Passively searching for inspiration. Actively obsessed over the inspired..
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Static
Hello? Hello?
You know what your problem is?
Dumbest question ever thought up by mankind. Of course I know what my problem is, what do you think I've been talking about for the past 10 years?
Monkey tries to make a connection by sticking finger in socket.
Fucking chick on Australian Idol is fucking up a Ben Harper song. She sits on a stool the whole time making squeaky monotonous noise. If you ask me, she is as remarkable as a stool. But the judges say she could be one of the best things to come out of Australia. I'm guessing things don't come out of Australia much.
Of course they do. I'm just saying.
Monkey tries to make a connection by sticking finger in socket.
They say I know what you mean. And I say no, you know what you mean. Actually, they say I know what you mean BUT.....
And the relevance of what follows somehow eludes me. But I trust that it makes perfect sense to them.
And sometimes they say, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.
Now there is honesty. There is honesty in stating the obvious.
Frustration is the most boring of all human emotions. No one wants to hear about it. Even if I can't stop talking about it.
Ask not what reason you have to be sad but what reason they have to be happy.
You dread everyday as if it were your first.
Please don't leave a comment that has nothing to do with what I'm saying. Of course, I'm not saying much of anything aren't I?
This is all just static.
I have to say everything twice. I have to say everything twice.
When I hear a song on the radio, or watch a movie, read a book or look at painting, sometimes, I think, “Well, a monkey could have done that.” But I suppose, it’s an unfair opinion to have since you would sort of need opposable thumbs to handle musical instruments and recording gadgets and pens and what nots. Alright, so certain non-human primates like the Old World Monkeys and the Great Apes have opposable thumbs too but regardless, producing creative work is a difficult process. It takes preparation – coffee, cigarettes, finding a genius friend whose brain you can pick, plus a lifetime of self doubt, loathing, imagining things that aren’t really there, creating unnecessary conflict in your life – and that’s all before you even decide that you do indeed, wish to be an ‘artist’ of some sort. The aspiring “artist” will possibly suffer from a chronic lack of sleep, fall into the high-risk category for lung cancer, will endlessly whinge when uninspired and will end up having no friends due to all the whining and complaining. And a lot can depend on a piece of creative work – from the frailty of the human ego, the career of a former Mouseketeer to the dignity of a country. The pressure, sometimes, can be like a shot of Botox….. to the heart.
Now, I don’t claim to understand the inner-workings of the monkey’s mind but I’m guessing a monkey would never put itself through these self-inflicted miseries just to express something some idiot thinks was thought up by a monkey. If a monkey has something to say, it will throw a banana in your face. If a monkey has something it wants, it will steal your food and throw the Tupperware in your face. If the monkey feels restless, an itch to achieve something in life, it will get its monkey friend to pick fleas off its back. If the monkey wants to be entertained it will get its monkey friend to eat the fleas. If the monkey wants to entertain, it will make friends with Michael Jackson (oh, Bubbles!)
For us human beings, how many times have we mentally (or physically, depending on how you deal with your frustrations) beaten ourselves up (or someone else, again, depending on how you deal with your frustrations) over not coming up with something that we consider a work of sheer artistic genius (that might serve a practical purpose, nonetheless)? How many times have we looked at our work and think that we should stab ourselves in the neck repeatedly with a blunt pen, in penance for our creative failure? How many aspiring “artists” (I hate the word ‘artist’ but I couldn’t find a better one. “Creative types” is too long and even dumber) have considered and perhaps, followed through on the idea that we should give up on our dreams and ambitions simply because we feel that we’re just not good enough? I know I have. You see, I sold my sense of humor in exchange for an Australian Visa and an overseas education. As it turns out, living in bling-bling Gold Coast and higher education does not seem to be helping me discover my artistic and emotional depths. This is why I’ve been reluctant to write recently because without a sense of humor and a proper grasp of the complexities of human emotion, I was never going to come up with anything good. I know I never bothered rehearsing playing the guitar because I felt I was never going to be any good. I know I haven’t really done or properly pursued anything in my life simply for fear of not being any good. And I’ve always felt that it was a good enough reason to do nothing. To forget about it all, head to the beach and work on tanning my pasty legs so I won’t be mistaken for a British tourist. Even then, I fear wearing shorts, not because I’ve accidentally bought a pair of demon-possessed flesh-eating shorts but because I quite simply, do not look fantastically good in one.
But it half-dawned on me today, while I was partially hallucinating from my cold medication that whether we create something that turns out a piece of crap or pure gold is ultimately, beside the point. I remembered watching a Francis Ford Coppola film short (I forget what the title was but it was crap by the way because even Mr. Coppola comes up with crap sometimes), where Nick Nolte’s character said “People don’t become artists because they’re good at it, they become artists because they have no choice.”
