the most heartless man to ever own a pulse…

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Jensen Wilder citizen journalist and photographer.

My Hour as Art: The calculations of a Soft Machine.

One must always bare in mind the often overlooked power of a single thoughtful person. Though we are often unaware of the impact we can potentially make, we must attempt to prepare ourselves. This thought was brought to me from my recent experience as a plinther. That is, being a lucky participant in One and Other, Antony Gormley’s new art installation.

Being up on the Forth Plinth in Trafalgar Square was one of the most unprepared moments of my life. It was like approaching one of the seven wonders, or the peak of a mountain; there is simply no way of knowing how you will react.

When confronted by such opportunities, a more refined soul might have gone up with a speech prepared. I might have preached, screamed, recited or otherwise constructed some form of sentiment that would have undoubtedly taken the moment away from me. I might well have run for an hour like a robot, speaking words that I’d pawed over for weeks in advance. Not so for the willful creature that I am.

Instead I listened a little too intently to a small voice from within that said ‘you need only ‘be’!’ I decided to go up, no props, no gimmicks – just a lone soft machine, held aloft for an hour.

I would say even now, that was/is enough.

Art itself (for the most part) cannot alter its form to better suit the audience before it. Once it is produced it is cast in that form. The painting cannot gain another few brushstrokes, to add more colour here or focus the eye there, just because the person seeing it would find it easier to understand. It can but assume a lasting posture and only stand by and weather the praise and criticism it receives with equal solemnity.

I went up there to ask the world questions more directly than most art does, to be a mirror that might allow people to see something of themselves whilst speaking a language they themselves spoke in. I went up there to do what art does, not interact with the audience around me, but to get the audience to engage with itself.

The truth is we make art to remind us of what will always remain important. We don’t make it as a target for our insults, or produce it so that it will locked away. We want it to be shown to an audience, to tell a story, to make a point, to request more of ourselves than is polite to ask in person. We use art to crack open the human spirit.

Of course I am referring to art as generalized art, that of the gallery displays (paintings primarily, or perhaps music also, certainly the photograph), rather than the more innovative methods that artists now engage in. I know full well that art does not stick to its definitions, by definition it is endlessly re-educating us of limitless features.

So, I got up on that stone pillar with the idea that I’d more clearly do what art does. So that I might connect more directly with people and get the message across. My mission was to Raise Awareness for Awareness. I wanted people simply to start asking themselves questions.

Back to the experience itself, once up there I lost my words and almost my balance.

We cannot know our qualities until we have been tested to our limit. So all I could comfortably expect of myself was that I would continue to breathe and that my heart would beat (albeit madly).

When I got up there I had no idea that I would lose much of myself to nerves. There is a lot to be said for the written language (and much has been); however, I more admire anyone who can stand to speak and explain their message with clarity. I do not have the ability to speak easily in public, though I do now intend to improve.

In any case I am happy that, with that small sight of my limits, I was inspired.

I’ve come off the plinth with a renewed acknowledgment of myself, but also of the influence and inspiration I have to offer. I met and spoke with many people and the reactions have been incredible.

People do want to talk, people do want to learn why things are the way they are. Even those who initially became hostile in the face of art, grew later (after conversation/explanation) to understand. They too added their own voice and perspective to the endeavor.

I may have been alone, an example of a young man with a lot (perhaps too much) on his mind; but no-one was unworthy of a place there on that plinth and those who asked questions took their place alongside me.

Now uniquely aware of how much impact a single soft machine can make when placed in the right location. My plan is to go on putting myself in challenging places, to do what I think is good and right and just. To ignore the voices that want me down on their level and to use my own to lift others out of the flood of indifference.

I’ve shaken a dozen hands, hugged people who were strangers, dealt with the irrepressible masses and I have come out of the experience; not better, nor worse, but different.

Filed under: Existence, Future, Happy, Lonely, Love, Sad, Strangers, about me, anxiety, art, hopes, influences, other people's lives, solitary , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

oneward and upward

Okay. RIght. Testing, testing. Hope this is working.

It is.

Right.

I’ve been giving a lot of thought to this whole One and Other thing. I’ve done my smart thinking now, I’m over that. I’ve reasoned out things and I think I’m going to be okay. Just going to get up there, pose my ideas and then breathe it all in.

