The Ordinary Way

Do you ever think about all the images which bombard your mind on a daily basis?

The images don’t have to be actual photographs, they can be words which conjure up pictures, or a snapshot which your eyes or another of your senses (or a couple or all of them together) take and translate into the language of the mind.

If your mind doesn’t talk in images, I apologise for assuming that it does, we tend to think that others do what we do even when we know they don’t always do that.

(my window just screamed because a strong gust touched it… do your windows do that?)

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tension and relaxation

(what if tension is who you are and relaxation is who you think you should be?)

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My mind communicates in images…

if you were to eavesdrop on an internal conversation it would look like…

what you see when you’re watching TV with someone else, they’ve got the remote and they’re channel hopping…

one of those music videos which are a series of rapidly flashing clips…

those mind-machines in films used to torture or brainwash…

(you can see-hear my mind flitting from image to image in my writing)

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(this is what my mind looks like in song lyrics, at any given moment there are associations flashing across it, all tethered together by a concept which is heard in the chorus)

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and therefore images communicate with me.

Those pictures speaking a thousand words… yep… but what to make of the words…?

Words are a form of communication which I find much harder to understand and to use to communicate

(yes, I know I use them and often use a lot of them… maybe what comes next will explain that…)

as trying to turn the images within into words outside… has been a challenge throughout my life.

There’s an image in my mind’s eye which has been consistent since I first started to talk to other people (and which flashes across the inner screen every time I talk with people), and that is of another person’s face with muscles tensed in perplexity while their eyes go from focused to unfocused, sometimes glazing over as though trying to protect themselves from incoming shrapnel…

I did for awhile wonder if I was talking in the same language as (I thought I was) those around me because other people never seemed to understand me…

maybe I was talking backwards, that could be a possibility since I sometimes wrote backwards…

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backwards

(there is no such thing as a pointless talent – if it exists then it has a point… somewhere which we can’t always see… I can’t see the point in the talent some people have for telling others that their talents are pointless…

oh, wait, mental news flash, my mind has just shown me an image of a man in a raincoat who is naked underneath… how do I know he is naked underneath that raincoat, and is he wearing stilettos? Of course he’s not wearing stilettos, he’s a man and he’s practical and knows that the heels would get caught in the grating of the vent he is standing over… he does seem to be wearing a door knocker, should we knock it and see what door it opens… into a psyche that…

okay, I really didn’t want to go there, but now that I’m here…)

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I’ll never forget that time when I spent what felt like hours but was probably only minutes trying to decide which way the letters went when writing, and I was certain that I chose the right direction, but instead I went left…

which would have been fine if I had been writing in a language that goes left instead of right… but if I had I’d have still gone the wrong way.

I was about five years old, probably older (my sense of time is about as accurate as my sense of direction), writing a dedication to my parents on a painting I’d created for them… they noticed the backwards-ness of what I’d done and never let me forget it, so I suppose I was being a true artist in that moment, leaving a legendary legacy… of an ordinary sort.

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“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.”
― Pablo Picasso

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Does that make any sense? – became a regular additive on the end of anything I said to other people…

I didn’t need to use it when talking with myself because…

what is nonsense to others…

usually makes sense to us as we can follow our own train of thought in whatever form it is in…

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thought bubbles

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like with our dreams,

even when they seem like random ridiculousness to us,

they still have a thread running through them sewing them together into the fabric of us…

we know what they’re saying even when we don’t.

But try to describe your dream to someone else and… the seams tear, the fabric rips, threads unravel… shreds and patches float around in the air, drifting off like the tune of a wandering minstrel…

all you have left is a tum-te-tum… a scrap of a lyric which you’re not sure you heard correctly.

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(Louie Louie wolo canno wecatcho…)

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What is ordinary for us may not be ordinary for others,

they may see our ordinary as extraordinary,

and what is ordinary for them may be extraordinary for us…

This happens for me all the time with other people,

they’re all busy doing the ‘I’m so ordinary’ routine which we all tend to do with others…

(except for narcissists… unless they’re doing it to make sure they are doing the ‘ordinary’ thing which will make them even more extraordinary for others… you know, the humble person who is not humble at all but does humble to jumble your impression of them… something like that… my mind is rushing this bit because it doesn’t want to discuss narcissists atm – and by atm I mean ‘at the mo’ and not… omg can you imagine… sorry, I just looked up (I always have to look things up even when I know them because I might not know what I think I know and… stuff like that…) the exact meaning of atm – the cash machine one – and it stands for ‘automatic teller machine’ which suddenly struck me as being something that a narcissist is… as well as isn’t… they automatically tell you stuff but don’t tell you anything at all and…

shut up please I’m trying to stay cohesive… as much as is possible for this messy old human).