I guess, only or maybe, it is mostly human beings that feel the need to create something that goes beyond basic survival requirements. Award-winning writer and broadcaster, Armando Ianucci in his speech at the Royal Philharmonic Awards earlier this year had this to say of Man’s desire, need even, for creating music “For me, there is no other reason to this other than to remind us that, no matter where we are, whether we're learned, in prison, poor, successful, alone or average, our material circumstances are not all that we have, that we can see beyond ourselves, that we're human and are therefore dignified.” The same notion can be applied to the writer, the movie-maker, the dancer, the actress the painter, the guy who exhibits a rubbish bag in a gallery space and calls it ‘art’ – we do it to say that we are not, after all, monkeys.
So … my point is, if have a point at all, which I recall vaguely having at the start of this essay, is that if you find the entries on this blog from here on out crap, please don’t be blaming it on a monkey.
Bananas for all!
Much love, The Great Automatic Writing Monkey, Maryam.
*Like Maryam, Armando Ianucci too is a great lover of music but cannot sing a note or properly play an instrument to save his life. For the full text of his touching speech, please clgo to: http://observer.guardian.co.uk/review/story/0,,1774108,00.html
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A Portrait of the Artist as a Politician
I’ll admit it; as much as I love their music, sometimes, I find Bono, Chris Martin and Rage Against the Machine’s political ranting and raving very irritating and it is at those times when I find myself thinking that musicians and politics should not mix. I read a comment on another blog once which said, “music is meant to be created, listened to and enjoyed and not some sounding block for a singing bloke.” But then I think, is it not the democratic responsibility of us all, regardless of our profession, to engage in open, public debate?
That said having a bunch of people buy your records and scream your name at a concert is not the same as having them go and listen to a political debate. Despite the fact that all eyes may be on the musician at a concert, the audience is not there to see the musician put a solution to all the world's problems on a platter (although Bono and Bob Geldof will try, no doubt). Verbally bashing a political leader while on stage to play music is on the same level as my hairdresser ranting about why he thinks the government sucks as he's cutting my locks. Yes, for this reason, my friend, this might be why Bono comes across as such an overblown ass. However, I do not discount the possibility that my hairdresser may possess valuable political insights simply because he cuts hair for a living.
As for the musician, who does he or she represent? Themselves, first and foremost, but for a musician as successful as Bono, the connection he has formed with thousands of people around the world, the audience, represents to a certain extent, the greater population. Of course, this connection might be more on an emotional level than it is on a political one. One might contend that this emotion is not a matter for politics, yet I feel that emotion is the very thing that defines our political beliefs and the two cannot and should not be separated. Who made politics some kind of foreign, distant, highbrow concept, an over-intellectualized playground of the elite anyhow? Isn’t politics, quite simply, concerned with the way one feels one deserves to live? It bugs me each time when people say, “Oh, I’m not interested in politics.” Do they mean to say that they’re not interested in living the best life they possibly can (from a secular aspect that is)? Do they mean to say that they’re feeling altogether suicidal? In a so called free and democratic society, why is it that people approach the discussion of politics with such trepidation, as if it’s some kind of sacred ritual of a mysterious, ancient religion, treating our politicians and academic scholars as exalted God-Kings who know better? I do believe that if we do indeed live in a part of the world that is as free and democratic as we claim it to be then there is no such thing as an “outsider” when it comes to political discussion and therefore, a musician, a hairdresser, a student, none of us in theory, should fall outside the arena of debate.
What harm could come from letting Bono say what he has to say? Harm arises from, amongst other things, lack of understanding which partly stems from the fact that we continuously turn a deaf ear to those among the people that actually have the guts to speak up. Perhaps, we would be better off listening. As for Bono, I’m starting to think that it’s just the sunglasses and maybe only the sunglasses that make him a cheeseball.
The creative and the pragmatic worlds are different yes. One paints dreamscapes, yes, while the other constructs (or destroys) landscapes – either way, it’s all in the forces of Yin and Yang. What is in the basic concept of Yin and Yang? They’re complementary opposites, interdependent; yin and yang consume and support eachother and can transform into one another and most importantly, part of yin is in yang and part of yang is in yin. Isn’t this reason enough for congregation between the creative artist and politics?
But of course, there always has to be a line. As controversial British MP George Galloway said in a (fairly) recent Spin Magazine article: “Music stars, movie stars and so on lending their support to campaigns is a really good thing and helps to lift an issue but they mustn’t become the leaders of it because they’re not, frankly, qualified. They can’t make the policy for the campaign because they don’t know enough and therefore people can run rings around them. But this is coming from the middle-aged politician who was on Celebrity Big Brother and performed a cat impression on national TV and wore a red leotard.
Go figure.
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A Portrait of the Politician as a Monkey
We are often of the opinion that politicians are to be blamed for everything that is wrong with the free world. Yet, the direction in which one points the blame is more often than not the direction in which one points for the solution. Could it be that by blaming the politicians, we give them a lot more credit than they deserve?
