Clothes, patterns and everything

So starting with a usual black and white line - optic blurring into grey and dark.  I bought something that I would rarely ever wear - boring and usual.  Was it always there to compliment it's surroundings and be worn inconspicuously - to give the feel of someone empty, thoughtless and not worth anyone's time.  Slip through as a no one whilst secretly manning battle stations and building interior defenses.  The closeness and the slimness of the lines did however create a radiator like effect which unfocused the eyes of the viewer into a shuddering annoyance - though this always seemed indeliberate and clumsy.  And when passed on it looked very much the revolution against the right skin.

Rocks and blurs - situations and broken blocks of static - in between textures - turning inside out conveying a lost empty me - a real lost empty and also grey death hiding a flash fire of spirit bursting with escape plans (in the death scale of weights and burdens I was brimming with those ideas of retribution and thought that someday this would all come to some desperate solution... in the dark circles of everything and nothing the contradicting contractions had every relation to the rotting blemishes on the skins of fruit - and we all became confirmed as chemical sacks)

 At one point my wardrobe was less full than it is now - and still behind the borders of self discovery.  I loved anything which bore diagonal lines anything that would criss cross would make me happy - convergences and reflections, symmetry in asymmetry - shirts all worn down to frayed edges and holes stitched up near the shoulder blades.  Holes leading to smooth pale cold flesh - the summer hangs useless whilst the winter works wonders on bringing in one more layer after another.  Coverage of me and the extensions of my self propelled armour.

So anyway the relevance of this blog post is that I used some of these photos of my clothes in my collages -in fact they are still being used - I photographed all my clothes close up in order to get their textures and patterns and integrate them into an animation I was making - namely this one:

Which as explained before was used in later collages - so as always it was part of a larger becoming.

So red like the roofs of tents in festivals I never bother going to.  Too expensive and I spend money on other expensive and stupid things instead.  Like a red t shirt or jumper or an item of clothing so very red (or orange) but one that I can't actually remember what it actually is - it looks creased.  Unlike but so like the light passing through the membrane of skin reaching through a prebirth.  Words so pretentious but somehow I value being able to say them - or write them (type them).  I know my own self importance has very few boundaries besides the way they rush back two steps before making one.

So as a mistake a top like a faulty princess with troll features (looks good in all forms of photograph) too many days spent in front of counters looking through racks.  Money in hand wanting to be lost and an overbearing ego believing itself capable of anything - a cheap felt pattern and sleeves too short (they needed folding) - I stepped out into a world not ready or far too ready to put me in place.  Superficiality exposed in the core of everyone and me.

So then the light poured through grey matter burning purple - the loose surroundings - towards broken perimeters of non shadow.  There's a way of constructing uninteresting abstract sentences - the sort of sentences most won't bother reading... there's a sure method of second guessing what someone reading is going to think.  These methods are completely alien to me as a complete alien but I attempt them anyway.  As I have a fluid and unvaried disinterest in myself - though also a surefire extreme for too much introspection - most of which is like dead grey boring walls of the sort that I end up staring at - all the way into them to the point of some dead colourless space - maybe a pinkish cream.... though really is this situation completely unique to me?  The awareness of the buzzing and bustling of others are like yawning pin holes cracking through the minutes and the passing of everything - they line up and they step past and step through and step wherever and they keep going onwards and downwards and over and over (and over). 

There are lovely and dancing streams of continuity and blazes of light and connectedness - where we all seem worthwhile and the organic broken screaming dull vortex of clawing dead cells doesn't pull me down.  And somehow I overlook the disintegrating reintegration of broken matter and become part of some sort of flux.  Not willingly I just fade into a non awareness of my issues with everything (which actually makes it more annoying once I become aware of my issues again - so it's like swinging from one extreme to another).  Though I deal with this on a daily basis.  And distractions and interactions are all part of the fun.

I have the most fun finding clothes in charity shops and 2nd hand places as I like the buzzing escapism of so many patterns, colours and contrasts - like sinking into some amazing buzzing static.  Looking at the ladies wear is important - especially, if not entirely the jumpers and jackets.... nothing jolts and bothers me more in my exploration than having some shop assistant trying to direct me over to the men's section - as if I don't belong in both and that I would only be interested in the stripey shirts and over sized suits and under sized hats.

