Friday, October 12, 2012

Gravity and Contrast

On the back of his staff shirt,
a three-step order:
identify, understand, enable.

On the back of yours sweetheart;
a bikini strap tan.

Between tan lines and acts of servitude
lies a potential freedom.
They press and cajole you
towards this
frame of thought.
Which is strongest?
Gravity decides.

But listen,
Tan lines fade in Honolulu
And you pay for servitude.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

These Exhibitionists

They laugh
at the end of another exhibition
parting ways and saying goodbye
to the ephemeral nature of it all.
Then to their beds,
they press themselves quickly
into the grinding heat of
another day.
And then it’s back to work,
to the mind,
to instinct
to whatever love
whatever virtue
they can muster for their art,
what’s left is saved as tears
and kept for tomorrow,
for these exhibitionists
use everything.
And then the rest of the day
they do whatever they have to
to Keep it light,
to keep it easy,
and to be ready,
for another flight of fancy
another night to fight
the ennui.
Till the next day,
then the next,
then the next.
With minor miracles
on their side,
tender mercies
till the sun blows up.

Wrote this thinking of all the exhibitions I've been going to, it's wonderful meeting new friends and learning from whatever 'minor miracles' you can find hanging on the walls. But also how transient the experience is, like everything's experienced through smoke. But I love the people, the jokes the engagement with life and as much as I used to feel tense at shows, it's all easing up now in equal measure. All this comes with letting go, putting the 'self' aside, holding firm to what really matters, love and people. 

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Wilco's Cover

Here's a number that I was thinking about while loading the 'True Love' strip on the web, a cover by Wilco of Daniel Johnston's 'True Love Will Find You In The End'.

True Love.

Here it is, my first comic/poem hybrid. Be warned it's a little sappy. I was a little sentimental the night I wrote this, what can I say?

Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Security Guard.

I know that it is common knowledge that we suffer from a lack of identity, but then again how do I know? Can anyone speak for everybody?

I was talking to one of my friends over the weekend, who works as a security guard. He went on about his dissatisfaction in his workplace, the fronts that people put up, the ways he gets treated, it's all common knowledge, and normally with anyone else, my head would be spinning the words , yada yada yada, it's something I've heard of before, but from him, it felt like a special occasion, it was as if he carried all the gravitas and weight that I've felt lacking from many a conversation.

Can anyone be said to be genuine anymore? Well, it felt like he was something like that, for that moment at least. Something happened last night when he spoke. It was as if a pin had dropped in the centre of our pub and everyone had to be quiet. Was it because those words were the last thing that you would expect such a person to say? Yet at the same time it felt for me, that he was the only one who could talk about these things. The security guard, the quiet one at the party, the truly observant one, I've always suspected that the one who rarely speaks, not out of intimidation, or passivity, but from the wisdom of erudition, has a voice like no other.

He was the one who lived under the heel of a boot, where all he got to do was to watch the figure on top, pressing down on him. It was as if that if he were to speak, he would be the one to say it for everybody. A man like my friend, has learnt more about life than any university grad could ever hope to figure out. That being said, there are many security guards that do irritate me, the kind that hold on to their positions as if it was their God-given right to inflict their own brand of justice in some out-dated style of a bad ass cop figure type. They hang on to their sense of authority, or to put it in another way, their sense of position, as if it was the last thing they had in all the world. I assure you that my friend is not that sort at all, he's a sensitive soul with a hard as nails facade.

He also talked of a distaste for plasticity in our culture and in our lifestyles. In return, I shared with him my view, that  in every relationship, there seems to be a measure of compromise, of falsity/plasticity, that the ability to live true to anything singular, is abhorrently difficult because whatever is true to any individual is so contorted and twisted by media. We the Hollow Men (although it's Eliots', let's claim it for ourselves) are so hungry for reality, for a way of truth in our lives, but in this media saturated environment, where everything is up for grabs and nothing sticks, the quest is even harder, even causes for good have to be marketed and approved with some incentive, some appeal, it has to become fashionable. Trends die. That's the natural progression for trends, can we learn something from that?  I suspect that one of the things we've learnt from trends, is that we now understand the silent art of disposing each other, and our beliefs and convictions. When we've sucked each others wells dry, a new trend in our fashionable lifestyles can begin.

After the conversation, as he turned his back to me, I lingered on my view that moved from our balustrade, a panorama that began by looking down from the back-end of the Esplanade, then stretching up to the channel of water and eventually, directly at MBS. The dice was rolling against everything as I turned to join my friends, I felt that potential slip back into a world of compromise as we would make our way back to our separate states of being. I know I can't let it go anymore. This is all the reality I have left. Those last words that felt real over the weekend, by my friend, the security guard.