I found this comment on a blog somewhere (sorry, I can’t remember where or by whom):
I believe that anyone who argues the fate of the free world with the government in the king spot on the chess-board has completely missed the point. The QUEEN is the most powerful and can move in any direction, many squares at once. Transfer this to the world we live in and you'll see that the real culprits are not the government, but the queen big business. She TRULY runs things and is capable of moving across political and international boundaries where politicians and diplomats cannot. The politicians have no real control, they rely on big business to protect them from the knights and bishops, namely soldiers of socialism and the religious collective. As long as there is money, those who wield it will ultimately be in control, and none of our whining and protesting to the politicians will accomplish anything.
Syriana, anyone?
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A Portrait of Law a Monkey Could Get
You are interested in justice? I'm interested in how people decide what sounds like a law. So what's your favorite law code? Hammurabi. Why? Neatness. For example? For example: "The man who is caught stealing during a fire shall be thrown into the fire." Isn't that good?—if there were such a thing as justice that's what it ought to sound like—short. Clean. Rhythmical. …
- From “Autobiography of Red” by Anne Carson (based on the story of Geryon by ancient Greek poet, Stesichoros)
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A Portrait of the Reality TV Star as an Artist
Kay Jay, Kay Ray, BITE ME. Here’s more Ryan Star…….
All my life, I’ve tried to live by a code: Dress like a tart, sing in a rock band and save the world. Blame it on the role models I chose as a young girl. You see, once upon a time, in a land called The Eighties, there lived a cartoon hero called He Man. Although God might beg to differ, He Man called himself Master of the Universe because he had an astoundingly large Sword of Power which may or may not have been a metaphor for something else, depending on whether one subscribes to the Freudian phallus-obsessed school of thought. What He Man basically did with his Sword of Power was he basically, went around dressed as a beefy Chippendales stripper fighting a villainous anorexic called Nicole Richie….I mean, Skeletor. For some odd reason, He Man proved a big hit with young boys everywhere but many young girls, like myself was not yet at the age and desperate enough to appreciate the orange-tanned allure of a male stripper. Hence, the good folks behind He Man came up with a tie-in cartoon catered towards a female audience called She-Ra. And She-Ra, sadly enough, became my first celebrity role model.
She-Ra was He-Man’s long lost sister and she taught little girls everywhere that you could dress like a tart and save the world. Like He-Man, She-Ra had a big sword of her own too, only it was called Sword of Protection. Apparently women need protection, especially the winged, super-absorbent kind every 28 days. She-Ra even rode on a winged unicorn called Swift Wind which when you think about it, sounds like a brand of sanitary pads. You would think that She-Ra would be called Mistress of the Universe but I guess someone thought that ‘Mistress of the Universe’ made it sound as if She Ra was sleeping with the entire universe so she ended up being known as Princess of Power instead.
The gimmick however, quickly wore off on me and I found my 5 year old self idolizing another cartoon character called Jem, of Jem and The Holograms. Not unlike She-Ra, Jem taught me that you can dress like a tart and save the world. Of course, she one-upped She-Ra by also playing in a rock band. She is not however to be confused with Bono although given the description, one might be forgiven for confusing the two. Regardless, it is because of Jem (and not Bono) that I’ve dreamt of dressing like a tart, singing in a rock band and saving the world.
But dressing like a tart can take time to master. Basically I had to wait for puberty to hit, curves to develop and the Grunge-era to be over. See, when the 80s came to a close along with Ms. Jem and her collection of skanky leotards, the Grunge movement along with its feminist offshoot, Riot Grrrl gained momentum and all of a sudden, it was not okay to dress like a tart, unless you were a tart wrapped in flannel and angst. And when it was finally fashionable to dress like a tart again, body image issues had settled in. Suddenly, I worried that the handkerchief that would look fabulously tart-like as a dress suddenly wouldn’t cover my big bum.
Singing in a rock band proved to be an even harder feat to achieve. When I was 15, I started a band with two friends of mine. I wanted to sing but somehow through a cruel twist of fate, the lack of early childhood training in music and genetics, I ended up being the drummer. Jem would never approve of being shoved behind a drum set but I suppose at that time, I fooled myself into that I could be the female Tommy Lee (minus the sex video). Alas, my career as a drummer was disastrous and short-lived to say the least. I spent most of my time missing beats, probably because I was daydreaming of singing upfront. And when I wasn’t missing beats, I was dropping my drum sticks or accidentally throwing them into someone’s eye Kill Bill-style, probably because I was daydreaming of being lead singer, again.This ultimately meant that I spent the entire length of the band’s first (and last) public gig, drumming with one drumstick ala Meg White of White Stripes. Only this was back when Jack and Meg were still married (?) and the White Stripes were yet to gain international fame and no one was yet to think that Meg’s i-actually-want-to-be-lead-singer style of drumming was acceptable.
