An Open Letter

Dear Reader,

To profess and rant about Existentialism and the advent of the vehemently claimed ‘Hipster’ would be very far from new; however, the connection between those two creates a system of machinery which is the truest reflection of inane human shenanigans shown to us thus far. One could either beat a tube of glue with a baby’s toy hammer coloured red, green and pink, or simply look for existentialism in Indie-rock in order to finally delineate him/herself with respect to the physical and mental capacity that society has defined for them – this capacity being what in turn defines them, labels, etc. – and transcend to a certain selflessness. Musicality flows easily and freely through every person, putting thought to words, i.e. lyrics is what makes a Jim Morrison. Of all the music out there, it is the Indie music – those which are propagated by Hipsters who look up MySpace pages with a maximum of 5 followers – that bring the sobbing mother, the tiring father and the angst-full teenager to our ears. Tales of the day, things you go through: the narrative of my mind. Not the stuff you’d talk about at the laundry, but those moments of deep insight and curiosity that one dives into, surfacing seconds later in fear of brain freeze. Why was that guy frowning at the curb? Why was she smiling at green zombie monkey toy…why is the sky bluer than the ocean, or visa versa. We all have answers and insights, but they never leave our world. The construct that keeps us sane and is the blueprint to our intellect, the self, never sees the light of day. To be high on music and love and air in this sad world and still be alone, to exist beyond this realm, it is Sartre’s hell, Camus’ heaven. We were once alone in that when we shut our eyes the world we lived in was beyond the purview of any other human being, and now we are not, for that world is merging slowly but surely through the simplistic lyrics of the modern song writers, reaching us “On the Radio”, winning the fight against propaganda, media and the chains of society, merely because “the DJ is sleeping” at the station, and you are up late, as are we all.“Truth is an amalgam of earthly elements”, said some Greek philosopher, Plato, Socrates, someone…. “Truth is an amalgam of inane snippets of my life that I alone give a shit about” says I. Who am I? I am that question which is of little importance. Soon, due to the hated existential hipster, the world will know that they wake up together, breathe, and die alone…that the inane snippets that are so dear to us are endearing agents of unity, inflicting us all with thunderous ferocity and urgency.

Yours Truly.

Written in July, 2011

True Love - 3

We have inherited the denial of dreams; for dreams were not allowed here, a moment ago. In this apocalypse of melting glass and electronic ❤️s, each individual candle in each individual heart grasps blindly at whatever fodder it can find; or not, the flame gives up, and that is the greatest tragedy of this generation. To have inherited such  blockades – panoramic – that archaic institutions rise once again as the only solace to a mad, mad world; this is the plague that infects us now; our planet dying, in body and in soul.

To be able to share strong flames has always been the endeavour, after all its only through sharing that one can grow their fire. But it dampens, blight overtakes all our souls, no avenue left but the fantastical: streaming straight to your bedroom; invisible, mundane oceans flow. The crime of this generation – surrounded by compromise, by just-get-by – is to tune out, and tune in: let the dice fall how they may, hey! you got what? must be really great, the pay…hey…just enjoy it, enjoy it so you can make my day. Love, the drug; the permanent inheritance.

What an easy escape, it just needs a flash of a face in the mind and all those chemicals smoked and all those spirits drawn the world over, light up manifold…let me save you the trouble, it’s the medial insula. We know this, we’ve put scalpel along with big, blunt brains to it and all we’ve got is confusion: a bag of feelings everyone knows true; a feeling yet to be captured; words that have meaning only when they are alive.

There have been celebrations – she loves me, yeah – and what we’re left with today are brooding singers and heartbroken eyes plastered across every screen. Joy seems to be less the norm, increasingly a relic; get with the times, or buddy, you’ll get left behind. Seriously, the times are grim and we must be serious. Actions must carry definition, conviction, and motivation. Cannot scalpel love if you’re not willing to reassemble it; in 21 Steps on your latest website; “34 Signs That He’s A Keeper (And You Were Right Not To Settle Until You Found Him)”[1].

This is the world I live in; winds cannot reach these silicon coated cheeks, my dear. But travel as I have, and traverse as I shall; nature remains oblivious, as shall that which is natural in me.

All things mutate, all matter evolves; if a flame won’t grow for a lack thereof, then its own flame it shall pursue. Be it anger, or overflowing joy; love shall reign over and within; albeit a departure now from all things that are without. The endeavour, as once was – another relic, worn like old leather – is to create a fire so big that no one may dare deny; that a wind can rhyme so succinct, to a meter that’s golden: mint.

Tragedy obsesses over each generation; culminating as a whole onto the shoulders of ours: it’s the information age baby, ir/relevant, we know it all. Maybe nature’s no longer on the guest list…maybe the love of the leaves and the trees – salt in the fresh sea air, morning dew on gardens aging for centuries – never really reaches us anymore. Regardless, the wind must set alight the phoenix’s wings.

A wind is to be found whispering, now and forever in your ear: you’re beautiful.

Written on Wednesday, May 20, 2021

[1] “34 Signs That He’s A Keeper (And You Were Right Not To Settle Until You Found Him)”, Thought Catalog, Lorenzo Jensen III, February 1, 2018, www.thoughtcatalog.com: https://thoughtcatalog.com/lorenzo-jensen-iii/2018/02/34-signs-that-hes-a-keeper/ , as accessed on May 20,  2021, 20:10hrs

Sunrise Flyovers

Together isn’t always forever; yet, love can be found casually scattered across the night sky. A whirring engine rings less mechanical than the heart that cast me out; so now I return to the aimless joys of swirling the cigarette smoke upon my fingers. Dim drumming music, giving rhythm as I speed past that red, that light. Yellow soon, green it’ll be…this time of night, myself and the sky.

It’s best to go on wet roads…ideally just after a good midnight thunderstorm. Yes, you’ll find the occasional tree slewn across that otherwise perfect-to-drive-on road…but what story isn’t without a few snags. It’s best to go on wet roads because it’s the closest you’ll ever come to a magic carpet ride.

The music you want to choose carefully beforehand, going to be too busy to pick tracks. Something that makes you want to pour your lungs out, bang that steering to beat and look…but I just drive faster, which is also nice.

A good smoke to contrast the fresh after-rain air; one to light, one to smoke; hand over, way too over blackening half the cigarette. Ah well, next time I’ll nail the no-look light. Waving the embers into the draft watching them dance to the same waves of black you’ve seen; same air. A flag that the embers meekly outline; maybe they’ve a longing too; dancing with full ferocity till their flames quickly vanish.

The monuments shall remain, transfixed for us transient lovers. I know this tryst will last many more ages; how many times must you see me, on foot, on horse, in cart…in car? This never-ending drive serving as the pit-stop between the storms that make us, that take us away from the dread of having to wake oneself up; once again.

Oh yes, you best go it alone; on these drives into the comforting night, reflection out the corner of your eye; some invisible hand moving yours to fix that little bit of hair. When else to ponder on all the moments that crafted your solitude?

Written on Wednesday, May 14, 2021