this isn't about me, it's just some writing. no, sorry, i mean it's about YOU. yeah, that's right.
Babies heads are empty?
Most of the time, when someone tells you about the things that they have done, you map out their life by inserting little clips of your own experiences. A handshake here, a crying fit there. The street in Spain where they were mugged looks just like street in Marseilles where you fell over after drinking too much red wine from the supermarket. Their bedroom smells just like the first bedroom you had sex in. The kitchen where they dumped their fiancé has the same cupboards as the kitchen where you’re little brother was born (belonging to the next-door neighbour).
You decide that their character is defined by the things they chose to TELL you, not the things themselves; so it doesn’t matter that you don’t really understand their experiences (as long as you understand the way they communicate).
You can stop listening to them now.
Sometimes you think that you’re a bit like that girl you once saw in an advert for perfume, because she had a flowing skirt and it was filmed in black and white. You think to yourself, I am a FREE SPIRIT, just like her. But actually this just means you’ve been a bit polluted by a desire to be beautiful. And monotone.
You sing along to songs on the radio. It doesn’t really matter what radio station it is, as long as there is a melody. Tepid songs about sex and cheating, as your favourite singer says. You secretly identify with every song, film, fictional character and poetic persona you have ever encountered. You think this means you’re insightful and complex (not to mention the empathy, oh GOD, the empathy). But actually it just means that you’re not like any of them, not at all.
It is not unlike you to invent experiences for yourself, and then pretend that you’ve had them, in order to see what you’d be like if you were someone else. You don’t even care that this doesn’t make sense. If you were someone else you might have some DEPTH, you think. You’d be a bit more rounded and stable, you think.
But no, you’d just be someone else.
(then again, at least you wouldn’t be insanely inventing experiences for yourself).
It never even occurred to you that the girl in the perfume advert might have SMELLED of something. She probably smelled of sweat and festivals, what with all the barefoot meadow-frolicking.
If you look at people who have achieved things that you want to achieve, you realise that you’re probably going the right way to get there. They didn’t like kate bush either. And you’d probably agree with communism, if you knew what that was. You reckon so, anyway. You could be a genius, if only you had an axe to grind, isn’t that what you sang along to? An axe to grind….and a bit more experience. Anyway, that’s not really what you’re all about. It’s all about FRREEEDOM. The freedom to squander, that’s what it’s all about.
What with all this living-in-other-people’s-invented-heads (that are in your head, really), you rarely notice your companions. They don’t UNDERSTAND me, you cry. There are so many streams of consciousness in there, it’s no surprise your head’s so big. And actually, you’re right; they don’t understand you. But why are you asking-
do YOU understand THEM?
Maybe you should buy a crazy yellow car or something. At least try to FEIGN an eccentricity. Only you know that you actually have none. Not a single one.
Sometimes you use quotes from other people’s writing and pretend that they’re yours. You take a conversation from the pub, paste it into an essay, and voila. And vice versa. Conversations in the pub wouldn’t be so weird if you hadn’t been in all those other heads (or at least THINK you had been) and seen that every one else is just as bored with the new series of big brother as you are. Ok, so it’s not always big brother. Sometimes you’re feeling intellectual, and pretend to have opinions about politics. Do you even UNDERSTAND what Marxism actually is?
No, me neither.
At least you’ve got it sussed as far as TASTE is concerned. The trick is not to buy anything new. It’s easy to just REJECT shopping, and give it up altogether. It’s a good way of constructing a rebellious eccentricity without actually having to BUY anything NEW. It’s hardly enigmatic, though, is it? You probably think it represents some kind of commercial stance. But you don’t really have any idea about what that stance might be because, actually, it just means you have no money. Or originality.
Once you were on a train and you read and digested a completed crossword on the back of someone’s discarded copy of ‘The Times’. Then, when you changed trains, you assisted the middle-aged, middle-class businessman in the seat next to you, as he struggled with 4-down, 18-down AND 6-across. You felt like this was a triumph for people like you everywhere. It was actually just bullshit. Bullshit.
There you go again, pretending you have ‘issues’ and ‘opinions’.
If you stopped and looked at things more carefully you might notice that everyone is quite a lot like you. I know you think you’re unique, but actually you’re just like everyone else, because they don’t really have much conviction either. If you press them to explain their morals you will discover they are alot like yours.
Loose, I mean.
The same goes for their eccentricities. Plagiarised, just like yours; plucked from songs and films and people they talk to in the pub. You think these are affectations, but actually they’re just personalities.
