When sitting down to write about Contemporary Art, there are two things to consider of the audience.
1: Prior to the first letter being inked (or in this case – pixelated), the reader will have dug their heels into the ground, before quickly whipping said heels off altogether and preparing to stab those stilettos between the authors eyebrows.
This is true of the coupled viewpoints on the matter, from the admirers of the form, to those who are adverse to it, or rather – in quote form: “How much?”, “Load of bollocks!” And “My two year old could’ve done that!”. (Indeed, then why didn’t your genius little two year old do it then and bring his postnatal worth up into the seven-figure bracket? Two years old and such an under-performing disappointment already…)
2: They’ve already gone.
Contemporary Art is to them confusing, accusatory, kind of funny, exceedingly odd, uncomfortable and alright-I-guess, to which is added the viewpoints of the above category and thereby making their lack of presence on the gallery floor more than understandable.
I’ve been all over the world and have walked into many an art gallery in my few years, so I feel I’ve a good handle on whether or not I’ve got a opinion on the matter.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve got an opinion on the matter.
And I’m about to share it with you.
Any second now.
There’s a great deal of art that floats my boat and splendid. Well done world. Good idea on all that art you did.
And some of the art I like provokes powerful emotions and thoughts within me, and that’s also fairly smashing.
When I take a good long look at the later work of Vincent Van Gogh, I am filled with a very sad understanding of the artist; who and how he was before his thoroughly documented end.
Of course I would, I believe, feel differently (indeed – potentially not feel at all) if I were unaware of the documented (by art historians via pen and Van Gogh himself via thick globules of emotive colour) decline of the artist as a fellow.
If it weren’t for my parents, some minor schooling and a jolly good book or two, I’d think ‘Sunflowers’ was but a painting of sunflowers and that ‘Starry Night’ was a painting of a village with low light pollution.
Had it not been for all that prior knowledge, I’d have no idea about that distinct hue of ‘I-want-to-shoot-myself blue’.
It’s the same with art in a gallery, particularly Contemporary Art.
There are two facets to Contemporary Art, as follows:
1. It looks cool.
Like guns and smoking and smoking guns (and, I don’t know if you can ‘gun smokes’, but if you can, that too).
I saw a piece today that was a wooden mallet, nailed to a wall.
It looked tremendous, suited the wall very nicely, and was unforgivably cool; giving the poor mallet some of that ‘juxtaposition-medicine’. The sort of thing I’d wear on a t-shirt, although preferably inked on – rather than nailed.
Sometimes art can be cool and at other times it can be pretty, like singular strips of highly expensive wallpaper by a renowned wallpaperist.
To bring up Feng Shui (because I feel bringing it up here will really focus the article’s inner energy and help with my flow), I’d say that art can really tie the room together (as per Lebowski’s rug).
Not much to think about, like a simple absurdist joke; the point is in the silliness.
There are worse things to walk past; worse things to ignore.
2. The second facet is that they have a tremendous given explanation typed on that vital little white plaque next to the art work, detailing what you should be understanding and how you should be feeling, all whilst speaking in the definite.
You may have seen the Damien Hirst piece: ‘The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living’. It’s a shark, preserved in formaldehyde, in a tank suspended from a ceiling, whilst you look at it and think about how you cannot really configure death, only ponder about how you can muse upon it.
The use of the shark as an image of death having died, paired with the image of it frozen in time whilst we are not, gets you oh-so thoroughly.
This is an example of a sturdy bit of art, something which stirs you deep down in THERE and gets you whirring away up THERE. Just like ‘Sunflowers’, just like ‘Guernica’.
And a good deal many people know how they feel about it and these other pieces I because it said what to feel, just next to it, on a little white plaque.
That little white square of essence.
A picture paints a thousand words, but I’ve got a thousand and one words and a whole load of capital letters and exclamation marks! See!!?
This is by no means the rule of all Contemporary Art: the nice art made for walking past, the art that looks cool whilst you ignore before wearing it on a t-shirt and the art that is utterly visually moving. But for the rest of Contemporary Art…those little white squares of essence are the only tale teller.