Been having a few emotional tantrums recently – my heart all a flutter.. ex-cetera … It all comes from me putting too much stock in this thing.

The truth is, I don’t need to get it ‘right’ or do anything to ‘please’ anyone. I’m smarter than needing to take my level from other people’s figures.

I wrote a little piece last night for my novel – “Feel bitter, feel like you want to hit me; but don’t deny the fact we made each other pretty happy. In the time we had.”

That’s what all this means, it is getting up there and just saying ‘This is me. What are you?

I am the art that can ask questions of itself, as much as of the observer. Now that is a revolution!

This morning I got a call from a mental health team member and they have invited me over to get checked over on Wednesday. I’m going to go along and tell them everything. I will write a little something for them first. A little history maybe. Something to explain better than I might be able to.

Oneward and upwards with things.

Filed under: Competition, Day-to-day, Depression, Existence, Family, Friends, Future, Happy, Re-Genesis, Reality, Sad, Training, about me, anxiety, connection, genius, genus, hopes, influences, news, novel, other people's lives, sermon, solitary, writing, writing the novel , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“And even later, more recently.”

“And even later, more recently.”




Tribute to Tom Lowe Taylor



You wrote to save your ass
from a dark emptiness
that followed its own linguistic urge.



What was obsolete
you sought
to write and newly sort,
unconscious
but wholly wary of yourself - 



a drunken rage of self-righteousness to overwhelm.



Made afraid to be alone
with your own genius,
or genus,
who can say?