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MindYourHead

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One of the things which is extraordinary for me at this time is how often I get told by others that they love what I am doing here… on this blog, this tiny patch on the giant patchwork quilt that is the world wide web.

I have received so many amazing compliments in the comments of this blog about what I share here…

if I was the sort of person who expressed themselves through tears (I was taught not to do that and that teaching stuck like wonderglue), I would cry… tears of immense joy!

Thank you for sharing yourselves with me that way…

I…

words fail to capture the image within…

images even fail to capture it…

you…

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The Gilded caged

(this seems to express a small portion of it… or maybe it just occurred to me that a mirror like this would be great in the hallway that I’m slowly demolishing to eventually re… molish?… my mind is distracting me from the intense… maybe or maybe not… it… I… let’s move on shall we…)

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To explain…

I’d have to tell you my whole life story,

(which I’m not sure I could do for myself…)

and you’d have to know and understand it from the inside out,

(which I’m not sure I do myself…)

from my perspective,

(which one?)

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“If things do not turn out as we wish, we should wish for them as they turn out.”
― Aristotle

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each angle from which I’ve seen and experienced it.

(dizzy now…)

every version of it which exists within me,

(that sounds… like something which could be boring…)

as there are multiple streams,

as there are multiple sides of who we are…

(multipass…. The Fifth Element reference… )

and each side has a slightly varied take on it…

on the performance of our lives…

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(I sometimes feel like the blue lady when I talk to people… they may feel that way too, about me, about themselves… I used to play a game as a child with my cousins called The Blue Ladies… no way to explain what it was about, not sure we knew what it was about but it was fun… and this is sometimes what goes on in front and behind the scenes when I write a post… alien chaos in the mind of human)

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if we’re in a good mood then our past looks different to us than when we’re in a bad mood, and we tell a different version of the then based on the now…

if we’re feeling repressed, then everyone in our lives repressed and represses us somehow…

if we’re feeling free, then no one has ever been able to contain us,

and if they tried then they failed

or inspired us to cause them to fail because they wanted us to fail by trying to stop us, by trying to gain a win for themselves through someone else’s (our) failure which they had to interfere with to make it happen…

or something like that.

if we’re feeling Zen then…

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the only Zen

(the only Zen I’d be looking for at the top of a mountain would be that of an oxygen tank (after I’ve had a ciggie break – and don’t lecture me about it, I climbed a mountain ffs!) or a sleeping bag… eff it I’ll sleep anywhere after that climb! But what about enjoying the view!?! The view is awesome now let me get some shut-eye! But you achieved something… maybe but everything hurts!)

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Recently I asked you – what would you like for me to write about?

and you answered by asking me about the source of my artistry…

your reply caused me many quandaries,

the main one being that I don’t consider myself to be artistic…

but you do and that…

wow…

because…

wow, thank you!

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(this is artistry to me… )

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What I do and share here is…

isn’t artistry to me…

basically it’s opening the doors of my mind and letting you in or letting it/me out…

The computer, the internet… they’re somehow perfect for expressing what is going on inside of me. The thoughts, the images which flash across my inner screen in their varied forms… they’re suddenly easy to translate using this medium… or at least it feels that way to me…

I can share myself as I am

and I can’t see the faces of those who happen upon what I say, so…

I can only imagine… and I like to imagine you as beaming beacons of your own light and dark…

which is extraordinary to me even if you see it is ordinary because, we always see what is us and ours that way…

as for me…

someone let me loose, left me unattended and… I ran and still run amok, doing stuff often without thinking about it even though it is all thinking… sort of…

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fore and hind sight

(according to humans forgiving requires the ingredient known as forgetting for it to be edible enough for Alice to eat it… I’m not Alice… and I’ve tasted sand, it was tastier than imagined…and strangely rather moreish…)

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I did grow up in a house of art…

art was a daily bread…

(bread… hmmm mmmm…)

some of it artificial…

some artifice…

some was… genuine…?

(fake is real too when you think about it…)

all of it was the splurging of personal paint on a life canvas of others…

natural artistry both ordinary and extraordinary… depending on how you look at it…

who splashed me with their colours…

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(it’s in the pricks, stings, pokes and despair… and the weird faces we make…)

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Their colours became a part of mine…

as yours do for me too…

and maybe mine do for you too…

Is my artistry mine or yours?

Is what you see when you look at me and what I do really me and what I do… or is it you, the images in your mind projected on the screen of me?

Am I the artistic one or are you?

(am I deflecting or… ?)

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that's my face

(this…!)

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