There is a contradiction between those that are naturally talented and all those other’s that make a career out of impersonating being the same. The ‘I’ beginning as a shill trying to fit in by pretending to thyself.
The loss of the First World War by Germany resulting in a corresponding loss of identity in Berlin by 1920.
WARNING!, A WORD TO THE WISE! – When you visit as far from your original home as possible on that part of the globe this might be recalculated within your mind after the fact of the arrival as being much farther than one would have ever imagined! That survivor within taking possession. You might seem like a bumpkin to the local’s who are all well aware of the regional pitfalls accorded to everyday dangers. And if your presence generates enough benign interest from their part they might offer a terse but friendly advise, warning you off from exhibiting complacency that might inadvertently interfere with the impermanence of your existence on their turf. There being to a certain degree your grace in accept their gift within the proper proscribed manner. Perhaps not in words but in action. Siberia in Russia being such a land.place That proverbial last place on this planet where not to expect to project the ongoing narrative of your own life. A place bereft of the overzealous imprint of man even amidst of the densest form of regional habitation as such. The boundary of civilization that can confidently be displayed being drafty interiors of some old wood frame ramshackle huts. Acceptable life being defined purely in terms of ‘interior‘ or ‘exterior‘. The wonders of mankind most spectacular achievements boiled down far from civilization being in part in how could such dismal abodes survive into the last century relatively unsullied?This attitude cloaked in permafrost and not noticed save in the presence of strangers. The visitor by unspoken terms of hospitality required to respond in kind or be judged a simpleton. – END OF MESSAGE
(This Day Explained) – That damnable need to stay modern and contemporary! Proving that a sense of the future still exists! Society routinely eviscerating itself, demolishing and renovation. Pulling out old family edifices like rotten teeth! Plans to reconfigure the neighborhood arbitrarily to new tastes. All to keep up with the latest fictions of boundless prosperity for all those that it has enthralled since birth. Populations defined by their relative degree of worth to the unspoken pyramidal collective. The perpetual underclass of general humanity deposed or disposed accordingly. No regard offered beyond traffic management directions their lives having become accustomed to implied consent as trained from birth to embody ‘carrot and stick‘ mentalities. Discipline being defined as resisting all animal impulses on command. The ghost of Curly Howard. This early morning ride on public trans awakening many personal recollections upon this now lesser traveled street. Those episode buried under loose sand of decades past. placed together now like red bricks into a reassembled quilted past. You are not a true American until you can authentically become indifferent to your own genetic past! So many differences from my own reflection counter-posed upon the average stereotype of my own class. Now back on sleepy Southport street after two decades of maniacal change. How decrepit that former would be hipster now that there is gray that has grown over his vines? I can remember when Babe Ruth the film was shot here! That fat boy impersonator John Goodman sitting in his seat. This neighborhood ninety years later no longer the same sort of ‘fuck off!” Life too overstuffed with the past. I wish I had something extraordinary and useful to say!
How that last five minutes spend in unfamiliar surroundings is ever so electric! A rendezvous in keeping with the satisfaction of our own expected desires. Are they simply impulses or habits? From “Last Year In Marienbad” to even further back into long departed student Indie days! This old movie palace having history co-existential with that of my own family. The intervening loss of same coloring it in hues of blue. The lives of these others lived from a very different form of context. Not the same portal this window to a world long lost, save for all enjoying that initial naiveté of youth! Unable to recall all the significant names but well aware of the youthful hubris of having them readily at hand. Stan Brackhage and the those other ghosts of the past. “Shhhh!, Careful not to startle or harass!” Sublimate the desire to interact. You are only a humble extra. This shoot will entail blue balloons not old buffoons! Lots of them to be dropped. At some point during the day to be dropped from a low ceiling. A minor detail of strategy that will be worked out in the course of events. Ho Hum! One of those unexpected mini-disaster that one can reckon for in such productions that will ultimately be worked out. Would that the reality of life be so easily accommodated. How odd this unfolding mystery incrementally revealing plot? As one too eager to be the first extra on the scene I am expected to play the patient in the Doctor’s office whiling away my time. How intimidating to others one’s own enforced silence betwixt these scribble can be?