I could say that they go hand in hand, and that one cannot live without the other, like conjoined twins sharing the heart, but although I tried understanding some of the lesser communicable pieces of Contemporary Art prior to reading the plaque beside it…I think I preferred just reading the plaque.
The thousand-word-worthy image to accompany that plaque; I can conjure that on my own in my head.
Because that’s what words cause us to do.
The writer does the hard work for these guys and gals, so I’ll keep on reading, but I want the author of those little white squares of essence to get some credit.
Perhaps the main plaque could come with another, minor, plaque, detailing the intents of the main plaque’s author and listing his or her’s previous work.
Or maybe they could really broaden the genre, and squeeze some Romance, perhaps a little Sci-Fi, maybe even a good dose of innuendo (and out-your-endo).
Either way, all I’m really trying to say is that I went to an art gallery today and I emerged opinionated.
‘Guernica’ is heart-wrenching, ‘Sunflowers’ are heartening and the little white squares of essence are at times just as informative and emotive as the art whose meaning they attempt to convey.
Here’s to Pablo, here’s to Vincent and here’s to the authors of our art.
In related otherness, sunflowers are my favourite flower; I’ll tell you why soon.
Three miles away, there shall be a bear, be it Black, Grizzly or Pooh – breed matters not, and it shall be fleeing; fleeing from the fact of me a’stoney – three miles away in the new capital, busied by floral tributes and perhaps some well-put-together and recently deconstructed oxen.
In terms of animal sacrifice, I feel it’d be rude not to accept.
It seems natural to expect statues of myself to appear; pimpling the globe, here – in honour of my recently being deemed worthy to have a statue, there – being used to keep the pigs in the forest.
I muse fondly the idea of having sat-upon-feet, by lovers sharing an ice-cream whilst also having no idea who I am because they’re young.
It is but a shame statues aren’t a rebellious art form, being an erection of the establishment only.
It’d work though, with a sudden subversive statue on your front door – cope with that won’t you please Mr Reagan?
Me, as stone, shall gather no moss and isis (because they deserve lower-case) will keep away from this piece of articulated rock.
They’ll take note of my presence and consider as follows:
- Naturally; urinate. Urinate all over their own western candy.
- Turn the gun to themselves, look down the barrel, give it a brief suck as some vague hope of demonstrating greater subservient allegiance before; finally…
- Emitting an “Oh I see” in that democracy is the way forward, being gay is irrelevant whilst gay people aren’t and woman are terrific – let them try a book.
How did they realise democracy is the way forward?
They read it my democratic countenance.
I look democratic.
And, thus, you shall also be democratic; because I said so.
It’ll go with your new rebellious statues on the city centre.
Since you’ve asked, and I’m glad you did, as to how I would most like to be appreciated in stone once departed, there are several things upon to ruminate upon within the hallowed-hollow.
Such as: what cloth shall I wear?
I shall be nude.
Everyone’s laboured hard today and we all deserve a treat.
However, I’ll need something to flow – the best statues have a flow to them.
Got it – the luscious hide of a monstrous beast I bested, tamed, struck up a striking brotherly familiarity with and finally put out of its withered misery with game of fetch so intense one might describe as being “to-the-hilt!”.
Plus an actual stab to the hilt, owing to it being a monstrous beast and needing metaphors to be hammered home somewhat.
And you can bet your bottom…arse…that I won’t be urinating.
But why not Sam, you magnificent chap you?
Because it’s remarkably amusing to see the number of honoured deities flooding the market square with well-plumbed flows. And whilst this may be so; I’ve a better idea for everyone.
For, yea, I shall shit you your daily bread and prosecute all trespasses.
Actually; I’m all in favour of permitting a hint of trespassing (yes – I went there), but the humour is more humorous if we remain in good humour and don’t get a little too technical.
Intelligently mechanised automated bakeries, installed within the magnificent depths (my depths are magnificent) of my statues, having collaborated with my personal physicians, will feed the poor and aid the working single mother on her way home without time to pop to the shops.
Every hour and 30 minutes, another loaf emerges from between my heavenly yet Earthly buttocks and plummets into the waiting arms of the grateful below.