But one word after another
one in another’s wake
to fuel the next
and on and on toward that
unfurnished house.






~~~




Will work on this some more – this is my first draft.

Filed under: Depression, Existence, Poetry, Sad, Strangers, Today, genius, genus, influences, men, other people's lives, poem, poet, published, tom lowe taylor, tribute, undervalued, writing , , , , , , , ,

kissing? really?

Mistaken Intentions.

Been a while since i’ve written on here about my misadventures.

Spurred into thought by the recent happenings on Big Brother I was thinking about the whole ‘friend with benefits’ thing. Throughout university I seemed more than capable of keeping said type of relationship alive. However, the main contender for the role of ultimate ‘friend with benefits’ has to go to…
And you thought I’d name her.
No.
It was a good thing and I still count her as a great friend. She never failed to entertain. We’d go on nights out together and have a wicked time necking at the end of the night. It was great. Without it I might have been more unfaithful to the then girlfriend.
God I was a prick back then. Maybe I still am.
Anyway.
The question on the show was can it work. Can the friend’s with benefits thing really work out. Well after knowing the girl for about 3 years, the answer is – yes.
So don’t doubt it.
I still think sex is a handshake.
A trivial meeting of flesh.
So, what do you think? Does it work for you?

Filed under: Drinking, Existence, Friends, Girls, Happy, Love, Reality, Sex, Women, Youth, about me, other people's lives

some people never learn lessons, other lessons aren’t worth learning…

I’ve learnt lesson in life recently. Bluebird, Robin and AIG have all given me a lot of advice. That I can’t beat myself up for being me and that I just have to get over myself and get on with things. I can’t make things better for the people in my past, I just have to move forward and stop lying and cheating people out of knowing me. Also, there is nothing wrong with getting over love by being a young man and getting solace from women. In fact, AIG gave me a song by Nada Surf recently that helped a lot. It has some great great advice in it.

Three important rules for breaking up

Don’t put off breaking up when you know you want to

Prolonging the situation only makes it worse

Tell him honestly, simply, kindly, but firmly

Don’t make a big production

Don’t make up an elaborate story

This will help you avoid a big tear jerking scene

If you wanna date other people say so

Be prepared for the boy to feel hurt and rejected

Of course the same goes for a flip of gender. I failed badly when my last relationship ended, instead of getting smart and getting it over and done with back in October, I struggled on getting more and more unhappy. More and more annoyed with her for not being lovable enough. Which is stupid because it really was my failing not Her’s.

I kept up the pretense of love so that I didn’t lose a friend. But, in the end, she didn’t want to help me and wasn’t that good a friend. She didn’t stay in contact, she was too self-involved, which doesn’t help when I am too. We always were very similar – she wont talk to people if they don’t make the effort to talk to her often and neither do I – I just give up on them.

So hopefully she’ll understand that and not hate me. Maybe she will understand that being apart is better this way because we wont annoy each other. I can get on with my fun and not have her all upset that I’m not getting ‘better’ by her standards. I’ve got a lot of respect for the kid, I’m more angry at myself for not having balls to be a real man about things. For confusing myself into a mess. I wont make that mistake again.

Throughout the relationship I just couldn’t shake the feeling that we might grow to understand each other better with time. Not annoy each other quite so much. Even tried to make her see how I thought, the process, so she could understand. Didn’t work. I hoped that she might mean a lot to me one day… but I didn’t ever let myself ‘fall in love’ her. Being too scared of getting hurt. What you don’t realize is that you hurt yourself anyway, because no one is close enough to lift you up when you are sad.

I prolonged things, I made a big song and dance number and I told elaborate stories – I lied and cheated and I’m sorry I did, because it made me feel rotten at the end. I wasted time when what I could have done is ended it long ago and maybe salvaged something from it. We could have been friends and I could have stayed in Bath. I have no real regrets, as if I did then I would be disrespecting those new connections I have made. Instead I have come to terms with it and moved on.

So this time I’m just rolling with that side of me. That I have a problem letting people get close, I put up barriers and now I wont.

I know that I can’t feel all-loving at the moment… I can have great respect for people, treat them well, care for them – but romantic love is beyond me, for the moment.

AIG has said that I shouldn’t betray myself the opportunity to find someone wonderful by shutting myself away and pining – instead I should dress up smart, get out there and take a stab at finding someone to love.

So that is what I’m doing. Not setting out to hurt, but not sparing people at the expense of my own happiness either.

Filed under: Drinking, Existence, Food, Friends, Girls, Home, Love, Reality, Sex, Strangers, Women, about me, accusation, much, news, nights out, other people's lives

old flames

So back after my VERY VERY bad Easter Weekend…

I was talking to a friend yesterday about the limitations one has to accept when it comes to writing characters. It isn’t that you can’t flesh them out, make them believable… etc… but rather that there will always be a face missing, some small part that wont be expressed because it would take more than a thousand novels to encompass the human being. We’re multi-faceted in the extreme.

