What I look like is the least important part about me. Bare physical details will never really get across what makes me, ME. And what I have now in terms of skin matter won’t last but my ideas recorded through writing...... oh, they can outlive me.
Inside me:
Cherries and peaches come at ya to feed you on the intergalactic trip to Ursa Minor, then back down to the Amazon in jaguar form to climb the trees, move on the ground freely and swim the water. To lick the hallucinogenic backs of frogs whilst crawling around naked, to roar and fuck like a lion, to roam with the mountain lions and avoid getting shot by Che, to send Jimi’s arrows of desire back to Jupiter and shimmer, glitter, EXPLODE like a star, a nuclear reaction; STAR BRIGHT, SO LIGHT, STAR LIGHT. To leap over mountains as if they were mere foothills and capture dreams of friends who melt into cats and then burst into a stream of colours. To feel as oblique as ultraviolet shining through a prism seen by a particular type of butterfly in Thailand; to swim, stoned within floating tyres near Buddhist temples where the monks wear dusky red – yet red means cold and is further away from us than the blue ray in the expanding universe of music, but the question is –will it pop before you die?
Do you know what it means to be human?
We haven’t finished yet – we’ve not reached the Sahara Desert yet....
Nothing I write is ‘mad’ because I’m only responding to the fucking insanity of this warped world; when sometimes I feel that popular thinking has had a brain lobotomy and I seethe that Orwellian double speak always sells well. Ruh! Ruh! The word ‘dog’ doesn’t bark. And I only write because no one else will say it for me (except when I quote others out of context).
My sexuality for me is how I think, feel, touch, and experience.... the interaction of the pheromones and a meeting of minds and mutual desires. How I see through my eyes...........
I live it and feel it – no need to be on a stage. You don’t have a monopoly on it. Taste the acid rain.
I can also touch myself in my own right. Or should that be left? I touch these keys........ the closest I’ll come ...... to being the punk poetess that I wanna be. I am the anti-Lady Gaga of words, at least. Take these slices of my brain and try and find the coded ‘female’ in me – the so-called ‘cerebral’ one. Ho, ho, brain cells fire in patterns and if there are 9 genders, I,oh, why is it ‘I’ and not ‘E’ or ‘K’, K? I have at least 3 and I’m trying for the fourth.
I don’t want to suffer delusions; I’ll always try and connect with somebody out there. I create pictures to try and tell the story of how I’m BEHIND the camera, the canvass; the subject and not the object. In my own world and in control.
Tuesday 25 May 2010
Friday 14 May 2010
Three
Three
It’s strange for an old activist like me to want to post a blog that doesn’t comment explicitly on current political events (the mass uprising in Greece / the new Lib-Tory coalition in the U.K /arrest of trade unionists and socialists in Kazakhstan/ name your country). Why? Because I know (despite my advanced years) that I’m active OFFline. You might not know it, but it is a key aspect of my life, but, but... for reasons I don’t really understand I need to go ‘off the point’ sometimes. It’s also true that I have several different personas (‘personas for different purposes’, if you will.... different names... ages .... genders.. feline forms)but actually they’re not so much separate people but different layers – red – purple – yellow. But underneath it all is the person typing these words – I breathe! And eat and shit and do all the things you do too.
Non political people may find it difficult to understand how my socialist beliefs are the core of who I am; how it defines the world I see and experience in a myriad of ways. I’m not tunnel visioned by my ideology – it enables me to feel optimistic and positive and therefore unleashes a sea of barely imagined possibilities. If you don’t believe in anything, then that’s your choice but I gave up on MSP inspired nihilism a long time ago and I’d rather be a so-called idealist than a know it all wit trapped by cynicism and despair. Of course, another choice again would be just to not think, but then if you know that’s a choice then it implies you are capable of thinking in the first place! Oh, I suppose that’s where the drugs come in..... Come into my brain, my friendiau – ride my brain cells, spray paint them into abstract patterns, random the order and order the random and connect science, insanity and art and exhale a deep thought or too and inhale joyous poison; raid my sub consciousness for some mayhem and mischief and tell me that I’m an Inca goddess who pisses all over the world and then eats it up before spitting it out again. Do you need drugs for that? Isn’t it all just a triangle shaped pinball machine going between the three corners of the unconscious / the drugs and the mentally ‘unwell’?