An added advantage of this is the appreciation shown by the gulls and pigeons for the morsels of bready-leavings in that they shit on other statues in other parts of the city/woods.
And that show of gratitude matters to me most of all.
Not to mention, should you shit on me; I’m the kind of statue to shit right back at you.
Even it’s a nice, considerate shit in the shape of a romance-heart. Thoust should have shat elsewhere, birdy.
I’ll punch a poo into you purely because it’s lyrical.
You feathery motherfucker; you want to get shitty at height with this immovable object?
I’ll be immovable all over; takes your eggs and have an omelette out of your lineage.
Plus beaks are dim. Your main method of eating requires you to headbutt the floor until you’re certain you’ve met with a good angle to grasp, toss thee petty crumb of crust high into the air and swallow whole (and, yes, whilst this may be my own preference of eating grapes, I’m still insulting you over it. Only idiots eat like us).
A statue, grubby or not, tends to look as though a bath is very much so in order.
Craving, with rain teared stoney eyes, a soak in the tub.
Where’d I’d become warm and gooey as though the centre of the Earth only 6 times as delicious.
I bet the centre of the Earth is a tasty place to be.
Working your way there after the rough crust of Vietnam, with the necessary healthy greens of northern South America, avoiding Saudi Arabia because no one wants that bit – the coffee bean in the Minstrel packet.
And the Earth is good, sturdy, take no mercy filling, complete with pleasant surprises that tingle the tongue, like a subterranean nuclear-proof palace of Kim Jong-un, and the occasional mole.
Working through that filling like you’re lusty. Lusty and proud with a tongue they’ll write songs of.
I lap at that planet, watchful of those wettards which may be a little too soggy. The Atlantic is guilty of this. Meanwhile the Sahara requires a beverage post-lapping. And London is just right, if a tad gritty.
Though I’ll bet Florida is like the juice you cannot but glug away at, refreshment to the hilt.
“To the hilt” – a phrase to remind us of a time when the utmost by which a thing could be done was as long as the blade you plunged into someone.
Let’s keep this phrasing up, shall we?
Take myself, for example. I am writing this article to the point of stabbing a fellow to full extent. I couldn’t possibly stab him any further – I’d quite exhausted my reach of stab; that’s how hard dedicated I am to this article.
Because murder is convincing.
Not as convincing as a statue; of course.
And none more so than a statue of me as myself.
Because I’m the greatest human to ever live.
And so are you.
Keep in touch with your stone masons.
Tip them regularly.
There a line from Glen Garry Glen Ross, Al Pacino’s character returns to the booth and says to his mark: “You ever take a shit that makes you feel like you’ve slept for 12 hours?”
Gosh that’s true.
I took a shit earlier and I emerged from the bathroom thinking: “What was I worrying about?!”
There’s sunshine on my foot, a nice big ole’ beam of it; landing on me most comfortably.
It’s giving me all kinds of erections, especially with the breeze coming in.
Fuck my fiancé? What an option!
There will be no fuck-uppity here.
Accomplished in-out with a wondrous use of vocab; what a woman!
Now coffee and juice.
Then some sort of accomplishment to follow it up with. Some ‘afters’.
Might as well be quicksand.
And I’ll appreciate that quicksand.
“Hey! Quicksand! I ‘preciate chu!”
It’s a good struggle; just a couple o’push-ups and downs again.
Then run away and back again.
Teasing the quicksand. It knows I’m only playing.
“Hey! Quicksand! I’m done with you! Aw don’t be like that!”
Now I have to clean the mud off my suede shoes (this is the definition of sacrifice). I knew my suede would have to take it but at least I know where to get some shoe-shine-sun-shine.
10,000 hours to become a master of something.
It can’t take that long to become average at most things. Plus you’ll end up a tad less cross-eyed in terms of devotion to one thing.
Never happened to me but I’m still saying it: now THAT’S conviction.
I tell you, I do, what I’m good at.
I do honey.
I find it, I elope with it, and we spend the night together.
Honey was there for me whilst you guys had all scarpered.
