There is NOTHING more VIOLENT than the STRUGGLE of the DISSENTING.
There is NOTHING more VIOLENT than the STRUGGLE of the DISSENTING.
We are living strange times.
For anyone reading this in a few years’ time, at the moment, there’s a global health crisis taking place. This means many things, and has many sides to it, but essentially, it has forced the majority of the world population to stay indoors as long as they can avoid going out.
This is taking it’s toll. Fortunately for myself – and, not that I need to clarify anything but I am thankful, every day, for my particular situation – I am doing just fine, however not all in life is being able to pay the bills and buy food.
It’s often that you can find yourself feeling lonely despite being in good company, and feeling sad, despite having every basic need in your life met to a high standard. However there’s always room to indulge – if you’d rather me use that word rather than any other, since for many I am privileged and to an extent, I should not complain – in some good ol’ misery.
I am finding myself go down that path, as many times before. I remember the first times that I was forced to run down that corridor of filth. It was frightening. It has taken many shapes since, not all of them horrible, some of them luring, others simply disregardable. But exhausting nonetheless.
From the comfort of my privilege I can sit back and mentally – how else? – walk The Downhill Path slowly, as if I was taking a pleasurable Bank Holiday stroll at first, that gets progressively darker and darker, until there’s no path anymore more. The track disappears sudden and dramatically and opens into a black, dark pitched void with no End.
When you first get there, the feeling is unbearable. It’s a cold – freezing – place, but you can feel your chest and cheeks burn. Your bones and joints ache as if you were old. In fact, you are aging, at a speed, unavoidably.
Later, you start getting used to it. Not everyone does, of course, and this ties nicely with the concept of my privileged overview – as long as one can have a secondary perspective on one’s self – because some never get used to this. Why would you, if you could avoid it. After all, the whole thing is part of a big self defence mechanism. But I got used to it. It takes longer for you to notice that you got there because you are now used to the cold. Maybe you are addressing the walk with some external help, cathalist, inhibitor. You name it. This also makes it too late when you finally realise that you are back at the void.
But also, the walk back becomes easier. Most of the times, anyways. And still, with this notion of privilege, that self-awareness that is really not a double edged sword but a regular sword that you are holding the wrong way, you eventually find that it doesn’t always end in there. From your advantageous position you can scout around and look for the Floor Traps.
The Floor Traps are in most cases links to your memory. They all come in many shapes and colours, and are not immediately obvious. But when you get to where I feel I am in life, in time, in age, in history, you will start finding them, as your comfort allows for you to indulge in that lazyness, that knowledge that you have several safety nets under yourselve and that you could go for a pretty long time without due care. And I finally understood where these traps lead, although I have not been brave or foolish enough to go down them into the abyss, following the creaky ladders that surely lead to the true, very Bottom. I have always pulled back in time, gone out to get some sunlight, taken a day off, napped – score a bit of time out to reflect, react and head back up the path before it was too late.
But I know the Traps are there. I know where they lead. As I type these lines, I can feel the very concept of them weight down the back of my eyeballs, blacken my face and fog my sight, in complete silence and loneliness.
I just know.
Today, during an otherwise shit commute to work, I’ve randomly remembered where I was 10 years ago. It would have been impossible for me to foresee my achievements, mistakes and changes.
There’s something similar about it, despite it being a zillion miles away. It’s a time for struggle, but only temporary. It’s a time for pushing my limits, but being kind to myself. It’s a time for change, but only for the better.
Here we go again. Let’s do what we do best.
La lista de nombres y lugares es interminable. Los conceptos, ideas adaptadas al mercado de lo alternativo, o clásico, u oscuro, son éxitos comerciales en sí mismos. Cada gusto tiene su propio medio de difusión personalizado, lo que lo convierte en algo muy lucrativo hoy en día, con virtualmente toda la humanidad siendo capaz de acceder a esta nueva oferta.
Yo me callo y escucho, no tengo ni la menor idea de lo que está ocurriendo. Cada vez más a menudo. Mi mayor miedo es no dar tiempo a la inspiración para crear cosas nuevas, con tanta rutina y tanta dependencia, mientras de un modo u otro este constante bombardeo de oferta de bienes de consumo consigue siempre llegar a su destino.
Me aterra admitir que el bombardeo propagandístico en todo ámbito del arte cala más hondo que el esfuerzo o fuerza de voluntad para interpretar el propio medio del arte, adoptándose posturas cómodas en dicho consumo en vez de cuestionar TODO.
Eso es el ARTE. La necesidad de poner en tela de juicio toda idea preconcebida y ser capaz de volcar ese pánico constante a un medio físico, el que sea.
When I was a child, I was certain that when I grew older I wouldn’t change my views in the world.
Of course it didn’t happen like that, and actually developing my own way to see the world according to my new experiences has always been one of my main focuses in life.
You would imagine that those memories and experiences then have marked a reasonably relevant footprint and, if anything, that I have learned from them.
However what at a given time looks like everlasting pain, is difficult to recall exactly. Who would want to? Your memory refuses to accurately record trauma. It’s a self defense mechanism, to avoid permanent damage.
This is why, every time I sink to the bottom, it’s not until I’ve hit bedrock that I realise what happened. Before getting to the bottom it’s all wondering and mental replay. Torture, really. Unavoidable, craved torture.