So, now I’ve hopefully set the tone, I can indulge all you non readers out there with my befuddlement with a Wayne’s World nightclub full of men with either Mohawks / cherry red beards / or flowing, head banging hair and their ‘Blue Banana’ women; not even the cloudy ooziness of Ouzo can help me fit into the land of OZzy. Apparently there’s lot of gay sex inside, but it’s still too much of a macho-ness for me. Nor do I find anything subversive or imaginative in the ‘babe’ uniformity of lace, fishnets and corsets; be proud of your branded risqué costumes which barely cover the gendered boredom really on display. The Samsons imitate their brothers’ cartoon roars and yes, we rock along too, but why can’t we hear the lionesses?
So sneers the elitist socialist – I crave the sniff of a Heath Robinson adorned cavern with lickable catnip flavoured walls and other-worldly melodies to sound track the fancies one has whilst somewhere between asleep and awake. I relish this subjective bite from an assortment of tastes. Because it doesn’t actually matter – a clique of studied cool is just as tempting for acidic teeth –a superior attitude over nothing of real importance, either way.
Although I’ve invented this supposed ability to assume different forms, either as a form of camouflage or as an oblique signal (to be picked up mostly by myself), I still want to find my pack - a pack of cards that I can’t play - so I roam with whoever I find.
I conform by boozing, until I rot my insides and I have to send myself home from work as a result of the delayed after shocks. (‘After shock, anyone?’) I romanticise the Caitlin Thomas types I know whilst worrying about the liver damaged young and hypocritically living in denial about my own lungs.
And I want to say more again – what, I do not know – but we’ll see what comes out of me. Less colour, more contented pain. I feel semi attached to both ‘normalness’ and artistic escapism. I feel closer to myself, somehow. There are no clean cuts of th – tr - es.
I never really know how anyone might react (but yes, of course, I think of it.... think, think, think).Every punctuation mark is considered carefully so no wonder I feel more complete. Except can you be ‘more complete’? Isn’t that like saying ‘quite unique’?
I say ‘Puck the striving clichés’ whilst my brain creaks a little with the effort. The ragdoll no longer bewitches me; I can’t find the song, I barely have my subject. The less I understand it all, the more I retreat deeper into my own obscurity and really dig for the marrow.
But once I’d hoovered that up........ I have to leap back out through my mouth and land in the lives of other people, several days later – was I gone that long? Now, I’m in a shed, watching a Polish artist and his friends and lover in WW2 era Ystradgynlais. My selective memories; my selective taste.
I’ve said before that ‘we’ love it when unrecognised talent gets the recognition and audience it deserves and that is true for me. Almost nothing could make me happier than this; my friends’ deserved success with what is, yes, a play – a play that really did transport us back into a South Wales I could really love and care for.
What I enjoy may or may not matter to the alien but instantly recognisable Taffia - and their opinions mean much less to me than the different people I happen to value – but I like the idea we’re all specks of stardust; all people, all plants and countries, all the random bits and bobs of ‘civilisation’, be they charcoal, spears or female pissing devices.
So, I’m judgemental of others and a self appointed arbiter of taste; I like to get at least some of the criticisms in first. Your round next? Aah, go on mate – just the one.
Of course this is why I resisted writing for so long, this is why I’ve always been so appalled by Henry and so shocked by the shamelessness of Frieda, except that I love them too.
Introspective, introverted .... Downright self absorbed, when I’m not caring for others. Alone, I think too much – I THINK (too much), THEREFORE I AM (too self critical). A revelation - one of the great things about being with others is that it keeps me from myself. But in the meantime, creation is communication and the connection is elusive here. What you say about yourself can only be of interest if it resonates beyond your own prison. Do you hear me?
Oh shit – this is the internet. Disconnect on 3.
