Thursday, 21 January 2010

Nothing

BEGINNING: Still out in the cold.

MIDDLE: The pavements of London are bleached from the sun after the snow and ice. An African lady with an enormous bosom is running for a bus she will never catch. A North African man is scattering pigeons with his erection. Everyone is talking about the weather, with its first glimmer of light, but still there is no green, nor money.

I always imagined that Armageddon would be like a tremendous global earthquake that would smash the Richter scale, from which only a chosen few would be saved, whose houses stood alone untouched amid the rubble, like haystacks on a plain.

Except such chosen ones would rue their bad luck. Having lost friends, family, foes and lovers, the spectre of the clean-up job, and the pressure of fulfilling such a historic, momentous opportunity to rid the Earth of all its filth and man-made folly, to start civilisation again almost from its roots, would surely overwhelm those survivors, who will crawl en masse into the most comforting relative corners of their houses and at least for a while, just pretend they didn’t exist.

There is no such thing as genius. The word gets scattered about (I could say ‘disseminated’) like the pigeons by the man with the erection (well, he didn’t really have an erection, but a rolled-up newspaper banging against his leg). Genius describes someone exceptional, whose contribution to human endeavour is singular and essential. Genius isn’t even a one-in-a-billion phenomenon; that would denote that there are six geniuses alive in the world today, and I can’t think of any, only of people who can do very well what someone before them has already done in some manner or form. Without being insensitive, maybe there are indeed six geniuses alive today, all under some sort of rubble.

Just think of being a survivor of Armageddon, alone in your untouched house. You wouldn’t be able to see out of the window for the dust. You wouldn’t want to open the door, for the dust. The longer you leave it, the more the smell of six billion corpses would discourage you from leaving your house, in inverse proportion to your diminishing food stock and increasing need for company, to see if you really are indeed the only survivor in the jungle.

END: Maybe there are geniuses and then there are artists. Geniuses possess true knowledge; artists think they do. Good artists say something right after all whilst bad artists just talk shit.