UNRECOGNISED LEGISLATORS OF MAN

September 6, 2014

 CHAPTER FOUR

THE TITLE OF NOW

I hadn’t slept all night. Scheherazade, after suffering a bout of lunacy and dancing, passed out on the sand and I eased her slender tender body into the one-man tent. She purred: it was as if she were dreaming while still awake. The mind was an unfathomable compass; our destinies are mapped for us in utero, you shall not prevent where you are heading. It’s a thought as honest as God.

What was wrong with her? How long would this last? I suspected exhaustion: perhaps artistic collapse. It cannot be easy being adored and not wanting it. In her tent, wrapped in blankets, she wriggled and shook as if possessed by an awkward being. Her scent filled the space like the odour of Jasmine but more intense and bodily. The light of a tiny lamp sketched her in the colours of charcoal, it was so delicious. Being that close to her was as if I were part of whatever fantasy she was walking through. I touched her bare belly and it sent shivers of human vibration to my feet like a concentrated orgasm. I lay and cuddled myself close to her, listening to her being alive. I became self-aware beside Scheherazade at 2:34am, other peoples sordid view of this would be a greasy violation. We judge love by our own standards. In the dark of a cold desert I wondered how far she would go.

In the morning I was up with the light. The desert floor was unstable for yoga so I took myself to the roof of her RV and from a constant height adopted, Vrksasana (Tree Pose), Virabhadrasana (Warrior Pose III). A little Thai Chi, a little meditative order, a little abstract idiom. I didn’t just take photographs.

There was nothing to see from up there but vast yellows and blue further than you could think. We had come so far already. Stepping down I checked the vehicle for its provisions; they were few. Breakfast would be a simple affair, but without the proper supplies and Scheherazade still in her mysterious abandon we could die out here. My stomach tightened and my bowls weakened. I would need to take a certain amount of control over our situation and drive, find food, touch life; find the stuff with which to enable her freedom. I usually ran before breakfast and my girlfriend Alice would say I was usually up controlling something before brunch. But perspective is to understand a situation from where you cannot alter it. Take the youth unemployed and send them to a foreign culture and replace them with the equivalent in that foreign exchange. Change the world of work, and stop spinning those tired old plates.

Scheherazade was born from her tent around 10am; I positioned myself down wind just to smell her. Stale cigarettes in sleepiness are strangely erotic when she is your chosen need. She didn’t talk to me; I reckoned it to be a morning thing but she didn’t seem to mind me being near her. I could almost touch her skin, I was that close. Wrapped a cotton blanket around her shoulders and I felt the devotion of lovers. We were like a happy couple painting a wall after a bout of sex; we both had our dedicated space to occupy and to fill with colour and occasionally smile. She needed more cigarettes and I needed her to have them.

The heat was enough to make anyone retreat to known safety. There is power in the people of mankind; they make deserts bloom and a forest die to fit in with any of their immediate details. Deserts make you realise this, as do the seas. Change is always somewhere else; the truth was to walk into it. Photography makes you live out of the past; it is a life dedicated to memory, nothing can be constant. Life through the lens is silent and exact and often no life at all. Sometimes I think I miss what is happening to me by studying what is happening to other people. Did I get the shot or did I get the experience? Or does one cancel out the other? There was nothing left but to sit and ponder where she was taking me. I turned to the radio but she turned it off. So I raised my camera and cautiously took a shot of my driver, expecting. Boy, she was as gorgeous as raw unedited could be. In photography you become your subjects personality, lifting it, anticipating it, as a painter shall become his muse, as a musician becomes the song. She just drove; I looked away smiling with fortune.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” Scheherazade said without even turning her head to me. It was the first time she had spoken to me in nearly 24 hours. And it marked the beginning. I told her and she replied without hesitation, “I don’t like it. It doesn’t suit you.” And waved it away as if she would have no more of it.

“We pulled into a garage forecourt and she got out with her immediately to buy only cigarettes from the store, engine still running. She left expression hanging in the air almost as if it were a sign of flirtation, a detail of love. Scheherazade was a class above us all in leaving. I took the keys from the ignition, reached and closed her door and left the comfort of the car not wanting to be her bitch, waiting dumbly for her return.

