I've been thinking about glances, unverified glances mostly. They're these momentary things that have remained pinned up in the subconscious. They're always accessible for recollection, those silent intensities that have gone without clarification and yet, they seem to exist forever with their own kind of truth.
When I was younger, I broke one such moment to question how it's possible to even dole out such a charged gaze. The intensity, apparently, was intended to correspond with sincerity. Oddly enough, I walked away, determined that I would never trust those who "gazed". After all, what are intentions without words?
I harbour an ambivalent attitude towards such moments. I look forward to them, knowing that they lead to the most meaningful and meaningless moments of my existence. I want every meaning to be defined, yet their silence provokes a confidence that suggests that I really need no clarification. I am wanted...
Showing posts with label Imagination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Imagination. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Hauntings
It was still daylight when we emerged from dinner and we stood at the corner of Little Bourke and Russell Street. I said, "I'll be happy to think that I'll associate all these places with you, when you're gone..." He didn't really respond, in fact he said comparatively very little on that walk back. I suppose we both knew it would be the last few minutes we would ever see each other, but I remained largely unsentimental. I filled the silence, recounting various hauntings of those narrow streets. We walked past Ding Dong and I told him of the friend who carelessly volunteered her heart to someone she shouldn't have. I told him of her heartbreak and how a mutual friend ruthlessly dismissed her grief. He sarcastically summed up the story I just told, highlighting the similarities to us and I playfully smacked his chest. "That was completely different."
We returned to talking about music in those remaining moments, about Parlophone and Steve Osborne and that other movement we thought we had played a part in. We kept walking until we came upon a street sign, a lane bearing his name. We stopped and looked up: "That's so strange..."
I once hated Melbourne for its hauntings. I would emerge from the house knowing that almost every street and intersection would bring up some unwelcomed association, some memory of a loss or mistake. I've never been able to shake that habit and I'm beginning to think that it's not even possible. I'm always attaching a memory to a locality and it was only recently that I learned that this mental process is called Method of Loci. It's a device which relies upon memorised spatial relationships to recall "memorial content". Even as I sit here now, I'm randomly generating geographical associations, namely the east side of Little Lonsdale and Russell Street, for no other reason than I want to remember what it is to be writing this.
Each morning, I take the train and between Flinders Street Station and Southern Cross I survey many places I associate with him. His hauntings don't bother me so much, in fact, I'm happy to think that he's somehow attached to the physicality of this place. I think about Little Collins Street and his thoughts on quantum physics. Through some ridiculous theory, he suggested that it somehow meant that we could have already lived out every path, every choice and possibility together. I said it was completely absurd and without even thinking, I pointed out the half-demolished building on the diametrically opposite corner with its crumbling Art Deco façade. "I don't understand why it needs to be destroyed." As the green man flashed at us and I instinctively stretched out my hand towards his, a thoughtless gesture to ensure we crossed safely.
We returned to talking about music in those remaining moments, about Parlophone and Steve Osborne and that other movement we thought we had played a part in. We kept walking until we came upon a street sign, a lane bearing his name. We stopped and looked up: "That's so strange..."
I once hated Melbourne for its hauntings. I would emerge from the house knowing that almost every street and intersection would bring up some unwelcomed association, some memory of a loss or mistake. I've never been able to shake that habit and I'm beginning to think that it's not even possible. I'm always attaching a memory to a locality and it was only recently that I learned that this mental process is called Method of Loci. It's a device which relies upon memorised spatial relationships to recall "memorial content". Even as I sit here now, I'm randomly generating geographical associations, namely the east side of Little Lonsdale and Russell Street, for no other reason than I want to remember what it is to be writing this.