On the other hand, once you are deep down in the seabed of your shivers, the only thing left to do is propelling yourself back to the surface.
The ultimate scare tactic: everything is open-ended, left for discussion, TBC, up for review. What is this, is it democracy, is it terrorism, is it market oriented capitalism? Is it just plain bullshit? What are you voting for, what can and cannot you choose?
Let me enlighten you, fellow idiot:
You choose your right to be scared of a particular subset of things or a different subset of things. You don’t choose independence, you don’t vote for the preservation of a national identity, you are not even voting against foreigners. You are electing a fear of your own, one that you can call yours. You are choosing between established rot or foundation-less hesitation. Constant decay or doubt! Those are your only options.
And guess what?
You always lose.
Let me tell you something. Fear has allowed a very particular group of people (and their heir) to dominate countries for centuries. A flag is a piece of fabric, a passport is a piece of paper and your identity is actually only so thanks to the fact that we have thousands of different cultural backgrounds, call it tradition, religion, call it gastronomy or art, call it whatever the fuck you want: without perspective, you wouldn’t even be conscious of your own color. And what is an agreement based on a flag, a border, a particular citizenship?
Guess that one for yourself buddy. I am too busy dealing with an endless streak of bureaucracy that will effectively change nothing in my head, or life, apart from promoting further decay and perpetuating the constant hesitation that already exists all over this modern political scenario of ours that exists purely fueled by terror and shame.
From time to time I become obsessed with the idea of doing something of relevance with my life. It would have to be something fulfilling both in its usefulness – there’s room for argument in there – and its spiritual depth. Something that you would hold, or look at or think about and feel immediately lifted to a higher, better place. A happier place.
Living is about being happy. We achieve this both through most bizarre and simplest ways.
Sometimes – more and more often as we grow older, perhaps – happiness becomes a sort of currency that goes to the detriment of others’ happiness. As if there was a limited pool of it sitting somewhere and it fluctuated according to our actions like a moon-driven tide, pulled in cycles that remain yet to be figured out.
Some other times the chance to be happy is just in front of us, too frightening to even look at it. It seems never-ending, vast and free. Full of possibilities in itself, an enormous source of delight. Some people take the leap and march ruthlessly towards a fearless existence, some others turn to the twisted version of the path to joy.
Of course, like many other things in this life of ours, there’s little room to judge which one is better than the other. After all, every single of us have different priorities marked by our own experiences and goals.
Estertores es una realidad desde ayer.
I rarely write nowadays.
This is not kept in secret but again who would really like to read about it or listen to it, rather? I am starting to think that adulthood is this kind of constant mess inside your head trying to figure out things that before were just a given, and then you figure something out and realise that you have left something very fucking important in the way.
The struggle is more or less OK to live with, but it doesn’t react well to external stimuli. Any kind of poking does indeed go down the hard route. Sometimes it is physical pain, sometimes is tiredness, others, this feeling in the gut. This feeling used to be just teenager anger, but now, it actually wounds the flesh of the abdominal area, creating actual injuries. No, this is not a metaphor.
Anyway, that anger used to be caused by the things that I couldn’t achieve. Now, on the other hand, it belongs more in the plethora of feelings provoked by the utter fear of losing something that I have, rather. This is one of my latest realisations. This is what I am on about here. As adult, pretty much everything is achievable – OK, at least as a young adult, living a modern, standard life in the developed world .(Yep, I am not foolish enough to ignore that this very text and the ones produced by me in the last 10 years are pretty much made up problems. I also know that this fact doesn’t make the problems go away).
If you want something you can trade money for, you buy it. If you want something you can achieve by making an effort, you do it. You might need to save or fight your laziness, but the chance lays there waiting for something to happen. Now, the things we may lose – and that we really want – these are the ones that give us the most grief: material things? For some, maybe. Everyone have things that they wouldn’t like to lose. Some have sentimental value, others are just expensive. Maybe most could be replaced. But what about the other things?
Maybe… your social appeal? Stopping being one of the players of the office to be part of the settled down group? What does that do for you, you should ask yourself. I can tell you know, that without experiencing the struggle, fantasizing about it won’t really do it.
What about your friends? Some people require tens of them in order to be fine. My theory is that they need to be distracted from themselves. I am not the best person to critisize this, to be honest. Although comfortable with myself, I must admit that from time to time I feel forced to slow my brain down, for my own safety. One cannot always just pound it with a six pack everytime things get a bit out of track.
I have taken a minute to read that last sentence. Yes – although I don’t think I have never been an alcoholic, I might have done a few silly things in the past. What can I say – it doesn’t really help. It’s all just a little game that can get too serious too quickly. I was thinking about it today, actually. I might have been well past the limits of common sense, and even found some kind of calm in that fact. What a twisted assertion.
Coming back to the topic, what about losing your loved one? What does that mean? I didn’t intend to sound so dramatic: the loss could be simply The Other Person losing interest. So you lose a person you love. And how is this different from going through that in your teens? Why am I saying that back then it was really not being able to be with that person, and now it is that you lose that person?
The thing is that it is not different. The effect in your body is as shitty as it would have been 10 – 15 years ago.
There is a main difference that supports the semantic rearrangement: you actually know what you are losing.
That’s what I think makes adulthood such a distressful place to be.