My mobile phone was low on its meter, so I claimed the only working public phone by the side of the store. Needed to explain to my girlfriend what was happening, and maybe how long was I prepared to hold on to the photojournalist mantra ‘Lies can be written but the truth is ours to tell.’ Scheherazade deserved that much. Alice had somebody in the room with her when she answered and didn’t really want to talk. She sounded cornered and irritated; irritation is a natural cover. I apologized, told Alice that I was trying to fathom what Scheherazade was doing. Trying to hang on in there. Trying to coax her back to civilisation. But Alice didn’t seem to care. My heart was racing, I was talking but I didn’t mean it. All I could register was jealousy. I wished I hadn’t phoned and so did Alice. Pause… Then she said she had to go and rang off. Just like that. She hung up on me in the desert. That would be the title of now.

After picking up food and water we needed, I got back in the 4×4 and Scheherazade was smiling with her eyes closed. It was bewitching, as if she already knew. She opened one eye.

I asked where were we heading. Said, “I don’t care.”

She started the engine and put her foot down, the Mercedes exploded into battle and dust. I sat nervously by her side. The food from the store was rough; I had emptied out my wallet on the provisions. Now I was lost, penniless in the middle of the desert and my phone was out.

What we were doing didn’t seem to matter; what we would be when this was over did.

UNRECOGNISED LEGISLATORS OF MAN

August 30, 2014

CHAPTER THREE  

PSYCHOSOMATIC MEDICINE

When I woke I was alone in a tent untouched. The heat had returned from the cold. The photographer slept in the vehicle, to dream without caution. I gradually climbed out of my tent and was already considering the evolution of pain. What I needed was psychosomatic medicine to relieve the symptoms of a life. My body hurt, my lumbar at best poor. My balance I could trust, but not today; I am sure on the sleeping sand I left behind the science of my body. Let it be I told myself.

My companion had already brewed mint tea made out of what water there was. The tea sat on the engine bit of the car waiting for me. The fire of the night had gone out as if someone had thrown a dry black paint ball at a beautiful yellow canvas. I was not hungry, I was never hungry. Hungry reminds me of men, they are good at this and in feats of engineering. I lit my first and I was buzzed by it; it brought with it the fantasy of that uncleanliness I relished. I needed to pee. I had words but I was deprived of their use by sleep. My companion messed around with my tent, folding it, lifting it and squeezing it. The breeze was already sweeping away the sand as if I had never been at all. We were being rubbed out. Time was on the move. Today I would try and find the things I thought I had dreamt. The hot wind blew the sand from the top of the dunes as if they were being airbrushed in reverse. My mind was full of the moment ahead, the drama of all things to come. The artist must entice the world to bend to its provocation, to its originality. We must never bow to the masses but lift them. Anything else is not art but sales. Learn that today.

I found a place to be alone and peed. I smelled the sour of asparagus. I walked a little, arched and drank the tea. I remembered walking through a graveyard as a child, a child’s graveyard, and laying my head on a little bump of bunting earth. What must we go through to feel nothing? Some say more, some say less. I have slept without a pillow ever since, can still hear what I thought that tiny hill of ground was saying to me. Later I spoke to my companion quietly through the window of the brute but he did not seem to hear me. His eyes were closed; I looked at his face as it rested while waiting for me. He was young, twenties, wore a jazzy little beard on his chin and it suited him should ever he take it off. Christmas last, when I met some King and Queen at their winter palace, I had been introduced to their son. He had the same set beard but nothing in the eyes, he had tried to seduce me as if I were more riches given. My brain makes connections of tenuous things. It is a tool to complicate the ordinary. I thought it was the worst job going being him, the pseudo-majestic. He was as pompous and empty as the education regime that had kept from him all life’s necessary gifts. He was like being God, he knew we wanted to believe in him, but ultimately didn’t. As people, the King and Queen were culturally learned, and from fabulous things, but they were as unloved as me. They had met everybody and it seemed could do nothing with it to benefit mankind. I cupped my breasts in my hands; it was good to hold me.

You can get rich but you cannot get love in the same way. In my line of work love is what you keep in reserve to dance with. I could not give it away to those who cannot see me.