Even now, entirely non-sexually, I’m curled up beneath my sheet, entirely non-sexually, clutching a pot of honey, entirely non-sexually, with sticky fingers…sexually.
Well, not really, I’d say my relationship with honey is more of a mutual respect that romance.
Plus it’s real hard to get the lid off those stubborn prudish pots.
Enough with the fucking honey fucking.
Some things don’t belong on toast; but still it’s happened to me owing to matter of attempted cleanliness.
Think I’ll leave that there.
By the way, whole new man that I am, realised a challenge I’ve not considered before.
Scale a mountain? Fuck you, no (https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/17/the-metaphors-are-rusty/)
I’ve always thought the vagina had the basic requirement of a good rock-climbing hold.
Remember that wall of vaginas, by the artist Jamie McCartney?
I recommend turning that sideways and having a sign stating: “Do not climb when wet.”
Consider, with me please, the state of genitals for climbing.
Vaginas are perfect for climbing, though not when aroused.
Penises are perfect for climbing, though only when aroused.
Plus imagine being midway up a mountain when the erection hand-hold feels it’s been grabbed too tightly and emits its self-defence mechanism and ejaculates in your eye.
And then you fall 300 feet onto a plain of more penises, though they’re all floppy too and what’s worse is you don’t even die.
You’re just laying crippled in a meadow of floppy dicks, reminiscing about vaginas you climbed once.
Thoughts…thoughts like this are why I am a whole new man today.
Plus I just took a tremendous dump. Think I lost about a pound.
Chin up people.
Once I was afraid – I was petrified.
So I armed myself and although the fear is still painfully real – at least I can express it with a bang so loud you can smell it.
“Baseball bats” is undoubtedly my favourite quote for a South African to say.
And that’s not the end of my opinion of baseball bats (oh brother – brace yourself).
You see, for a long time, as I mentioned earlier, I have had a distinct fear in my life of being eaten.
For me, the food chain is still very real and skin-splittingly apparent, though I may adjust to this fear better than other owing to being a cannibal.
Of course, I’m not about to eat someone any minute these days…but…should the bombs begin to drop and the lights start to flicker and the SPAM not make it to the shelves I rely on so heavily to find grub upon – you’re a gonna and I’m starting with your toes because even in times like these I still believe in the entrée.
Perhaps a tad off course from my original intent of direction, but I am glad to be rid of the burden of secret cannibalism and the fact that I’d start with your feet.
In a daring return to my original path, I may as well incorporate my cannibalism into my love of the great stick known as the baseball bat.
So, with anarchy rising out the window, and the window being full of other predators attempting to get in and chew (us)…I see two options.
- Lift my baseball bat from its snug bedding beneath the bed and wrap it thoroughly about the skulls, brains and all other neck-up interior sundry of the invading bears/lions/wolves whilst allowing you a fair few minutes to make the best use of either my turned back or the door.
- Retrieve the baseball bat from its nether-bed slumber and go about tenderising you in the hope of a satisfying last meal for a least something if not me. As for the intruding beasts of slaughter; close the window and ignore them viciously.
From the two options there you may have taken note of the reality inflicted upon both scenarios; the present presence of a baseball bat.
The baseball bat – the evolved stick that grew a handle and a capacity to devastate the nearby environment as best we can with either a pleasant or beastly temper…and thumbs.
Our thumbs have been utilised most completely, I feel, in their ability to grip a stick close to heart (of us), near to brain (of dinner) and right into the middle of something curious we’ve happened upon and are now righteously prodding as only our species knows how.
I have intentions, sweet friends, of bringing about a return of the walking stick known best as the staff.
Find a fault in the plan for me. Please.
Naturally, make them discardable, in that when the primal urge to inflict our thumbs into a scenario currently happening to us (or ‘us’ happening to a scenario) we may abandon our weighty-wood and proceed either high-tree bound or deep sea swam.
They would be tremendous as an additional weight to increase applicable strength in the arms, core, back and legs. This is therefore a health benefit although naturally it will somehow be a carcinogenic of some variety…because it’s a thing…and things give you cancer.