I’ve come to the same conclusion when it comes to blogging – that there are people who know me (or think they do), and people who don’t, that will read this blog and think that it a condensed version of me. Somehow the subject matter, or the manner in which I present things, justifies their views. Puts context to their compartmental vision of me.

This carpel-tunnel world of blogging, invariably then, has its risks. What if a woman comes on here in a year’s time? What if I like said woman and she deems my outpourings to be abhorrent and vile and therefore concludes that I am unworthy of her… all these ‘what if’s will be the death of me, but lets just say that I’m right. Do I care? Yes. Can I do anything? No.

Bring it on home that whole idea of people liking me for me – if said woman came here and didn’t understand my motivations then I’ll be damned if she’s right for me – just like the last.

So this idea of me coming across as something short of myself got me thinking about everything really. As much as I’ve put things to bed.. So to speak.. I do have to say that certain elements of my character are coming together to show me as anything but an honest, caring and kind man. Not least to everyone, but mostly to myself. See, I’m such a self-deceiving creature. But you knew that.

Anyway – so getting on with life… this whole breaking away from the loss of Bath and life down there. Its taken me off facebook and taken away my one mode of constant communication with the world back there behind me. It’s a good thing too, because the old lovers were already starting to feel brazen! Old flames leaving suggestive messages on my wall, the odd filthy reply to an unassuming statement. Laura might just have put two and two together to work out when and where and with whom. So I’m glad that is all behind me. Now I can move on to new pastures with a clean slate. Chalking line after line on that board above me. Remembering.

I intend to start my education of myself by starting with history. I’ve opened up various memories and I’m taking a good look at what makes me. I have nostalgia abound. Zounds man, I might even have unleashed a realization or two.

I know that what I had in Bath was a best friend and various distractions. Not to play them down, we got closer toward the end (hence the sadness at parting) but since then I’ve more than replaced them and feel in a better place than I ever did. Lying in the sun this morning saw that I understood what was important. It was the second moment I’ve truly felt content in the here and now of here.

The funny thing is that the people I have met in the last 2 months have been better friends to me than anyone else I have ever met. They know me better too. I could have one person here in Liverpool take on a team of every person I have known for the past 4 years in Bath and they’d win a quiz on me hands down. (Save for Dom of course, who remains the only man I’ve ever confided truth in.) I’ve opened my heart to some of the loveliest people imaginable and all they’ve done is pay in kind. So I have to admit, scary as it sounds, I was wrong. (Gosh, didn’t that make you tingle inside??) I was wrong to hate my home so much. Wronger still, to think that the world ended when my little false life in Bath hit the fan.

But more, much more than this… I feel like I’ve gotten better. I’m not second guessing the old relationships like I used to. I used to lie in bed with Laura beside me and listen to songs that took me back to other women I’d known. Back to Jenny the Stalker and my inability to love her. Back to Patty and my inability to love her. Back to every woman I’d ever known and my inability to love them. But always the same feeling of regret and the need to retrace those steps. The feeling that there is a girl beside me that is beautiful, but I feel more for these old flames than I do for her. This is what brought me to wanting to leave her back in October, what had me almost there so many times. Before the idea of moving to Cardiff gave me the stupid idea that a change of scene might bring a change of heart.

I’ve known a lot of really beautiful women in my life and I treated them all, at the time, as though they were a piece in my puzzle – rather than a light to work under. They were short-term soul-mates, some of whom became habits that I stuck with until it became too difficult to keep going. One or two I got with, out of a deluded idea that I could be happy with them in time… given time I was soon proven wrong.

And that’s it for this blog post… more to follow, beg and borrow. I mean… tomorrow…

Filed under: Dom, Existence, Friends, Girls, Jenny, Love, Sex, Women, Youth, about me, hopes, much, novel, other people's lives, writing

The PolarTropicals

Chatting, in Cafe Nero, on a bright morning with Fritz – it was so damn stuffy we had to pries open the window, use a coffee cup to hold it from shutting, just to breath clean air – we were chatting about the simplicity of horse racing; each omitting the fact we’d lost near a years wages between us, because it was – all said and done – just down to luck. It was when we were in the middle of a gripe about Jack Quick – a heavy against, which had proven itself a loser time and again – that we noticed Erin. (I’ll not pretend at this stage that we knew her, it was simply a name that we later held on our tongues and savored.)

Cupid lifted our chins at the moment she swaggered in – the cruel bastard drew our eyes from sandals to hair clips, before he sent us – inert – towards the figure of her boyfriend. It was Charlie – a three time runner up, in each of the three fights we’d had – a thin branch of an arm lay at her hip and the other pressed a cellphone into the side of his face.

