The Inconspicuous Charm of the Cliché

A passing thought

I wanted to, for once, post something that was not an overly long block of text. However, I am still morally opposed to re-blogging or posting anything I had no hand in creating, and have no good pictures to make people think I am interesting and deep, to induce nostalgia, or to simply inspire. On another day, I think I will share a story. But on that day I will need inspiration to craft a tale of merit and more rest to ensure only the highest quality of literary prose.

As expected, I am rambling and this post is reaching longer lengths without even sharing my original thought. The thought of course being, “Gorilla tape is the most useless tape I have ever encountered. I have yet to find a situation where gorilla tape was the right tool to get the job done.”

- Erick Anthropoid y Temporary

Surreality

Surreal has become far too mainstream. And not in the hipster “I was into surrealism before all these other posers” sense, but there are too many images (still, moving, and interactive) that attempt to blend the normally thick black line between reality and fantasy. And not too many as in “ohmigawd I’m being overstimulated by surreality!” sense, but with the large quantity it is hard to find quality. It is very easy to spot when there is an attempt at the surreal. A large moon, vast transformations in colour, or an object floating that normally should not be floating are all good indicators at an attempt of surreality.

It is easy to make weird surrealism, to focus on the bizarre and make something completely out of reality. At least, relatively easy. The creativity to make an attempt at blurring the borders into the surreal may be hard for some, but I notice that it is easier to use that creativity to make something weird or bizarre as opposed to truly unsettling. It is the unsettling feeling, those rare breaches of my perception of reality is what defines surrealism to me. That surreality is what I hope to find from works of surrealism. I mean, it all falls under the realm of surrealism… but… hm…
…
You know what? I have been using a word that does not exist this entire time, I think a definition is in order.

sur∙re∙al∙i∙ty /səˈrēələtē/ Noun: the state or quality of the fabric between reality and fantasy being blurred, characterized by causing cognitive dissonance

I, like many of us in this modern age, am desensitized to the weird and bizarre. But the craft of perforating the wall that separates the real and the fantasy in a way that unsettles people and makes them question their own view on reality, is a fine art that is rare to find. Small details that are not immediately noticed but give the subconscious a reason to be confused and say “hey you! look at that thing again, it looks funny” (granted your subconscious is probably better spoken) are key. Subtle is the tool of choice for those creating surreality. The twisted logic of dreams as opposed to the twisted imagery of nightmares will do more to disorient the audience, which I see to be a more interesting and noble goal.

Disorientation demands introspection and reevaluation. One must realign themselves with the compass of reality and whether that takes a moment or a month the disruption in the status quo of one’s mentality is what makes surrealism compelling. 

A return to surrealcy is what I want. Where the grotesque is no longer the norm when modern surrealism is viewed. Is it not more surreal being trapped in a room by one’s own psyche than to see a lumbering titan of Uncle Sam made of wood against a backdrop of a moon several orders of magnitude bigger than it should be?

Maybe it’s not to most people. But I would rather get lost in surreality. You know, that word I just coined.

- Erick Shakespeare y Dreamy

Post scriptum: Holy moly this is post number 10! At this rate I’ll run out of things to say in no time! Better slow down.

Hope

The beauty of a nihilistic worldview is seeing where one derives hope. There are deeper philosophical questions pertaining to human nature as to if hope is a necessity and what humanistic need it fulfills, but that is of little concern at the moment. But if nothing is true and everything is permitted, where does one find inspiration?

Maybe that is what has been the problem lately. Too absorbed in the grandness of the big picture there has been no time to work on the small brush strokes which make up the painting of life. Too taken aback by what is there was been no room to motivate towards what could be. Too worried about free will that what will be will surely will itself to be. Will. There aren’t enough enough Wills.

What does one do when scouring texts of the physical world and metaphysical mind without a goal in mind? How burns the scorn when discovering that an original thought has already been thought and all thoughts worthy of thought have already been thought? How belittled is a mind when learning that every question it has been asking about the world and universe already has an answer?