It would be decorative and can be added to by the owner of by trusted buddies of whom you are pleased to see them whittling your possessions – rarely do you receive this opportunity so embrace with all the hands you have.
A near-lost martial art of stick/staff fighting would return to the lonely fields of dueldom, wherein battles would largely end owing to bashed knuckles being a jolly-good cause for sportingly abandoning the day and instead seeking an alliance with your newly-made knuckle-basher pal.
You could pole-vault to meetings.
When you’d need a stick, you’d have one and this is likely the greatest reason for the invention yet. Having what you need; epitome of success of comfort.
And finally – I can get my chiselling-graffiti business on the up and up and further; bringing about a polite amount of affluence and thereby bring about…a brand new, super cool baseball bat.
And I’d even let you have a go on it.
I feel we’ve travelled far from the stick being a thing merely held, to the item of primal delight I now see it as, following a sincere and loving revert to our more ape-ish ways.
Now we have a grip around one end and I enjoy smashing the shit out of fresh fruit with it.
I believe I am doing things precisely as I should be, with a comforting baseball bat in hand and a grin held firmly between my nose and chin.
As for the true evolution; it is thus.
Once we prodded with sticks, and now we do it again.
The End Times are approaching, as always.
Bad luck- conditions of the planet. Nothing you can do about it, just let it wash over you…whatever ‘it’ might be.
So, what are the End Times?
Is it a time when you don’t want to be? A time where you no longer fit as you once did previously?
Really- I think it’s relative.
It’s time when we wouldn’t be comfortable anymore, like a 19th Century Klan member walking down a modern New York street, or a time in the distant future from now when the eating of the elderly is an essential and a jolly pastime.
Or perhaps if a Tudor man was to see an average car advert (the neon green car with models flipping in night-glow paints and coloured contact lenses). He doesn’t want to exist where this car is from- such bright colours and flipping are aspects of the devil. He doesn’t like it here in this advert.
Take for example, the situation of the cow and the ants.
Sounds like a moral fable doesn’t it? Maybe it is. Actually, no- better not say that in case this turns out to be an immoral fable and bastards start to refer to the story of ‘the cow and the ants’ when they’re about to be dastardly. Got to watch out for bastards. They’ll fuck up your fables.
So this cow’s trotting down the street next to eight million ants.
They look at each other and realise their mutual hatred and the fact that they’re going to wipe each other out. So they go about it.
And, following a ‘moo’ and a…’scuttle’ (?) and a thud- the cow is no more. Nothing remains- not even the eyelashes. How could you ignore the eyelashes of a cow? I want some- I could put them on the rim of my shoes, and therefore have nice shoes. I can’t think of another way to improve them.
This has little to do with why people are going to have to be eating ants instead of cows (aside from the mass of resources that a cow consumes compared to how much it takes the eight million ants to say “No thanks- truly I’m full, but the cow was delicious thanks”), but I think perhaps it’s a testament of class that we only eat the superior creature. “I only eat the victorious”- a pompous saying for pompous people, an essential aspect of the world- otherwise there’d be a lot less fancy French food critics- something I believe only exists in comics and film.
Therefore, being a little pompous is alright- it creates a food-market for victorious creatures, and acting roles for people with high-brows and large noses. Ants win on mass. They’re good at mass.
You could tell your children that. And then it’d be there turn to be confused.
A another aspect to this would be that cows cry when they’re about to be murdered, and ants…might, I don’t know, but at least the fact that it’s too hard to tell equates to the other fact that I therefore don’t really care. Maybe ants cry, but because we don’t see it, we don’t cry for those tears.
So ultimately,’ bye-bye beef’. Feel free to weep.
‘Good morning chewing antennae’- the essential cornerstone of any breakfast when there’s not enough resources to feed an oxen.
Besides, fewer oxen mean that there are fewer things to covet. You’re going to have to try to sin with beetles now, and I wish you well with that. They don’t cry, you know.
The next aspect of the End Times is that you’re going to need to get a boat and die on it.
Because aside from fishing, nice neighbours and sunsets, that’s all that there’s going to be left to do.
