Jivin' on Time
Time is the ultimate network. It works, weaves, surfs, sculpts
sentimentality over history; casting the human edifice. And like
all networks, its very nature has varying degrees of risk,
liability, and consequence.
And just as words can sometimes have authority to instill paranoia,
euphoria so too impressions, linguistics preclude some form of
atonality enforcing whims on polytonality. Vice versa. Repeat
the refrain. Try and stay the same.
So we pick our social fluoride. After all we live in an age of
worshipping glossy surfaces, pretending that beauty itself signifies
some profound human dimension. The less revealed the more convinced
we are of hidden depths that may not be there at all.
Offer only rigidly controlled, vapid responses and get adoration in
two dimensions. Virtue by distance.
But you're right. It's a question of personal view. Clearly you
have one. And it must be right, because you're convinced.
Hanging onto the edge is something most of the best always did.
Playing at the edge of technique. I respect that and can live with
the lint that comes up. I'd rather have excitement and style than
accuracy.
Furthermore, I'd much rather see someone reaching for something and
occasionally missing than endure someone playing it safe no matter
how clean their execution is.
Murderers, artists and heroes have the common experience of having
committed an act, becoming actors for a moment; captured in a
context which affects and alters the course of their lives.
The time of the graffiti writer is no different. Narratives and
mythologies can make for misgiven romance and strange bedfellows.
Permanent midnight awakens the soul. The edge makes the legend, and sometimes...
you..
feel
alive
for
once.
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