Archive | May, 2011

SCARS, WOUNDS AND MARRS.

31 May

Devil Tarot

I’m plagued by the memories of situations tangled in complexities underpinned by unknown factors and awash with a passion that’ll tear the chain outta the wall any minute now. If I cut myself some slack I’d raise a glass for the true pursuit of the cardinal virtues: wisdom, temperance, justice and courage. But I don’t and I know I have failed them, all four. I am a stupid, reckless, selfish coward.

We are, all of us, all of those things, and their opposite all the time. It ain’t easy. What court presides over the fluxus of daily interpersonal conduct? Only our own self-interested and distorted recollection. The fluctuating narratives of the he said/she said fandango. And the memory hole lurking in the dark gap between what is said and what is done amidst a storm of confusion created by the glaring corruption of our spiritual institution. Facing the brunt of a storm I have only the obsolete words of a near-lost ritual, rarified to the point of meaninglessness, yet earnest: Mother in Heaven, I have sinned, hear my confession.

What a battered saga lays twixt me and my last awkward confession to some bloodless, badly-shaven, cold-eyed man in a high black collar with a white tab signifying some s’posed wisdom on the other side of an archaic bit of woodwork designed to allow the clear transfer of whispered, shameful and shaming voices while obfuscating eye contact, making touch impossible.

How many awkward, wild, tender and nightmare-scary moments have passed on mattresses in sundry condition in so many cities and towns. In tents, on a field, near a tree. On a rock in the mountains. Surrounded by four walls that close in a little each night. How many times has it been an immortal choreography? How many times a disappointment? How many a refuge? How many will be sometime, sublime death-bed memories?

And how I long for that again and how it lurks and darts in front of me but always out of reach. Again and again a facsimile of what I seek but false. Or true perhaps, obscured by the fear of impostors. A filibuster straight from Desire with nothing of love in it. It feels like (yet another) test. And the journey has already been so long. It’s all around me, I have eyes. But they see too far, they see around the corner to the myriad of consequences. The knowledge that you can hop on a bus and end up travelling just as far in the wrong direction…

It’s another beautiful day in Melbourne. But it’s the goddamn Anglo-Saxon jive man. Snatching misery from the jaws of euphoria. I’ve got women on my mind. Desire is a knife-edged psychopath. Watch out for it. S/he’s not interested in your happiness one little bit. Enough! let’s have some whinging white-boy crap on the jukebox ‘ey.

IT’S MONDAY MORNING (AND I FEEL FINE)

30 May

I am contemplating my tough life

Before, it was the bitter and dry Victorian set doing the John Bracks shuffle wrapped in navy blue and grey; the inevitable black stylists (me included). The lonely crowd pushing Despair to the side as a matter of the habit of slaves starting another grim week of duty. Duty to the almighty Grand March forward to a world with a dollar sign on everything.

And because of that grand march, dig it, the buildings behind me. The docklands development of Melbourne is part of a global phenomena. Brisbane got its back in the 80s (at last a cultural first). Excellent place to imbibe of lysergic acid dyethlemide #25.

Sydney had theirs built in the halcyon 90s decade. It might still be there, you never know with Sydney. I’ve been there, stayed there. Out on the town there. It reminds me of the lives of battery hens if you let ’em go to the pub in the mall on Friday night.

Barcelona has its as well, haven’t been there.

The conversion of old, environmentally-dangerous, inner-city docking facilities, infamously awash with junkie bars and criminal networks, to new Jetsons-type living where once again the river is the star attraction the architecture serves and not just a place to spew our filth into – is grand. It makes (maybe) that whole crazy dance worth it. Here, in this beautiful and peaceful place where the Monday morning racket is a far away drone, we have a glimpse of the long-promised Brave New World.

People will complain that this is only something the rich can afford. And naturally it is. Will waterside views always be the privilege of those higher up in the chain? Will the chain always be based on money and education? What of it when those things are freely available to entire populations? How will we feed our need for command and obedience and hierarchy then?

No matter, inhale deep and pause…. enjoy the Sun. You won’t see it for a while, doesn’t matter how much money you got.

PRINT

29 May

Gilbert Print

“The Skeleton In Armour”, 1857
John Gilbert (1817-1897)
England

TUNE

29 May

ABBAheAlbum

They are so too cool, Shut up! 🙂

WORDS

29 May

Shelley

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
‘Tis thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain
Spirit false! hast thou forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure;
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure;
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost
Which is Nature’s and may be
Untainted by man’s misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise and good;
Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost
Possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee-
Thou art love and life! Oh, come,
Make once more my heart thy home.

“Song”, 1821
Percy Shelley

FUNKY DOLLAR BILL

28 May

The pusher, push
The fixer, fix
The judge acquits,
The junkie leads his life

WarholBuck3
Lyrics: George Clinton I presume. Image: The Warhol Estate

THE REVOLUTION BEGINS HERE

26 May

They’re on about solar power. They say the revolution begins here. Of their sincerity I have no doubts. But what I want to know is, what I want to know is what happens after the revolution? Who will be in charge? And how do we stop them from grinding us into the ground.

In one corner the Left who after two centuries of rapid change propelled by a cycle of constant change made possible courtesy of the perpetual innovations of capitalist technology that make manifest this form of writing and publishing, this style of music. That produces the liquor we drink and the food we eat and the spliffs we blow… that makes all this possible – in that corner are the avatars of those who would change it without understanding that this is change. In the other the Right who just keep singing the same old tune, indifferent to those who get crushed, who are left out, who lose.

Congo slum

The music goes back to the beginning. It’s a new global style harking way back to the fractured tribes of pre-history. A stomp, a clap and a chant: words that testify. Full circle we’ve come and now the tribes are transcontinental associations connected by the internet, the phone and the camera.

Outside on the street the scents of an ancient and most useful herb blend in with the familiar braggadoccio jive viz slicin’ and dicin’. An impro freestyle rap session. But no-one stomps. There’s no machine to tell them what to do. The revolution starts here? I sense the same old instincts, the same aggression that took centuries to control and channel constructively enough to get here to this point where the different tribes can blend in peace and harmony. Inside on the dance floor there’s a greenhair’d heavy metal dude who likes to push people around on the dance floor. To my left a couple of sophistos you’ll never see anywhere near the floor dismissing an acquaintance: he’s a junkie.

You can smash the state, it’s been done. Tho’ these days methinks it a might more difficult than once it used to be. You can put the oil barons and media lords and mainstream party politicians up ‘gainst the wall. You can murder the tax department, the cops, the soldiers and anyone who works in a human resources department. You can make laws of peace but you can’t change the monkey…

After the revolution – what?