Clean shaven, clean spoken and whiter than white teeth, that was Charlie entirely summed up. A cocky little inbred, with Daddy’s notes in his wallet and Mommy’s ‘love ner-ending’ and her looks to-the-letter. The two of them took a seat, hidden in plain view, and the waiter breezed over to take their order – taking special care to drop his gaze down her top – then scuttled away. Erin was a sweep of shoulder length black hair – slender neck, with a dark mole elegantly placed on the cusp of her shoulder-blade – and eyes, god she had eyes, eyes I can’t describe.

So we watched them, Fritz and me, in-between more mindless chatter, until something lifted her chin to look at us. With a greeting of smiles, we knew that she knew our game. We were fans – were connoisseurs  of her curves – aficionados of her attractiveness – enthusiasts of her elegance – et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam… in summery, your honors’, we meant no harm – it was flattery. 

Still unsure of what devil lifted Charlie’s chin – made him wise to the happenings – I’d like to say he took it on what he lifted and turned cheek. That he knew our jest and we had no real gripe against a man we could easily do in. Sadly, no, he took offense and put up fisticuffs, for a fourth attempt at victory. It was Erin that made him re-think the equation – two against one – so he simmered down after a spattering of reassuring kisses. Charlie invited us over, not to get a better look, but to catch up.

His plan became an example of clarity – he wanted us next to him, because comparison was a given – he imagined, it would undoubtedly lead to Erin taking heel with him… the lesser of assembled evils. His plan fell at the hurdle of book titles.

Erin is a well-read broad – a fanatic when it comes to the well-known Subterraneans – we aching-jawed it, until closing time and dragged Charlie to a bar to continue until last orders were swallowed. (This is where the main focus of these scribblings hones to an ant-burning precision.)

We tell her about our new love for the self-titled ‘stylized interview’ form. How we gleaned it partly from the form taken by the few articles you can unearth between the tundra of advertisements in men’s mags. Took a pinch of the noir in detective fiction and mixed it with our over-wrought idolization of musicians and movie stars. We aimed to write ourselves and our friends into the next cult characters of a changing era. 

“Then you should put up a site for yourselves!” She protested.

The idea stuck, we’ve started up on our quest. Fritz and me have already bought the domain and started on the first few articles. (This is an invitation to join, a sort of reward for reading this far.) Charlie wont be involved, but we have recruited Evan, Nicholas, Gene, Ginny and Laura from the ‘Literary Barbershop of Bath’, otherwise known as our friends.

Let it be made clear… This is a call to arms for ALL – no matter what country you live in – those who are underprivileged, rejected, denounced and demagnified when it comes to literary endeavor, all who are looking for a leg-up to notoriety. We’ll write so skillfully and with such magic that our friend’s bands will be signed a day or two later, our writer friends will be published and our photographer friends will have something to do.

We’re starting slowly – slowly and lowly – but we aim to rage against our dying lights. Here’s to creating a new destiny. Here’s to the PolarTropicals.

Here’s to getting Erin’s digits and an open-ended invitation to her flat.

www.polartropic.co.uk

Filed under: hopes, job, news, other people's lives, prose, published, writing , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

when enough is always too much



There is something wrong with sex in the back of a car; no matter how right it feels. Thinking about it you find that it stands erect as an example of immobility. She keeps moving, so does he, someone else could be driving and it is still clearly going nowhere; that is, to me at least, I’ve found this and you might not, but I’ve never met a couple who’ve kept petrol in that tank for longer than a few stops and potholes on the motorway of ages.

 

 

Most things, when looked at through hindsight, are portentous to the eventual collapse of relationships. Her/him going out with friends, insisting on a sexist night out; the introduction of toys, other people, money, office parties, Christmas ones, new secretaries and the giving of rings, increasingly.

 

 

Introduction, withdrawal, giving, taking, making, breaking, mending, manipulating – breathing, in some cases – perhaps it isn’t hindsight one needs, when most of everything nowadays can separate.

Should we perhaps, in knowing this, invest in the superglue of forgiveness? I’d rather not, any expert could tell when an item has been repaired and it always affects overall value.

 


My advice, if you should want it, would be to bin it and be more careful next time; and most of all – Always trust in luck over integrity, so you wont be so sorely disappointed.

 

Filed under: Love, other people's lives, solitary

The Burslem Sextet

  

Molly Leigh (born 1685) was a woman who was accused of witchcraft, died before being tried, and had her grave altered foloowing claims she still haunted the town.

Molly was born in 1685 in a cottage on the edge of the moors at Burslem. She was a solitary character who made a living selling milk from her herd of cows to travelers and passers-by. She was an eccentric person who kept a pet blackbird. The bird often sat on her shoulder when she brought milk into Burslem to sell to the dairy. She was known for her quick temper, and the people of Burslem were suspicious of her. This was not uncommon, throughout the country women, particularly elderly women, who lived on their own in remote places, were labeled as witches.

