Sunday, June 22, 2008

my fundamentalist oxford comma

I sometimes wish this insensible life would just stand still. Your best friend in the world is your worst enemy, your greatest burden. The boy you love is your hater. Up is down. Inside is out. I’m interested in causes, politics, rights, struggles, riots, war and peace. I’m interested in world media, issues, global warming, the environment, saving the forests, medicine, cures, vaccines, news bulletins, newsprint, posters, propaganda, North Africa, Jamaica, reggae, Rastafarianism, dreadlocks, Bob Marley, HIV/AIDS, Save Darfur, genocide, guns in America, terrorism, famine, kitsch, bright red telephone booths, that haunting hunger in girls that could so easily be fed [anorexia], glamour, old-school, curiosity shops, retro eras, the 60’s, Cuban cigars, CUBA!!, vintage magazines, fashion design prints, animal rights, graffiti and public buildings. I am going to visit the Kalk Bay Trading Post and pick up a few ideas from the dusty stash of treasures I can find there. Long Street will also have some interesting things, if you just look very carefully, like in second hand boutiques and thrift stores.

If this is brainstorming, it’s gonna be thunder and it looks like rain.

Coffee makes civilized conversation possible in these demanding times. The camera is the glass lens through which your world becomes an artwork, or perhaps the only way you can remember a particularly drunken night out. They sold their souls and put the money in the money tin or piggy bank. The fire is represented by a match box (understated by still life object); for genes a pair of jeans; for global warming perhaps an ice cube and for the environment a jar of earth. They stowed away family heirlooms in jewelry boxes, acquainting with dust and years. They wanted change but got only coins. And so on.
I am beginning to be inspired by the unobvious boldness of still life…stating the obvious though rebelling against the ordinary. It’s deeper than simply an arrangement of objects on a surface. It’s a mockery of the mundane, and I’m going to make it worth something, make it an idea, a philosophy, a message that I am going to communicate about the irony of reality. “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” says the impudent statement of René Magritte upon stating that his seemingly obvious drawing of a tobacco pipe is, in fact, not what it is. Still life is impertinent, cheeky, with a kind of motionless, silent audacity that makes it so fascinatingly unreserved. I wish I was as unassumingly presumptuous as still life, with confidence to get through each day without worrying about my reflection in nearby windows.

I love the ironies in life, the bitter contradictions and the bold and dastardly arguments between chemistries. I see these ironies in everyday life, driving past in the city, in traffic, in crowded places. A vagrant rummaging in a trash can below a towering glamour poster for Gucci as rain drizzles down around him.

I want to write songs and poetry, though how can I when I have no experience of real love? Perhaps I could write about loving but never truly being loved?
I’m afraid.
I wanna stick my life all over my walls. I wanna document my life, put it all in pictures, then collage myself on the walls to remind me of who I am and where I’ve been.

Why are walls so significant to me?

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