the hues

so i universi-tied , tied to notions of full-fill-ment wonder what is there, is Marx it, fight capitalism, is foucault it fighting is pointless, is there meaning, is there reason is there anyway out of this shitholerabbithole poweraddled gadget saddled remorseless abyss? Do I believe in emancipation, is it the power to fight that makes it impossible to fight the power? We are contemporary contemptables, we are beyond philosophy, post-critism, Nike/Coke/playstation/virgin mobile phones provide us with enough social commentary, they teach us al we need to know about existentialism and nihilism and what else is there? we are the centre of the universe and nothing matters...

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Portraits are for people you intend on forgetting. Handsome, ugly, distinguished, fey these are faces who will never come to your mind with a single word, the slight fragrance of a season or in every passing minute. This is a portrait of a woman I met for a summer. She wasn't kind, or tall or intelligent. She made circles in the air when she spoke, wide gestures you had to watch out for, I once took one squarely on my nose. She made up for what she was saying with her busy hands. I wasn't fooled. I remember she once told me that people just didn't understand her which was why they never were bowled over by what she had to say. I thought it was a wonder more people hadn't been bowled over by her hands. She wore a navy cardigan and she claimed to be a Marxist although what this means these days is a little beyond me. It reminds me of Marx's idea of false consciousness and seems a likely club for anyone who believes that everyone else just might be wrong.

I met her in the way you do people you will ultimately forget, on the train. We were travelling from the city to my little suburban train station. I had on a badge which might be taken to mean that I too was a member of the club against capitalism. She wanted to talk, I could tell. That’s the problem with wearing your politics like a corporate logo, people frequently think then your thoughts and time are for sale. She told me, after several minutes of me trying desperately to avoid eye contact of the rally on Sunday, a prelude to the big anti-globalisation rally at the end of the year. I said, yes I will be going, and then she started on about the ants..............................................