And of course, there was saving the world which has been proven by many-a Miss World contestant to be a futile effort but a great line to say nonetheless. Actually, this third thing, I haven’t even begun to attempt. It’s that old saying, how do you expect to save the world when you can’t even save yourself? I suppose I don’t have to turn into Bob Geldof tomorrow. I suppose I could start with the basics. Save myself. Save money. Save water. Save electricity. Save leftovers. Get a solar powered car. Go vegetarian and save some chickens.And then what? Unite the international community by baring cleavage? Use my croaky voice to lull the world to restful peace?
Maybe the well-meaning folks in conservative middle class, middle aged suburbia got their code right: Get a degree, get a job, get married. And yet, every time I sit in a classroom, supposedly on my merry way to acquiring the degree that will get me the job that will whatever, a stream of discontent rushes through my veins and every textbook reads: GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! Yet something keeps me sitting put in that classroom: perhaps the giant lump of fear in my stomach and I console myself by saying, of course I can get over not dressing like a tart, of course I can get over not being able to save the entire world, as long I’m a decent person and don’t kill anyone. But there’s one childhood dream that I just can’t seem to shake no matter how many times I tell myself that I neither have the talent nor the chutzpah for it. I’m reminded of this dream every time I hear a great song on the radio or witness a goosebump-inducing music performance or simply the sound of a microphone screeching when some dolt places it too close to an amp. I’m sorry mom, I know you hoped for a lawyer but the truth of the matter is, I still want to be a rock star.
Well, there’s only one thing to do now, and that is to think WWJD – What would Jem do?
----------------------------- Oi, if you watch Rock Star Supernova or have at least looked at my last blog entry, then you would know who Ryan Star is. I have a soft spot for aspiring rockstars even if they're not genius, as long as they're half-decent performers and not shit, they will always have a place on this blog. So I'm going to do a little pimping for Mr. Star and post a video of him performing an original song of his before he was unfortunate enough to land himself on a reality show. By the way, just because I'm pimping Ryan right now, doesn't mean I don't love J.D. (of Rock Star: INXS, if you need be reminded) anymore. I'm not cheating on JD! Ryan and I are just friends. Oh my god, here I go, sounding nuts again....... Anyway, if you like what you see visit rockstar.msn.com to vote for this dude so I get to watch more of him. But make sure he doesn't win. I really think he should be on his own instead of fronting Supernova.
Some time between the last entry and this one, I was happy. I wanted to share with you all the happy things I did and all the things that made me so. But words won’t always be sufficient just as the camera can’t always be present. And then I don’t know what happened.
I can't write. Is this a sentence?
When I was 7, I told my mom I hated school. I told her I hated being in class. My mom said I'll grow out of it. She said I'll get used to being in class. Almost 21 now. Still hate sitting in class. But I keep on enrolling myself. Keep on attending. And still, everytime I sit in class, I can't help but think I should be elsewhere. And yet, I can't think of anywhere else to be.
I can't write. Is this a sentence?
01: Robot I even bore my robot friends. 0100010010010110010001 Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz 0100010001000100010001 I even bore my robot friends.
02: Is It a Monster? Uh-Oh, Uh-Oh, Uh-Oh What happened here? Was it a monster? Was it a monster? She seemed like such a nice kid Quiet, but who would’ve thought? Is it a monster? Is it a monster? But indeed, I never would’ve thought SHe seemed like such a nice kid…………. Burn the beast!
Ozzy Osbourne hung the same dwarf night after night for his 1982 tour. Same person. Hung night after night after night.
I can't write. Is this sentence?
03:Astronaut on a Train Here’s a rifle. Sort yourself out. You know I love you. You have tried your best to please your fears But there needs to be some forward motion. Splatter forward onto the wall. Go forth into the fright. Here’s a rifle. Sort yourself out. You know I love you. I’m out of ideas. This isn’t working. I don’t know if that will. I’m out of ideas. Dead air space. Whatever happened to that astronaut who couldn’t get on a train?
I’m sorry to have to call you a liar. Especially when you’ve been nothing but kind. Thank you for being so nice. But I don’t believe you. I don’t believe anyone who disagrees with me
Love the robot man who refuses to go to Oz for a heart, Or the scarecrow, content, without a brain Call the lion a coward, if you must He has outlived all your heroes Off with the wizard, off with the wizard, of course
If I was a magician, I would turn this into a spell. If I was the United States government, I would turn this into Saddam’s WMD If I was a musician, I would turn this into a song
If I was anything. This would be something.
I can't write.
Oi, you watch Rock Star: Supernova? Quite frankly, I don't give a fuck who fronts Supernova. But i thought this was a decent cover:
