Tag: #art

theory of art

more chocolate, aye? indolent wean

you can’t afford it so your not having it

i have a theory that ultimately art is just a way of filling time, no more noble than sports

different but the same

well that was august. i suppose we will have september next as part two: getting there (a brexit prayer) continues.

i’m going to reduce the av content for a while. it has been fun but it hasn’t generated much engagement while distracting me from other things, like actually working on poetry and music. so i am just going to be posting on the blog a couple of times a week with poetry and thoughts while i finish a novella i am working on called ‘comin’ up.’

the prophecy came first much too soon, then again a bit too late

the prophecy came first much too soon, then again a bit too late
we all rely on the good souls who forgive us.

we are all imperfect beings. perhaps forgetful, clumsy, prone to greed, unintentionally rude. we break things, we make a mess, we keep people waiting.

we lay demands on each other. we stress each other out.

and i think… well. nobody really knows why we are here. everything just happens to us. there is no such thing as normal.

so, although it is hard, i beseech you – forgive your enemies. don’t wait for them to forgive you.

charge another hour to diary management / you simply must believe the story you tell yourself / (excuse me for hoping to feature so prominently in it

our attachment to reality is not as strong as we believe it is. we live in the permanent now. we can’t really trust out memories. they could be fake. we make plans for a future that we assume will happen, but based on what? all there ultimately is are the sensations we feel and the stories we tell ourselves about them. but, as a practical matter, it is helpful to just believe reality is as you see it. otherwise we’d never be able to brush our teeth and drink our coffee in the morning.

do you believe in reality? do you trust the sun to rise again tomorrow?

story and sensation is all there is, between the end and the beginning


what is it to be a human? in any instant, all there is are the sensations you feel, see, hear, etc. a temperature, the weight of the earth pushing against your feet or arse, your shirt label on your neck. and then there is the story you tell yourself these things mean. but you know, you could be a brain in a vat being fed false experiences by a computer. and you are free to tell yourself that story if you prefer it.

cursed inadequate chuck-sticking, can’t hold cash either

i can’t really throw. or catch. i’ve got a bit better at it over the years, but i am just not a hand eye coordination sort of person. likewise, i am not designed to use raquets. i once chucked a tennis raquet into the air in frustration, only to catch it with my face shortly thereafter.

i don’t think i have ever successfully struck a shuttlecock. and how anyone can hit a baseball with such a narrow bat i’ll never comprehend.

so it’s little surprise that i am also hopeless at chucking sticks for the dog. yet every time, i’m a bit disappointed in myself. a bit of me seems to believe i’m eventually going to get the knack of it.

the king came with the bangers, we stayed for the ballads

in the 90s i used to take long coach trips. to france, italy, spain. one year, i must have been 7 or 8, for entertainment we got a documentary about elvis pressley. i was instantly obsessed. and then suddenly bereaved – my hero was dead before i even knew him. i cried. i listened to elvis tapes. i got a leather jacket. quite autistic, in retrospect.

i don’t listen to as much elvis these days. but i will always love the king. and if suspicious minds comes on the radio, i will give it my full attention every time.

jerk foul, jerk fish, take the pineapple express

i had jerk fish and chips at a carribean themed restaurant and it was really nice. best fish and chips ever probably. there must have been a pineapple chutney or something. it reminded me of roots manuva’s witness (1 hope). and to avoid accusations of plagiarism, i named the verse ‘witness (1 dope)’, me being the dope eating the jerk and summoning the power of banana clan.