“the path up and down is one and the same” ~ Heraclitus
What happens
when an unstoppable force
meets an immovable object?
a connectivity paradox…
does an encounter of opposites
signify some kind of unity?
or agreeing to disagree,
separately?
perhaps,
the unstoppable force stops,
and the immovable object moves.
This afternoon, whilst walking into Edinburgh city centre, a man in his thirties, happily sauntered down the side of the road in parallel to me. I couldn’t help myself, I just started to grin, like a Cheshire cat. With a wonderfully pronounced wiggle in his walk, said chap was sporting a dapper black dinner jacket. He was also wearing khaki shorts, brown ankle socks with jesus sandals and a bright sky blue knitted beanie hat. Wow.
It was quite obvious that he was enjoying the odd double-take glances he received, and that said get up was a deliberate ploy for attention, or a dare; I couldn’t figure out which. What struck me was in the very uniqueness of his dress sense (or lack of), he stood out like a beacon as he very merrily, dancily wandered his way down the street. He was the extreme exception to the ’standard’ rule of dress.
That having said, in my time, I have worn clothing that has been deliberately selected to incite a reaction. Be it in rebellious youth mode wearing outrageous punk goth chick gear, or later on, the alternative femme fatale provocateur in bohemian silks and modded boots. It seems to me, historically, during past generations – that in dressing up, we aimed to establish ourselves and please and tease – to grab attention. Somewhat like the peacock displaying it’s best ruffled and fanned feathers, humans are capable of tarting themselves up to elicit a reaction. But always in a way of expressing some form of individuality: some self expression – an extension of who you were. Effectively accentuating your own personality to share with others and celebrate the difference.
Except, is it just me, or in recent decades, has the western world gotten a tad more conservative in its’ self expression? Or simply less original? Previous generations have expressed themselves through unique dress sense, make up, hair styles… but the most recent generation of youth I can’t help but notice some degree of bland out. Girls seem to all have shoulder length straight hair, peachy make up, shimmer fake tan, regulation slouch t-shirt, leggings and ugg boots. Boys wander around in sports shirts, slouch jeans and jello stylee hair. Even the little emos seem to pick their designer stripy leggings, rock boots, slogan shirts and dark khol looks off the pre-made, catalogue sourced shop shelf.
Perhaps, in an age of mass media and ready made commercialism, originality seems to have laid down and surrendered to a mass conformity in a pre-made standardised one-size-fits-all identity of not so much self expression, as mass unoriginality. Even in the expressions of so called ‘alternative’ – the spark of indie customisation, has given way to mass accessible off-the-peg attitude. Over commercialism makes it all too easy to access everything pre-selected, pre-made, pre-determined identi-kit.
I admit, there may be resistance pockets dotted around… some rare cases of self expressionism who don’t want to be a clone. But I really wish the spark of human cockyness and the need for rebel excel would come back. Because in the conformity of lack of self expression, there’s a danger that the please and tease of coquetry may be lost, and with that, a little bit of original human expressionism.
The Loom, designed to encompass
the beginning and the end
a frame of time and space
outwith warp and weft: suspends
two sets of diverse threads
at angle to each other
interlacing a myriad
of chords of colours
an all encompassing synaesthesia
a polychromasia
a symphonia
of whirr and whorl
as multiple patterns unfurl
with the flow of the shuttle
in and out; back and forth
countless strands that bind
to follow perpetual paths:
spools continually unwind
flowing, weaving, trying to find
a composite connection
an entwined collation
of twisting, winding, ripping yarns
manifesting into many forms
each filament, each fibre, interplays
connects, combines in infinite ways
all bound up yet running free
each an integral part of the tapestry.
A girl distractedly wanders, head in book
unable to look
ahead, she senses her wending way
through madding crowds, past a boy
head bouncing to an unheard beat
quick walk dancing through a maze of feet
avoiding an old woman who, dazed
confused, slightly bemused
is asking two tourists; which way is best
who apologetically, shake their heads
frantically, obviously wanting to be
setting out on their long journey
whilst wheeling pedal free – a girl
careens illegally carefree
pavement cycling, avoiding the
old man, focused, step by tortuous step
leant on a stick, stubborn, independent
on frail, worn out, fragile footfall
as two young lovers, on the corner call
joyously, uproariously leap and greet:
her arms wrapped round his neck
her toes sliding up the back of his legs
nose to nose, as the world goes
by, stamping, tramping, dawdling
a businessman, all import and man bag sling
briefcase, makes haste, at professional pace
narrowly missteps over the invisible face
of the beggar, who leans self consciously over
their precious sign, beseeching almsgivers
to credit their existence with a few small pennies
and I watch silently, behind a moving pane of glass
the morass
of humanity, in all its guises
that collides, avoids, connects, devises
pathways through ever changing perambulation
to some unknown, final, destination.
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