I did not like the music on the radio so I turned it off. The music engineered for people to dance to that cannot dance is crude and purely mathematical. It is for people who do not actually enjoy music, but use it as a substance. The brute was a riot of power; such mechanical things are the way men add to the poetry of life on earth. Beneath the sand I found a road that drove straight into the horizon. My companion had found a laptop and said someone had already hosted pages dedicated to my escape. I sensed he was being kind. He talked about the technology involved in receiving such information out there in the nowhere and my mind returned to the substance of living. People had become more fascinated with other people than with themselves and if they were not they were just selfish. Smile on it.

The fuel station was the first sign of life we had seen all morning. I pulled in and got out to stretch my legs. There was a stiffness in my eyes that had not occurred to me before. I bought toothpaste, food, fuel, water and cigarettes. Ordered espresso but no one knew what it was. They said there was a diner a thousand miles away. I was sure there was.

I drank water heavily. Then sat in the driving seat and closed those eyes behind my sunglasses. A little mirage; pepper the day in dreaming. I found myself a place for a moment to go and get lost in and entered it wholly. Around the waterfall, sumptuously carved people had been and left for me the froth of their dreams. I released my companion from the chains I held to see if he could fly, he took his camera and shot where light was compromised. As he disappeared I pulled off my clothes and dived in. Beneath the surface tension, the acoustics of water mooed. Like amniotic fluid it calmed my sensors and blurred my perceptions and at its surface it lapped at my breast rivets. I walked out of the water and swung my body to the movement inside of me. It was a seductive, a meditative instinct. I dried in the air without chill. I ached between my legs for his passion. I dropped back into the drivers seat and my companion woke me and said, “Where are we?”

We were in the middle of a strangled heart where compliments were hard to believe; where we needed to change the way we make love. I could stare at people all day in the city and find my own life and live it alongside each one of them without connection. You can only make love to a stranger once. I started the engine, be looking for that waterfall to dive back into. In my life I danced and things around me improved in the same way that some people take to working. Art makes people free; work is the parasitic form of this. All people looking for something are looking for art without knowing it, it is the only thing I am sure of. My stupid brother had stopped taking the anti-constipation homeopathic medicines I had given him to stop him passing the morning bricks. The plant tinctures were making him relax and now with irregular bowl movements this was interfering with his various business commitments. This world, this beautiful place, was too small for some of us.

I was pregnant with a child so deadly that it could potentially kill everything that lives on the planet. I could let it go out here. Let the Earth begin a new evolution. It crossed my mind.

Let me spend the day eating bonbons.

UNRECOGNISED LEGISLATORS OF MAN

August 23, 2014

CHAPTER TWO

IN COLOUR

She was beautiful, my companion. I watched her dance. How gracefully she removed the angles from her body and made them curve and flow. She was how I imagined love would feel. Dedicated and determined to dance, we shall all suffer in watching her. Nobody touched the floor more lightly. She had perfected the vertical line, this woman so; shall fall upon the bed of all man’s desire. I was a photographer, paid to capture what it was she could do. And she moved with such clarity, such definition, that to contain her in pictures was to study the stress graces themselves. Black and white are the true colours of photography, anything else is just recognised as life. The more you watch someone dance the more you learn that life is a restless journey. She had been quoted in the press recently as saying that she found the more she spoke the less people knew her, and they had printed it for everyone to read and add in the continuum. But she could dance and with it tell stories; she spoke the language of our bodies. I could smell the moisture she left in the air as she danced through it. Let her smell like a woman, not a lady. I held what other people missed. In art school we used to say photography makes people see. As a photographer I told the truth. All of life is art, careful how you see it. Scheherazade made what wasn’t there appear. I held her for a moment and she was gone. This was the view from finely tuned eyes.

The press conference had been scheduled in for weeks in voluptuous buildings out in the heat of the city. They were promoting the dance “Olivia & Pigal’ and a book of photographs to accompany the music by The Heroin Jazz Symphony Orchestra. It was to commemorate the finishing of the war. The war was over, ‘everyone lost,’ she had said to the press in tears. But it had only been replaced by another, a more aggressive strain and as much as we all wanted to think the artists of the world had become the voice of an anti-war generation, we knew ultimately we were not. Politics shall see to that. And as much as we tried to focus on the end of that war, we had in a way all been made redundant, superseded by the beginning of the next. The dancer bowed down her head to this and I photographed the mourning.

