The Art of the happy accident.

A happy accident is neither perfect or imperfect;
it s a manifestation born within a state of harmony.
Sometimes; what we call a flawed thing, is simply something yet unimagined.
Awaiting its assignment, its place ?

Despite being the centre of our own known universe; We all have a sense that what we don't know, may possibly still exist.

The Equalist!

RE: The guerrilla girl’s poster 5% women artists yet 85% of the models are female.

This poster was heralded as a feminist rebuff of misogyny and the male gaze.

It is my opinion: one of the reasons females are more sexualised than males in Western society; is because the majority of women working in a sexualised industry such as modelling, dancing, fashion or *******; choose to perpetuate that role and the connection between *** and femininity; often in industries where females outnumber the men six to one; I'm also aware that the majority of the hierarchy in theses industries are male, it seems their gender solidarity is more concerned with the money; than notions of ****** inequality; thus perpetuating the issue.

Vernacular test:
Step one - Question one:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misandry? followed by what is your gender?

Step two - Question two:
I took a survey of 30 fellow artists asking what is a misogyny? followed by what is your gender?

I did offer any information or allow any of the subjects to see the survey paper, or overhear the question.

Results: 30 subjects took part in the survey; One female knew both words and their meaning, and one female didn't know what Misogyny was. (Two females approached refused to take part in the survey, all men approached engaged.)

Step three - Question three:
I then gave all the subjects the dictionary definition and asked why they thought the vernacular misandry is not as well known as the word misogyny?

(I should add that I too couldn't recall the vernacular meaning of: Misandry; though I could recall the meaning or definition of Misogyny.)

Answers:
Female... "I don't care"
Female... "It's due to a gender economic imbalance"
Female..."Blokes just don't like it when women speak out about it"
Female..."I don't get involved in protests"
Female..."I don't know"
Female..."Men just think with their ******"
Female... "There's more misogynists"
Female... "Because men are pigs"
Female... "Why does it mater"
Female... "It's just a word"
Female... "I'm not interested"
Female..."Try being a women"
Female... " It's *******; it's just a vernacular"
Female..."You wouldn't understand your a man"
The other 5 Females... chose to offer no explanation.

Answers:

Male..."I don't know"
Male... "who cares"
Male... "Yeh that's interesting"
Male... Why does it matter"
Male... "Let me think about it"
Male... "Who gives a ****"
Male... "What's this about"
Male... "Can I see the results later"
The other 2 males... Chose to offer no explanation.

I personally identify as human; and don't wish to be defined, labeled or marginalised; I also don’t believe that secularism in any measure is healthy or meaningful in an inclusive society.

I question why 29 out of 30 subjects had heard of Misogyny; and just one person had heard of Misandry.

Sexism is not as the dictionary suggested prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, typically against women.
Everyone is effected buy prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination.
The subtleties of which is played out every day.

The eternal journey.
You can’t save yourself, you must be good & kind; and in time, this will help save others, from yourself.

It’s not a short term plan…
You’ll need to have faith and conviction, for you won’t be there to witness the final result.

I want to feel worthy, to be known and understood.
I want to feel relevant, just like every ******, on every socia media platform.

But here i am feeling insignificant along with all the other dreamers.

The infinite answer.

There is no end, only new beginnings!
I suspect that infinity is almost as small as it is large, though I feel a little bigger because I know how very small I am ...

The Lightning Man.

In life we beat out our time; knees bent, singing and dancing.
In death our spirit, reappears in human, plant and animal form, recycled; reborn.
In telling our stories; we move through the days and walk in the past.
We push up mountains and invoke the rain.
We cut our bodies; dress in leaves, oil and paper bark,
We paint our bones red with ochre returning to the womb from which we sprang.
Nothing has changed...all is as it should be.

Recently I came to the conclusion that our body's are perfect, it's taken a long time!
The fact is we are all truly beautiful and diverse in shape and size.
I no longer look at the symmetry; lips, forehead, broad or narrow faces, chins, noses, jaw, eyes, cheekbones, how clear and smooth is the skin; how tall or small the frame.

I've come to realise that over time, these comparisons are a form of physical nostalgia; just a combination of shapes reminiscent of the many people we have loved or admired throughout our lives, and that our body image has become a measure of our perception of our physical self, our feelings, our positively and our desires.

I've come to the conclusion that all vessels embody the beauty of the individuals they carry; because everybody is both body and soul.

