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.