I mean, would you rather be blank?
No, I didn’t think so.
Most of the time, when someone tells you about the things that they have done, you map out their life by inserting little clips of your own experiences. A handshake here, a crying fit there. The street in Spain where they were mugged looks just like street in Marseilles where you fell over after drinking too much red wine from the supermarket. Their bedroom smells just like the first bedroom you had sex in. The kitchen where they dumped their fiancé has the same cupboards as the kitchen where you’re little brother was born (belonging to the next-door neighbour).
You decide that their character is defined by the things they chose to TELL you, not the things themselves; so it doesn’t matter that you don’t really understand their experiences (as long as you understand the way they communicate).
You can stop listening to them now.
Sometimes you think that you’re a bit like that girl you once saw in an advert for perfume, because she had a flowing skirt and it was filmed in black and white. You think to yourself, I am a FREE SPIRIT, just like her. But actually this just means you’ve been a bit polluted by a desire to be beautiful. And monotone.
You sing along to songs on the radio. It doesn’t really matter what radio station it is, as long as there is a melody. Tepid songs about sex and cheating, as your favourite singer says. You secretly identify with every song, film, fictional character and poetic persona you have ever encountered. You think this means you’re insightful and complex (not to mention the empathy, oh GOD, the empathy). But actually it just means that you’re not like any of them, not at all.
It is not unlike you to invent experiences for yourself, and then pretend that you’ve had them, in order to see what you’d be like if you were someone else. You don’t even care that this doesn’t make sense. If you were someone else you might have some DEPTH, you think. You’d be a bit more rounded and stable, you think.
But no, you’d just be someone else.
(then again, at least you wouldn’t be insanely inventing experiences for yourself).
It never even occurred to you that the girl in the perfume advert might have SMELLED of something. She probably smelled of sweat and festivals, what with all the barefoot meadow-frolicking.
If you look at people who have achieved things that you want to achieve, you realise that you’re probably going the right way to get there. They didn’t like kate bush either. And you’d probably agree with communism, if you knew what that was. You reckon so, anyway. You could be a genius, if only you had an axe to grind, isn’t that what you sang along to? An axe to grind….and a bit more experience. Anyway, that’s not really what you’re all about. It’s all about FRREEEDOM. The freedom to squander, that’s what it’s all about.
What with all this living-in-other-people’s-invented-heads (that are in your head, really), you rarely notice your companions. They don’t UNDERSTAND me, you cry. There are so many streams of consciousness in there, it’s no surprise your head’s so big. And actually, you’re right; they don’t understand you. But why are you asking-
do YOU understand THEM?
Maybe you should buy a crazy yellow car or something. At least try to FEIGN an eccentricity. Only you know that you actually have none. Not a single one.
Sometimes you use quotes from other people’s writing and pretend that they’re yours. You take a conversation from the pub, paste it into an essay, and voila. And vice versa. Conversations in the pub wouldn’t be so weird if you hadn’t been in all those other heads (or at least THINK you had been) and seen that every one else is just as bored with the new series of big brother as you are. Ok, so it’s not always big brother. Sometimes you’re feeling intellectual, and pretend to have opinions about politics. Do you even UNDERSTAND what Marxism actually is?
No, me neither.
At least you’ve got it sussed as far as TASTE is concerned. The trick is not to buy anything new. It’s easy to just REJECT shopping, and give it up altogether. It’s a good way of constructing a rebellious eccentricity without actually having to BUY anything NEW. It’s hardly enigmatic, though, is it? You probably think it represents some kind of commercial stance. But you don’t really have any idea about what that stance might be because, actually, it just means you have no money. Or originality.
Once you were on a train and you read and digested a completed crossword on the back of someone’s discarded copy of ‘The Times’. Then, when you changed trains, you assisted the middle-aged, middle-class businessman in the seat next to you, as he struggled with 4-down, 18-down AND 6-across. You felt like this was a triumph for people like you everywhere. It was actually just bullshit. Bullshit.
There you go again, pretending you have ‘issues’ and ‘opinions’.
If you stopped and looked at things more carefully you might notice that everyone is quite a lot like you. I know you think you’re unique, but actually you’re just like everyone else, because they don’t really have much conviction either. If you press them to explain their morals you will discover they are alot like yours.
Loose, I mean.
The same goes for their eccentricities. Plagiarised, just like yours; plucked from songs and films and people they talk to in the pub. You think these are affectations, but actually they’re just personalities.
I mean, would you rather be blank?
No, I didn’t think so.