(For the ORAL CULTURE that we all adore | https://soundcloud.com/joe-pollitt/loneliness)
It is so lonely out there. Do you find that my precious friends. My invisible people that never seem to say a fucking word. My friend Luke Dunn is mocking me online. I do so love him. I wish more people would be like Luke. He's ace...even with his mockingness....
----
But
after sleeping I am looking back on the day. I went through my usual
wondering whether I might fall for someone, when since Tesher that has
not happened fully. I entered a period of choice with it.The timelines,
the woven destiny strands were presented to me and I was zooming into
the future on rails, where I could set the turning points one way or the
other ahead of the train. The true pink cloud of bliss never came. I
asked myself whether that would have been asking too much. There had
been however the faintest whiff of magic. This magic seemed to be
threatened when my typical telepathic awareness started kicking in and I
sensed that with me thinking about her, and her about me, that a silver
astral cord had been stretched between us. this cord was too thoughty
though, it was two people wondering about each other. I don't like
sensing this link sometimes, because I tend to start to conduct
spiritual "pressured-speech" to the other. endless conversing... words,
words, words. words not feelings.
I'm not sure I have the will to record every aspect of it, but now I have awoken from a strange dream today I realise I won't go back to her. Instead I am going to put everything I have into writing for a while.
My friend Joe
rang me after I got home from the pier and we must have talked for more
than an hour. Again, this morning I reached a conviction that the only
way he can overcome the spiritual pressured speech is for him to write
too. So in some way I am putting this passage down now to avoid any
chance that my advice to him was ill-considered casual hypocrisy, of the
kind that so many people give. "I think you SHOULD DO THIS..." "I
reckon you OUGHT TO ..." etc etc. Joe was so carried by his mood that I
found it hard to get a word in edgeways, but I don't really mind. I am
prepared to suffer that because I know he needs to vent to me.
I am always more happy when I vent onto paper than when I vent to another. The telepathic potential girl seemed to be teaching me that I should not have a drink that day. I got washed by the endless current of complacency down the river of habitual trappedness into necking a pint of cider between calls with Joe. At first she noticed through the mysterious link (network cable? umbilicus?) and told me I had trashed my chances with her, but later she came back and forgave me. it entered my mind that we had to share one sin between us, so there could be forgiveness in the relationship. She obviously has had to wrestle with booze too!
---
Bloody brilliant. What a man Luke is..a Lover, wonderful writer but what is amazing is that he seems to care. How marvellous. A man with a heart. Rare indeed in these empty days of nothingness. So to set an example to Joe I write. I write as Joe to Joe. I can only remind him that the mirror is thinking about him and soon he wont feel so isolated. He will forget about feeling so let down by all, betrayed and all but forgotten about and remind him that one day soon his body will turn to dust and he will be apart of the world once more. "But that's not the whole story, it was really in telling him that writing untangles the karmic ball of string, that I remembered this truth for myself"...says Luke. So here I am and I already feeling better. Dancing with letters, caring less and less if they are even read. Have you ever felt ashamed? You speak to a family member, who just sees you as a silly ant. A bore, a waste of space, a nothingness. A man without work, without a decent bone in his body. A useless person who somehow seems to be breathing although most would wish he didn't. Do you feel lonely? Do you have any friends that ever seem to understand who the fuck you are and then see them look so pitiful back at you...saying you're nothing. You're nothing to nobody. It's a shame you didn't do so well in your life, what a waste they say..YOU LOSER they say......You lover of Africa. A Continent nobody cares about but you...Foolish Boy!
Have you ever seen your life slide by and think. Was that me? Caring so much for an unheard, unseen Continent that I am sure exists but nobody seems to believe me. Maybe it's me...Everybody can't be wrong. Maybe Africa doesn't exist and black people are unimportant to the wider world and I have been a fool to care. Look how few black people are allowed to be famous. It comes as no surprise to me as I must of written over 100 articles about the best the Continent had to offer but still they wanted their Blacks to be more like the Whites and took no notice of my little scribbles. Make them all educate themselves at great expensive in the Art Colleges of London, Paris, New York or better still at YALE. Be more like the West. Ignore Africa, ignore yourselves and conform to a way of thinking that will certainly make you feel forever sick.
