It’s just words
Life is far too tragic not to write about it.
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I dare you to judge me.
According to the boomer, we judge someone within the first few seconds of meeting them. I’d consider it a measure of looks because that’s obvious. Using stereotypes, Gen-X may be most likely to agree with me, suggesting that we do judge quickly but at a cost, usually retracting our preconceived notion of a person once we get to know them – a reasonable and understandable process. I am a Millennial. I speak on behalf of my people using no more than a drab of generation generalisation so I say we started off well, over time we’ve seen diminishing returns on the incentive to get out and meet people. Covid. Sexual harassment. Cost of living. Social interaction of any sort (Anxiety). The pressure we’ve put on ourselves to make it worthwhile is an ick to the modern social perspective – what’s in it for us? Our outlook (my opinion) on others is a closely affiliated reflection of how we judge ourselves, making it an odious challenge to form any objective opinions at all. In a world of self-loathing, unrealistic ideals and not standing up to expectations with remarkably less resources than our parents had, what do people expect? A frame of mind formed from infinite stores of efficacious positivity and openness unaffected by the unfairness of life. In all honesty, when faced with this topic of debate with friends and family, it’s hard not to get personal when we get to the Millennial bit. I suppose that’s the point. Moreso that, despite how annoyingly true this is, it’s all fucking relative. Made more annoying if you have this discussion with actual relatives. It's a cracker for the Christmas table. Gen-Z. FWIW I don’t know what they think, it’s harder to decipher IMHO. How many followers have they got? Sounds harsh. Likes on a post for the Z’s is the digital comparable to who turned up to your birthday party for the M’s and X’s. I know a great deal of Gen Z’s and they’re great moral arbiters with a knack for taking judgement and passing it on to only the most deserving lowlifes. The effectiveness of doing this online can be precarious living if you get it wrong.
It is powerful.
Isn’t it? The sadness.
I wrote this song during a break-up. I painted this after my dad died. I designed that after my mental breakdown.
Our best and arguably our realest creative expression is steeped heavily in melancholy and funereal feeling. I conform to the assumption that when times are tough, profound ideas are forming underneath all that muck. It’s the definition of a blessing in disguise, to suffer, to really understand life’s misfortunes and find the ability to create art. How great it is for others to enjoy the work of the hapless. It’s only until much later in life that I’ve come to appreciate the sacrifice, the fragile strength of vulnerability, anticipating the struggle of openness when one desires to be closed, to confront the pain and redirect it into something universal. A powerful commodity. Take acting, for example. What are those performances that have resonated with you the most and why? What seems to have stood the test of time? The pain we keep as people is a cash cow if you play your cards right, if you have the means to manoeuvre it into something artistic but it’s meaning we search for, the reasons behind it all. Surely? You can imagine how conflicting it must be to live vicariously through a character for the duration of filming a movie, inhabiting every flaw and trait, not least if one’s real life lingers amongst it all. To embrace but stay in control. It is powerful. My movie would be a nail-biter, a little sad, very frustrating, funny as fuck, maybe you’d have empathy for me for the bad things that have happened to me, I wonder if you’d hate my character. I could easily use those artistic freedoms to lie a little bit. Photoshop for your personality, imagine how much they’d charge for that in Adobe Express. Though it doesn’t seem as unlikely as it would’ve done ten years ago. The moronic part of life, the sad and damned will eat at our bones until humanity ceases to exist, but as we know, the saddest things often make the best art.
Mother’s Day has pink energy.
Pink can be hard or soft, peonies or breast cancer awareness. I imagine a pink so hard that it’s borderline red, or so supple that it becomes a sort of blush ivory. Apparently, it all means nothing without somewhere to show it off. Retail. Worse, retail workers. Not because they’re worse people, in fact, they’re the very best of society. It begins with the shoddy boss, most of us have had a terrible one or have witnessed one being a dick to staff. The suit is too big or worryingly tight, ashy grey checkered or navy-blue pinstripe, M&S are out of stock. The shirts go one of two ways: excel spreadsheet or bright magenta, the estate agent special. Old and tatty or frighteningly new and still terrible. The shoes are always bedraggled and crinkled or unbearably shiny. They roam like supermarket vampires, draining the life out of some forlorn member of staff and buffing their toe cap with it.