You see, you’re going to need a boat owing to lack of living space on land, and possibly because you prefer what mutated, radioactive Fukushima tuna is left over from what the fishing industry abandoned compared to seeing pickled grasshoppers in a jar on your supermarket shelf.
Not only due to this, but also owing to the fact that, aside from there being too many children to have a space to stand, there’s also going to be no room to fuck. And a large amount of pressure to stop making other humans.
There’s no way to ensure that enormity of a mass sterilisation process, and so fucking will just be frowned upon and in many cases prohibited by those with weaponry exclusively designed with reproductive organs in mind (they are either long, thick, with terrifying balls on, or they are wide and soggy with a horrific ability to totally encapsulate you, as well as hypnotise).
When you have to move onto a boat owing to lack of space, maybe you should stop fucking, but trying telling that to anyone with both the ability to fuck and nothing wrong with them. In most cases of anything, fucking is the best bit, so telling people stop is going to be met with a disregard most apparent when they start to fuck in front of you on the poop-deck.
By the way- I like to say ‘fuck’ instead of ‘intercourse’ or ‘sex’, because ‘fuck’ suggests a confidence to do as such in any mood (joy, hate, hilarity, shame). ‘Sex’ suggests merely and regrettably procreative motives, whilst ‘intercourse’ is used only in writing, by those with a fear of saying it aloud in case it suddenly happens to them and stains their clothes and upsets the cat.
So you’ll be on a boat, with little chance to fuck (aside from the mutant fish). And you know you’ll want to die. Either that or make it a weird religious thing.
Religion is going to have some issues when we’re all on boats and eating grubs.
People just aren’t going to have time to pretend this piece of bread is His flesh. You’d just be amazed that you have some bread that you’re lucky enough to be able to spend some time with.
I think that people being tormented by the abundance of salt- water and the lack of non-soggy bibles to bash is either going to send the religious among us overboard…in a good way. Maybe overboard is where Jesus. I know it’s where God is.
Not to mention that when the End Times come, the people who have been enthusiastically waiting will have a terrific anti-climax.
Waiting and waiting and then finding out that ‘fire and brimstone’ doesn’t really happen anymore is going to suck for them. And then the lack of an ‘arc’ and a ‘Noah’ is also going to sting when you realise that you’ve not been invited.
“Who the fuck needs lions!? We don’t need a lion- let alone two of them! I could be sitting where that lion is right now! That’s it- I’m going…out!”
Even the bible will fall into a crack in the ground.
And then there’s the situation with the art. Where will it all go?
Things that were of such highly valued importance- the Mona Lisa- will drift into oblivion like a fat-guy downwards.
The Mona-Lisa is going to fall off the wall and stay there, eventually be eaten by ants still not full from the oxen (sharing between eight million never works well), before finally being shat.
All things will be shat at some point. Just be glad you’re on a boat, not being shat.
Some things will last longer than others. Is that what will matter in the End Times? Should the things that matter therefore have been made of plastic?
Plastic art probably exists, and now that I’m all for it I’m going to have to find a way to become a patron of it. It’d be nice to have a wing…
In the end, will all that combing of hair have mattered? All haircuts will be forgotten aside from the now-and-forever style of ‘Fukushima-baldness’- you shouldn’t have eaten the tuna that couldn’t swim. You should have eaten the crickets- it’d be one less thing to hear in the silence of your hairless nights. On a boat.
Full stops will be done for- and that’s the end of it.
Disney Land and Auschwitz will only be remembered jointly as: “places people used to go to. One was better”.
The Beatles will become an entity that never existed and that people distinctly don’t dance to, and wood will be one of those objects that has no source. You might be able to get a piece of wood, but chances are you can’t climb it. Unless you have a forest on a ship, but then you’re getting into Studio Ghibli territory, and I’m not that good of a writer to keep up with myself.
The End Times are coming…as always.
Your End Times are coming.
Remember that, and maybe you can get some more stuff done. Get yourself down to that boat yard…install an ant-farm.
Otherwise- I’ll see you next time, at the End of Times…
I am about to begin detailing a totem pole with a chisel and mallet, and I have three reasons for doing this.
The first two are short and blunt.
