My young eyes looked out into a world of graffiti and solid gold dancing. My young mind interpreted things differently, with a surreal naiveté yet a bizarre realness. I saw the subways of New York City 1980 and thought that was the place to be. Then again I was too young to be.
I found my New York City subway on the Internet in the late 1990’s. It was just like those spray painted and tagged trains of the 80’s, but in digital format. It was the new underground after Rudy had Giulianified the harsh reality of the real NYC. On the Internet we became punks to the matrix and ran our cyber street corners like artists. That’s not the artist who wants to be an artist, but the artist who is born artistic. Art today is confused with a four year college course. You have to be careful these days when you run into an artist. They may have been trained to be that way, instead of born that way. Be careful! They are nothing but wolves in sheep’s clothing wearing a stylish faux wolf coat.
Pamphlets were always a requirement of my underground. I always wanted to create a pamphlet. It would be a simple message from me to the world. I wanted to tell everyone en masse my extremely simple views of how society was such a terrible mask that they were all being forced to wear. I wanted to hold up the mirror for a quick glance and let everyone know they didn’t have to do it. They didn’t need to contribute to that faux world with family values and Sunday confessionals. It was all a sham. It was a hoax. The underground bubbled with the truth. The back rooms seethed with the dirty truth. The things that happened behind each white picket fence made everything moot on Main St.
The digital age took over the terrestrial underground street-smart living that I had always dreamed of finding. I abandoned it. I became one with my computer. I crawled inside the Internet’s circuits and became the artistic Max Headroom to anyone who would listen to me shouting down from my digital soapbox.
They always told me to do more. They always said I should add more production value to the things I created. They wanted me to try harder, pay for more advertisements, network with fellow people of the Digital Tubes, and play the game more. They wanted podcasts and insisted I add substance. Before I knew it they had taken over the Internet. You know, the They from out there. They were now in here. The same people who dripped Disneyfication over the terrestrial streets of New York and Los Angeles had now invaded the Internet and were whispering directly in my ear.
My pamphlet was out the window before it ever was created. People don’t want the truth! People want to hide inside with the blinds drawn. The people of planet Earth want to look straight ahead and proceed to their air conditioned vehicle, so it may take them to an air conditioned building. Rinse, repeat, and flutter your little wings in joy that life has been swept conveniently under the extraterrestrial rug.
When I found myself at the business end of the gun known as They I was no more pleased than ever before. I had worked so hard to create the pamphlet up in lights, the one backed and sponsored by Them, that I had completely forgotten I just wanted to hand out photocopied leaflets letting everyone know it was a charade.
Now I’m back to pamphlets. Because the best ideas that never were will always be just as good when you come all the way back around to them. We sweep the fact away about who we really are, who we really love, who we really want to Fuck, and what we really want to be doing with our days. We keep sweeping until the dust bunnies gang up on us and eventually all of that swept away truth regurgitates back up all over until we accept it was what we should have been doing all along.
You should have been you all along. I should have been handing you this pamphlet all along. Don’t mind me. This is just the underground. It’s nothing special, just the birthplace of every truth the universe has ever dilated and brought forth.