So this picture represents my mind right now... Missing a certain someone quite rotten and also experiencing a brain meltdown from a 6 hour hunt for new frames for my ever deteriorating eyesight.
'Can you give me an invisible light, to keep me alive?'
This is what has just been transported into my ears by the voice of Jake Shears from the new Scissor Sisters album. It's slowly taking up the puddle of inexplicable babble that is my brain and making it rise into a surrealist painting of sexual gladiators waking from their slumber, calling me into the light, the light, the invisible light. Such words, spoken by Sir Ian McKellen in a Vincent Price manner presents me, not only with a 'gay Thriller' as the song has been called, but an opportunity to switch off from the ever confusing world of Ultra-extra-goldedition-thin lenses that one must have.
And here is where I go off on one of my rambling streams about certain song lyrics, maybe that's what this blog can become. Me, sitting in my darkened room writing down the ramblings of a lonely Welshman as he sits and listens to the music that makes him feel dirty and filthy, but oh, so gorgeous. That sounded a lot more seedy than I thought it would. I like it.
Right, back to the ramble. Night Work, the most recent offering of the brilliant Sisters. Just get it, it's all I advise you to do. I adore it, it's an amazing mix of 80's, filth, sexual reference and innuendo, amazing song writing, dance tunes and includes my favourite song of the moment 'Invisible Light', although not necessarily in that order...
With lyrics such as 'Harder you get, up in my sweat, never too wet to want it all' and 'You better take me, any which way you can', you could be, as some reviewers have, be blinkered into thinking this album is just about sex. Admittedly, they have described it as a sleazy album, but by just seeing that you miss the point I added in the middle. The amazing song writing.
This is where I get back to the ever elusive concept of 'Invisible Light'. I adore the image of feeling the electric tension with my fingers in my mind. That is also another reason why I made the composite portrait above. This is me imagining fingering the tension of my mind, as I close my eyes I can slip into the world of the stream of consciousness where my fingers run through the ever expanding waterscape of the imagination. The ripples it creates make the words that come out into the surface of this blog. Every letter is buzzing with the kinetic dimension that bends my space of time. This is my receiving of the invisible light, here I am at the doors of Babylon thanks to Jake Shears. I am standing on the stage of the theatre of excess, looking at painted whores, sexual gladiators and the fiercely old party children as they awake from their slumber to debut the bacchanal.
I've found the start of my bacchanal, it's in this conscious stream, in the Land of a Thousand Words. The drunken revelry of Bacchus culminates in the pounding of the heart as the bass line as the continuous reminder of the reality that appears outside of these earphones as my mind stumbles aimlessly on its walk of shame through the roots of inspiration to try and find something to write about. And, as any drunken party goer ends up doing, what does it end up finding? It finds itself. Why write about anything else when the mind is the place of a personal infinite?
The steady flow of the sound drifts through the barrier of actuality and physicality to call out into the abstract of possibility and uncertainty. As the ticks, pocks, clicks and pops slowly retreat in the wake of encroaching fantasy, the inner voice becomes clearer, more pronounced, full of energy that has been reserved for the moment. He is ready to release his full potential after being freed from the chains of reality. As the rules of actuality are slowly receding into the mists, the liberated obscurity comes to the forefront. Here is where the full tide of reflection comes rushing through the barrier, there thoughts, memories, ideas and images rule the landscape to create more stains upon the page of my inspiration. The voice now becomes the clear orator, confirming the inner chemistry of my being. Words, letters, symbols and colours all combine to create each limb, each muscle which follow the strips of flesh to attach themselves to the bone with each connective sentence of sinew. Each crease is an unknown character ready to be translated when forced to flow down to the delta of consciousness. Every hair is made up of a single stream of complexes ready to be unravelled into the components of literary double helixes that complete the construction of my living factory of contemplation and introspection.
Can you see what I hear?
Please excuse me whilst I disappear into a field of my invention among the tired, poor, broken and huddled masses...
Thanks Sisters, you're amazing as ever.
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