In Molly’s case it was the local parson, Rev. Spencer, who made the accusation. It was claimed that Molly sent her blackbird to sit on the sign of the Turk’s Head pub that the parson frequently visited, turning the beer sour. She was also blamed for other ailments suffered by the townsfolk. Leigh died in 1746 and was buried in Burslem churchyard but there were claims her ghost haunted the town. Spencer, along with clerics from Stoke, Wolstanton and Newcastle had her body exhumed, opened the coffin and threw in the still live blackbird that had been her companion. They then re-buried Molly in a north to south direction, at a right angle to all the other graves in the churchyard.

-

The point of that?

Well, that all things are connected, you need not know how or why.

Filed under: Sad, accusation, blackbird, burslem, connection, molly leigh, other people's lives, sextet, solitary, witchcraft

Liver

Should we all, at the same exact instant, have a moment that truly defined humanity and its place in the world; or gelled us as the form and substance we actually are, thus doing away with all that anthropological ambiguity, what would such a revelation do to us? That said, would a moment really change all that much, or would we revert in a flash to our previous misalignments?

Thankfully/Tragically we will never find out as such moments are fleeting and never reach more than the few souls in proximity. Hence revival is often as widespread as a rain shower and holds the same brevity.  Nevertheless, such enlightenments are miraculous and strike at the core of our identity; even brief knowledge of ourselves is enough to shift us toward a new bearing. It elucidates our ambitions and all our whimful ambiguities.

When it does happen to you, it is a bizarre sensation. You feel like you have a divine communication from the Evermore itself, but it is in a language you can only really let wash over you. You can understand the message with a part of your being that is rarely accessed. Ah ha! But in the same cruel flounce, that isolated part, due to the fact it is rarely conversed with, can lend you no explanation. Imagine it thus; you have a very, very heavy night drinking and you wake up the next morning, you know what organ is screaming at you, you know what it is saying, but you don’t need to understand the language of the Liver to do so.

 So what about the great voice of enlightenment? Is it telling us to go straight edge, or to just go easy next time? I think, if I can turn things back to the bane of my life ‘the Liver’, we all know that it isn’t really talking to us. We all understand that it doesn’t have a mind to scold us for our folly. So any personified force we call enlightenment or revelation might just be an influence to push against and deduce our own message from; like playing pong against the computer.

I think, (and I only can, just barely, for myself) that when it comes to enlightenment and revelation it is most-likely found within. I’ve often felt as though it comes from the electricity around me, but really the motor of it is within me. It doesn’t matter what is powering it, the reaction is internal. So, like that jerky and awkward moment when the Terminator learns to reprogram itself, or when a puppy finally understands that there is a link between shitting on the carpet and the telling off that it gets; there are moments when each of us can use what we are taking from around us to power up that reaction within that changes what we are and how we think, regardless of the real message. There are moments when we need to change, so we find that change all around us. We’ve made all the Gods that instruct us.

Like the Bible, enlightenment is the product of a progression of mistranslation. We take coincidence and subtly shift it to suit our own purposes. But does that matter? Has enlightenment ever been all that enlightening really? When the message is that you should love, sell all your shit, and live a life of oneness with the world; is it really a divine message or simply you telling yourself that you hated your life and fancy a change. Enlightenment isn’t so much what we learn (as we have learnt) as much as about the fact that we do learn something and can manage to apply it, even temporally, to our lives. I think that is miraculous, fuck the messenger!

Filed under: Love, Sad, hopes, other people's lives

NaNoWriMo

my twitter musings

  • Okay - written another chapter in the story of my life so far - not a metaphor - i am actually writing about me, yes I'm THAT self involved! 2 hours ago
  • New Moon sucked and not in a vampire way - in a sucked ass way, which is not pleasent for those who might be unsure 2 hours ago
  • @flowis loads - i'm a poetry buff after all - some men have muscles, i have stanzas 2 hours ago
  • FACT cafe has me - black coffee owes me - and words have my spirit on its knees 9 hours ago
  • @theshowmanship "Friends are at their best in moments of defeat... Then they either fail you utterly or surpass themselves." Henry Miller 9 hours ago
  • Sleep does not come because sleep does not will it - but what I don't believe is that The Coda Glory was under the bed all along!! Shit man! 1 day ago
  • updated look of wildercognition.wordpress.com for the next wave of stories - should have them written up and posted soon. now off to bed. 1 day ago
  • an evening of writing poetry - currently inspired by The Faber Book of 20th Century Women's Poetry and by the speed of light in a vacuum 1 day ago
  • Where is Coda Glory? 1 day ago
  • I second this! --- RT @whatkaitedid @merseytart at least you have one! I'm STILL on the sodding waiting list! 2 days ago

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