It seems that those that embrace the world of following the impulse to foster their own personal sense of aesthetic self-expression doom themselves to perish alone as wholly unrecognized for any of the superlative achievements. That relative degree of recognition for which they strive always elusive and too often conferred posthumously based upon a false sense of prestige that has nothing to do with the intent of the artist’s inspiration int he first place. And perhaps those that are most ready to dismiss it out of a fear and a kindred sense of egotism that makes them a natural rival of the artist.
I seem to also be someone whose past periodically catches up with me at poignant intervals during rocky points of existence. Big dreams reverting to nightmares. Empty places that I fill with Déjà vu mixed with unconscious despair. But not being the crying kind, deferring to those proclivities of that once famous oeuvre of an Arthur J. Prufock. I would prefer to scuttle about my own private ocean bed in a blissful solitude. This dust barely settled from the last century being inevitably stirred up again by the conservation of its old stone edifices to serve as beards for the anarchy of repetitive structural postmodern monotony. The old being freely supplanted by youthfully ignorant echoes of this same trite scheme. And I being stricken now caught in a moldering frame with the curse of youth still vibrantly in force within.
Modern A-B-C’s of sine-wave modulation standing in for song lyrics. An anonymous machine-like mechanical chorus completely usurping the libretto of the singer who become a mere accompanist to his own star billing. Perhaps no one knows how to really draw or sing anymore and they must cover their tracks? They by rightful destiny that I so scrupulously avoided, might be an audience composed of my grandchildren traipsing about with the misapprehensions only successive decades of hard life experience can resolve and decisively put to rest. This hiatus suffered on the fringe of a roundabout of change for change’s sake posing as inspiration a reminder of so many of my own past confusions. And defeats.
Chicago, as that city on the lakefront. The main drag border of culture and commerce supporting occasional leftover halls of ivory and stained glass ceilings that by happenstance alone still serve to convey a lost era when architecture was imbued with civic personality and the soul of a future vision. The ebb and flow of errant humanity collectively motivated by common deceit to travel daily through ruts and familiar linear beelines being wholly ignorant of such purpose. Though their own previous namesakes long ago erased as a species. Something that might have served as a foundation stone for building their own personal identities now long ago been wiped out. This stasis of absolute conformity operating smoothy within an immovable continuum. Something all too obvious to the objective observer who connects with stark regularity the predictable quirks of commercial avatars too easily counted. All manner of vermin bustling about their immediate surroundings with similar missions in mind. The common behavior shared by all of deflecting all potential rivals in near vicinity at any cost.
Community now a vague descriptor left over from a bygone era out of date before computers and phone machines perverted the nature of time. Before cell phones robbed humanity of the ability to take int he muse of their surroundings at leisure and be overwhelmed with the majesty of the natural universe. Powered enclosed wagons and that natural friction come of portable interior spaces now far removed from the passing terrain outside. The palpable fictional illusion of a group identity carrying moral envy to illogical extremes fostering conversations with total strangers based upon brand names and socially supervised interests. The contingent all to happy to abandon their awkward individualisms in favor of the semiotics of outward appearances as governed in the moment by the latest styles commercially pushed by the corporate drugged culture of the most recent trend. A pantomime more likely a coverup to exhibit a silent strength in numbers as opposed to a pleading cry of weakness. A fatal irony cast by this plastic mentality that all will eventually decline into an amorphous approximate.
So anonymous at last! A passing act in the waking Hell of the eternal misplaced promise. Better to be unseen and fit in with the background rather than stand out and be an easy target solely responsible for their own highs and lows. Life eventually defaulting to a bitter brew of cheap beverage. A developed disdain for orally exercised distastes. Maybe the worst pricks in the world are the best judges of human nature? So many people want someone else to write their script so their tale comes out as a happy ending. But at this point even if they had $100,000,000.00 they would still end up swilling two-dollar beers. This era rankles at the sound of the truth being told and covers its ears until the comfort of the most specious nonsensical fiction drowns that out. So be it!