It is such a shame. Loneliness. We all feel it from time to time but it hurts. It's a pain that is not easy to describe. The feeling never seems to leave and the more you think about your isolation so the more the earth seems to drift further and further away. I have seen people die from loneliness. Their eyes become less and less excited by the world and the wonders therein. My pitiful efforts made have fallen on deaf ears and seen by those with such shortsightedness. It makes me ill but hell aren't we all...terribly sick. Caring about terrorists in Pakistan or seeing another beheading in Somalia whilst watching advertising campaigns to save the Donkey or being terribly self righteous about a 12 year old girl being arranged to be married to somebody in India and then being asked to send her money to stop this custom, which has been going on from Centuries. Send her money in order for her to school herself to learn all she can about being Whiter than White...Who are we? Are we any better here in our sick society with abused children and rent boys being used by the Politicians as they fuck us up even harder. To Bankers without hearts and you can see them all on the platforms at Cannon Street, flocking home to Kent, Sussex and the poorer chaps to Essex. What are they doing without minds, pockets full of notes and loose change as they, like sheep, blindly send our nation into poverty of kinds you never see on the Continent of Africa. The children are happy there. The women work harder than ever and are content with their lives as their men and children gather around to help whereever possible. But who am I to tell you this. You see Africa as starving and the children have flies around their watery eyes and pussy open sores. All have to walk 1000 miles to schools in the wilderness, only to be told how the Brtish have done them such favours in the past. How the French are superior in every way and the Americans can do no wrong. Teaching them how useless they all are and how they will never amount to anything. Teaching them how to live without expectations, without any hope then vaccinating all the women. Sterlizing the Continent and pushing those within the borders of this enormous Continent, down to the ground once more. Boko Haram. Haram Haram indeed.
EBOLA. We know this was chemical warfare but who would believe us? Who would care it's only Africans after all. It seems as if the lights are all out on this Continent. The heart of darkness, that is all too true Mister Joseph Conrad. As the power keeps on killing the innocent in order to line their pockets with stolen gold and beautiful conflict diamonds. If I am to wear any kind of diamond I want it to be full of conflict. The more the merrier. Conflict my diamonds now. I want to wear conflict ear-rings and a conflict watch and a matching conflict necklace with conflict rings on my toes. I want conflict underwear and conflict socks. I want more conflict not less.It is here in the sadest, madest of times we see ourselves so clearly as I put a mirror up to myself so I see how terribly hurt, angry and upset I have become. I thought I was ok until I started writing and now I just can't stop. Furious is not the word. It's too short a word for how I'm feeling. Fucked off is kind of good but even that is not enough...I want to take it further. I want to be even angrier, nobody is saying a thing and those that do are just talking shit and making us believe in their cuntish ways in order to keep the Status Quo and boat from rocking. I want to rock the boat...fuck it...I want to capsize the fucking thing.
Let us at least be honest to ourselves. The people in power don't care about us. They don't even see us. To them we just simply don't exist. It is easy to build a Nation if those within the borders want a Nation worth building. Sadly those in Africa are too selfish. I thought they would change and maybe they would respect the artist and the writer but I was so stupidly misguided. Last week I read that Chimamanda suffers from depression. Really....how interesting is that? She suffers from Depression you say...Fuck me....If that is the case I suffer from Life Itself. She is multi millionaire having been read by millions and running around the world with body guards and little old Chimamanda sadly suffers from depression....I can only but laugh as my anger boils up to fever pitch....
You all have yet to understand me. I am writing you into HISTORY, whether you like me or hate me I don't give a fuck. I will write you into my books and I will scribble you onto my toilet walls, down the bannisters and out of my door, onto the steps and the pavement below. That is that Norman O'Flynn, Soly Cisse, Suzanne Ouedraogo. CHARLY D'ALMEIDA, the King of Africa. Wasswa Donald and Sheila Black and Big Moma and Maggie Otieno. I want to tell the world of Emmanuel Kavi from Lome, that's in West Africa you know? The Republic of Togo and who the hell has heard of that? Oh yes, wasn't there a famous Footballer from there once upon a time? I will bloody well make sure that history remembers you all and the struggles you faced in your time here on earth. I want to express just how little the world thinks of you...and when you have seen just how little that is, I then want to ask you to forget it, delete it, erase it from your memory and then you'll understand just how much the world cares about you, your art and my pathetic writings.
Every day I become more and more amazed just how little I have been championed. Imagine writing out a history or a world that refuses to be seen. A history that has yet to be recorded; an oral culture that will tell of it's own history, of the stories of art by those that made mud-huts and rode around on the backs of camels in the jungles of the darkest parts of an Africa Continent. Have I wasted my life, wasted my time thinking about those that want to be forgotten rather than remembered? Who else but me would have wasted an entire life, dedicating his time, passion and energy into shaping a world that refuses to evolve. Countries and people that are still hanging onto the apron strings of Colonial currencies and thought patterns of their White unsettlers who left over half a century ago, yet seem always that they are never too far away from the minds of the Africans. What am I to do if you just cannot snap your way out of your hideous past and sadly remain forever enslaved by it. Nothing and so I shall keep on doing my nothing until I'm heard!