And in a moment whatever she was about to embark on I followed. Following was in a photographer’s qualification. She stood up in an interview, took off her microphone and walked out, leaving nothing but a bunch of bored reporters, now with a better story than the one they came to write. Maybe she could no longer congratulate a war that wasn’t over, maybe the contracts and obligations needed the artist (this artist) to draw a line of perspective? She cried a little more, but not for them. They asked impertinent questions about her private life and it outsold all conflicts. Nobody seemed to care about the war, about all that hurt anymore. The wretched art of life she called it. It was well documented in the press how she tramped her way through life if only to get the required response, but they did not see the good she did. ‘The Prima Donna Show’ they called it. They all loved to loathe her and here at that moment she stood up and walked away. It was like walking away from an argument that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter… this was the highest form of argument resolution!

The media was a bitch and she didn’t work it well. Celebrity is the true death of the imagination she had told the press. People were dumb enough to believe in people they didn’t know, written by people who didn’t believe what they wrote. Scheherazade had become whatever people thought she was. She didn’t need to exist anymore in the warmth of a hotel reception. Maybe to be forgotten is the only way forward? As for me, I followed her with my camera as she sped from her artistic collapse out into the light and heat.

She blipped the doors of a magnificent all terrain vehicle and we climbed in. I said nothing, waiting for her to scream at me to get the fuck out! After a moments quiet she started the engine and drove out of the city as if she had a plan. I said nothing, could not believe I was in such an intimate space with this devilish creature. What was running through her mind, what was bleeding through her brain? The controls around her seemed so massive next to her slight dancer’s frame. Scheherazade messed around with the gears she hadn’t quite mastered and puffed, irritated by it. And thumped the steering wheel unlike a man, annoyed with herself not it or them. I was quiet by her side; it crossed my mind that she didn’t even know I was there. She panted, physically changing the air with her control, calming her soul and remarkably mine. I wanted to live around the corner of her mouth. The radio found the world we were about to leave, its details no more than opinion now. The heat was unbelievable in there and I fiddled with the air conditioning and she didn’t even turn her head. She took out her cigarettes and smoked. She was fixed and unaccountable.

My girlfriend was back in her apartment on the sane side of life waiting for me to finish and fly back to her. We were getting a place together; it was of course the next step from casual to permanence. I didn’t like the statistics of marriage. She was a palaeontologist and liked it most when we cycled into the mountains and I took what she called dirty pictures of her. I had once photographed her vaginal pubic hair that she had had printed in seven pairs of her knickers. It was a palaeontologist thing I didn’t really understand, she mocked. I was sure we would grow old but right now I was being driven into the middle of nowhere with a dancer getting lost in something I had no control over. But I had artistic licence that allowed me to follow certain creative freedoms. I could write off tempestuous actions as someone else’s cause if I got the picture. Yet always, unfortunately, the freedoms I followed belonged to other people. I followed. I had come to terms with what I was. But I had an alibi for what it was I was doing and I would hang on to it just as long as I could. You flatter yourself if you believe photography can be learned.

I waited patiently beside her for the artist to recognise me, perhaps to hear her sultry little voice. Hers was the voice in a whisper. Whispers do not have a recognised pitch. Her words; shrouded in mystery.

Scheherazade tore me from the life I was living and dragged me out into the desert of heat and cold. Then suddenly she wound down her window and yelped and screamed into the desert air the shocking sound of relief. The wandering refugees on the roadside shouted back and she threw her jewellery to them and a book to read. Her internal inhibitors were not as restricted as mine, my heart still cold in comparison. And then she looked at me and for the first time smiled a little, as if she knew. I could have sworn two people were having the exact same moment, differently. Experience can only be how it is viewed.

UNRECOGNISED LEGISLATORS OF MAN (A novel)

August 16, 2014

While I wait for literary agents and publishers to work out the details of my book, I thought I would blog it for you. One chapter a week.

CHAPTER ONE

THE MOMENT OF DECAY

 A day is twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes long. Forget what you think you know.

