when the light all hustles and clears away all i am left with is a vain shadow that follows me everwhere and a mind that won't let me be.
The streets all empty one by one.
I was born here and i'll die here, against my will.
It is presumptous to think that life has a meaning and to ask a meaning of something so simple is a mockery of the reason each of us is endowed with.
If i could have anything in the world i would have nothing.
I can still remember the cannibals reminiscing about the flesh of man (sic) humans.
Ignorance was and still is human kinds greatest enemy.
The only thing any of us have to fear is ourselves.
God is inherent in all things of an equal and true measure, the more civilised that thing becomes the less visable it becomes.
if you can laugh at your own mortality you can be free of its finality
graffitti is in someways like planting a garden, if you pick the right seeds, make sure they are well suited to their soil and water them and care for them, don't worry if someone pisses on them and have patience you may be rewarded and surprised by what they become and the nourishment they provide.
satan is not so dissimilar to god kind of just seen from a different point of view.
words are a guilt free way of reminding myself that life is the great illusion.
Ok so enough putrid bullshit and esoteric scum, this post is addressing the vital importance of the ongoing assignment of renewing street art/art in general and exploring its future possibilities in what some people suggest is at the end of its epoch.
And the possibilities that australia has to offer on an international level?
We have geographic isolation, an emerging indigenous renewal and a simmering local scene. Due to the catastrophic rise of the Aussie dollar we have unfortunately lost much European travelers, and also due to the approaching calamity of both the American and Euro currency. But this has never limited the dedication of artists that are after specific locations for their scene and styles. Melbourne has been in the past such a place and once again it should be. With the proximity to the emerging powers of the new world, China, India and the fucking AMAzing amount of culture that is able to integrate into Melbourne without too much prejudice. All these factors point to a high chance that Melbourne/Australia could have a serious influence on international arts and culture in general.
Whether in Graff or arts is irrelevant, i think it is time the sketchy local differences could be put aside and the hatchet buried for a while and would be good to see some ideas and new directions tested.
And for gods sake thrown up on the fucking walls.
It would be good to attack the buffers with personal stuff and get a bit of press and get some support from the community this way, without being violent or assuming ownership merely suggesting a share.
After all we all have to look at these walls and in a healthy society everyone should get a chance to put up their piece.
Australia is in a boom period and these boom times echo across all facets of society and resound through all halls and dells. I plan on smashing it with all I have, I would hope that there would be some other interested parties open to collaboration and extended integration of alien styles and assimilation with any new scenes that appear, there will be opposition i suppose but there is DEFINiately an opening here.
It would be great to get todays sublime into the castles of tomorrows.
A shout out to all, regardless of everything, united for lunch and a hope to make a mark of the now.
They rest under the lilac tree and the water, the water is all around. On blade and grass and leaf and limb.
Dappled the sunlight through the darkening, creeping in becoming the subtle colors that underline the changing.
Pines line the horizon and green grass is still and looks like a velvet cloth draped over the ancient contour. Steadily they rise and into the sky.
Back over the yonder way, where the valleys lead to the bay, where the restless waters play and the ancient sailors sway beneath the blue yonder out beyond the night, into the day, again, until the wax is gone and the curtain collapses.
and the glistening hand swam t'wards the pale purple sun. A long line of creatures mired in the marsh stopped and listened to the frogs and toads. An army of insects line the coveted leaves and a million lights rose from the steam. The tree's were few and memorable, they dragged up to the stars a beard of silver tentacles and hushed a curved canopy beneath the night.
By day the olive drab covered much and the relief only was a mottled braun.
A red desert lay beneath. And every hundred years or so it would appear, black pebbles and all. Drink in the sunshine, and then disappear beneath the clear and present waters, darkening steadily with the algae.
A distant world, a memory wrapped in soft paper and hessian string, bound by the mysterious will of the mind.