Unable to shift the claustrophobic and conflicting pressures of gravity and growth, everything has to go through the filter of distortion, I stand in the doorway, pinned to the spot, unable to move because of what's behind me and what's in front of me. At my back I can feel the presence of the monsters and tortures of the past, while in front of me I see the passive aggressive rejection, careless, thoughtless easy ignorance and meaninglessness of time and the Universe.
Pinned to the spot at the age of twelve by a spear of frozen existentialist angst from the toilet of passing humanity...
So I lean on the jamb staring at the world through cataracts of crystalised tears, these scars across my eyes etched deep like words in a stick of rock candy, or the poisonous sap of the Deadly Nightshade...
Imagine being Yoko Ono. Believing with all your heartfelt conviction that you can sing beautifully like a songbird, but all the audience can hear is the screaming and wailing of a crying child. Perhaps Yoko does sing like an angel. Perhaps the angels' song is nothing but one long scream of eternal agonising anguish and pain. John Lennon was a wife beating arsehole. Just because you're talented, doesn't mean you're not an arsehole.
Imagine being Yoko Ono. Believing with all your heartfelt conviction that you can sing beautifully like a songbird, but all the audience can hear is the screaming and wailing of a crying child. Perhaps Yoko does sing like an angel. Perhaps the angels' song is nothing but one long scream of eternal agonising anguish and pain. John Lennon was a wife beating arsehole. Just because you're talented, doesn't mean you're not an arsehole.
Laughing because something is funny is not the same as laughing because you are happy. That screaming child in the next room is not screaming for no reason. Of course there's no noise so appalling to the ears as the sound of someone else's child screaming... Ignore them, let them scream themselves out, they'll quieten down eventually...
But I digress. Unable to burst the bubble of my experience at the hands and mouths of other humans, I am confined to produce suffocated works expressing this pain and disguising it. Openly discussing it in terms of what it isn't without actually mentioning directly what it is.
Referential//Reverential.
It's like crashing your car into a tree, it looks buckled and twisted because you drove it into a tree. And expecting the car to apologise for looking broken and twisted. And expecting the tree to apologise for being there. And expecting the car to still work, and expecting it to "man up" and "deal with it" and "get fixed". And criticising it for having "broken car syndrome"...
But I digress. Unable to burst the bubble of my experience at the hands and mouths of other humans, I am confined to produce suffocated works expressing this pain and disguising it. Openly discussing it in terms of what it isn't without actually mentioning directly what it is.
Referential//Reverential.
It's like crashing your car into a tree, it looks buckled and twisted because you drove it into a tree. And expecting the car to apologise for looking broken and twisted. And expecting the tree to apologise for being there. And expecting the car to still work, and expecting it to "man up" and "deal with it" and "get fixed". And criticising it for having "broken car syndrome"...
I feel compelled to apologise for my distorted perceptions and for my dreadful experiences at the face of humanity, and yet I know that would be like apologising for being mentally ill or having cancer. So I will not apologise. We are all in our personal little ways distorted, broken, confused/confusing, terrified, offensive, impulsive, self-centred/selfish, deliberately obscurantist, because we are not the same as each other - what you see is what you get.
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