Each morning, I take the train and between Flinders Street Station and Southern Cross I survey many places I associate with him. His hauntings don't bother me so much, in fact, I'm happy to think that he's somehow attached to the physicality of this place. I think about Little Collins Street and his thoughts on quantum physics. Through some ridiculous theory, he suggested that it somehow meant that we could have already lived out every path, every choice and possibility together. I said it was completely absurd and without even thinking, I pointed out the half-demolished building on the diametrically opposite corner with its crumbling Art Deco façade. "I don't understand why it needs to be destroyed." As the green man flashed at us and I instinctively stretched out my hand towards his, a thoughtless gesture to ensure we crossed safely.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Inventions
It was a cold brisk night and Noreen and I had just walked past the cemetery. She said: "Just because they don't write essays about it doesn't mean they don't care. It doesn't mean that they don't remember everything..." I could only laugh a little, what with my wheezing and shortness of breath. I responded quite flippantly in that trade mark sardonic tone. "What are you talking about, no one remembers anything! I'd be an idiot to convince myself otherwise."
I don't know when I started believing this, but at some point, I thought that comfort comes from invention. It comes from that ability to convince yourself that they do care or they do remember or they do regret. There's always that scope to do that, if you spend enough time alone with your thoughts. In the silence, you can construct an alternative reality, one that need not be true necessarily, but one that is not quite so painful to live with on a day-by-day basis.
Lately, I've been sceptical of this practice. That's not to say I don't think it's worthwhile, I believe it encourages the imagination to provide solace at a time when it is so inclined to do quite the opposite. Saying that, I've started to resent the idea of measuring requitedness. Trying to figure out what they think, what they feel. You can stand in front of a person and they can insist that they love you and you can insist that you love them, but ultimately, it means nothing if they go on to remorselessly squash your heart.
Are those moments meaningless? Are they void of sincerity if you can't reconcile words with actions? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps I've had too many conversations to know how easy it is for other people to shelve such incidents in the mind. They don't need to invent imaginary regret or regard, they just distract themselves and move on. There's no desire to glorify passing moments or conversations, they don't even need to wonder if I care because I advertise that I do, in the most vulgar way imaginable. I advertise that I care on here.
I've been experimenting with damnatio memoriae, the Roman practice of completely wiping out a person's image and memory. It's just like carrying on as if that person never existed. It's strange and it's powerful and it's completely at odds with who I am. Yet, I've taken to it, not because it is easy to do, but because it is much easier than having to understand why. No comfort can be derived from that old practice of invention, there's no way to imagine their care or regret because it is impossible. It just doesn't make any sense.
The irony of all this is that I've started to see value in the meanings I create. I've started to see beauty in my own inventions. What they think is almost irrelevant at this point, I create consequence. I will always create consequence. I love how empowering that notion is, how it is not at all reliant upon detecting any semblance of truth or sincerity. It's all about establishing a kind of ownership: it's not meaningful because they care, it's meaningful because I care... and I express it all in a way that other people might care too.
Viktor Tsoi in Igla: get stabbed, light cigarette, walk away...
I don't know when I started believing this, but at some point, I thought that comfort comes from invention. It comes from that ability to convince yourself that they do care or they do remember or they do regret. There's always that scope to do that, if you spend enough time alone with your thoughts. In the silence, you can construct an alternative reality, one that need not be true necessarily, but one that is not quite so painful to live with on a day-by-day basis.
Lately, I've been sceptical of this practice. That's not to say I don't think it's worthwhile, I believe it encourages the imagination to provide solace at a time when it is so inclined to do quite the opposite. Saying that, I've started to resent the idea of measuring requitedness. Trying to figure out what they think, what they feel. You can stand in front of a person and they can insist that they love you and you can insist that you love them, but ultimately, it means nothing if they go on to remorselessly squash your heart.
Are those moments meaningless? Are they void of sincerity if you can't reconcile words with actions? Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps I've had too many conversations to know how easy it is for other people to shelve such incidents in the mind. They don't need to invent imaginary regret or regard, they just distract themselves and move on. There's no desire to glorify passing moments or conversations, they don't even need to wonder if I care because I advertise that I do, in the most vulgar way imaginable. I advertise that I care on here.
I've been experimenting with damnatio memoriae, the Roman practice of completely wiping out a person's image and memory. It's just like carrying on as if that person never existed. It's strange and it's powerful and it's completely at odds with who I am. Yet, I've taken to it, not because it is easy to do, but because it is much easier than having to understand why. No comfort can be derived from that old practice of invention, there's no way to imagine their care or regret because it is impossible. It just doesn't make any sense.