It’s strange for an old activist like me to want to post a blog that doesn’t comment explicitly on current political events (the mass uprising in Greece / the new Lib-Tory coalition in the U.K /arrest of trade unionists and socialists in Kazakhstan/ name your country). Why? Because I know (despite my advanced years) that I’m active OFFline. You might not know it, but it is a key aspect of my life, but, but... for reasons I don’t really understand I need to go ‘off the point’ sometimes. It’s also true that I have several different personas (‘personas for different purposes’, if you will.... different names... ages .... genders.. feline forms)but actually they’re not so much separate people but different layers – red – purple – yellow. But underneath it all is the person typing these words – I breathe! And eat and shit and do all the things you do too.
Non political people may find it difficult to understand how my socialist beliefs are the core of who I am; how it defines the world I see and experience in a myriad of ways. I’m not tunnel visioned by my ideology – it enables me to feel optimistic and positive and therefore unleashes a sea of barely imagined possibilities. If you don’t believe in anything, then that’s your choice but I gave up on MSP inspired nihilism a long time ago and I’d rather be a so-called idealist than a know it all wit trapped by cynicism and despair. Of course, another choice again would be just to not think, but then if you know that’s a choice then it implies you are capable of thinking in the first place! Oh, I suppose that’s where the drugs come in..... Come into my brain, my friendiau – ride my brain cells, spray paint them into abstract patterns, random the order and order the random and connect science, insanity and art and exhale a deep thought or too and inhale joyous poison; raid my sub consciousness for some mayhem and mischief and tell me that I’m an Inca goddess who pisses all over the world and then eats it up before spitting it out again. Do you need drugs for that? Isn’t it all just a triangle shaped pinball machine going between the three corners of the unconscious / the drugs and the mentally ‘unwell’?
So, now I’ve hopefully set the tone, I can indulge all you non readers out there with my befuddlement with a Wayne’s World nightclub full of men with either Mohawks / cherry red beards / or flowing, head banging hair and their ‘Blue Banana’ women; not even the cloudy ooziness of Ouzo can help me fit into the land of OZzy. Apparently there’s lot of gay sex inside, but it’s still too much of a macho-ness for me. Nor do I find anything subversive or imaginative in the ‘babe’ uniformity of lace, fishnets and corsets; be proud of your branded risqué costumes which barely cover the gendered boredom really on display. The Samsons imitate their brothers’ cartoon roars and yes, we rock along too, but why can’t we hear the lionesses?
So sneers the elitist socialist – I crave the sniff of a Heath Robinson adorned cavern with lickable catnip flavoured walls and other-worldly melodies to sound track the fancies one has whilst somewhere between asleep and awake. I relish this subjective bite from an assortment of tastes. Because it doesn’t actually matter – a clique of studied cool is just as tempting for acidic teeth –a superior attitude over nothing of real importance, either way.
Although I’ve invented this supposed ability to assume different forms, either as a form of camouflage or as an oblique signal (to be picked up mostly by myself), I still want to find my pack - a pack of cards that I can’t play - so I roam with whoever I find.
I conform by boozing, until I rot my insides and I have to send myself home from work as a result of the delayed after shocks. (‘After shock, anyone?’) I romanticise the Caitlin Thomas types I know whilst worrying about the liver damaged young and hypocritically living in denial about my own lungs.
And I want to say more again – what, I do not know – but we’ll see what comes out of me. Less colour, more contented pain. I feel semi attached to both ‘normalness’ and artistic escapism. I feel closer to myself, somehow. There are no clean cuts of th – tr - es.
I never really know how anyone might react (but yes, of course, I think of it.... think, think, think).Every punctuation mark is considered carefully so no wonder I feel more complete. Except can you be ‘more complete’? Isn’t that like saying ‘quite unique’?
I say ‘Puck the striving clichés’ whilst my brain creaks a little with the effort. The ragdoll no longer bewitches me; I can’t find the song, I barely have my subject. The less I understand it all, the more I retreat deeper into my own obscurity and really dig for the marrow.
But once I’d hoovered that up........ I have to leap back out through my mouth and land in the lives of other people, several days later – was I gone that long? Now, I’m in a shed, watching a Polish artist and his friends and lover in WW2 era Ystradgynlais. My selective memories; my selective taste.
