Infinite Jest

26 letters of the alphabet, 10 numerical digits, a handful of punctuation: the primary colours of David Foster Wallace’s “Infinite Jest”. Like a tearaway he has smudged, splashed, smeared; nudged the known horizon of alphanumeric permutation.

Claustrophobic sentences and paragraphs, the numerous references and sub-references that remind of an eternal periphery, it feels of an everyday we normally choose to (or must) ignore.

Anyway. To the person that left it at the bus stop, sorry but it's mine now, you're not getting it back. And you won't find it either, it's now buried under some random tree with the rest of my secret stash. Ha.

My living room

I choose to be a scruffy street mutt. To not be tied down to routine, to have variety, adventures, to keep exploring. I have the freedom to see things in the little corners that others, especially the humans, preoccupied with their full time jobs and mortgages, don't get to see. I see humans all the time, rushing around, haunted by their thoughts, never able to see or appreciate what is actually around them. As well I see their dogs, on their leads, same times, same places, day in, day out.

But still. I feel the need to be connected. To keep exploring is to see things superficially, to never be truly close to anything.  I do sometimes crave to belong in one of these human households, having constant food and hugs and comfort, but feel too suffocated by the thought at the same time.

Modern life is so consumed with staying put. To have a place of abode. To have a routine. When you feel differently you need to lie to get a piece. To be different is to be an outcast.

The Australian Aborigines are a nomadic culture, spiritually connected to the land. Ever since the European settlers took their land, its been filled with buildings, houses, skyscrapers, farms. They are lost: no longer able to feel connected to the ancient spirits, and at the same time rejected by "modernity". The only way get land back from the government, in the European way, is to somehow prove that their ancestors have always settled in a piece of land. For some of the more nomadic tribes, this has obviously proved impossible.

In Europe, the Roma have always been an outcast society. The "Gypsys", the "Travellers".

What to do. Maybe that's why the background of my website is a living room.

Street Art: Homeless Man

Location: Görlitzer Bahnhof, Berlin, Germany

Street Mutt loves Street Art

"Graffiti is not the lowest form of art. Despite having to creep about at night and lie to your mum it's actually the most honest form of art available. There is no elitism or hype, it exhibits on some of the best walls a town has to offer, and nobody is put off by the price of admission.

A wall has always been the best place to publish your work.

The people who run our cities don't understand graffiti because they think nothing has the right to exist unless it makes a profit. But if you just value money then your opinion is worthless.

They say graffiti frightens people and is symbolic of the decline in society, but graffiti is only dangerous in the mind of three types of people; politicians, advertising executives and graffiti writers.

The people who truly deface our neighbourhoods are the companies that scrawl their giant slogans across buildings and buses trying to make us feel inadequate unless we buy their stuff. They expect to be able to shout their message in your face from every available surface but you're never allowed to answer back. Well, they started this fight and the wall is the weapon of choice to hit them back.

Some people become cops because they want to make the world a better place. Some people become vandals because they want to make the world a better looking place." - Banksy

Mourning Summer

As people huddle their scarves closer, the music through the leaves no longer has the lightness of spring, or the deep richness of summer; it is now the raspy voice of near brittle leaves as the warm weather gives way to autumn’s cool winds and grey skies.

As I stand outside a window, candlelight syncopates to a melancholy Miles Davis, wafting outwards with its spicy cinnamon air.  I let it caress my cheek, a sad sympathetic warmth, mourning that winter now draws near.

Beginnings

I wake suddenly from a deep sleep to the soft whoosh of traffic. Dawn is starting but the moon still curiously watches the last tired revelers, while the stars peep stubbornly through tired eyelids, fading, but not yet ready for their bedtime.

As I stretch my paws, I feel a new autumn chill against my fur. I curl a little bit tighter. Still time to sleep, to keep dreaming just a bit more before a new day begins..