Friday, August 13, 2004

(the first) one from the archives

THUMBNAIL sketch (22/08/03)

Walking down Rembrant way toward town, I can hear a murmuring. It seems to be coming from all around me, yet I cannot make out any of the words. It is dusk, the streetlights are on but the sky is still light. The air smells faintly of dying summer; a combination of sweat, rotting plants, industry and warmth. A tang that hangs in the air, indistinct but acting through nostalgia, bringing to mind all that has been over the last few months without actually reflecting any of it. Whatever.

I walk past houses, bungalows to the left and right. Formal gardens, bright colours still visible in the fading sunlight, increase in complexity as I proceed down the road. It’s a real case of keeping up with the Joneses. But they have no soul, only blind ambition. I realise I can see in through the windows I am passing. There are blinds, but they do not hide. Dark lounges with chairs near the street, chairs facing toward televisions. And there it is, Eastenders. Eastenders. Eastenders. On every television that I pass.

No movement, no life, no spirit. Just television, television in the dark. Television showing the same thing in every home. The same trash, the same imitation of life. Pretend you have a life by watching the lame exploits of others. And then I realise, the murmuring, the incessant background, is actually a superposition of all these television sets. All these copies of Eastenders playing at the same time in darkened rooms with the windows open has led to this meltdown. Sound and pictures coming together to create nothing. This is the source of my funk, but the solution to nothing.


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