The cruelty of loves sting, penetrating the hearts of the deep and doubtful; longing to be whole both in love and in life.

You’re the gin in my tonic,
The taste in my mouth,
The fire in my belly,
The north in my south.

The wind in my sails,
The silk in my thread,
The tear in my eye,
The sheets on my bed.

You’re the sun in my day,
The days of the week,
The D in desire,
The tongue in my cheek.

The space on my page,
The gold in my dust,
You know who you are!
The love in my lust…

And together we would scheme and we'd, walk and we'd play.
We'd talk and we'd pack all life's troubles away.
Then we would gaze at the stars and you'd say.
I love the bones of you love.
I love the bones of you love.


Song link: https://youtu.be/gOovsOv7Yq0

We must tanscend the rules of our mathematical consciousness; for our perception of reality is incomplete.
By filling in the details with our minds eye, and expressing our souls, in search of a harmony and greater understanding, we become as one with our function in this seemingly infinite universe.
(No longer empty but replete)

From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.

At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)

A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.

I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.

However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.

A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.

To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!

Purcy Flaherty.

Beware for the hooks that reel in small colourful delicate fish, are destined to cast them back out to sea; in the hope of attracting something a little more palatable.
.
.
.
Relationship suddenly ended I'm instantly homeless, broken, abandoned, pennyless. ***?

The mob is single minded!
The more people feel justified; the more likely they are to commit extreme acts of cruelty.

Freedom dies with you!
What are you fighting for ?

This is your generation people,
I'm begging you; don't go to war.

Freedom dies with you!
you can't fight for peace!

I'm begging you, don't go to war.

Not in the name of liberation!

Not in the the name of humanitarianism!

Not in the name of freedom!

Not in the name of free trade!

I'm begging you: Don't go to war!

Her outward appearance is everything, though inwardly self-conscious.

She thrives on compliancy and  agreeability, any challenge; any question is a criticism! and she will take it to heart!

Each and every word has specific meaning, so don't use them loosely, for every one will be accounted for!

There will be less pleasure in words, you will not dare to speak, and then you will begin to lie!

You will feel the need to prove your love, but you will not be worthy! and this is the price you must pay!

Lured to lose your head and *** to a sticky end, then abandoned as dead wood, or as a bad lot!

A small group sociopathic economic organisations and individuals, that advocate, or push by virtually any means possible; the production, distribution and consumption of things that you're convinced you want; but you actually don't need.

Things seductively labelled and wrapped like a gift in expensive everlasting triple plastic; to be opulently torn discarded like nothing more than mere consumer pith and peal, every day by you and yours truly.

*** noodle anyone? Would you like a bag with that?

First they sent me flowers,
Then they sent me gold,
Then they stole every hour of my life
When they sent me down that hole,

First the ground began shake,
Then the roof fell in,
Then came the unholy silence,
That spewed the darkness from within.

The family sent down flowers,
sent down pictures of our kin,
They ticked every box on their forms,
From this place of filth and sin.

Not even a drop to drink,
Not even a mobile phone,
Down in the stinking city of rock,
Pleading for our homes.

We used to mine for copper,
It’s true they owned our soul,
Now we simply fight for survival,
as three rigs bore the holes.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

A billion eyes are watching,
As we’re pulled from the ground,
Despite the dust... the blood and fever,
The circus comes to town.

35 degrees of swelter,
69 days in the dark,
we are well in the shelter,
the 33 Copiapo.

Image is everything, spin and white lies are addictive, destined to become ugly truths in a malevolent world, it's all about increasing your number, and binding to the best people available; you'll enter their clique in order to further enhance your image and validate your own false reality; once your host is unable to enhance your façade, they will be discarded; and you will move on to the best people available to you; in order to further enhance your image and validate your false reality.
This cycle is destined to go on and on and on throughout your entire life-cycle.
Friends and family will become worthless in time, becoming  just one of social climbings many downfalls.

Like inquisitive children looking for a wormhole; attempting to discover and measure the infinite in bitesize chunks,.

armed with tiny numbers to crunch the infinite number; which is simultaneously  expanding into yet another infinity ...

“What is treading on eggshells”
(I’m trying to define it)

Maybe it’s:
When a question is perceived as a judgement?

This is the point in a relationship where, you first sense, that you’re views or actions are not entirely welcome;
The moment where mutual trust evaporates, and you realise that acting in someone’s best interests, has become an intrusion; not necessarily because you overstepped the mark; but because you were perceived to do so, and that this is the moment where joyful innocence, morphs into trepidation and uncertainty.