- I’ll get some blisters, which is masculine, which is attractive to a certain degree of woman, which is a feeling which is just swell.
- I get a totem pole out of it, and therefore get a phallus shaped thing with which to out-do my other phallus shaped things (such as that actual phallus I have- had it for years).
- This, and such acts like this, are a tremendous way by which to avoid the label of, and very act of becoming, ‘the public’.
The third one is, I believe, the ‘nub’ of the matter. Possibly ‘the nub’. Maybe even the ‘knub’.
Let me explain why this is essential. Essential like music. Music called ‘knub’.
You don’t want to be the public. Even children don’t want to be the public and they’re the people that the idea is aimed at.
The only people that want to be the public are paranoid stoners that fear that somehow they’re a criminal and now they just want to be back to being part of the public- watching Countdown before the ‘just-because-you’re-paranoid’ police kick your door down and don’t let you finish your cereal.
This kind of collectiveness is what often comes from fear.
That’s why it’s aimed at children.
Because children are not encouraged to do things differently and it’s very easy to scare them. And they have a tendency to do things differently and are brave.
Some people feel a need to put a stop to that. Largely because it’s different, and they are scared of that.
Maybe that could go on the totem pole. Needs an image though. Maybe…a baby…eating a snake. Perfect. That’s brave, and fairly hip. ‘What an infant!’
I feel that another way to avoid, or regress from, your transformation into ‘the public’ is to indulge heavily in those aspects of life that you will not see on television. Such as conversation.
Be interested, and you will become interesting. Become interesting, and that’s about all you need in life apart from a small fire, a sharp stick, a thick book and a good-sized infant to eat away all encompassing snakes.
This is most unlike ‘the public’- the opinion of which is sought only in bulk. What one of ‘the public’ feels is of little consequence, whereas- on mass- these ants will topple over that much detested (at least amongst ants) rubber-tree plant.
You go walking, or indeed move in any way, and talk to strangers as you go. Your day will then improve. Even if you gained a little strain, or perhaps some woe, at least now it’s a variety of woe that you might be more impressive to those listening- as you list your recent activities to your ‘even-more-recent acquaintances’, encountered via a short stroll.
Today, my ears were sieged by the dialogue of one man who suddenly realised that I would be empathic to the point of sympathy as he let me know about how his headlights were wonky and he had to be patient to straighten them.
This man was one of those men with whom one feels a need to reach for the chalk and board to get across your point of “Good morning”. Yet he somehow saw in me something that perhaps suggested that I too had recent or historical laments with my own headlights, or the headlights of a loved one or work colleague. Or maybe he was just looking to gain a little of that sweet bag of mixed nuts known as ‘conversation’.
I agreed with him in everything he said, guaranteed him that I would be patient too, and patted him on the shoulder whilst assuring him that everything about this was normal and that all he had to do was keep doing what he was doing, if perhaps only in an alternative shopping aisle.
As I left with my sushi, a cat I had endured a disagreement with the night before crossed my path, to which we exchanged similar noises (I’m not sure which of us was copying the other- I like to think that I was the trend setter here)and I gave him my fresh salmon.
The cat smelled it, bit it, took it and then ran away with many glances back with a look in its eyes that let out its sheer terror at the idea that I might possess the audacity to attempt to reclaim my own fresh salmon.
I did have the audacity, audacity in spades, but I thought I’d leave it there in the hope that, at the next encounter, we might trade some more-conciliatory noises, as well as some more fresh fish.
If all of this hadn’t happened then I would be sad and with two less stories to tell.
Now, this man and this cat are not ‘the public’.
One is a cat, and the other is a ‘madman’.
Whereas being a cat is no longer an option (since you’ve been a human being for SO long now), the act of ‘madness’ is a viable choice for those that wish to know a little more about the world around them, by assuming there is more to know of a person than their job, address and make of car.
Acts of madness.
Living in a super-tribe of hundreds, thousands and millions, means that people are unable to persist with their natural instincts of knowing intimately every member of what should be your village-sized community of a few dozen people at most.
We can’t even do this at our places of work since too many people equates to too little communication. And that’s why people shoot other people they haven’t met yet.