Is it bad? Or is the burning and belittling the essence of hope itself?

Philosophically, there is hope because if man has already been graced by every original thought, then men and women more intelligent and learned than most would not still be thinking. Maybe one day, originality will be gone, but not yet.

Physically, there is hope because the stardust that makes us is as much a mystery today as it was in the beginning. We have answered the questions of our ancestors, but no one has answered the questions of today yet.

O, the deeper questions with no answer. Lo, the assumptions made with nary an explanation! Do not lament, for these words have served their purpose, if for only one person, and thus the need to continue is no more.

- Erick Hopeful y Assuming

A tie

This was the first tie I ever owned. Back in the days when I bought my first suit. When I only wore suits for entertainment functions. When I did not understand why being a man meant wearing suits. When I did not understand what it meant to be a man.

Before I went to that first school dance. Before I grew fond of the girl I took to that dance. Before we grew apart. Before she had given birth to a child.

Preceding the time I knew the embrace of love. The time I finally felt happy. The time I truly understood guilt.

This tie preceded a large portion of my life and, as I look at it before handing it to my ridiculously skinny housemate due to the fact that it no longer fits me, I realize how short the period of time that I owned it is in comparison to the time line of the universe (or multiverse if the residents of my porch coach are to be believed).

While this idea is neither new nor revolutionary to me or any person of thought, I find the thought humbling. After all,  I may have as few as fifty years left or as much as one more day, and that tie has nothing to do with any of that.

Now I feel a tad remorseful for I have again written a post with a point which is easily missed.

The point is I need to buy a new tie to replace the spot where the old one once hung, but there are too many awesome ties in the world for me to pick one.

- Erick Humbled y Rueful

A lamentation

It is never enjoyable when one feels that they are missing something in their life. It is even worse when one finally discovers what is missing, only to face the realization that what is so desperately needed is impossible to achieve.

I recently found myself in just such a predicament. Growing one’s facial hair is a task of Herculean proportions that requires a steady hand, patience, and vision. While my hand’s steadiness cannot be questioned, my amount of patience is something of debate, and, alas, I was without vision of any manner.

I did not know what I desired with the remnants of our primal ancestors which marked my face until it was too late. My self-imposed time restriction reached an end and even though I discovered that piece of my life that was missing, I could do nothing but watch as my whiskers spiraled down the drain with used shaving cream. Maybe with more time, more vision, and less concern about the thoughts of the populous I can achieve the image of beauty that now haunts my dreams, both waking and sleeping.

To impede more digression, I present what could have been:

And what I received instead:

Maybe one day my mind and body will grow into the artistic cohesion necessary for this and all other majestic mustaches.

- Erick Bemoaning and Anticipating

Here we are once again

A deadline is approaching, as foreboding as a smell of bitter almonds emanating from one’s freshly sipped tea cup.

But let us not speak of such distressing issues and foregone conclusions of sleep deprivation. Today I have a tale of intrigue and mystery.

You see, a man can do a lot in life. He can team up with a man with a much more interesting name and work to liberate his people from colonization before withdrawing into relative anonymity. He can start an unprecedented war because unrealistic agreements won’t be made. Or when a man loves a woman, he might even breach the realms of infallibility.

But some men do very little. Some men grow old, make enough money to get by (if that), are lucky if they reproduce, and are generally unhappy with their lives. This brings up a few questions, most notably are two: 1) Is such a fate the fault of a man or circumstances? 2) Are they not the lucky ones, tasked to live mediocrity instead of having greatness expected of them?

I will put off my tale no longer and will regale you so as to answer both those questions, at least the questions will be answered for this man. I begin the tale thusly:

There once was a man from Brasil,

Who did nothing but try to cure pill.

   But much hesitation

   Meant little education

Yet such a cure would’ve robbed his free will.

