All In All, You're Just Another Brick In The Wall
Bizarrely, I'm listening to Pink Floyd and it isn't my neighbour playing it as loud as he possible can and playing lets-drink-til-I-pass-out.
There is a fine line between transcription in art & taking-the-piss copying. I'm not proud to admit I've dabbled in both, one knowingly, and one not so much. A moment of attempting to be someone else back-firing and hurting lots of people.
Sometimes I honestly don't think enough. I'm sorry, and it still plays on my mind.
But you can't keep making the same mistakes.
Another brick in the wall of the memorial of my fuck-ups. True story. Maybe I should make one?
I had such beautiful ideas for this post, then I showered and I feel like I've washed away my thoughts down the plug hole with the grime from today. I'm heading to London at the beginning of October, if you feel like getting a little imbibed with me, drop me a line.
I've been gazing at the human body again, and the artists representation of the body. Egon Schiele, Tracey Emin and Franko B seem to be on constant visual goody list. I have thoughts and I have feelings and I want to get them out of me somehow, on paper, as a sculpture, but I can't work out what I'm trying to say.
I listen to Emma Watsons UN speech, I watch and feel sickened by two videos I'm loathe to discuss. I am so glad I am an adult, when music videos are coming out of women writhing around in nothing, singing lyrics about "Give him what he wants", I'm so glad I'm not a young girl trying to come to terms with a blossoming sexuality and this type of role model being thrown in my face.
I can barely stomach it at 25, at 15 no doubt my body issues would have trebled.
I keep coming back to the body. Not just my body, or womens body, but how our stories are written in not just our movements, but our scars, self inflicted or otherwise. Healed bones will always show evidence of the break. Muscle becomes hardened from too much soft tissue damage.
Do you know what I'm saying?
But inside your heart it is black and it's hollow and it's cold.
Are the soul and body one, or are they independent of each other? Does fate exist, or am I to build my destiny with each train-ride and word that escapes my mouth? When my body crumples from years of abuse will my mind still light a fire somewhere?
I have too many questions, and not enough answers it would seem.