The irony of all this is that I've started to see value in the meanings I create. I've started to see beauty in my own inventions. What they think is almost irrelevant at this point, I create consequence. I will always create consequence. I love how empowering that notion is, how it is not at all reliant upon detecting any semblance of truth or sincerity. It's all about establishing a kind of ownership: it's not meaningful because they care, it's meaningful because I care... and I express it all in a way that other people might care too.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Scenarios
Arguably, the most exhilarating hangover from adolescence is Christmas Eve. Namely, the appearance of TAFKATC at Christmas Eve. He'd call my mother's best friend to say he was coming round for dinner and every even-numbered year, I would actually manage to see him and it would be the greatest thing, ever.
I would swoon quite visibly. I would blush quite consciously. Due to the infrequency of our encounters, I would stockpile musical anecdotes throughout the year for the Christmas Eve unwrapping. I had all year to imagine his responses to my stories, but my imaginings had the tendency to be fanciful and inaccurate.
There are things you'd always predict, the low-light and the panettone, the delicate glassware and the lengthy glances. There would always be a flirtatious wit and ambiguous regard. What I couldn't predict was his actual character, quite distinct from my whimsical daydream of a musical obsessive.
I know there's no need to wait for that one night to gush about music. Not any more, at least. Yet, he will always command an impossibly high level of consequence. In spite of my claims that his appeal exists solely in an imagining, his presence manages to indulge that perennial suspicion that something once existed... and it was real.
I would swoon quite visibly. I would blush quite consciously. Due to the infrequency of our encounters, I would stockpile musical anecdotes throughout the year for the Christmas Eve unwrapping. I had all year to imagine his responses to my stories, but my imaginings had the tendency to be fanciful and inaccurate.
There are things you'd always predict, the low-light and the panettone, the delicate glassware and the lengthy glances. There would always be a flirtatious wit and ambiguous regard. What I couldn't predict was his actual character, quite distinct from my whimsical daydream of a musical obsessive.
I know there's no need to wait for that one night to gush about music. Not any more, at least. Yet, he will always command an impossibly high level of consequence. In spite of my claims that his appeal exists solely in an imagining, his presence manages to indulge that perennial suspicion that something once existed... and it was real.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Love Saves the Day
We spent forever anticipating the antics of this night. Yet no matter how long we spent discussing the intricacies of how it could all transpire, the music, the lights and atmosphere, it always seemed to exist in a fantastical realm. For its breadth and grandeur, we often stopped momentarily to giggle at the idea of even discussing it. After all, it would be the celebration of Billy's 30th birthday... and Billy was only 28.
Billy and I had imagined the party in many different places: we imagined surveying Melbourne's skyline from an inner-city rooftop, we discussed the prospect of dancing in a former industrial space. We contemplated the idea of projecting videos on the walls, clips of Deee-lite mucking about in their dressing room or else Grace Jones getting her hair cut. We thought about how we could possibly re-interpret the fairy-light portraiture of Laura Adel Johnson with the help of a projector and some double-sided sticky tape.
As discussions progressed, I became more devoted to this night and what I had imagined of it. I became engrossed with the idea of a heavily populated dancefloor. Sequins, strobe lights, sweat. The more we discussed it, the more I realised that I, too, wanted to have this night of unbridled Italo Disco decadence. Yet, somehow there was always this implicit acknowledgement between us that the night we truly wanted had passed many years before us. If only we could have danced at New York City's Paradise Garage, thirty odd years before?
Even as we stood against the white-washed brick walls of South Melbourne's Smart Artz Gallery, eyeing off the particularly inviting grand piano in the corner of the room, I always thought it would be in the far future. Perhaps it was something in the way Billy spoke about his plans. He had invested so much love, thought and attention in the philosophy of it all. Every aspect of it was full of personal and political significance. It was no longer just a birthday party, it was Love Saves the Day, an exploration of black and gay rights within the context of disco culture.
