the death of poetics

Born of a generation which champions the uninspired as art. The cryptic perishes beneath the crushing weight of the explicit. The discomfort of the unreal is tossed aside, discarded, for the comfort of the real. Today, no-one creates so much as manufactures. No-one shapes so much as fabricates. No-one writes so much as generates, formulates. And we're all here, neatly queued, licking our lips, waiting to have our trays filled with more vapid, tasteless slop.

Ease, and the pursuit of. We've trading in one-off films for dime a dozen movies, none of which can end without being set up for a sequel. The innocence of the situational comedy has been ruthlessly murdered in a dark alley by reality television. Radio plays have moved over to provide space for the continuous playing of top-forty hits - a steady stream of mass-produced garbage, you can tune in, listen, and never hear a thing. Our museums are lined with a million blank canvases. Our bookstores, filled with all the masterpieces of yesteryear - because there is nothing else.

You're queued up, waiting, the stainless steel tray cold in your shaking hands. Your stomach rumbles - it does that a lot lately. You're thinking about food, sustenance. In particular, you're thinking about what you ate yesterday and the day before, trying to conjure up the tastes, trying to bring to mind the smells. There is nothing. Your tongue presses against the roof of your empty mouth, as you try to remember the feel, the texture, of yesterday's meal - was it coarse? Was it smooth? Your stomach turns - it does that a lot lately. The queue inches forward, and clutching your aching gut, you reluctantly shuffle ahead, dispirited. Closer to the front. Closer, perhaps to close, to one more ladle of nothing, one more scoop of bland, unpalatable slop.

idée volée

An ear to the wall, a wiretap on the telephone, subminiature cameras switched on, film rolling. Intelligence trickles down, someone is always listening. Sousveillance sees one participant in a group gathering information, stockpiling data secreted from the bunch, no piece of datum too difficult to find. Like common garden slugs, we all leave slimy trails behind us.

A dash of research, a little sleuthing, shadowing, some outright robbery. It's like this that you come to put together your plans. It's a game of disguise and deception. Skulduggery and dirty pool. You say that you'd take an open and honest fistfight any day over the deceit and dissimulation of backroom politics, but when darkness falls, you're the first with a dagger in hand. Those fingers itching. Eyes searching the inky recesses. Prowling for a victim.

Hear that static on your telephone? See the way that long, black Cadillac deVille slides slowly around the corner? Too many sneaking glances from behind newspapers. Shapeless shadows following you in the night, footsteps from men, unseen. Unscrupulous behaviour breeds paranoia. Or maybe not. It's possible that being in on the action makes you more aware, increasingly perceptive, alert to the subversive activity around you. Or perhaps it's mere delusion.

I'm those whispers from behind hands, concealing treacherous lips. I'm the slight clicking of a camera, its lens opening and closing in the fraction of a second. I'm the fleeting images dashing through your peripheral vision. I'm all around, underneath, and inside you - and everything you do.

idée perdue

No-one can hate you like you do - they shouldn't even try. It's a carefully cultivated, sharply honed hatred. A refined revulsion. Distilled detestation. You mask this self-loathing with humility, cover this penchant for personal contempt with humbleness. A calm, collected exterior - but inside, you are afire.

Waging war with yourself, convinced you win every time. Modern warfare, a dirty, immoral affair. Both sides collecting POWs, practicing abuse, war crimes, rampant. No-one wins. Bound and gagged. Starved halfway to death. The subject of nightly beatings by masked men - psychological torture mixed with physical. How can a mind remain functional after years of such maltreatment?

A daring escape under the cover of night, thanks to the selfless actions of two prison guards. At the time, the thought doesn't even cross their minds, but they have sacrificed their two lives for your one. But, in their dying thoughts, the last moment of life, not an ounce of regret.

Here's you, two years later, back in the burbs. Out in the driveway, the early morning sun on your neck, the taste of freshly brewed coffee, you reach down to collect the newspaper. A smile plays at your lips. War in the Middle East. Chaos in Africa. Turmoil in Eastern Europe. The whole world is ablaze, but you're going to be okay. An aching in your back. That old pain. You straighten up, stretch, and walk back to your castle, bathrobe hiding a back marred by the scars of an old whipping, a self-flagellation.

idée fixe

These bones shall mend. A broken femur, shattered fibula, cracked tibia - yes, these bones shall mend. A childhood fall from a tree results in injuries easily repaired. An idiotic, alcohol-fuelled leap from a raised sidewalk produces no damage which can't be healed in relatively short order. This, however, is different. A strained malleus, splintering, a fracturing incus, a disintegrating stapes - ear bones: the hammer, anvil, and stirrup. These bones shall not mend - not while listening to you.

"Where do all the ideas go?"

In your mania, your desperate grabbing for understanding, wisdom, your voice has raised to an intolerable level, grating, becoming an unbearable shriek.

"Where do they go? I'm writing, coasting along, really in the groove, you know, then all of a sudden, the tap is turned off, I'm shut out. Just like that, left stranded! Dying of thirst!"

The human body, little more than a machine, doctors, surgeons little more than glorified mechanics, plumbers. A worn out alternator requires a simple replacement. A leaky pipe beneath the kitchen sink is easily fixed, unclogging the trap, tightening, taping the connexions.

