Shadowed
05-03-09, 11:44 PM
Greetings. I'm going to be posting a number of articles under the tagline "The Vertigo Underground" - this is content for an upcoming underground newspaper I'll be making. Anyways, critiques and comments are encouraged. Enjoy.
Bohemia for Sale; Inquire Without
It is 12:24 A.M. Monday has just broken across the troubled visage of the Eastern United States, as the world sleeps amidst restless dreams of hookers and dollar bills. Monday, the beginning of the week for the almighty dollar and its fawning sycophantic followers. The day that ushers in another frantic race for the American dream; even those who do not live in the emotionally bankrupt provinces of the world’s superpower are chasing this dream, this desire to become Americanized in the baptism of filthy cash.
Without a thought, I light up another cigarette; I’ve lost count of how many that makes, yet am not so far gone within my inner ramblings to escape the irony caused by the simple act of smoking an overpriced, mass-produced stick of cancer. Ah well, we only live once. A light rain is falling around me, turning the night air calm and peaceful, as if the moisture could dampen even the ethereal presence of capitalism’s city lights. The neighborhood is quiet save the gentle sounds of the rain. I sit on an old wooden chair, placed wisely and regretfully beneath an awning. I regret this because such a position divorces my skin from the tactile pleasure of the cooling rain, yet it is wise, as the guitar on my lap would be mighty unhappy to face this sudden bath.
I find that I am not wearing a shirt. This is neither by design nor happenstance, as the night is warm despite the cooling presence of the rain. The wooden guitar feels good against my skin. Holding the cigarette casually in my lips, I strum a few simple chords along the C Major scale. Such a beautiful sound, yet one entirely unsuitable to the mass markets of the world. But is this not what beauty is? If true beauty could be packaged wholesale and sold to the adoring fans, would it truly be beauty? If this simple melody were fit to ensnare the hearts of a nation, it would become the norm; would not something more beautiful, more profound, rise to take its place? And would this simple tune thus return to its position of true beauty, or would something new rise to fill that void?
I do not know the answer to this. In this tired old soul’s opinion, beauty is the unattainable dream, the ongoing search for something more. In that sense, true beauty does not exist; what we see are simply the echoes of its passing, the hint that what we’ve desired for so long is simply around the next corner. Our minds whimsically search for this concept, all the while knowing on some level that we will never truly be satisfied should we attain the ultimate in beauty. All my life, I have searched for beautiful women, beautiful songs, and beautiful vistas. I have found that which I hold dear, as the closest example of beauty that I know, yet it always falls short.
It is in this sense, as well, that capitalism is the antithesis of beauty. Perhaps the Mona Lisa was beautiful sitting upon da Vinci’s wall, with its paint still wet. Perhaps the untamed mountains of California were magnificent in their unspoiled homes. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But what beauty is there in the million dollar smile of a TV princess, one that is offered without thought or hesitation for countless screaming libidos? Carlos Santana can make his guitar cry the most poignant sounds ever heard on an album…but what does it matter, when it enflames the hearts of millions alike? Is beauty the tanned stomach of Jessica Alba, or the shy smile of that girl who just agreed to go out with you? Is it both? Perhaps neither?
This is the sale of bohemia, the destitute sanctuary of the hapless and the idealistic, the humble abode of a nation’s artists and free spirits. Their unimposing melodies and visions are available at two for the price of one, feeding the stomach while robbing the mind of its desires. This beauty cannot be sold, should it even exist, yet that does not stop the inevitable transactions. The merciless onslaught of capitalism cannot be halted for the sake of finding beauty, nor should it be! Society marches on, waiting for no one. Thus, I reach for another Marlboro, having wasted away the last one without a thought. Lighting up, I return to my guitar, to make another simple melody, while the dollar signs roll past my eyes.
Bohemia for Sale; Inquire Without
It is 12:24 A.M. Monday has just broken across the troubled visage of the Eastern United States, as the world sleeps amidst restless dreams of hookers and dollar bills. Monday, the beginning of the week for the almighty dollar and its fawning sycophantic followers. The day that ushers in another frantic race for the American dream; even those who do not live in the emotionally bankrupt provinces of the world’s superpower are chasing this dream, this desire to become Americanized in the baptism of filthy cash.
Without a thought, I light up another cigarette; I’ve lost count of how many that makes, yet am not so far gone within my inner ramblings to escape the irony caused by the simple act of smoking an overpriced, mass-produced stick of cancer. Ah well, we only live once. A light rain is falling around me, turning the night air calm and peaceful, as if the moisture could dampen even the ethereal presence of capitalism’s city lights. The neighborhood is quiet save the gentle sounds of the rain. I sit on an old wooden chair, placed wisely and regretfully beneath an awning. I regret this because such a position divorces my skin from the tactile pleasure of the cooling rain, yet it is wise, as the guitar on my lap would be mighty unhappy to face this sudden bath.
I find that I am not wearing a shirt. This is neither by design nor happenstance, as the night is warm despite the cooling presence of the rain. The wooden guitar feels good against my skin. Holding the cigarette casually in my lips, I strum a few simple chords along the C Major scale. Such a beautiful sound, yet one entirely unsuitable to the mass markets of the world. But is this not what beauty is? If true beauty could be packaged wholesale and sold to the adoring fans, would it truly be beauty? If this simple melody were fit to ensnare the hearts of a nation, it would become the norm; would not something more beautiful, more profound, rise to take its place? And would this simple tune thus return to its position of true beauty, or would something new rise to fill that void?
I do not know the answer to this. In this tired old soul’s opinion, beauty is the unattainable dream, the ongoing search for something more. In that sense, true beauty does not exist; what we see are simply the echoes of its passing, the hint that what we’ve desired for so long is simply around the next corner. Our minds whimsically search for this concept, all the while knowing on some level that we will never truly be satisfied should we attain the ultimate in beauty. All my life, I have searched for beautiful women, beautiful songs, and beautiful vistas. I have found that which I hold dear, as the closest example of beauty that I know, yet it always falls short.
It is in this sense, as well, that capitalism is the antithesis of beauty. Perhaps the Mona Lisa was beautiful sitting upon da Vinci’s wall, with its paint still wet. Perhaps the untamed mountains of California were magnificent in their unspoiled homes. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But what beauty is there in the million dollar smile of a TV princess, one that is offered without thought or hesitation for countless screaming libidos? Carlos Santana can make his guitar cry the most poignant sounds ever heard on an album…but what does it matter, when it enflames the hearts of millions alike? Is beauty the tanned stomach of Jessica Alba, or the shy smile of that girl who just agreed to go out with you? Is it both? Perhaps neither?
This is the sale of bohemia, the destitute sanctuary of the hapless and the idealistic, the humble abode of a nation’s artists and free spirits. Their unimposing melodies and visions are available at two for the price of one, feeding the stomach while robbing the mind of its desires. This beauty cannot be sold, should it even exist, yet that does not stop the inevitable transactions. The merciless onslaught of capitalism cannot be halted for the sake of finding beauty, nor should it be! Society marches on, waiting for no one. Thus, I reach for another Marlboro, having wasted away the last one without a thought. Lighting up, I return to my guitar, to make another simple melody, while the dollar signs roll past my eyes.