As the sun left that particular day it took with it every bit of heat. We don’t see dark like this anymore. The modern world had forgotten how to be night. But here, here in the desert, a total blackness like a prelude, the opening to your every dream, pressed itself into the meat of you. Suffocating your breath until you become it, until you fall deeply into its sleep. And with it a deafening silence awoke in me, as if someone had turned up the night. I opened my eyes.

The human had been so long in the making; they take up this earth as if it is theirs. Progress is just another cadaver assigned to history. I danced lit in moon-glow and I cried a little in doing so. My mind a wretch of activity and broken plates. Later I pitched a tent and read a book. Above me the star-sprinkled sky so inspired by light looked on, an aid in my moral perpetuity. Then a sound. Nature is sent many more potential victims than predators. Predator or victim, decide which one you are and go be it. Out there you could feel the force of both. Once again, I was at the mercy of my behaviour. I was in the middle of the world. An excitement grew without number, I was in the moment. At the request of nature I shall bring forward my body, my soul and my thought and there I will become be one with her. To be above nature’s requirement is how we define being civilised and I was sick of it, sick with it. Gone were the industrial things my life had become so endured by, forced into simplicity from. I lay a while on cool sand wrapped in blankets, looked up at that planetarium of light and wondered what worlds were out there. What were the secrets the universe was not giving up? What was left to know? Where was God? Who was I? Where does it all go? What does thinking mean?

I had got off the road around noon and wandered into the sand hills of the desert in a vehicle so bullish and powerful that nowhere could escape the tramp of me. In the back of the brute I had locked cases of my past. I carried them; sometime soon would be time to leave them behind. But for now I just needed distance, to become mothered by the morning dew of this full and beautiful world. I craved arousing things that could bring on where I was heading. Between apes and man are the automated people I see, the people I deal in, this pornographic vision of love. No more can I take the strain just to live the life we have set up. So I stopped my world and sunk my teeth into it. Find the juice, to carry my own bags, to become what is too long subdued. I had with me everything I was going to need. Travelling light had never been easier. The technologies could do everything but feed me where I was at my hungriest. In the city I had become a name, a provider, a famous leg to dance on. But my legs are in mourning with their unopened gifts; the day had come to see what I was made of. To the desert with me! Come to where the business of demeaning myself could now stop. The history of the real world was far from being told. We only listen to what we want to hear and we only say what wants to be heard. But from today I will hear only truth and speak up only for the silence.

I passed the inhabitants of this their desert world and asked for directions to a place I did not know how to find. They obliged me with skinny pointing fingers, like summer sticks. Go until you become uncomfortable with what you once were. I understood. Keep an ear to your soul and be ready to kiss their knuckles in thanks. And I left them with gifts of gold and the words professors use. I grew a need to feed their Gods at the mouth of the mountain but maybe I would come back this way. Maybe one day I would throw my bags into their volcano.

My companion is made of a certain chemistry that fills in the parts I lack. And at the same time it is as if my companion does not exist and I am forgetful around that. We have lived together now for twenty hours. We shared water but did not need to talk. We had both been in the press conference together and left in full flow, without a word between us. We had walked away from the highly polished vertical stones that proclaimed in foolishness that the man-made world was here to last. I could take no more of that, and so I left and climbed into this heavy-duty carrier. For too long I have known what tomorrow is. But when we know tomorrow as today the human prospect has already accepted its demise. We live in prisons that we cannot see, some can feel them but few break free. Escape has the same madness as love or lust. All three are best served without compass or conclusion. If I had intended to disappear it was unintentional. This was no more than a movement that takes you somewhere without you knowing it, the simplest form of whim. Everywhere mapped has already been explored; I was about to draw a map of my own path.

“It would take us a thousand years to see what we are today”, I whispered to my companion.

The nomadic found me and my photographer that first night and gave us tinder with which to light a fire. We swapped unknown languages; we tried at communication harder than that of the known words. They talked and referred to the skies with gestures of love and kin. They passed around some type of root that I sucked and at first it made my lips tingle and then my lips disappeared from the feel of my face. And into view fell the things that until that moment I had not seen with enough clarity. And I knew I would get bloody and savour it. I knew how to be scared of the people born in cities. As I looked through the fire the people I sat with were leaving, my companion and I remained alone. Into the night they rode on horses, into a darkness through which they did not seem to fear what they could not see. To run free and at speed into total darkness shall open both time and mind.

