The Michael Barrett Collection

The Spirit Of Grit

More stream of consciousness part 3: Love toys and introductory seduction.

Fine so I'll tell you, prison is close always was, but I've side stepped it twice, I hid with a knitted cloth over my face. I re spun bullets out of my good morning routines and said good night to the blue flash sky, as the blue flash lights took pictures, of my daily heart's becoming's. Special naughty afterlife surprises, for those who say that they don't like them, cynical was a look I saw, a daunting specialisation in ruining the feast of togetherness, as a result I spewed up the birthday cake, and regretted the birthday party.

I re-met the idea of divine love, with the idea of the divine being unattached to how I was, and how I want to tell others I love, to see the world, I'd like them to notice that love is not a control issue. I'm not out of love with love, it just hasn't met my standards, and therefore I no longer have none, therefore I vainly seek the essence of freedom, as I practice my cherry picking in that spirited gritted, working class manner, in that blue flash sky, where it doesn't matter if your dreams have been scathed.

Will past experiences emphasise the possibility of having light silver magic steel, in a mind of naivety, or will it turn into the maddening of the forgotten twilight, where the crime in the forest stays in the forest: a darkness that doesn't let go, a brightness that becomes solely alien, indescribably human, intolerable mortal? The mellowness comes, the water brings the calmness, and the cleaning of angst brings clarity at last.

Cleansed, cleanliness, survival, brightness, it's the manic depressives hot topic, like hot sauce on your bacon, or vegetarian meatballs. Ranked one by one, two, three, four, lines of choices. Flawed by not being able to make one of them. The past lover and friend that invented the spirit of grit, used to circle the floor, used to gravitate towards it, and stick to it, live within its means, like a bat in a cave, and in non- fictional metaphorical sense they had the same soulless wall creaking, terrifying, horrifying, melodramatising, sensibilities as Dracula. I hugged them, loved them, fucked them in every position, and yes, it was love. At first, impression, but we all know that they don't last.

It's been a cold start; the bitter drafts have bitten my delusional irrationality, confirmed my confusion, and humiliated my elegant mind. They have kept me in hiding almost, I have for the most part been like a jack in the box, in all the literal sense, and it's not a joke. The childhood dreams of that sense almost become disassembled, but perhaps it's just a game of luck, or maybe I was fonder of jack than I realised, although I never remember owning one.

The night slams with sound, the clock calculates the distance of my life span, and the cage rattles a little looser, so emancipation is becoming more possible. Friendliness seems more genuine, and life looks less like a local anaesthetic. Some green cream put me in a sleep once, and I awoke in a heavenly vision all hazy and I felt so tranquil, I glided through the long halls of something that was an ultimate timeline of life, but only it was enjoyable like a jig saw puzzle, and that's because I was only a child then. Now I know what it actually was, but I am not falling into a deviation of my innocence.

More stream of consciousness part 4: Some unread dust from yesteryear's bookshelf- Goodbye Epiphany.

My eyes just filled up with regret, I was too anxious and beaten to read about European prostitution, so now I can only fantasise about the Berlin nightlife, and a chance to watch a film adaptation of it in present time is about as romantic as it gets. Goodbye epiphany. So my nightlife is dissolved bubble bath, and my day life is lost events in the east end. My heroes are patronisation and educational cryptic genius inspiration. So pale I ran outside, I noted vague remarks of disappointment, and nodded along in gullible blank dismissal.

Curled up like the fetus in a toxic paradise, just like, how I like my artists, practically unfound, with traces of insomnia beneath the eyes and between their lines, widening the width of a violent looking splinter keeping younger skin occupied for a day or two. As it goes I am not familiar with regular let downs, like heartbreaks and tears, it's not even a case for individual advantage, I am a stripped naked soul, with sociopathic insight, but it's vampire-esque, not vampiric, I recognise punctured and bruised flesh but that doesn't mean I caused it, trust me the devil's spiked leather boots are far from sexy. Although it has taught the prowess drive for desperation, so like a functioning trapped nerve, better than it ever was, finding new uses, basically it's something else.

Cornfields look like golden heaven, so I take a stroll through them, whilst chewing on the gold candy flowers. Breeze, breathe, brave, benefit my eternal memory, that's where I want to be seen, after the war, after the war is over, and don't forget to tell me when it's over. And the foreign sun returns, I returned to that landscape where it is, where that strange utopian vision, helps you to become lost in translation, guides me into bliss, and helps me find a remedy for a long awaited distraction, until it turns into my idea of living properly.

Quotation and inspiration:

Digital transparency is requalification, a full fluid of emptiness counts as fluent language, reminiscing reminds me of a magnetic swipe card, the only kind of energy that you can still grasp is the suction of water pulled down the plug hole.

Thanks, J.G. Ballard, Jean Rhys, Christopher Isherwood, Sylvia Plath.