I’ve said before that ‘we’ love it when unrecognised talent gets the recognition and audience it deserves and that is true for me. Almost nothing could make me happier than this; my friends’ deserved success with what is, yes, a play – a play that really did transport us back into a South Wales I could really love and care for.
What I enjoy may or may not matter to the alien but instantly recognisable Taffia - and their opinions mean much less to me than the different people I happen to value – but I like the idea we’re all specks of stardust; all people, all plants and countries, all the random bits and bobs of ‘civilisation’, be they charcoal, spears or female pissing devices.
So, I’m judgemental of others and a self appointed arbiter of taste; I like to get at least some of the criticisms in first. Your round next? Aah, go on mate – just the one.
Of course this is why I resisted writing for so long, this is why I’ve always been so appalled by Henry and so shocked by the shamelessness of Frieda, except that I love them too.
Introspective, introverted .... Downright self absorbed, when I’m not caring for others. Alone, I think too much – I THINK (too much), THEREFORE I AM (too self critical). A revelation - one of the great things about being with others is that it keeps me from myself. But in the meantime, creation is communication and the connection is elusive here. What you say about yourself can only be of interest if it resonates beyond your own prison. Do you hear me?
Oh shit – this is the internet. Disconnect on 3.
Sunday 2 May 2010
Marketed masturbation
‘Self disgust is self obsession and I do as I please’*. Very often, my self obsession is a manifestation of self disgust, so I shouldn’t just do as I please. (Although in the context of the internet then I’m not alone - http://tremendousnews.com/2010/03/25/7-signs-youre-taking-yourself-too-seriously-on-the-internet/).
If this is my inclination then I at least want to do it with some reference to the actual world we live in. Further, it’s not enough to be topical; I want to challenge myself to say something new and original. To borrow the science author David Bodanis‘s words, writing should be ‘a telescope for new ideas - a means of directing attention to fresh, unsuspecting realms.’**
From the tinternet to life OFF the computer, from the individual to the social and political, from here to the struggle for a new society. I set high standards for myself but whilst this perfectionism causes an individual problem, what isn’t demotivating is the desire to change the world - surely there is no greater ambition?
But in the meantime (and working class people will face a MEAN time, sings the Lab-Lib-Tory party); ‘Did you watch the masterdebate, the other night?’ - Well you know that’s a real turn off. Well, did you enjoy the real-life ‘The Thick of it’ clip on B.B.C. news the other day? If only ‘politics’ was always so entertaining. Cheers Browno, why don’t you talk to more real people more often? Your cock-up almost had us engaged.*** Otherwise, we’re much more likely to be lost online.
So, topical election reference ticked Ö, let’s step back and fall down, down into the rabbit’s hole - why didn’t I take the blue pill? Why, when it’s more disappointing than Tim Burton’s latest film, as unsatisfactory as regurgitating these over familiar references within references? How many times can you eat your own vomit, exactly? Well the puke is relatively new - look on the bright side, here’s a suicide of clichés or two.
You want viral? Get a virus instead.
Oh, that’s far too one-sided; surely, in this technology we have the kernel for at least one of the ways we can share entertainment and culture in a non capitalist world? Oooh, I’m being just like Michael Moore, not wanting to scare you with the ’S’ word - oh, fuck it, if you DO know me, then you’ll be very likely to know what that is, but if you don‘t, here it is: SsS oooo cccc iiii aaaa llll iii sss mmmm.
But that’s too big subject right now - too big for social network addiction.
How many of us are there now?
59 million - 92 million - 107 million by this time next year - the forecasted projections look hotter than a Spanish desert, Tom.
FB not enough for you - stitch your avatar’s outfit together with some iconic patches:

Pose for the pic guys! Oooohh don’t you look lovely? We’re not nobodies; we matter. Let’s deny the filters; yet be proud of the artifacts of editing. Contradictory fuckers.
Just like those ‘eavenely office monkeys, everybody else does it (Aaah, my 5 year old nephew chatted to me on Messenger for the first time. Bless!). Under-stimulated college students FB hack rather than face up to the insulting future ‘offered’ to them by their edumployment training for jobs that increasingly don’t exist. But that’s too harsh and your teachers won’t admit it so while you think they’re not looking, smile proudly at your flattering onscreen illusion.