It was here we found our secrets. My companion and I. It is in my smell, it is caramel, it rolls down my curves, my unfinished lines. I am twenty-nine years old and a ballet dancer. Close your eyes and open your mind so I can explain the truth. My name is Scheherazade, and I am a woman.

Chapter two 23 August

THE OPIUM EATERS

July 15, 2014

Music & Film by Dean Omori

We were just another casualty of the human condition; another moment of history passing through a non-united world. But I want to believe in us still; I want to believe in the responsibility of people, singularly and as a whole. I want to believe in us, in what we do for the collective benefit of mankind. I like the idea of people. They are what the poet speaks of. The idea of people lays us still after the war, after integrity is lost.

The idea of people is what we hope we are, what we aspire to be. It will keep you strong on this torn and disgusted road.

Dear Syria

April 22, 2014

I took my camera away from my eye and wound up the window. Chickens scattered around the streets looking for a place to belong and dogs with torn ears all mad with war and the games soldiers’ play. I saw parents who had come from screaming; you could see it in their dry lips, deserted by what it was we so abundantly take for granted. The eyes were swollen, the spines in collapse where poise once stood. They had nothing, no arms, no aggression; for a while broken of their resolve. The people were beyond care as to who drove into town, as if nothing more could be taken. The colour had been drained from their clothes, the expression of life had gone. This was a place you view alone, for it cannot be shared. This was the thing at the bottom of your bed.

We came to a bakery where the ovens were fierce and the price of life amounted to a few loaves of bread. People queued in pity and salvation as we had seen time and time again across the range of this world; wherever we have been we leave this behind. This is the calling card that says he has been and he has left, and you are now broken. These were stock metaphors, these were like copyright free images that everybody knows by heart, only this time they were real and I was walking through them. Old women in headscarves wringing hands, children crying and their men hunched over oil-drum fires in need of four or five shaves. We call it cleansing, ethnic cleansing, holocaust, hatred, prejudice, religion, globalisation, boardroom, mankind, you chose! But it’s all just another shit mark in our history we are helpless to solve or prevent. I didn’t photograph it. There was not a person alive who did not know what this looked like; such scenes had become part of our repetitive nature. This place was how pornography feels before you are ready.

And all I could hear was music.

UNRECOGNISED LEGISLATORS OF MAN VI

March 30, 2014

You cannot be forced to love. We prefer the jobs that disguise our following. Let us over-ride some of the principles we have been told to keep, told not to bend. Let us discard them now on this road. We send Mothers Day cards, but it does us more harm than good, and forces us into tighter corners. Mother will be more upset when you forget to send the card than the happiness that rises when you remember. It is a false and meaningless custom that we are all caught up in. Few people will feel a pleasure or sense the achievement induced by bowing to some or other commerce-induced indoctrination and still we all do it many times a year when instructed to because we didn’t take it upon ourselves to think. Be it. Hanukkah, thanksgiving, birthday, Christmas Day, Fathers Day, Children’s Day, Family Day, Valentines Day, Memorial Day, Presidents Day, all times when we are allowed to act in accordance to certain behaviours. Behave to a certain pitch of market principles. Dance to the allowance of the anniversary. Better donate your organs, I say. But Mother’s Day is a nasty, uncompromising curse. It has sons forgetting and daughters feeling a sense of duty and mothers feeling remembered with a sense of empty applause. Yet still we cannot get away from these things we are tied to with pathetic effect. It has those who have lost their mothers feeling extra dry in a day of pain. If you have to prove your love to your mother one day a year, on the same day as everyone else, with a printed card with a special message some emotional tourist wrote rhyming lover-her with moth-er, then there seems to be very little left there to celebrate. Why not tell her that you will not be buying her one of those cards ever again but will introduce her to something you have done or learned that she has missed of your life’s education, of your inner life? But it’s easier to buy a card.”

Image

www.deanomori.com

FOR FUCK SAKE, PUT THE WAR AWAY BOYS!