"We used to sit around and laugh, remember? We'd laugh at this mad scramble for enlightenment! Nobody is content to just wait their turn, sit tight, waiting for their number to come up, you know? We used to laugh at these suckers in this obscene rat race of the arts, this eternal chasing of ideas, non-ideas. Now I'm right there with them, no-one leading, each of us tripping over the other, falling ever behind!"

The human mind, little more than a machine, psychiatrists, neurosurgeons little more than glorified electricians, engineers - and you obviously need one or the other.

élan learned

Sensei kicked you out of the dojo. Just like that - out on your ass. Months of erratic attendance, lewd locker room talk, and your worthless cronies hanging around was enough to send sensei off. Thinly veiled slights, disrespectful remarks, and flagrant impersonations were enough to earn you a ruthless, lightning quick punch combination, finished by a swift kick to the solar plexus. With nonchalance, you were sent to the mat, and three words were tossed on your already aching self: "You - go now." The next day, so sore, you came by the dojo only to find your Gi hanging by the front door - your locker had been cleaned out.

So, why is it that you keep coming back? You drop by the dojo several times a day, and hang around outside after classes, asking your fellow students if sensei has said anything about you. He hasn't, they say. Not a word. Your little visits haven't gone unnoticed, though. No, far from it. Sensei does not see you, himself, but catches your image on camera, watching on a tiny black and white monitor in his cramped back office. You walk with humbled steps, carry yourself with sorry poise - he can see it.

Sensei knows what it is to be a punk kid: untouchable, invincible, demanding respect from the get-go. But respect is not given freely. No, respect is fought for, taken by force. You acted out in frustration, wanting it all now, not able to wait for that ever-delayed train called enlightenment. There are steps, obstacles, a long rugged path between student and master. A fact hard to take - not nearly as hard as hitting the floor after a solid kick to the stomach, but hard nonetheless.

So will you ever possess skills equal to those of your teacher's? Sensei does not know. You are a student whose pride is too easily hurt, and now, a student without a dojo. You grew up in, and were shaped by, the instant gratification obsessed point-and-click generation. Nothing worth having should have to be worked for - it is all right here, spread out before you, free for the taking. At the click of a button.

But you will persevere, trying to make it in sensei's slower world, for you know that without the limited knowledge imparted on you by him, you'd be nothing, no better than the wretched rodents you run with. You used to punch with the ignorance of a child, but now you've at least the strength of a teenager. Strength bent by anger, twisted by delusion, warped by impatience. In due time, though, you'll be permitted to resume your studies. But it is the sensei's dojo, and he alone determines who may boast membership and when. Prove yourself.

élan vital

Decidedly distant. Easy to get along with, impossible to get close to. You know him. He's the guy you want sitting next to you an a plane. He'll give you your space because he wants his. He won't say a word - though you wish he would. You don't normally want to be bothered aboard flights, but just this once it would be nice. Though a seat sits empty between you, you can feel him sitting there. Just minding his own business. Jerk!

You'll fidget in your seat, trying to get his attention. Turn the pages in your magazine rather loudly. A cough here. A throat clear there. The only response you'll get is when you clumsily cross your slender legs - legs a little too long for such a manoeuvre - bumping the seat ahead. An affable smile. Almost apologetic. Condescending? Jerk!

There's just something about him. You have to know more. You'll consider the last time you craved knowledge so badly. It was...it was...maybe never? What is this draw to certain strangers? An unseen spark. A passing of energy. A distant, ancient, connexion. You'll fall asleep, comfortable beside him. You'll sleep right through the seatbelt warning. And you'll sleep right through the landing, only waking after the plane has taxied to a stop.

You'll find two empty seats beside you. Panic sets in. An isle crammed with people. Him, half a plane away, jostling towards the exit. You'll wither, your mind filled with a thousand possibilities, missed opportunities, watching him walk away. Such energy radiating from that suede-clad back - jerk.

élan absent

More intriguing than talented. You know this - you've made a life of it. The measure of a man can be found in the opinion of others. Keep people wondering; they're most comfortable in the dark, anyway. Stay amidst the shadows; details hard to pin down near perfection in imagination. Always be as cryptic as possible; elusiveness is key. Convince those around you that you are a genius and you are one. Convince those around you that you are not bored and...wait...you're still bored. All right, so the theory only goes so far.

Garrulousness covers up a distinct lack of substance. A migratory lifestyle hides an absence of roots. Hyper-animation disguises the fact that you shuffle amongst the walking dead. The sum of these equal a deficiency of self. You find comfort in the dead ideas of dead men, and you build your own tenuous theories on the weak backs of these corpses like some grotesque cheerleading pyramid with your cadaver triumphantly kneeling atop. But the layers rot beneath you, ever-weakening, eventually giving way beneath the weight. The resulting pile of decaying flesh and ideas will take centuries to clean up.

And here's you at the end of the day, wishing it would have been more, hoping that tomorrow your own grand idea will come. Days spent waiting, a crushing weight. Others pass by, and you wonder if they're as bored as you. You search their eyes, looking for that spark which could light your fire. Provide a renewed sense of vigour. Verve. Help you leave behind this endless torment of a life, non-life. Carrion: the birds pick away, fighting amongst themselves, squawking: Carry on! Carry on!

Carry on, friend. In the mouths of worms, in the bellies of birds, carry on.