Now, one may find oneself a niche group of people suited to their particular styles, outlooks and shared history (friends)- something that is increasingly easier with the routes of the internet, but I have a recommendation for dealing with this whilst without friends and away from a computer.
Make it…a little more…funky.
Talk and do. Ask questions to everybody and let them know about your day (but make it funny otherwise they’ll distinctly move further away).
Always help people that are next to you, whether they appear to need it or not. And now, knowing this, when offered help, or when a stranger to you seeks to be one no longer- embrace what they’re doing and be, as we all should, a little more funky.
By decimating the lack of communication bridges with a Golden Gate sized mother-fucker of a conversation starter, you will eliminate the public, and be introduced to a person.
Gather quickly their name and intentions, share yours too, and then make with speed to their destination and help lessen their load and increase the shared information.
This is essentially the best of the internet- without computers.
One can also use totem poles for this.
Carving in the phallus, or perhaps the now famous tree-graffiti symbol I espoused of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” should have the ultimate announcement of “SOMEONE’S HERE”. “And we’ve got totem poles”.
Find out more about this here: https://samsywoodsy.com/2013/11/06/how-many-as-is-appropriate/
By sticking up this carved log from the Earth to the sky- you are sticking out the fact that you are here, not one of the public.
“No public here”.
These, and similar acts (meaning anything that the people that refer to us as ‘the public’ don’t expect), are methods by which to avoid becoming ‘the public’, and I recommend them.
Don’t fall into the kind of collectiveness that the term ‘the public’ refers to.
Instead, take part in another collectiveness- but make this one with which you walk down the street and get involved with people, safe in the knowledge that this person is no longer the public. They are now Steve, and Steve knows an excruciating amount about mushrooms, and soon you will too.
You can refer mushroom issues to your good buddy Steve now. Because you spoke.
Be interested and you will become interesting.
Eventually you might even be able to thrill yourself.
My totem pole is unquestionably going to be phallic, and that is the only kind of classiness that we all need.
My totem pole is classy.
How many ‘A’s is appropriate in the written utterance of: “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH”?
Is there a need for the ‘G’s and ‘H’s?
Is an exclamation mark welcome?
I can’t think of any much worse than inserting an inappropriate number of ‘A’s in to…anything. I mean- that could really ruin a apple-pie.
You see- I’m going carving at the weekend. A buddy and I go to a patch of woods that we might happen to find. Silverbirch a’plenty. I’m going to take this term to the trees.
Scarring them with a term- from what I’ve found to be way up on the list of pleasant things to do to a tree.
I noticed the term “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” to be an oft-repeated phrase throughout human history. It is the natural human cry- relevant in joy, fear, birth and murder.
“AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH” transcends dialect, accent and human divisions, even alternative species. Africans, Europeans, Americans, Asians, apes galore- we all let loose an occasional “AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH”.
It suits us.
Therefore- the truly meaningful…thing…that I was looking to carve into the fallen branch I had found, was born. And I think ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ would be a wonderful term to sit on.
Obviously, perhaps owing to our shared and celebrated sense of creativity or our shared and accepted sense of laziness- we knew that we would be sitting on this branch at some point.
Owing to its transcending of most signals of emotion (fear, joy, murder, birth, pain and pleasure)- it has only one true definition that is undeniable to all that hear it. No matter the reason for it’s being uttered- the translation is forever: ’SOMEONE’S HERE’.
And that’s it. It translates as: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.
To hear this cry is to be aware that a person (or something apishly-similar) made it, and is therefore likely nearby. And it means this…loudly.
No matter the root of cause for it- the root meaning of it is: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’.
And who wouldn’t want to scream that?
Got something better to scream?
Ok, fine. That’s a good one too, but I’m sticking with the traditional: ‘SOMEONE’S HERE’. Or ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’ to be more dramatic.
This one could be on T-shirts.
And this is why knowledge of how to actually spell the term is important to me right now. Because I’m going to carve it, and I’m going to carve it onto T-shirts.
So, once more- with feeling: ‘AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH’.
And you can quote me on that.