It is so lonely out there. Do you find that my precious friends. My invisible people that never seem to say a fucking word. My friend Luke Dunn is mocking me online. I do so love him. I wish more people would be like Luke. He's ace...even with his mockingness....
----
I
went with Bill to look at the gallery spaces on the pier. We went into
one and there was a girl in there making jewellery. She was quite pretty
and fairly shy. I complimented her work and told her about the stones
I'd collected. She had designed some 3d printed ornaments. Her shyness
seemed to wear off, which I put down to the fact that I had been able to
put her at her ease. I think she liked me. we left and carried on
walking. as we walked I started to think about her more, and a subtle
sense suggested that she too was thinking about me. I wondered if she
was falling in love with me. As I considered this I wondered too, in
turn, whether I was falling in love with her. I waited to see if the
thoughts started to birth pink dreamy feelings, but overall it stayed as
a thought of love not a feeling.
I did sense though that
this thought of love might grow, and wondered if I should go back after a
day or two. I decided I would, and would take a gift of my best stones
for her. I felt that Love was a magic that we all search for, and that
requires an act of faith to initiate. I felt her presence and she seemed
to be telling me not to have a drink that day, because Love was better
than alcohol, now it had been re-awakened in my life.I'm not sure I have the will to record every aspect of it, but now I have awoken from a strange dream today I realise I won't go back to her. Instead I am going to put everything I have into writing for a while.
I am always more happy when I vent onto paper than when I vent to another. The telepathic potential girl seemed to be teaching me that I should not have a drink that day. I got washed by the endless current of complacency down the river of habitual trappedness into necking a pint of cider between calls with Joe. At first she noticed through the mysterious link (network cable? umbilicus?) and told me I had trashed my chances with her, but later she came back and forgave me. it entered my mind that we had to share one sin between us, so there could be forgiveness in the relationship. She obviously has had to wrestle with booze too!
---
Bloody brilliant. What a man Luke is..a Lover, wonderful writer but what is amazing is that he seems to care. How marvellous. A man with a heart. Rare indeed in these empty days of nothingness. So to set an example to Joe I write. I write as Joe to Joe. I can only remind him that the mirror is thinking about him and soon he wont feel so isolated. He will forget about feeling so let down by all, betrayed and all but forgotten about and remind him that one day soon his body will turn to dust and he will be apart of the world once more. "But that's not the whole story, it was really in telling him that writing untangles the karmic ball of string, that I remembered this truth for myself"...says Luke. So here I am and I already feeling better. Dancing with letters, caring less and less if they are even read. Have you ever felt ashamed? You speak to a family member, who just sees you as a silly ant. A bore, a waste of space, a nothingness. A man without work, without a decent bone in his body. A useless person who somehow seems to be breathing although most would wish he didn't. Do you feel lonely? Do you have any friends that ever seem to understand who the fuck you are and then see them look so pitiful back at you...saying you're nothing. You're nothing to nobody. It's a shame you didn't do so well in your life, what a waste they say..YOU LOSER they say......You lover of Africa. A Continent nobody cares about but you...Foolish Boy!
Have you ever seen your life slide by and think. Was that me? Caring so much for an unheard, unseen Continent that I am sure exists but nobody seems to believe me. Maybe it's me...Everybody can't be wrong. Maybe Africa doesn't exist and black people are unimportant to the wider world and I have been a fool to care. Look how few black people are allowed to be famous. It comes as no surprise to me as I must of written over 100 articles about the best the Continent had to offer but still they wanted their Blacks to be more like the Whites and took no notice of my little scribbles. Make them all educate themselves at great expensive in the Art Colleges of London, Paris, New York or better still at YALE. Be more like the West. Ignore Africa, ignore yourselves and conform to a way of thinking that will certainly make you feel forever sick.