Not you? Well, whoever you are, let’s all enter the popularity contest of the mundane (I ‘m eating chips‘ LIKE LIKE LIKE). We all want to matter, to mean something, to assert our personality and dance on the table to the tune of ’I exist’, to some degree or another. But capitalism will always try to frame us into lazy duplicates; our words will be interpreted into the Simon Cowell language of ’fame’. A 1/1000th Warhol for you to Google, play with in ‘Paint’ and fuck the ã and user overload. It‘s ‘Queen’ Jordan’s lie of instant fame - designed to block all real inspiration - above all, to be inspired to organise collectively and change society to a world where the only people on the dole queue are the exploiters.
But an action always causes a reaction; resistance was always inevitable, but how to do it effectively? Techie subversives unite to burn music, if not dollars -Noughties D.I.Y. punks with all the incoherent, contradictory idealism as before. The more conscious use this technology opportunistically for what it’s worth, whilst the activists also do it knowing we need system change - and no, that‘s not an upgrade from Windows to Mac!
1, 2, 8, 333, 4000, 750, 000... 59 million …. 92 million ……even if the numbers are finite, you can’t help but be somehow impressed with the way big business has successfully commodified the memetic impulse for instant self expression and recognition.
But whether you either understand or agree with the concept that infinity itself is finite - those numbers ARE finite - even if we did live in a world where every singly human being, not one excepted, had access to decent housing, electricity, clean water and sanitation, free and accessible health services and a job with training and an income you can actually live on. But of course we don’t, so the optimistic plans of those Silicon Valley venture capitalists and chums for ever continuing growth will never be fulfilled. Damn all those inconvenient bastards, daring to live in internet no access areas such as slums, militarised factory camps, war zones or so -called ‘natural’ disaster areas. Just a few choice highlights for you from a list too long; a list which should never have existed in the first place.
And now away from such unpleasantness - put down your copy of ‘The Guardian‘ and have a sip of your Fairtrade Columbian. If you’re one of those - sigh - arty farty types, full of the satisfaction that unlike those inane FB morons, you’ve got something to say; don’t worry about getting a publisher - just press ‘click’. You can do it offline as well; buy ‘Write your story’ - £17.99 for an empty book. Just marvel at such capitalist marketing genius. Self expression sells especially well - in an independent bookstore, probably near a Buddhist temple, a deli, a musician’s late nite bar etc ra ra. But it may not be so available if you live on the wrong side of the hill. Sections of big business are astute enough to recognise a niche when they see one, so long as ‘culture’ is still kept manageably close to the elite or at least made accessible only to those trustworthy enough not to really challenge their power. Have a nibble, dogs.
But in that so-called subterranean world the majority of us actually inhabit, we are the most inventive and resourceful ones of all. Workers, in their ingenuity, have always managed to be creative with just the barest things, including, yes, such past oddities like bizarre soap sculptures featuring pins, crochet poodles to hide the shame of toilet paper or carved creatures of ivory by inspired sailors long gone. Surreal, even if ‘surreal’ isn’t usually known, and as worthy of attention and evaluation as anything those with ‘A room of their own’ could ever produce. Any opportunity, however limited - even, groan, in some witty word play in a status update or a childhood lost in Tony Hart or in thrall with Adam‘s war paint or seduced by George‘s hat and feathers.
Usually, we’ll only ever get hints of all the latent creativity and talent out there, unknown and unused. Unknown and used because we are the working scum expected to lap up the latest well connected ‘talent’ who - what a fucking surprise - just so happens to be the son or daughter of a rich and famous ‘somebody’. And when the talent from below (that we happen to admire) does break through and gains the recognition it deserves then we value it as if it was as precious as our own beating heart.
But we only know to well that they are the exception to the big business rule; billions of individuals with ideas, abilities and untapped brilliance are out there too with no such opportunity in this pyramid. The overwhelming majority of humanity who face huge to almost insurmountable obstacles to fulfill their true potential - whether that‘s creative, educational, social, political, scientific, organizational, sporting, technological, philosophical even - with any possible combination of the above - and undoubtedly there is SO much more again.
We’ll have to struggle for it - like we have to struggle for everything else. Struggle together, to actually release our full individuality.
References:
* Manic Street Preacher lyric from 'Faster' on 'The Holy Bible'
** I took David Bodanis’ phrases from “E=mc2: A Biography of the World’s Most Famous Equation’ chapter 3 ‘Ancestors of E = MC2’. In the original text Bodanis wrote “(sic) scientists started using the = symbol as something of a telescope for new ideas - a device for for directing attention to fresh unsuspecting realms. Equations simply happen to be written in symbols rather than words”.
***For those weirdos out there who don’t live in the U.K. or follow U.K.politics - http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/may/02/gillian-duffy-bigot-interview-gordon-brown
If this is my inclination then I at least want to do it with some reference to the actual world we live in. Further, it’s not enough to be topical; I want to challenge myself to say something new and original. To borrow the science author David Bodanis‘s words, writing should be ‘a telescope for new ideas - a means of directing attention to fresh, unsuspecting realms.’**
From the tinternet to life OFF the computer, from the individual to the social and political, from here to the struggle for a new society. I set high standards for myself but whilst this perfectionism causes an individual problem, what isn’t demotivating is the desire to change the world - surely there is no greater ambition?
But in the meantime (and working class people will face a MEAN time, sings the Lab-Lib-Tory party); ‘Did you watch the masterdebate, the other night?’ - Well you know that’s a real turn off. Well, did you enjoy the real-life ‘The Thick of it’ clip on B.B.C. news the other day? If only ‘politics’ was always so entertaining. Cheers Browno, why don’t you talk to more real people more often? Your cock-up almost had us engaged.*** Otherwise, we’re much more likely to be lost online.
So, topical election reference ticked Ö, let’s step back and fall down, down into the rabbit’s hole - why didn’t I take the blue pill? Why, when it’s more disappointing than Tim Burton’s latest film, as unsatisfactory as regurgitating these over familiar references within references? How many times can you eat your own vomit, exactly? Well the puke is relatively new - look on the bright side, here’s a suicide of clichés or two.
You want viral? Get a virus instead.
Oh, that’s far too one-sided; surely, in this technology we have the kernel for at least one of the ways we can share entertainment and culture in a non capitalist world? Oooh, I’m being just like Michael Moore, not wanting to scare you with the ’S’ word - oh, fuck it, if you DO know me, then you’ll be very likely to know what that is, but if you don‘t, here it is: SsS oooo cccc iiii aaaa llll iii sss mmmm.
But that’s too big subject right now - too big for social network addiction.
How many of us are there now?
59 million - 92 million - 107 million by this time next year - the forecasted projections look hotter than a Spanish desert, Tom.
FB not enough for you - stitch your avatar’s outfit together with some iconic patches:

Pose for the pic guys! Oooohh don’t you look lovely? We’re not nobodies; we matter. Let’s deny the filters; yet be proud of the artifacts of editing. Contradictory fuckers.
Just like those ‘eavenely office monkeys, everybody else does it (Aaah, my 5 year old nephew chatted to me on Messenger for the first time. Bless!). Under-stimulated college students FB hack rather than face up to the insulting future ‘offered’ to them by their edumployment training for jobs that increasingly don’t exist. But that’s too harsh and your teachers won’t admit it so while you think they’re not looking, smile proudly at your flattering onscreen illusion.
Not you? Well, whoever you are, let’s all enter the popularity contest of the mundane (I ‘m eating chips‘ LIKE LIKE LIKE). We all want to matter, to mean something, to assert our personality and dance on the table to the tune of ’I exist’, to some degree or another. But capitalism will always try to frame us into lazy duplicates; our words will be interpreted into the Simon Cowell language of ’fame’. A 1/1000th Warhol for you to Google, play with in ‘Paint’ and fuck the ã and user overload. It‘s ‘Queen’ Jordan’s lie of instant fame - designed to block all real inspiration - above all, to be inspired to organise collectively and change society to a world where the only people on the dole queue are the exploiters.