Like some bizarre special effect (along the retro futuristic bend) I love glittery and well fitted things, also patterns and shapes and contrasts - making stuff match when it shouldn't match at all - I'm not making some kind of fashion statement - I just really like old vintage sci fi so to me a zip up sports top looks more like a space pirate's jacket than it does a zip up sports top.  Above is a glittery girls top I found in Wythenshawe - which now has a big orange button stitched to the top corner.  It's my favourite jumper on the days I decide to wear it.

So like a dotted breakdown of texture and none repetition - the alterations would be to change the height and length bringing it down to the correct level.  Getting stuck inside a causal loop circling the grey and red and stuck in the threads of beige.
 

So on I go - a real stopping and starting cataclysm feeling like a tape recording over itself again and again in the same structures - then remixed into tighter and more cohesive patterns.  If I've learnt anything over my life it's how to turn everything I've not learnt into smaller and smaller threads of inconsequence.

Which is probably why I'm quite fond of repetitive patterns - check for instance......

Bought together when keen on developing a familiar silhouette.  Some broad integer of identity screeching with unsubtle wheels in random copycat motion to it's opposite side.  Texture of seat belts.  A rotation between the two both separate and operating as one mechanism no matter the distance.  Like some clockwork nothing that needs the momentum of personality and embellishment with florid sentences and character imposed prison bars.  Moving from one side to the next - could almost be representative of cages - full of smoke and the obscure.

So overlaying this with an eventual swooping and long ego boost.  Winter jaunts became protected with thick textures and patterns - the evenings would roll by with a skip and jump and a constant moving.... no wonder I began  to hate public places of sitting down - the pubs where you can see strata of age and devolution in the faces of barflies - my own snobbish superiority coming into play and the disgust of the surrounding decay and the need for comfy and boring escapism - huddling away from the cold weather next to fire places in drinking houses - waiting for their lives to come to a dead thump...

All these stripes in themselves are like the constant streaming of continuous everything though when placed next to each other in various combinations they create a circling like the wheels turning in the static on television screens - some optical buzzing fun.  So colour matching doesn't really matter and allows for almost any combination of abrasive line contrast joy.  I'd love to become like one of swirling wheels of static - passing through the tangible and growing larger as I roll across the real - picking up little bits of people and objects as I blur the world into my own fluctuating roundness.  Like a buzzing sphere of scribble wavering over all the surfaces of seriousness.  I'd probably have to take myself a little less seriously first though - I don't half think a lot of myself sometimes.

So the world alternates between me seeing it as flowery and pretty and then seeing it as gestating, crazy and a non-stop infinite hell.  I think it probably depends on whether I'm getting my own way or not.  But it's also the trappedness.  The way we are locked in our boring bodies unable to touch anyone and anything properly as our spirits are sunk in a quagmire of our own sense of being - and there's no off button, except death and that's probably not an off button it's more of a reset - where you get put lower in the hierarchy of the universe - and also end up having to fill in more and more forms.  Control systems are set into place we have no idea about.  I think.  Though it's not easy thinking about it.  Much less doing anything about it.

So I've looked over this entry... over and over... I've added, subtracted, destroyed, reiterated, repeated, continued to go on with the same things even though it's unnecessary and entirely to my detriment - there are some real concerns expressed but mostly I'm just encouraging the repeat patterns of my life - when really I think it's time to throw some kind of spanner in the works and jolt myself out of whatever causal loop I've found myself.  Find myself in another one perhaps - because it's not like I don't change my patterns and constructs every single day, it's just that there's no reverse switch - and why would I want to reverse - back into school, back into nursery, back into birth.  Here is the best place I could possibly be and I should stop being negative about it - reevaluating oneself is of core importance to self maintenance.

Whatever key facts I choose to live my life by it's probably worth realising that whatever I perceive is real -even if it is in my head doesn't mean it's less real, just means it's not going to integrate my reality very well with the reality of others.  So everything I do, it seems, is an attempt at integration and progress - the creative impulse is a growth... like a series of cells reproducing into finer survival systems... this has nothing and everything to do with everyone else and I'm completely at terms with that sort of contradiction - opposite factors blending together into a grey area where the truth is - and the truth slips terrible around like the rattling of a small living brain in a decomposing, dislocated skull.  I've managed to build some connective tissue around it - archways, doors, causeways, floors.  My cathedral is still under construction.  It also looks quite messy - time for a tidy.