It is such a shame. Loneliness. We all feel it from time to time but it hurts. It's a pain that is not easy to describe. The feeling never seems to leave and the more you think about your isolation so the more the earth seems to drift further and further away. I have seen people die from loneliness. Their eyes become less and less excited by the world and the wonders therein. My pitiful efforts made have fallen on deaf ears and seen by those with such shortsightedness. It makes me ill but hell aren't we all...terribly sick. Caring about terrorists in Pakistan or seeing another beheading in Somalia whilst watching advertising campaigns to save the Donkey or being terribly self righteous about a 12 year old girl being arranged to be married to somebody in India and then being asked to send her money to stop this custom, which has been going on from Centuries. Send her money in order for her to school herself to learn all she can about being Whiter than White...Who are we? Are we any better here in our sick society with abused children and rent boys being used by the Politicians as they fuck us up even harder. To Bankers without hearts and you can see them all on the platforms at Cannon Street, flocking home to Kent, Sussex and the poorer chaps to Essex. What are they doing without minds, pockets full of notes and loose change as they, like sheep, blindly send our nation into poverty of kinds you never see on the Continent of Africa. The children are happy there. The women work harder than ever and are content with their lives as their men and children gather around to help whereever possible. But who am I to tell you this. You see Africa as starving and the children have flies around their watery eyes and pussy open sores. All have to walk 1000 miles to schools in the wilderness, only to be told how the Brtish have done them such favours in the past. How the French are superior in every way and the Americans can do no wrong. Teaching them how useless they all are and how they will never amount to anything. Teaching them how to live without expectations, without any hope then vaccinating all the women. Sterlizing the Continent and pushing those within the borders of this enormous Continent, down to the ground once more. Boko Haram. Haram Haram indeed.
EBOLA. We know this was chemical warfare but who would believe us? Who would care it's only Africans after all. It seems as if the lights are all out on this Continent. The heart of darkness, that is all too true Mister Joseph Conrad. As the power keeps on killing the innocent in order to line their pockets with stolen gold and beautiful conflict diamonds. If I am to wear any kind of diamond I want it to be full of conflict. The more the merrier. Conflict my diamonds now. I want to wear conflict ear-rings and a conflict watch and a matching conflict necklace with conflict rings on my toes. I want conflict underwear and conflict socks. I want more conflict not less.It is here in the sadest, madest of times we see ourselves so clearly as I put a mirror up to myself so I see how terribly hurt, angry and upset I have become. I thought I was ok until I started writing and now I just can't stop. Furious is not the word. It's too short a word for how I'm feeling. Fucked off is kind of good but even that is not enough...I want to take it further. I want to be even angrier, nobody is saying a thing and those that do are just talking shit and making us believe in their cuntish ways in order to keep the Status Quo and boat from rocking. I want to rock the boat...fuck it...I want to capsize the fucking thing.
Let us at least be honest to ourselves. The people in power don't care about us. They don't even see us. To them we just simply don't exist. It is easy to build a Nation if those within the borders want a Nation worth building. Sadly those in Africa are too selfish. I thought they would change and maybe they would respect the artist and the writer but I was so stupidly misguided. Last week I read that Chimamanda suffers from depression. Really....how interesting is that? She suffers from Depression you say...Fuck me....If that is the case I suffer from Life Itself. She is multi millionaire having been read by millions and running around the world with body guards and little old Chimamanda sadly suffers from depression....I can only but laugh as my anger boils up to fever pitch....
You all have yet to understand me. I am writing you into HISTORY, whether you like me or hate me I don't give a fuck. I will write you into my books and I will scribble you onto my toilet walls, down the bannisters and out of my door, onto the steps and the pavement below. That is that Norman O'Flynn, Soly Cisse, Suzanne Ouedraogo. CHARLY D'ALMEIDA, the King of Africa. Wasswa Donald and Sheila Black and Big Moma and Maggie Otieno. I want to tell the world of Emmanuel Kavi from Lome, that's in West Africa you know? The Republic of Togo and who the hell has heard of that? Oh yes, wasn't there a famous Footballer from there once upon a time? I will bloody well make sure that history remembers you all and the struggles you faced in your time here on earth. I want to express just how little the world thinks of you...and when you have seen just how little that is, I then want to ask you to forget it, delete it, erase it from your memory and then you'll understand just how much the world cares about you, your art and my pathetic writings.
Every day I become more and more amazed just how little I have been championed. Imagine writing out a history or a world that refuses to be seen. A history that has yet to be recorded; an oral culture that will tell of it's own history, of the stories of art by those that made mud-huts and rode around on the backs of camels in the jungles of the darkest parts of an Africa Continent. Have I wasted my life, wasted my time thinking about those that want to be forgotten rather than remembered? Who else but me would have wasted an entire life, dedicating his time, passion and energy into shaping a world that refuses to evolve. Countries and people that are still hanging onto the apron strings of Colonial currencies and thought patterns of their White unsettlers who left over half a century ago, yet seem always that they are never too far away from the minds of the Africans. What am I to do if you just cannot snap your way out of your hideous past and sadly remain forever enslaved by it. Nothing and so I shall keep on doing my nothing until I'm heard!
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