Put whatever hidden and deeper meaning you want to that story. I put a lot of thought and literary experience into crafting it, so I’m sure any message you have gleaned from it is one that I thought of while writing.

But enough talk, dissertation, have at you!

- Erick Metrist y Tarrier

And now for something completely different

First, I would like to make a wager. I bet the sum total of ten pieces of Ocean City saltwater taffy that I will use this title again. Granted, salt water taffy from Ocean City isn’t particularly better than salt water taffy from anywhere else, but Ocean City is the only place I know how to get to that sells good salt water taffy. The point is, you have to avoid Wal-Mart salt water taffy. Or taffy from any supermarket. What makes salt water taffy good is the love and embarrassment that comes from someone making it in front of a window for awkward teens and tourists to watch.

I understand the interest in seeing someone make the product you are about to consume. It’s interesting to see people do things that you cannot do yourself. There are also some undertones of making sure the product is safe to eat. However, at M&M world London there is an ‘M&M Lab’ where a very bored looking worker puts predetermined combinations of coloured M&Ms into cheap, plastic containers. When I saw this “lab”, I thought it was very funny and very unnecessary. I could even start writing something that I’m sure artsy people would nod their heads and agree with about all of us being behind a window for everyone else to see, judge, and derive entertainment from. What stops me from going that route is that talking about it makes it less true.

By this point I am quite sick of people quoting ‘The First Rule of Fight Club’, because, like people who try to write something deep and thought provoking for no other reason than to satisfy their ego and write something deep and thought provoking, those people seem to have missed the point. Not talking about something does not mean not understanding. Nor does mentioning it make you clever. In fact, mentioning what should be an unspoken truth takes a piece away from its existence. Part of the identity of an unspoken truth is the part where it is unspoken and, while bringing up such truths, rules, and circumstances during conversation, debate, or philosophical pondering might add to the discussion, simply talking about it is very uncultured (in lawl).

I now place a second wager of ten pieces of Ocean City salt water taffy that as you read this sentence you will have missed the point of this post.

And that is because the point is I don’t really care for salt water taffy.

- Erick Accurate y Diverged

“Moses was the original hipster!”

Preface: This idea originally came from the mouth of Señor Thompson and Sir Florian told the original story. What you read here is what I transcribed from memory with some flourishes from my personal paint brush of words.

Moses grew up rich with all kinds of servants and slaves to do his bidding. He grew up and decided to fight the system, so he moved to Brooklyn. He got real wrapped up in the music scene and dated this girl whose dad had a great band that never played any gigs. The man also had a great drug connection so Moses took some acid and was tripping in Central Park laughing at all the mainstream sheeple when he spotted a burning bush. Moses was inspired to start his own band which he used to bring woe on the record label that he refused to sign with. They kept trying to shut Moses down so he parted the East River and brought his fans to escape the label.

So Moses and his fans were wandering around and he found a really tight underground recording studio so he could record his demo on two cassettes because CDs were too mainstream. Moses recorded for 40 days and when we returned he found his fans listening to Lady Gaga, which threw Moses into a terrible anger. He broke his cassettes and his true hipster believers forced the betrayers to go shop at Wal-Mart, without being ironic, because those who would listen to mainstream music have died in their hipster life. Then Moses went to re-record his cassettes so he could share his indie sound with those as hip as him, and was glad that so many had left his flock. After all, if too many people listened to him, then he might become mainstream.

Moses led his fans for 40 years. Of course, the group was always changing and parts leaving, doomed to become mainstream. In this way Moses kept being underground, hip, and totally indie. He set the path to the hipster promised land that all future hipsters would follow. In the end, prolonged drug use would mean an early grave, though his spirit of hipster was said to live for 120 years. Still, he took solace by dying in obscurity. We all know how he would rather kill every first born of a nation before he let himself become mainstream and face the fame that is inevitable when millions of hipsters follow your example.

- Erick Prophetic y Auditor