Future of Change. I wish and work for change, to change, for a change, give me some change, change a tune for a change, change clothes, change the way you walk, change the way you live. I think about it so much it has become a mantra and I begin to play with the thought of change, the word, what it means to me, what it means to anybody. Is it difficult, because for me it is a necessity and a self-evident part of life. As I see it people are afraid of changes, especially those which demand us to give up something. Changes may have an ominous tone in them, a silent doom. Change is absolute, good and bad, profitable. There is a thought of profit in the word. To change there must be something to gain, there must be an end and a thought of a new beginning. Also economically it can be wise to learn to give instead of taking.
But in the light of everything
what happens now in the world, it looks like things do change rabidly one way or the another. To demand world to change for better is a cry. Is it too common a phrase to be taken seriously? What kind of attitudes there are in general towards changing habits, attitudes, altering ways of knowing, looking, needing, wanting and doing? It is requiring substantial volume to make dramatic changes happen, a lot of energy, focusing and learning. I say dramatic because changes to make our ways of living sustainable and wiser need a total turnover. That means a lot of work. Not looking for easy ways out, there aren’t any.
oil pastel on paper, drunk passed out/why women drink?2015
Without her she gets made, a kind of other, malformation of sex and an assumption. She needs persona and identity of her own. How does she do that? What does she make of herself, of this, of this lot, of this lottery ticket. Out of these forms of hers she must build herself, of pieces a misty character, that makes you feel cold inside. Her reputation precedes her, irregular person, despicable, untrustworthy, she is what you heard you think you heard. You made her in your mind via your and people’s speech, exchange of ideas. Isn’t that her? Talk works like gas, it is intoxicating and vulgar. Violence taking the least effortless way. Story of her could be continued this way unless she would not act on her defense, get that mess into her own hands, clay and a piece of bone. She needs herself to oppose, resist and defend herself. Nobody else does it. Nobody else is interested in her life, her self, what it really is, what she really is like and able to do.
Her reality is not interesting to anyone but herself, she lives it, not you and makes it. She makes her life even though there is discouragement, contempt, laughter, ill talk, threat, there is so little faith in her that it is unbelievable and unbearable. To accept passively what goes on and on because others accept it, it suits them and it is normal, ill is the norm. They say there is nothing one can do for her. It is not an option to change that. That is not true. It is her exceptional quality, resistance, energy of hers that changes anything.
Evaluations, descriptions, adjectives, measurements and comparisons, faults, flaws, drawbacks, qualities we need to place someone in that tight spot to feel powerful and someone else small, qualities we have made and what are they worth, how do qualities needed change anything? Any inner strength there? We imagine, make, consume and refine ourselves as well as we can. We consume others to make ourselves. To find that strength there to do better is so little.
She is not right. There is a right way to be. Characteristics that are stated as a fact without further evidence and hearsay is all. Demonizing her to people who listen, who ask without her, without her she gets made as if she died. Character of mist that makes you feel cold inside. Is this the same world we inhabit: you speak of me but you do not confront me nor speak to me. How little respect there is, how little trust. She is what you heard as a fact. To think otherwise would be unthinkable, unthinkable pleasure, envious, joy of dragging her down speaks mountains: She is not right. She is not right. To kill is to entertain. It is to better yourself, to paint a picture of malicious woman is to draw a separating line. Pointing her out from above, from a distance, from acclaimed perfection, from accepted shameless perfection undeniable. To know her is to say what she is: she is loud, she is noisy, she is quiet, she is broken, she is tense, she is useless, she is irrational, she is shameless, she is lost, she is dead. How stupid she is. Stupidity being something very human. Not understanding why.
Majakollektiivi Timanttimetsä 