Amongst everybody I know my face and words are unique. There is nobody quite like me. Last night I watched a film, the wonderfully exciting and jovial dialog was refreshingly enlightening. Upon hearing that it was a book first, I felt a little betrayed…

Shakespeare mostly wrote about events which had already occurred or revamped older tales. I hear even the bible is simply an iterative process of creation. Traditions evolving like ice bergs.

So the question is, is there something even the greats are missing in terms of an original voice, or am to fall into the way of the world and simply add in a step in man’s process?

Tarantino will proudly steal from the unknown and I can only thank him for showing me gold from his devoted digging into obscurity and history. Completely ignoring the immense artistry involved in stringing things together and picking the right pieces and tools to make us feel clean again. After months and even years of constant backwash fucking bullshit. Finally an original crook.

But. The question still remains. Is there more? At least for me, let’s ignore man and just focus in. These words are not considered for their tastefulness, yet I am not constantly screaming profanity. As said in a previous piece, man feels differently when shitting in public vs shitting at home. even though the turds will be flushed away into the soil, the consideration of the opinions of another man, even the stranger, will linger a little longer than man would like.

For what honesty is there in your own turds, produced entirely as a product of your life choice. Liquid, smelly or perfection. Man till 50 years ago pretty much just squatted and shat on his land. This then became the food he ate. His food couldn’t hell be perfect. Sure rum and mushrooms are available, sure anxieties of scarcity were rife too, but I mean, at least their shits would have been solid. And no insane mass of copper and plastic to take away your honest reflection of life choices to an unknown place, only for the toxic mass of carcinogens and twinky paste to poison the land. Somewhere, just out of sight and mind, for now at least.

As the cities get bigger and bigger, the fields get further and further away, your beloved’s grave, further and further away. The cars get faster but only so you can do more at the office. Easier to drive so now you too must compete with the insane and work whilst moving. Yet the footballer, who lets face it, was just blessed with legs, heart and opportunity will crush your life long income with one game. Even if he gives a shit performance, one game and that’s all. An understanding of how to not break under pressure and a life long commitment to the perfect joy of just playing and having fun. Whilst you break your back crying for the 10,000 remaining weekends before you can retire and become a piece of mush, with a mushy brain, eating mush, before mushy TV. And the children give you that look of what the fuck have you done with yourself. Even the little girls don’t really look your way ever, never looking you in the eye and never wanting to play. We see kids will be kids, but come on mate. They see a disgrace. And that is everybody who is old today. Bar maybe one man. A Cold forest Fire burning in his eyes. The children see him and see that he, … he is a matured heart of existence, a lion of a man and their nervous system bends the knee and head in awe.

He laughs but he does not hackle, the air around him tastes purer. His eyes are deep. Even when weak the children wish to play around the protection he has around him. A true man.

His clothes, a selection of elegance and awe. His posture and softness in his face. The skin, marks and scars of a life lived. Not a puffy mesh of booze and processed fats. A real fucking man. Never doing the bullshit of all the other adults around them. never too pushy and never too far away. This, is the only man worth being. Everyone else lives in bitter remorse when seeing a mirror and feeling the pains of their life choice. Pills and sugar dulling the mind to the point where they can’t even consider suicide. I’ll do it for the people they say, but you are only a lesson in failure. This was your destiny, I’m sorry. I don’t know what will come next for you, but today, thank you, for allowing me to see that I’d hate to become you. You are the first few products of this generation of industry, ready to be shipped to the afterlife.

The path of an original expression is worth more than every other I have seen to date.

So the question comes back again, is there something I’m missing? Am I just adding a fart into my master’s voice or this truly, truly me. Is there a hill I wish to see which my master’s heart was not meant to be in. Why is it so painful to even consider a time, a brief period without his art. Is it a satisfying meal in a place of gruel or another more sophisticated sugar pill with the utterly dire consequence of hubris that I’m still to see.

What is the impact of another great artist on me?

I guess the bigger question to ask is, what misunderstanding is the biggest obstacle to my unlocking a golden heart of perfection.