of being teleported out of here.

She was standing on the traffic island in the middle of the road, holding a pile of books to her chest, chewing the top left corner of one either absent mindedly, or in an attempt to look cute. Or hungry.

Her head tilted to the left, eyes cast upward, lashes heavy and fake.

She sighed, I sighed.

Dual doppler effects, out of phase with one another, as we passed and that's that.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.


I hadn't known her long, so I thought it was super nice when Gemma offered me not only a much needed last minute ride to the airport, but a couple of hundred dollars contingency money as a loan. I thought the least I could do was pay for her parking, so I bought a ticket, and was just on my way back to the car when the roof collapsed. Her car split in half, spilling Gem out onto the parking structure floor, still strapped into her bucket seat, blood soaking her sweatshirt, a look of utter shock on her face.

She was sobbing between rushed breaths, clutching her ATM card to her chest.

"What's your pin number?" I asked hurriedly, afraid she was going to die before I got that money. "My what?" she spluttered blood all over her handbag. "Your pin number...I'm late for my flight!"

Finally understanding the gravity of the situation, she offered "0000..." then she breathed out red mist and passed away, before I had the chance to congratulate her on how straight gangsta her pin number is.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.

Bitch style.

Joel had one of those 'New York City' vibes, where, while it looks like all the disparate elements of clothing were brought together by pure happenstance, or a rather un-pecuniary lifestyle situation, you've just gotta know that there are four very serious years of art school behind it.

That U.S.S Nimitz cap with the gold embroidery, that grey tee shirt that says "Osaka wee wees", with the Adidas tracksuit top over it, the brown corduroy pants and white hi top Reebok pump sneakers (worn without a trace of irony), the floppy hair peeking out from the cap in all the wrong places -all on purpose. Sort of like when a mad scientist comes up with a new bio kinda leaves you wondering why, what was wrong with the selection of bio weapons we already had? But you're not meant to know why, and neither am I. If we knew, we'd have been to art school too, and all the corners and lofts of the East Village reserved for people who aren't you also. That's just how these things go. That's the kind of street level shit advertisng execs fantasize about porn. The kind of deal that can't be bought, and one of the few Universal items (along with music, art, and writing) that keep frustrated people with money frustrated and outside the boundary. It's a code, and it says "Whatevz, basically".

Oh, they know how to spell. They just don't want to.

Ice cold.

But it's not without its "chinks in the armour" as they say. Because as much as you're not welcome, and they don't care what you think, they only feel that way as long as there are other people trying to get in. If that flow of interest stops, you'd be amazed at how quickly the code, the style, the impenetrable exclusivity goes out the window. You'd be amazed at how quickly they start to resemble human people again, only "plus arrogance" (said with a French accent), and the usual "Get fucked" (no exclamation mark), as if they came up with it first. Nothing lasts forever, especially pubescent (or post pubescent -pubescent) attempts at genre defying.

Stuntmen of fashion. Gladiators set loose in a media coliseum constructed entirely of 80's downtown art galleries, armed with dressmaking scissors, bolts of fabric for shields, and starring the general public as 'the hungry lions'. Albeit, gladiators wearing original 'Walkman' personal cassette players. But why not, right? There's no point turning a zeitgeist on its head in any subtle way. That's not going to impress anybody, and the social sheep would probably mill right by it. You have to charge in there, all guns blazing (naked, preferably), and do as much damage as possible, lest Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren send you a stern joint email. And no one wants that. Not even for the novelty of it.

If you want to start your own thing, you don't say "please".

The general idea is to get as many people simultaneously saying "What the fuck?!" as possible. Then you know you're onto something. When you've got the people talking about it on the train to work in the morning, and especially when the Italians hear about it after it has already happened, and can't co-opt it without looking like thieves and rapists, which of course they are.

That's what "couture" means. When you throw a "haute" before it, it just means you do it all a bit more ruthlessly than everybody else. It means you have AMBITION. "Tres dangereuse".

Do you see now?

the kids are smarter than they look. Even if they have no conscious idea of what they're doing, or why they're doing it, they know. Like a puppy knows its Mother, or a root knows to dig for moisture, the kids know acting mildly retarded will pay off in spades (for some of them anyway).

And the rest can look cool by association (or just plain retarded, depending on whose eyes you're viewing them through). They even write it "retraded" now, like it's theirs because they changed the spelling, and you can't have it, and if you call someone a retrad and you're over 25, you're a fuck.

You had no idea, did you? It's a lot of work, being awesome. Endless coffees and late night drinking sessions, planning, spending of parents money, and politics. Oh, the politics! Where gossip holds far more water than boring old facts. And the fall out hits you like a late night nosebleed, where your shot at being somebody has ended because someone above you didn't like the way you glanced at their sex du jour.

And the effect is so devastating, the damage so complete, you leave art school feeling like Dresden, and go and actually make a name for yourself doing something worthwhile, like actual art. Which perversely is the only strangle hold the rich and influential have over the kids -the real money flavoured art world, legitimacy, and all new levels of backstabbing and bullshit. The big time!

Anyway, that's the look Joel was rocking.

Bitch style.

This is knifey, from 'the internet'.