It became all the more significant when Billy insisted I dj for the early part of the evening. My mind reeled, considering the hundreds, nay, thousands of raging Italo anthems I wanted to blast out, compelling every person to move without contemplation. It would have been the first time in two years that I'd been behind the decks. Were it not for his invitation, I would still be silent and curious, imagining how it would have all gone down, if only I had the courage. In some strange way, his dream of this night made me think of the possibility of orchestrating something so perfect, something so synonymous with love, honour and expectation.
It's strange that it's all over now. What was once a fanciful imagining is now a mere memory. Disco balls hang from the rafters and brick walls are awash with a red glow. Floor to ceiling black and white wall hangings flank the DJ: to one side, Martin Luther King Jr emphatically addresses the masses, on the other, thousands of disco-haters charge towards a pile of burning disco records on Disco Demolition Night. The images are loaded, the message is clear. Suddenly, the politics of disco become apparent: if people can dance together, they can live together.
There are many things I want to take away from Love Saves the Day: how we screeched in mutual recognition of our anthems, how we surveyed the expansive nightscape of a 1972 New York City skyline, how our jaws dropped when a Mr Whippy van suddenly appeared from behind the shutters. Its startling similarity to Billy's original vision makes me want to retain this feeling of gratitude, hope and possibility. It makes me realise that anything could be as perfect and harmonious as one can ever imagine it to be.
Billy and I had imagined the party in many different places: we imagined surveying Melbourne's skyline from an inner-city rooftop, we discussed the prospect of dancing in a former industrial space. We contemplated the idea of projecting videos on the walls, clips of Deee-lite mucking about in their dressing room or else Grace Jones getting her hair cut. We thought about how we could possibly re-interpret the fairy-light portraiture of Laura Adel Johnson with the help of a projector and some double-sided sticky tape.
As discussions progressed, I became more devoted to this night and what I had imagined of it. I became engrossed with the idea of a heavily populated dancefloor. Sequins, strobe lights, sweat. The more we discussed it, the more I realised that I, too, wanted to have this night of unbridled Italo Disco decadence. Yet, somehow there was always this implicit acknowledgement between us that the night we truly wanted had passed many years before us. If only we could have danced at New York City's Paradise Garage, thirty odd years before?
Even as we stood against the white-washed brick walls of South Melbourne's Smart Artz Gallery, eyeing off the particularly inviting grand piano in the corner of the room, I always thought it would be in the far future. Perhaps it was something in the way Billy spoke about his plans. He had invested so much love, thought and attention in the philosophy of it all. Every aspect of it was full of personal and political significance. It was no longer just a birthday party, it was Love Saves the Day, an exploration of black and gay rights within the context of disco culture.
It became all the more significant when Billy insisted I dj for the early part of the evening. My mind reeled, considering the hundreds, nay, thousands of raging Italo anthems I wanted to blast out, compelling every person to move without contemplation. It would have been the first time in two years that I'd been behind the decks. Were it not for his invitation, I would still be silent and curious, imagining how it would have all gone down, if only I had the courage. In some strange way, his dream of this night made me think of the possibility of orchestrating something so perfect, something so synonymous with love, honour and expectation.
It's strange that it's all over now. What was once a fanciful imagining is now a mere memory. Disco balls hang from the rafters and brick walls are awash with a red glow. Floor to ceiling black and white wall hangings flank the DJ: to one side, Martin Luther King Jr emphatically addresses the masses, on the other, thousands of disco-haters charge towards a pile of burning disco records on Disco Demolition Night. The images are loaded, the message is clear. Suddenly, the politics of disco become apparent: if people can dance together, they can live together.
There are many things I want to take away from Love Saves the Day: how we screeched in mutual recognition of our anthems, how we surveyed the expansive nightscape of a 1972 New York City skyline, how our jaws dropped when a Mr Whippy van suddenly appeared from behind the shutters. Its startling similarity to Billy's original vision makes me want to retain this feeling of gratitude, hope and possibility. It makes me realise that anything could be as perfect and harmonious as one can ever imagine it to be.
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