But an action always causes a reaction; resistance was always inevitable, but how to do it effectively? Techie subversives unite to burn music, if not dollars -Noughties D.I.Y. punks with all the incoherent, contradictory idealism as before. The more conscious use this technology opportunistically for what it’s worth, whilst the activists also do it knowing we need system change - and no, that‘s not an upgrade from Windows to Mac!
1, 2, 8, 333, 4000, 750, 000... 59 million …. 92 million ……even if the numbers are finite, you can’t help but be somehow impressed with the way big business has successfully commodified the memetic impulse for instant self expression and recognition.
But whether you either understand or agree with the concept that infinity itself is finite - those numbers ARE finite - even if we did live in a world where every singly human being, not one excepted, had access to decent housing, electricity, clean water and sanitation, free and accessible health services and a job with training and an income you can actually live on. But of course we don’t, so the optimistic plans of those Silicon Valley venture capitalists and chums for ever continuing growth will never be fulfilled. Damn all those inconvenient bastards, daring to live in internet no access areas such as slums, militarised factory camps, war zones or so -called ‘natural’ disaster areas. Just a few choice highlights for you from a list too long; a list which should never have existed in the first place.
And now away from such unpleasantness - put down your copy of ‘The Guardian‘ and have a sip of your Fairtrade Columbian. If you’re one of those - sigh - arty farty types, full of the satisfaction that unlike those inane FB morons, you’ve got something to say; don’t worry about getting a publisher - just press ‘click’. You can do it offline as well; buy ‘Write your story’ - £17.99 for an empty book. Just marvel at such capitalist marketing genius. Self expression sells especially well - in an independent bookstore, probably near a Buddhist temple, a deli, a musician’s late nite bar etc ra ra. But it may not be so available if you live on the wrong side of the hill. Sections of big business are astute enough to recognise a niche when they see one, so long as ‘culture’ is still kept manageably close to the elite or at least made accessible only to those trustworthy enough not to really challenge their power. Have a nibble, dogs.
But in that so-called subterranean world the majority of us actually inhabit, we are the most inventive and resourceful ones of all. Workers, in their ingenuity, have always managed to be creative with just the barest things, including, yes, such past oddities like bizarre soap sculptures featuring pins, crochet poodles to hide the shame of toilet paper or carved creatures of ivory by inspired sailors long gone. Surreal, even if ‘surreal’ isn’t usually known, and as worthy of attention and evaluation as anything those with ‘A room of their own’ could ever produce. Any opportunity, however limited - even, groan, in some witty word play in a status update or a childhood lost in Tony Hart or in thrall with Adam‘s war paint or seduced by George‘s hat and feathers.
Usually, we’ll only ever get hints of all the latent creativity and talent out there, unknown and unused. Unknown and used because we are the working scum expected to lap up the latest well connected ‘talent’ who - what a fucking surprise - just so happens to be the son or daughter of a rich and famous ‘somebody’. And when the talent from below (that we happen to admire) does break through and gains the recognition it deserves then we value it as if it was as precious as our own beating heart.
But we only know to well that they are the exception to the big business rule; billions of individuals with ideas, abilities and untapped brilliance are out there too with no such opportunity in this pyramid. The overwhelming majority of humanity who face huge to almost insurmountable obstacles to fulfill their true potential - whether that‘s creative, educational, social, political, scientific, organizational, sporting, technological, philosophical even - with any possible combination of the above - and undoubtedly there is SO much more again.
We’ll have to struggle for it - like we have to struggle for everything else. Struggle together, to actually release our full individuality.
References:
* Manic Street Preacher lyric from 'Faster' on 'The Holy Bible'
** I took David Bodanis’ phrases from “E=mc2: A Biography of the World’s Most Famous Equation’ chapter 3 ‘Ancestors of E = MC2’. In the original text Bodanis wrote “(sic) scientists started using the = symbol as something of a telescope for new ideas - a device for for directing attention to fresh unsuspecting realms. Equations simply happen to be written in symbols rather than words”.
***For those weirdos out there who don’t live in the U.K. or follow U.K.politics - http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2010/may/02/gillian-duffy-bigot-interview-gordon-brown
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