Last of the Blearies...

Pretty connotations

Sometimes in a situation where the words of English have connotations we do not think are pretty, we have to find a way around it. Expect a backlash and whip-crash. I mean it. I did the worst thing I could do on sorry week. Yep. Put up the worst display for a fight I could ever. See, I’m always wrong. No matter. That’s just me. I’m like that. I'm NO.

It wasn’t a question of the kind of emotional play being used, just that emotional play was being used. As it is, again and again. Bad thing? Good thing? Boon. I like that term. It means no.
But my question was, what do you do with such a scenario? Nothing, because it’s not what you think, it is something pink.
***

“Now newspapers, you know they always want an angle,” she says. “And you might not feel comfortable…”
See, I know what she’s going to say. I’m going to hear that I should play the mental health poor NO play. (Not a good one eh?). Got. So I say, “No, don’t worry about that. That’s not important.”
But she is insistent, raises her voice, “Listen to me I’ve got to tell you, I’ve got to let you know.”Like giving me the cop line. She wants to tell me that I have every right to speak but my words will be taken down in evidence or something.
But I’m insistent, “No I’ve heard you say this stuff before. I don’t need to go there.”
She raises her voice again. “Listen to me. They always want an angle and you might have to talk about your illness. Are you comfortable with that?”
What does she want me to say? Yes. No. Boon. Boon. Boon. But hey, English. “Why would I ever need to take that angle? My angle is about dreams and the environment and sensing. It’s an art exhibition about what can and cannot be contained. It's semantics and semiotics. Stop using those horrible terms with us. It’s like saying to someone who is fat that they have to always use that as the angle for their show. What? I eat a lot of cake. Are you interested in how yummy it is?”
Then wait for it: “I don’t like that tone you are using with me. It’s upsetting me.”
Hey, and she’s making my armpits start to do that fear stink. Does she want me to blame her for that? “I’m a psychiatric survivor, that’s my angle.”
Then there is a knock at the door and she doesn’t get to finish what she’s doing with me. That’s for later. She has to have me under her cream bun.
Now, this should be a friendly nice likable character. But it isn’t. Why? Because I’m telling the darn straight truth here. I should never do that. I have to be wry. Now you know why terms make people cry. When they’re used upon your being as a marker of who you are. I’m a blue. What does that mean to you? That I’m a blooper? Probably. But don’t ever try and put those terms on a psychiatric survivor. They don’t mind you using it in anyway, except when you’re in power and can put them away. (The previous blog has a term there. Think about it. Boon.)

Paint, print and automatic ink

More space and my need to express makes painting over unsold works easy. But then there’s that bad camera taking low resolution images in odd light, somewhat blurred ah... I can’t get the shine away, can’t just call for the powder puff. Okay. Lost that image.

Painted over, “Does anyone listen?” And now I’ve got this sepulchre/ hand tree coming back into my pen. The same happened when I painted over the naked ladies in a cave. Some things just don’t want to be covered up.

If all I’m left with is a blurred image I can’t even use it for printing and if it wants to exist, my automatic hand will show me what persists.

I like the print media, I could worry about the environmental aspects and the safety of the human labour involved, but at this point I’m prepared to be a cog in the wheel of possible disaster, because everything can seem like a disaster waiting to happen. And, I cannot deny myself everything, or I wouldn’t be doing much at all most probably. Unless someone really is screaming in my face that I’m hurting them. That’d stop me. Just hope they can then give me some good directions so I don’t have to sit numb.

I hear and sense a lot of stuff. This isn’t my psychology, it’s rather transmissions I’ve received that I’ve unpacked and loaded onto the page, capturing them and arranging them. I’m not into snobby rules. I’m full of farts and snot anyway, so I’m sucking cess through a straw if I think I can make it as a door nob.

People like to have elite divisions though. It was the same in acting – selling out was going and doing soapies and television ads. But really it was only those who “sold out” that ended up getting most of the theatre work. People pretended that they were holding out for “real acting work” when really TV just didn’t think their mug was interesting enough to sell their product. Now, I’m happy to see someone drink out of a mug with one of my pictures on it. And to have them wearing my stuff… why would I see anything wrong with them being wrapped in my art?

