Dear mark, I today was fired from a job in which I was working for only to days, there I thought I had the means to pay for my own apartment and maybe even some food and etceteras on the top of it. Admiteedly it was soul destroying sales and marketing, which being sales and marketing disguised itself as a simple receptionist job which Id applied for in the usual way thrugh the job center. I now fee l a little bit like one of those clay pigeons, throughn into the dust to be forgotten by friends and eneies alike. What is in the world belongs to us, belongs to ebauty and endeavour. It is a world of nature and respect of entirety, but I no longer feel whole. And it is not only this job , but the whole of the western world, of the21st centure- that I draw a blank from> what a world, a world of technology and cynicsm, of class and disdain. Its world of money and sharks, of hatered and greed, of green paper and the desire to gain it, to gain more from your feellow oppostior- which is only your fellow being, your fellow - your brother or sistern, a fellowship of love's doves and highs and lows. And yet we compete as if angry and emty iside, as if we were separate but we're not.
Wether we hold hands or draw swords we are united in our humanness and the need to love, to live, and even to eat and go hungry is in us. It lives and breathes like a soul, in our very beings and we feel it when we are alone.
To die, my brother, is never to be alone, but to be a part of the whole of humanity, to die with grace is to acept that we do not die at all, but we go on to form a part of a greater being that lives whole within all of us- a greater being which is whole and all of all that lives and breathes and ever has and will. Good graces in us a spirit, soul with which we live and feel. I live and feel, I live and love, I do so ieven if nobody ever notices me, even if I always feel alone, even if my brother escapes me or threatens me with his muscles or desides to rape or hurt or pillage, we are still, apart, united and whole, because generated into a philophy, our column of lives and souls only leads one way- into the realisation of something greater than ourselves.*wishes you well*
Hugs,
Mari
Mark Westendorp <marcovandewestendorp@hotmail.com> wrote:
Dear Mari, i havent written for a while. I suppose because you already know
the general idea of what i seek to achieve. And i now undergo a time of
practical outworking, where all the ideas and inspration meet the brittle
and unforgiving stuff of reality. Peaks and trophs. I guess also in ways
other than inspiration life draws on us, in our relationships and oyr
livelihoods, something of what i gather you have known unhappily of late.
And i feel it a little now, but fortunate am i for the thing is love no
less. Im sure a source of creativity later but for now it does absorb me no
small amount. The source of much of your inspiration i know. But its a
fearful thing. I have scarcely tasted of it before. Hard to tell what is
real and what is fantasy... Or is it all fantasy anyway? And the heart of
another at stake...
Enough of that. This tate misadventure: i partake of it a alittle already. A
strange thing: brace yourself: one time as i walked my demented lab through
a country field i stumbled across a gathering of clay pigeon type entities,
you know, the ones that countryfolk with nothing better to do like to launch
mechanically into the air and then shoot at, to pass the time of day or
whatever. These had obviously been missed and all deflected off a nearby
copse had landed in one vicinity. Set my mind a racing... Small things... I
carefully collected each one and began to formulate a plot. I knew theyd
come in handy. In the end i decided to decorate each with a poem outlining
the highs and lows of being shot at, from the perspective of a clay pigoen
that is. Each poem would describe the path from soaring high in sky, feeling
invincible and infinitely vital, to the gradual realisation that this
feeling would end, those held dear around picked off one by one, then even
the remainder, they began to feel the gradual demise, the falling to the
cold earth to whcih they were powerless against. But then, upon the ground,
they were still alive, abadoned by their maker and arch enemy alike, they
persisted in a meagre existence. Called for some soul searching. A rethink.
Some consumed by despair gave upo and faded into the earth. Most took
comfort in predictable life determined by the common denominator, acerage
and dismal. A few looked at life afresh and saw it deeper than ever before.
These spirited few, they forged a new path. They left the herd behind,
though always with the hope that they might one day follow. They lived on
the edge of being and came to know something like destiny, which had not
died the day they fell from the skies. There was life beyond. They were
returned to their maker, in me, and were decorated with a poem that told of
their story. Then they were each individually deposited, each a different
place of flighty human activity. So one was left at tate modern last
saturday, to be uptaken by some lucky soul, to be bewildered and amused.
Another in the ICA was secreted, on a shelf along the corridor between the
entrance and the bar. Another in a stair well and birkbeck students union...
And others in less prominant places, such as paddington and waterloo,
somewhere on the bakerloo line... The tenbob revolution web address i
inscribed on each, but as yet no response, not yet fallen into the hands of
one with enough of an inquisitive spirit to look further.
Another aspect of my unseemly work. To redeem unsuspecting and inane
paraphanalia and incoperate into individual destinies. Something to do with
how life is bound up with the entities we surround ourselves with... Havent
really thought it through... A mysterious thought process but one i believe
in.
Just thought id keep you up to date. Still hope there might be some mileage
left in the idea of us collaberating one day - i have taken alot of your
work to heart, as so many do. Hope things are beginning to work out for you.
So long,
Mark.
"soy un corazon tendido al sol"
http://www.porfolios.com/argentinebabe
http://www.intimaria.org