“People accept the fact that life doesn’t make sense. I don’t know why they expect art to make sense.”
I walk through these fifteen streets again like a dog, and I cannot focus any longer. The streets are abrasive under my shifting weight, and my boot heels wear down to the wood.
Two things we are all subject to are gravity and eventual death. All your life you fight to stay at the surface of these streets while gravity keeps pulling at your bones until you end up six feet under. Death and gravity are a great team, and they always win. But while my eyes are still a rough six feet above the ground, I’m determined to have a good look around.
What I see is a wasteland of mangled illusions inhabited by an army of fucking muppets. They have all OD’d on sand-wiches stuffed with fluorescent curry chicken, and now they’re stuck in a feverish trip where they need to be surrounded by cartoon characters all the time, otherwise they freak out. So they get Mickey Mouse ties and Tom and Jerry socks, they drink their coffee from Donald Duck mugs, they block the streets with their shiny Garfield cars, and they feel really good pulling freshly pressed Snoopy underpants over their impeccably groomed arses every morning.
It’s a sad and beautiful world. I find it very relieving to look at it in a blur, to take away all that deceptive fucking focus. Do I need to be interested in details that don’t exist? Does the tyre of a car connect to the road? Is that wall orange? Is that really what David Lynch said? When? Where? Am I a spectre haunting my own life?
David Russon VI03
all rights reserved