Ah, but my automatic hand. It picks up and senses something out there and tries to make sense of it, probably offending everyone and everything that means something to me. I cannot stop it, for then I would be nothing. If I've got the flu, like I have now, it probably influences stuff as well. Puts the whole mind into paranoia attack mode.

Trouble, that’s what automatics are. They don’t always say what I want them to. But if they did, there would be no drama and story to draw. This one followed a topic for an IFN post: Hang me out to dry. My picture is all wrong, but that’s because I couldn’t draw the real picture, which was a place I didn’t want to go to. I was never even able to find 80s horror movies funny, let alone the stuff of real protest. Foolish card eh? The laugh wears off, the jokes fade away. If none are there, then how can we play?

Bad manners

It’s about something that happened a long time ago that is provoking the “hello”. It rings like super stings, but it gives back what it brings. I think it is beautiful to have you here thinking and dancing upon my feat, hearing my heart beat. I’m loving the way your voice rains down in sleet. You are a precious treat.
I wonder what will happen next. People do stupid things all the time, but I’m at a loss as to what might’ve caused this one.
Oh, it’s just that sometimes it is expected that you behave in a certain way. And if you rock the boat at all, people are either all out to defend you, or think of it as their life quest to bring you down.
-You’re not a person I want to know.
-Is that so?
-You’re a public menace.
-Really.
-You’re in trouble in more ways than one. It’s been a long time coming.
-Yeah? I’m not overly fond of being given shit. But should you attack me, I’m equipped to deal with it.
-Now isn't that just asking for trouble.
-According to you.
-See you say all this stupid shit and you don’t recognise that you’re doing it and you don’t even see it and yet you think you can deal with it? Now that’s what I call a fuckwit.
-Yeah, but I thought it would give you enough to think about to go to the trouble to say something back.
-Ah.

There’s a lot of things you could fear might happen. Social rejection, fragmentation of friends, embarrassment to the family… And all for what? So you could wrap up the tail ends of some stupid joke that you thought needed tidying up.

Trouble

just some dialogue I had with my computer

“How much more of this do you want to play. Could get you into trouble huh? Well, no matter.”
“Trouble is a game apparently.”
“I heard some rich bitch called her pet pooch that and Trouble inherited most of her wealth.”
“Yes, but I prefer to think about the game.”
“What kind of game is it?”
“The only kind of game.”
“There’s lots of kinds of games. Think you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”
“A game where you can get into lots of trouble.”
“Oi, tell me what I have to do.”
“It very much depends on the circumstance.”
“Right. Doesn’t sound much like a very well set out game to me. Let me give you a few rules.”
“There are no rules. For it is when you make rules that you get into trouble.”
“So you’re not meant to get into trouble.”
“Not if it goes against your rules. And if it is trouble then it would, see. People have automatic rules that they make up. Trouble seeks to work out the boundaries of the taboo.”
“Like a who dares wins game.”
“Winning is an abstract concept.”
“Oh boy, see you later, if the game doesn’t have any rules and no one wins except abstractly, where the hell is the game but in the limbo of someone’s butt. You’ve got to have more than an umbilical cord to play with, otherwise the game will just get bloody and mind-numbingly introspective.”
“Well, that’s your limitations.”
“Can’t get into much trouble then, can I? So, do I win?”
“You’ve got to do more than you usually do to feel like you’ve got anywhere in the game. You have to at least get close to trouble to be considering that you’re playing it. But it is only when you’re in trouble that you can be for absolutely certain that the game is on.”
“Okay. But I find it a bit hard to do much without some sort of set of instructions… some sort of guide of how-to play.”
“You think about it. The more you think about Trouble, the more you get into it.”
“Don’t know if I want to.”
“Then I guess you won’t play it. But it is better to know you’re playing it, than haphazardly follow someone else who is and be right into the game without having a clue what you’re doing because you’d prefer not to taint your pretty little mind with it.”
“Now that’s asking for trouble.”
“Ah ha.”
“Okay whatever. Interesting, but, really…? I mean where do I go from there?”
“Up to you and those who affect you.”