June 12, 2014

June 12, 2014

When I visited Amsterdam sometime in the early 90s, I began to keep a daily journal.  I had obsessive thoughts that when I leave this world, there will be no record of my existence.   I can’t accept the thought that I have been here for sixty years, and yet, there is nothing to show for it.  The journal would not be made for those who are with me now, but for future generations to know what it was like to be “me” in the 20th and 21st century.   A series of decades that were full of insecurities and alienation.  Not only emotionally, but also the fact that one could not possibly connect to the world around them.   It angers me that people participate in the voting system, which is obviously a farce.   Most cases you are choosing Heckle over Jeckle and you are getting heck results where one moves a mere inches instead of yards.

I often felt like Cinderella in that my life was pushed around by people I have no control of.   I felt ugly, yet when I see myself in a mirror I think I do have some good features, but alas, people can’t look beyond the image, and therefore I decided “OK, if that is what they want, I’ll give them the image.” I commissioned a painter to do a portrait of me, but dressed in the style of the late 19th century.  Since I just wanted to convey a sense of false riches, I insisted that the portrait should be about something of one's class and as a gentleman of wealth.  I had to sit for the painting for at least 8 hours.  It wasn’t so repentant of a process.  I sat in my seat staring at the painter, and meditated as the time slowly moved along.  One of my favorite films is “Goldfinger,” and I insisted that the image of the golden girl be placed somewhere behind me.   He placed my portrait as someone sitting on the end of a bed, with the golden girl either dead or laying on the top of the bed.  For me it had some erotic overtures, but often death and life are sort of sensual tango, and one gets charged from it.

I slowly realized that I can live a life, but since I’m writing the journal as well as having my portrait done, I can control my narrative as it happens.  The world is one thing, but with my participation in that world I can somehow make it “my” world.  The obsensity of someone like Hermann Göring living off the art of the Jewish population that he wished to obliterate, and riches that he never earned but stolen, strikes me as an act of desperation in trying to make yourself a presence on this earth.  I must learn not to imitate someone else's mistakes.

One of the best dressed men that made an impression on me is the British blues singer Long (due that he was tall) John Baldry. The essence that he stood out due to his height, which could be regarded upon as a minus, but alas, his dress sense or style turned that into a plus.  I imagine myself in his role as a dandy, and not someone who surrounds themselves from other’s wealth.  If I make a mark on this world, it will be through my character - no matter how damage that may be.