It’s interesting how things have changed, drastically changed, like the difference between wearing and not wearing pants.
I keep realising I’ve fallen in love with ideas that were forged when reason wasn’t looking. Being right was difficult in the 60’s. Being cool cost things, serious things.
Now it’s slightly different, the art made then found its fame because of the innate bravery it took to antagonise the monsters. Now we don’t have so many monsters, it’s all in house and individual and subjective and safe.
This is a good thing, it makes authoritative nerves harder to find and comes standard with all sorts of heinous accusations of self. It also affords us the pleasure of constructing our enemies. We can piece them together, like that republican columnist who hates authority or that lefty in favour of abstinence and sobriety. Curated agitation.
An intricate web of understanding has made me realise, because of my own potential, that I am the world’s problem. I’m not saying I don’t have people to throw things at, but rather it’s because I don’t throw things that they’re there. Our agency, collective and sole, has most of the answers.
It’s here that I find myself; looking for a place to cast my vote, where to divert my funds and energy and interest. An age where clicks and digital signatures matter, supposedly. Yet there’s something wrong, shit’s still all broken. Unimpressive people steal our money, siff people murder us and there’s a whole span of one dimensional goons calling the shots in between. Using capital to pull strings, pulling strings to gain capital and all the while too few talk about art for its own sake.
Also there’s this prescribed pursuit of money that’s meant to be enjoyable.
I am tired.
But this feeling always goes away when I realise it’s just a feeling.
I bump into a fellow comic and he pulls me aside to an opened gag book. A joke about the ghost of Lady Di.
Irreverence for death, good.
Indifference to the sanctity of royals, wonderful.
I’m spoken to with all the interest in the world by an art shop assistant, paint on her hands and eyes seeped in chaos. She transposes knowledge as fast as she gains it.
I like that.
Despite needed ideological clarity and sifting through the mess of the mean spirited bullies that stain our planet, there are still groovy people who’ve said fuck it to all the noise and have opted for charm and thought. These people are important, I carry a notebook around and record not just their faces, but their ideas and style. A real time biography of the Zeitgeist’s better half. The tastier select. The remnant. These gatekeepers of hope. They’re fucking everywhere, and everyone.
That’s why, when weighed, nostalgia for the counter culture’s hey day is irrelevant, we’ve evolved, that menacing beauty has infiltrated all walks and spheres and schools. Bohemian capitalists, leaders with anarcho ideals and individualist adherents to the prescribed ratty race all lie in wait, biding their time, waiting to strike tactically.
A sophisticated rebellion has formed. A substantial thing.
Though we needed a time when the likes of Hicks and Carlin soap boxed their anger, it isn’t that time any more. A new lefty front has formed, an informal one, sleepers everywhere.
I think of Gates pledging his fortune to charity when he expires and Branson starting an entire international communications network so he could make a point about profit margins, and everything seems OK. I know it’s just a feeling, but it’s a good feeling.
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