From this point on, you’ll probably be spending a lot of time, being hyper vigilant of your own words and actions; so not to be perceived as intrusive or offensive.

In conclusion, what you’ve lost!…is your freedom!
and what they’ve lost!…is your honesty and innocence.

"Vanity It’s simply breath!”
Our earthly life with its simple pleasures,
May offer up some token treasures,
Lipstick, fever red, and not to subtly applied,
Hides the nature of your smile,
Simple wisdom eludes vanity,
Though both the wise and foolish end in death.
So why worry ?
Just be you!
Vanity

My vivid dream 28th Feb 2020

Since the perception of time, bored ancient malevolent entities; the 'stars makers', have been corrupting our souls with 'want'; Collectively this 'want' forms the material world, which serves to suppress the inner spark; the energy contained within the human soul.

Good souls gradually struggle free from the confines of 'want' or the material world, thus releasing and returning the inner spark to the origin of light.

Dark souls remain within the material world reborn as the 'Dark-echo' continues to expand the physical universe, thus slowly terraforming the multiverse into a single living entity.

Dark matter is the fabric of life, and the womb of our dark souls.

The origin of light is a place of contentment beyond the perception of any fearful, material being; clinging to mortality.

That's why freeing oneself from the confines of the material world, and returning to the 'origin of light, is a leap of faith.

Are we capable of making sensible choices?
when our own logic is generated from organic matter; a brain heavily influenced; fueled on random flashes, hormones, pheromones, testosterone, diet, desire, the air we breath, the need to ***, or a simple cup of tea; all of which alters our body ~ ((Our chemical bag)); a fragile echo system constantly at odds with other elements.

Our fuel, our input influences the way we think, Yet our ego tells us that we are in control; and that we makes our own choices.

Put your hands on your hearts people! and tell me how many sensible choices have we acutely made!

I'm personally content that some seemingly bad choices have turned out quite nice!

It takes so much strength to suppress that yearning,
To step back and let the thing you love grow,
It’s bittersweet, crushing and revealing;
Going with the flow,
when everything inside you says:
No,No,No!

Winter snow, Winter snow;
I’ll come shining through,
They say that every cloud has a silver lining,
But it’s snowing down on you.
You’ve forgot your coat and umbrella
and now you’re froze right through!
I’ll come shining through
~ this winter snow.

You can hop from tree to tree;
Use a bag, or a magazine,
Take shelter in a coffee shop
and soak up the caffeine!
The streets are now deserted;
There’s not a soul to be seen,
I’ll come shining through;
this winter snow.

There are clouds up in the sky,
Whistling winds are blowing by,
There are snow flakes big and round,
What a sight, oh me oh migh!
Winter snow, winter snow,
I’ll come shining through,
Yes I’ll come shining through
This winter snow.

Winter snow, winter snow,
I’ll come shining through,
They say that every cloud has a silver lining,
But it’s snowing down on you.
You’ve forgot your coat and umbrella,
And now you’re froze right through!
I’ll come shining through,
this winter snow.

I’ll come shining through ~ this winter snow.
winter snow, winter snow,  winter snow.

I see a billion black boot soldiers
Marching through the dawn
In a ****** up ****** sky,
With thier standards standing high.

There’s a tale in every colour
And a line through what’s been drawn,
That depicts the hurtful images;
Of the things I can’t describe

I see a single dove amongst two spires,
Flying high above the crowds,
Calm within the sweet warm light,
With her wings spread wide; she glides.

Now there’s poetry in motion;
With her head up in the clouds;
A good soul in quiet repose,
And with her angel eye she spy’s.

A foetus in its Sunday best,
Travelling through the birth canal,
On a joyous bed of hell;
From betwixt two ****** thighs.

A brand new storey does unfold,
It’s said all’s well that ends well,
Its place of birth here on Earth;
That’s where we hear each child’s first cry.

This painter paints for me
An image I can’t perceive
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

Soon another will pass by,
Lying in a box too cold.
In a cemetery up high,
On the top white lily’s lie.

As-if in quiet thinking,
Four corners of a box men hold;
Within the body’s final fold;
A simple sky the mourners cry.

This Artist paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive;
Of an angel soaring high above our skies.

This painter paints for me,
An image I can’t perceive,
And I sense that as one enters life;
Another light shall die.