al clark

On The Face Of It

an unlikely marriage.  reds, yellows, greens mainly.  a few others, like a brown with an unusual vibrancy to it, but fake nevertheless.  more that can, could, and might be explored in more depth, but for the time-being, colours married with bleakness is all that needs to be said.  not only all that needs to be said, but all that should be said, for that marriage is not just the most important part of the picture, but the actual picture itself.  as far as it wants to reveal itself at this stage anyway.  of course there is more to it, but its as much as you want to cope with at the moment.  that sounds so patronising.  it’s not meant to be.  


there was a time when i would have apologised in case it may come across as patronising – and probably for a hundred and one other interpretations i had managed to black magic up.  not now.  i haven’t the time. but more specifically neither the inclination nor the will.  


fuck you.  pander, pander.  pander, pander.  fuck you.  so if it sounds patronising, it’s all in your fucking head.  can’t you see i’m trying to make this better for you?  fuck you.  christ, i’d like to really let go, but you know what?


never mind.


shit. i feel fucking awful.


where was i?  jesus christ, that sounds fucking lame.  ‘where was i?’  i’ll be finishing this off with ‘it was all a dream’.  fuck i hate myself.  can’t you fucking see that?


colours married with bleakness.  that’s it.  that’s where i fucking was.  colours married with bleakness is exactly the picture anyway.  i don’t know why i needed to go into all that shit about patronising.  it’s obvious.  it’s always so fucking obvious.  so fucking obvious that i end up convincing myself that it’s not worth the bother.  what’s the point?  i get on a train of thought, and it feels fantastic.  a warmth spreading through my body, like i’ve not a care in the world.  which is true, because i’m not in this world.  i’m off in my bubble.  my white-light filled, sheepskin-lined bubble.  you are expecting a lengthy description of my bubble aren’t you?  you’d like me to talk about how it’s filled with great things.  maybe some toast.  maybe a coffee machine.  a lambourghini.  a louis vuitton stuffed fucking donkey dressed in christian lacroix, a gold crusted banana with a solid centre made from the semen of a hundred adonides.  but it’s not.  it’s white-light and sheepskin.  and warm, and i get there on my train of thought.


colours married with bleakness.  as i say, it’s a strange marriage.  but it works.  although i think it’s one which may have been worked at.  it has to work.  it’s incongruous, but there is no doubt that bleakness needs colours.  colours brings vibrance.  but bleakness is strong.  and this is something colours cannot provide.  colours fades.  colours can be seen differently and in certain company, colours doesn’t show its true colours.  but bleakness is unmistakable.  solid.  always the same.  never deviating.  standing strong, oblivious to criticism, happy in it’s own skin.  the rock upon which colours can allow itself to flourish, against which colours stands out. with which colours feels comfortable and able to be itself.


it’s the whole picture because that’s all there is.  that’s all there is to explain how this unique place functions.  that’s all there is ‘on the face of it’.  and ‘on the face of it’, this place shouldn’t work.