November 26, 2013

It is always hard for me to believe that we go to war. It is even harder to believe that we accept it so readily, that we are convinced so easily of the mandate of war. Are we informed, do we care? Do we stand on the right side? Who do you choose to believe? Do we know the circumstance, the timeline, the pipeline, the truth behind the fact? The price of life. The meaning behind the headlines, the stink behind the bullshit. Do we remember the Resolution that damned both sides to war? Religion, money or prejudice; which suited your mind? Is it an act of humanity or terror? Did we hear their side in reason and think accordingly? Did you see the movie or the documentary? Do you believe Mr President, the anchorman, the prime minister, the soldier, the doctor, the industry or do you trust a politician? But we do remember those “Weapons of Mass Destruction” don’t we? And behold, war harnesses the power of advertising.

The greedy generation wears “What Can I Do?” sprayed across hipster tight t-shirts. Where is their fight, the stomping, the graffiti; where is their primal urge to rebel? But their acceptance has been sold to them on every device, on every campaign of sale, on every pitch upon this new cathartic life. Social media has controlled us to conform within its polite, political parameters. We can speak to the world now, but only in courteous, accepted tones. LOL. Music, once the gauge of youth rebellion, the temperature of the soul is now lost. It has disappeared from campuses, is non-existent on itunes, empty from the music papers. It is becoming more and more Eurovision and less the temperament of defiance. Music companies, too concerned by sales in a changing market to rock the boat, too polite to sign up a reaction. Music has become a commodity and is no longer a revolution. I spit blood to this! Music has become bland, more sterile than I ever dared believe. The charts are a sham, they tell you what they want you to buy. It has been rounded, perfumed and cauterized of all expression. But this is not the order of the world changing; this is not evolution, this is not the free spirit of young people. This is control.

But it isn’t our involvement with war that frightens me most, it is in our simple act of acceptance. Shall we honestly not care that we kill our own kind? Today we accept the killing of innocent people and make those that carry out such crimes heroes; I shudder at the advertising connotations of this. Look out, we are being sold a war and we believe it. Governments know this.

I say bring on the hackers, the bloggers, the terrorists of convention, a class of redemption, the musician, the artist, writers, the iconoclasts and allow them to give us back our voice. Turn off the television people; it will have you dull and programmed. We have more power collectively, than sedative control allows you to believe! An easy life is a cowards life, and it shall reap its rewards in pointless, cowardly ways.

<p><a href=”http://vimeo.com/86110317″>WAR</a&gt; from <a href=”http://vimeo.com/user1093372″>Dean Omori</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Letter to Edward Snowden

October 26, 2013

Dear Edward

I hope my letter finds you well.

Lately you have been in my songs……

I do not pretend to understand the legal implications of what it is you have done, nor do I have the will to understand them. Speculation is such a pointless act in the first instance. But I do know this Edward; your courage endows us all with that collective sense of humanity. In so many ways your actions have drawn the world together where politics tears us endlessly apart.

You my friend; you have stood up against the most powerful people that have ever lived and every country on earth owes you gratitude. In the modern age, freedom is indebted to no one more than to you.

I hope that such enormous feats of humanity do not fade from the fickle consciousness of the people. You are amongst illustrious company, as one of the very few who has truly spoken up for mankind.

This short film is my thank you, with my love and admiration.

Dean
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http://www.deanomori.com

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WAR

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SEAN PENN Blog

September 5, 2013

YOUR ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN THE POLITICS OF MEN

Back at the beginning, I wrote the song Sean Penn. Not as a sycophantic, kiss-ass anthem for a film star but the simple story of a guy who carries out his will, in both his work and his political arena, with both power and humanity. I envy the position and the theatre of his influence. To be hated and adored with equal passion. These are the qualifications of real artist!

This is an 11 track tally of my somewhat drunken philosophy. The vision from a man plundering his 40’s who can only turn to the truth for comfort. This is the verse of a renegade, ant-love songs evangelist…

I took it to bed with me at night in headphones, I dreamt in it as I slept, made pre-breakfast coffee with it plugged into me at 6am and then I worked in the studio with it all day long for three months. And then it was done. Now is a time of perspective.

Sean Penn is all the words that we have forgotten how to say in song. It apologises and preaches. It is a dictator and equally it is our hearts at peace. It will undress before you like a dancer in the dark.

http://www.deanomori.com

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‘Your actions speak louder than the politics of men’


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