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Do you know those epic dreams we have at some point in our lives? Not “dreams” as in “goals”, but dreams in our sleep? Those dreams that seem to hold a magic quality, that may lie dormant for years until we remember them and they then inject us with an alien energy that transcends our small routines?… Well, regardless… Today I suddenly and vividly recalled one of those dreams I´d forgotten about for a while, God knows when I dreamt it.
The task at hand is, of course, an impossibility from its very onset. Either we let these dreams float freely in our own minds until they eventually withdraw back unto oblivion… or we attempt to capture their magic into words, facing the danger of failing miserably in our attempt to express their magnitude. Or even worse, facing the danger of holding them hostage in a frozen portrait which is forever so distant from their full splendour.
And yet… what the hell. Here is a disjointed poem, a bad poem, a failed attempt to capture what I cannot quite put into words. Pardon the self-indulgence, and move on by all means if that is your wish!
The Fluorescent Night
Crystal Blue bathes this mountainscape of quietude,
An endless maze that somehow knows the way, so full of fascination, so full of poise and quasi-certainty.
The individual descends the luscious paths, silently rejoicing as he crosses dark, deserted valleys, heart breathing benevolence
No warts, no fucking needs, just pure discovery
The inner call for adventure has found its home.
Between rock and a hard place… the clandestine shop selling worn-out clothes as an excuse for old ladies to socialise… side by side with a 1,5 euro shop trying to look cool, young, trendy – yet ending up looking just as miserable. How stuck are we in the periphery to end all peripheries?
(click to enlarge)
How much more insane can it get? So there´s this new thing called Slydial, they say. It is a service of some kind that allows you to call someone´s mobile and leave them a message directly on their voicemail without having to speak to them. And what do they choose to publicise this?
“Dump your lover directly on voice mail
New phone service makes it easier to get through life’s awkward moments”
The above is [SIC], word by word, transcribed literally from online headlines. I will not post the link, I do not wish to provide them with stats.
Notice the pathetic “life´s awkward moments”… I can almost hear the generic orchestral background music and the soft voice whispering “sometimes we all need to take it just a little easier…”. Harder, silly, HARDER!
OK, it was easy to find love and get sex and everything else through this kind of anonymous game, as if in a parallel universe. And although the overabundance may be debatable, it is still within reason – people want, people need, let´s give it to people.
But to advertise that you can dump someone without the “burden” of facing them – and turn that into a sales pun?….
Technology is supposed to have made us lazy… I am starting to suspect is is instead turning us into cowards.
It does not get much more self-pity-like than this… yet I quote:
“The glass of Cabernet promises redemption from this absurd journey,
´softness and sweetness´, the menu seduces,
Thus I concede, the soft, sweet, lone drink a balmy farewell to this botched three-day time-warp of desolation. Forward, forward, unto darkness, the past is no more.
I vaguely recall a troubled youth paved with cinematic fantasies of shattered dreams,
resentful resignation, rugged flashes of women in trench coats crossing the streets at rush hour
as it poured on the metropolis,
taxis and puddles and traffic lights,
bad hair, big teeth and a harsh fashion sense weaving the alibi for such anonymous humility, such irredeemable failure. It had all gone wrong in these women´s lives, yet their quiet bitterness was ultimately so tender, so alluring, it begged to be embraced.
I did lust after these women, intense innocence and doomed faith, as one would expect. I extracted comfort out of their failure while vengeful supremacy boiled invisibly under a very slow fire. Football and all, you know.
Now I have come in despair, in search of hedonism and abandonment,
and I leave just as troubled,
wardrobe renovated, the soul just as shattered, I now know
l have been that woman all along.
I shed the trench coat as often as possible, in obsessive want of indifference, in luscious need of acceptance.
No amount of praise will bring this woman joy, no amount of tenderness will bring her peace. She breeds her own downfall, endlessly fascinated by the clouds that patiently build up the darkest shade of grey and the rain that pours and pours and pours without repent.
My life-time project shall now become the meticulous murder of this creature, the surgical extraction of this private black hole. One day the clouds shall dissipate, the metropolis shine. For a very first time, for one gorgeous last time. “
Thanks to Richard Wright who, in the middle of a meeting today, quoted these prophetic words from Tim O´Reilly: “Obscurity is a far greater threat to authors and creative artists than piracy“. Read the full essay (from 2002!) here.
Album of the week (month, year?): Lawrence English – Kiri No Oto. An instant classic from Touch, a serious candidate to favourite recording of the year – if we still have the neurons and the patience available for such exercises, that is. All I can say is I listened to it probably about 7 times since opening the mailbox around 12:30pm. It elevates you, it oozes strength and wisdom.
On the vacuity of top tens, the subject of desert island discs is, of course, a classic. Chris Wilson has something to say about this on the last chapter of his fantastic essay-made-book, “Let´s Talk About Love: a Journey to the End of Taste“. You prod through a substantiated analysis of Celine Dion´s merits and faults, as well as the enigma of her huge appeal, but the whole thing is truly rewarding. Wilson´s point about Desert Island Discs is remarkably simple: music is meant to unite and be shared, so the concept of listening to the same records over and over on a desert island is not far from torture. Spot On.
The band´s name is un .
You can visit the very first steps here.
Just testing for now – some substance soon.
“We Begin Again Constantly”.
“We Begin Where We Are”.
Pardon this personal diversion – the words came at the right time!
How true is it that one does not exist until one has been named? A nameless improv trio urgently needs a name. Please help. Some of our work as a trio can be found here (I know, I know, it is slightly yucky to be talking about Xmas in July), lots more is unreleased, just waiting for the right name that is taking a while to surface and, once found, will trigger the much-wanted chain of events.
As a hint: if these geniuses hadn´t already taken over the name Obliquity, we certainly would have.
So again, please help. Leave your suggestions in the comments section… or email. Thanks.
Look. Think. Do you know this place? What is wrong with this picture?
A:
This is the main floor of the main building of a University-level School of Art and Design in 2008. In particular, this photo focuses on the entrance to the headquarters of the Directive Board. And what does this College of Higher Education in Arts choose to symbolise their noblest area?
A worn-out replica of an ancient Greek sculpture.
Sure thing, I do find originality to be over-rated, and I have stated just that before… but what message does this local Venus de Milo send in regards to the Institution´s willingness to face the challenges of the future? Their willingness to foster exploration? To shed its accretion of phantoms with grace?…
Nothing against Greek antiquity, of course, and all due respect to the Milo Goddess. It is just that, in an institution that prides itself in having the IMAGE as the center of the communication process, this emphasis on the glorified ancient replica is probably the worst PR message one could ever conceive. Gimme Tracey´s over-rated, old-news, disgusting, self-indulgent mess any day instead, Beavis.
Notice how dark it all is, too.
End of rant.
“Give an infinite number of monkeys typewriters and they’ll produce the works of Shakespeare. Unfortunately, I feel like I’m reading all the books where they didn’t.”
anonymous, the internet is shit.
