It is impossible to escape the weight of the crushing feeling of abandonment in the isolation of the knowledge-that just as the cosmos injected us into absurd consciousness in absolute solitude...it is a counter curse that we must face our eventual annihilation in the same circumstances...utterly, uncontrollably and tortuously alone.

The memory of the defining micro-moment of individual creation fades with such inconsequence of awakening  as to have seemingly never occurred at all.  A steady materialisation into physicality-undefined by any apparent point of distinction-other than a burgeoning, brutal awareness of the importance of the brevity of time and the imminence of death; an inconceivable, conscious return to the unconscious.  A submerged cliff-drop into unfathomable, unthinkable depths of the darkness of personal non-existence. An instantaneous, cold exit to lonely oblivion that even the tightest grip of the warmest hand can do nothing to relieve.

Even in the associated company of millions, it is the forlorn hope for the possibility of a true and certain connection with another. True sexual love can bring a fleeting reprieve, a momentary illusion of assured connectivity, an ephemeral act of misguided defiance-only to be returned to reality of the sickening baseness of the act, a repeated awakening to the premeditated deception of a genetic overture enticing us with empty promises to enter the dance.

To claim to know ourselves and to even allege to comprehend any purpose to life we must first learn to truly accept the loneliness of the certainty of the eventual and oncoming arrival of death. To recognize it and accept it with clarity and calmness and without any ounce or hint of self delusion. To accept our physical irrelevance beyond the indestructible matter of memory.

21st century life offers a multitude of hollow diversions; Boneless spectres of false hope intended to distract attention from the clay beneath the concrete.  A blissful denial of nature and self imposed ignorance that creates a world where it is everyone else who dies but never us; Where the deaths of strangers are the cause of an overreaction in inappropriate exhibitions of grief in preparation for some future personal tragedy, it's approach painstakingly and continuously denied but secretly all too present-loitering patiently in the disinfected, dust free shadows.  A life protected by objects and things, bodies scoured and painted and preened, stretched and disfigured in order to disclaim and disown the fragile inconvenient workings of our parietal inner shells.

The clock placidly reports the loss of another second,minute, hour and day, sustaining it's relentlessness, through us, despite us and beyond us...

All art is relevant,all creativity is vital. Human creativity resists the gods and pleases them, the impertinence of self-reliance concealing and acting upon the suspicion of the nihilistic nature of the situation. The most significant creativity however must be that which searches for solutions to the enigmatic associations of sex, death and the loneliness of memory. There are no other considerations...all at once exciting, frightening, incomprehensible and ridiculous. Only art that attempts to bring understanding, enlightenment and solace from these considerations can hope to attempt to bring fulfillment other than to create objects that merely conceal the irreparable, widening cracks in the eternally aging plaster of the walls.

 

This is our 21st century Eden...the fig leaves are again removed to reveal the true nature of our mortality, the senseless narcissistic hunger for a corporeal eternity. In this garden the tree is formed of fibreglass and wire, sloppily constructed of egotism and devoid of inner weight and substance.  All temptations are to be acted upon with the safety of the support of self anointed experts who collude to force blame for all actions into the hands of the victim, who then consult the same experts to relay the culpability on through continuous chains, creating a paradise from which only guilt and responsibility are banished. Fruitless uncultivated physicality poses as a hedonistic search for truth.  All experience is predefined and carefully mapped to create the mirage of free will and displaces the need for imagination...

The descendants of the originals remain,silently engaging, comforted by attempted comprehension. Naked and shamelessly faithless; Self-sustained in reflexion of the animism of the patterns of the wallpaper-having long renounced the words.

 

 

 

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this rubbish?" - T.S. Elliot.