Moved.

Out with the old, in with the new: http://from-the-gutter.blogspot.com/

Describing the Colours and The Disease of Doubt.

To start from the beginning? Nah, firstly I couldn’t even remember accurately when I grasped consciousness on this whole farce; and secondly I’d only serve to misrepresent, you know when you just can’t get it right, oversimplifying, exaggerating, playing down or abbreviating all the wrong things in all the wrong places? Plus I am in no way narcissistic enough to think you’d care for my life story, the origins of my being, I know it bores me half to death to even consider telling it. Instead I will brief you by telling you that I am considered an ill person, a spoilt person and although possessing the latter trait, my words and actions mean very little (if not nothing) to my peers around me. Consider me the pig who likes to think it can evaluate its own poke, a lonely consciousness and un-articulable clarity at the price of misery. Gosh, and what misery this difficulty brings to even pen these words to paper when it seems all I’ve ever set out to do is jeopardise myself and any chances of prosperity that have ever come my way; worse still I’ve even actually started to feel contentment with this seemingly backwards arrangement! Hell, these words seem too much like progress for my liking! Yet I must keep thrusting ungracefully forward, forcing myself to believe that you dear reader won’t view me as disdainfully as I am capable of viewing others, most of all myself.


If you're still here then let's start from the here and now, from the throbbing pulse of the point and straight to the core. This body exhausted and this mind blown...


II.

Stacking shelves is selling yourself as is bending down in a clients face.

I never tired of laying here early morning. For five days solid the cars moved outside, evacuated the lot as regular as the sun came around. Out went the neighbours like profitable ghosts to spend their civilized days, the nights before filled with lucidity, superficiality, venality -all the qualities necessary to make one stick to a successful reality. Laying awake, sharing the morning consciousness, the sound of the neighbours televisions came through the walls most mornings, the programmes always the same, gray news coverage, the aspiration of the advertisement, the light hearted finale to get you on your way, the same zombie like procession day after day. Because of this repetition I rarely bothered to turn on the television most days, the bright lights held the allure of many, a moving stairway to nothing, a sedative of sorts, too much moving imagery to evaluate the stillness of the nameless day.
My work began in the dark. Night time and another world is rising, animalistic, harsh and brutal, revolving without reason. Those with little pride stayed in the shade of darkness, no pride to protect them from the light. And what envy I possessed for those strong enough to face the light, for such blissful unawareness, for such a prolonged adolescence. Half past eight in the morning on an overcast day, out went my peers to greet despondently the working day. The reality of the myth of Sisyphus, pushing forth, going nowhere. His hill now a desk, a word processor for a rock. Even the God’s thought there is no more dreadful punishment than a futile, hopeless labour.

Wreckage inside all that's real
Another bought product, no reality
Passive consumers with patrolled desires
Mindless countdown to retirement

Yet I lay and try to numb my senses when it comes to such talk, conscious of the perception of the angry lone pessimist, all too aware of how media and its holy counterparts have made the caricature of the little man as unique, ridiculed and as dangerous as the local village idiot. Oh, to blow the man down with a distorted image, one sees themselves as reflected in others. A world of warped carnival mirrors - held up to you by those with vested interests...

Word from the wise...

"The more sensitive you are, the more likely you are to be brutalised, develop scabs and never evolve. Never allow yourself to feel anything because you always feel too much..." -Marlon Brando

Efface...Expunge...Erase...Delete...Rub Out...Wipe Out...Obliterate.

'As every humanities undergraduate now knows, Barnes in his famous 1967 essay The Death of the Author, declared that writing is a kind of self-annihilation or death - not an act of self discovery or self expression, not a covenant with immortality. Or to put it in Nabokov's terms, one writes not with the graphite at the nub of one's pencil, but with the eraser on the other end...'

Vladimir Nabokov and the Art of Play - Thomas Karshan.

The skull beneath the skin.

Human

The fever. The sickness. The plague. This emotional plague.

Late tribute to articulacy, sensitivity and true beauty.

Lo! some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That Time and Fate of all their Vintage prest,

Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

Edward FitzGerald