The “Discrete Charm Of These Well Heeled Bourgeoisie!” The elastic qualities of balloons. An action that forms a working description of all. Odd that the actions of the inanimate trump the inferred these interlocking dramas of the living? The coffee from the Viennese cafe that no longer allows smoking resounds. A preponderance of the artificial over the living. The director arrives with a sanguine seriousness flirting with a sense of military precision. The ritual of the push pull of D.P., Producer. AD and other trendy industry acronyms ensues. Any who dare to offer interference to same spied with a look saying, “Oh well, we really do not need you!” That invictus of stay out of our way, or else! The spoken word by mere mortals an affront. A quick retreat beaten on the inner drum smarting from the nature of youth over to be suspicious of all things old. Leaving behind side conversations over the shoulder wondering where that one piece of indispensable equipment has gotten off to. Why left back at the ranch, of course! You amateur skin is showing beneath the thin veneer of the professional verve shown! The hint leaving this old waylaid Ulysses in the much older main lobby safe from those raging ongoing disruptions challenging youth. To sit where you belong in this bygone era. The manager of this place having no idea of the history of the place as far as he details the finer points of the other larger auditorium to a bevy of post dated Millennial females. This location might have been teleported from the face of Mars for all they know. As odd as the notion of a stationary ringing phone haltered by a cord that one cannot hold within their hand? “Leaving a message!“, not an option. This virgin generation having their tablet sized world rocked by a truly ‘big screen’.
The Fag extravaganza flic now playing to an empty house transliterating all the animal traits common over the eons. Exile spent upon a broken sofa just outside listening to the elevated vowels of transgender raging on. No hope of a sanitary space where I might lodge my own personal thoughts. Once can only reflect yet again what an old fool I must appear to be. The disembodied affected tones rankling in the empty hall mostly hate filled for what they consider the conventional. Yet they follow so closely along with its playbook? Ever bemoaning the injustice of the entire planet not being born to the same world as they know it. The self-idolatry flowing forth interrupting itself as if out of a basic instinct favoring an unrepentant jealousy of every other, even themselves! Woe betide those fools who will attend the repeat performance of this tonight! The only exceptional achievement offered in being able to trash with disrespect even more genre’s than their hackneyed script requires. Absolutely nothing being any good! What then could one expect from generations bereft of a solid identity forced to explore other ones out of fear of constant social derision? What if one could have been that perennial bug on the wall in these local ancient times past instead of this inverted era of juxtaposing king with the queen? Now chased off by audience fatigue to the new lounge on the other side. Bundled up with five other respondents! Two females and four males. The shapely all too attractive blonde putting the older type ‘wolves‘ on their pins. Hard to play ‘Droopy Dog‘ in this crowd trying not to faux pas by dropping mental wolf whistles. Oh to be thirty years younger! Trying hard to look away from that Gorgon stare that melts long petrified stone. The obsession to avoid all opportunities that one so deeply desires. “Vanilla Sky“, patented pleasure denier techniques! Oh, for all those fantasy dream to come true of being immortal in the practice of youth, instead, the cold reality of being “That dirty old Man.” You will die shroud covered in your own long unfulfilled dreams! A lifelong exercise in Masochism, self applied, of course!
But life is complex and in the final reel, no one ever turns out to be who they seem to be. The creative boundaries of industrial fiction long-overtaken by actual fact. So sad that this world must operate in the light of limitations. This other self-imposed ‘can’t be’s’. Those same ones that keep you safely corralled within acceptable well-known limits guaranteed to keep you safe from harm from that outside world that stings. “Would you so easily confuse beauty with attractiveness?” So often played that game of “Win my heart!“, now “Break my heart!” The difference between striving and embracing fatality that conventional wisdom defies. Still conversant with that name Penelope enough to plug one’s ears and wax remaining tied to the mast to avoid the Siren’s call. Had old Adam realized that his true battled with desire would only begin outside God’s sacred garden after so easily fallen? And what could one say beyond, “I don’t like starting up anything that I cannot finish!”, having been ‘MeToo#’s’ so often. Now only able to rediscover women from the bottom up. But then wondering long after the fact why life leaves you sitting at a bus stop waiting a long time to gain the right to simply say, “I’m past it!“