Mother’s Day brings with it the mawkish mutterings of the forgetful who have been brutally reminded by an imposing commercial sign that they too are to love her, dear mother, darling wife. It feels simulated, my missing her; a repetitively motionless scene in that post-traumatic play which spirals around in my head each year - what would it be like? Where would we go? I have a dad. Father’s Day is boring too, similarly an exercise of meaty lunches and a bottle of wine. I confidently consider every day apart from that day as a better Father’s Day. Nobody is fanning about with urgent visits to Robert Dyas or checking the old man’s sock drawer. I reference my own Father who likes to change a bulb but not replace his socks. I do still wonder what eighteen motherless Mother’s Days would’ve looked like with more mother. I like tradition, I celebrate the joy of cultured togetherness, except Monopoly which sucks and does not bring a family together no matter how you look at it. This year I could be sad; I could be happy. My feelings on the topic are anthropomorphic, a lot like British weather – predictably shit but might need shorts. This year I was sunken with joy.
It’s not even funny.
Love is the most fiendishly pernicious of vices. That said, one of the benefits of our hearts’ expenditure is the purest pleasure if you manage to get it right. There is something wildly unfair about society sending us out on a wild goose chase for a kind of “true love” that will service a less fractious existence, supplement our greatest happiness and touch wood, take the edge off normal life.
Schmaltzy gooey love stuff doesn’t seem so bad until you are the one watching it.
There’s nothing less motivating than a motivational message.
I’ve always tried to make myself someone I wanted to be, whoever that was at the time. I absorb everything around me and consign the bits I don’t find value into various fates so my mind is less busy, or at least I thought. There’s a myriad of messages that have been shared with me in my lifetime, some to convince me to be better, feel better, or feel capable of feeling anything at all. Motivational messages seem to appear more commonly when one is going through a rough patch, I can attest to countering a higher volume of opinions when I’m failing rather than succeeding. I sense a societal pressure to be obliging of help when it is offered, even if we aren’t seeking it, in an attempt not to be ungrateful or unappreciative of the person who is trying to motivate you, help or whatever – it’s hard to know what people’s intentions are. It’s odd to me that the onus leans on the beneficiary to be thankful and in my experience, navigate the ego of the motivator to ensure feelings are spared. I can’t deny that the general act of being there for someone by ways of verbalising your observations, opinions or concerns, isn’t overwhelming for the person on the other side. It’s the pressure to add to it, to explain or justify yourself. The nature of these interactions living and dying on hill where more information is usually needed, information I personally am rarely wanting to give. To question someone’s intentions is complicated, it could destroy the prospect of receiving good advice but equally set you up for a torrent of erroneous assumptions about you as they “help you”. I should understand, I’ve had them all my life. You’d be surprised how many relationships in my life have been built by them, replaced platitudes disguised as meaningful exchanges. This was and every so often still is a gloom-ridden perspective to have, constructed by my early beginnings when conversation was required to be suitable for tepid teenage talk, decontaminated of ‘uncool’ by conforming to the established practices of school, a steppingstone towards the unripe balderdash of college chat and heading straight for rebarbative adult talk where schmoozing and professional success have a more intimate relationship. Too many opinions. Endless partisan gossip. The only common component of all three is that there will always be people who don’t care. Never did, never will. I suppose if both parties don’t care, do we cancel each other out? It’s not an intelligent approach to take but it has got me through some tough times with problematic people.
Existing means run-of-the-mill interactions, having to find any convenient way to persevere through routine reciprocity. I’m rarely a more forbidding character than in a post office queue – it’s an accomplishment if I manage to blab about banal things to the sorry person beside me. I rarely care about the weather when I’m in the queue, nor where you’re sending that pristine envelope, Deborah, yet I must survive this queue, so do I partake or do I have a stare off with the inevitable person judging me for the aggressive expression on my face. I think about train journeys, or 10 minutes waiting at the bar for my friend to arrive, or at the taxi rank, or walking my dog, or any number of things that I’d love to do on my own and can’t because someone is either trying to bother me, insult me or fuck me. I say bother because I happen to love talking to people and I enjoy being spoken to but I also hate people. If I ever find myself eavesdropping on someone else’s chit-chat, it has become common for me to be nauseated by the cursed l’esprit de l’escalier because stranger, satire and I go hand in hand, apparently. Dealing with the aftermath requires great contouring of my face and parlance gymnastics.