Traffic Jam (Extract)

Prior to exhibiting the paintings during the next exhibition on the 30th May 2014 at Xarolla Windmill, Zurrieq, I shall be publishing extracts I wrote back in 2011.  Entitled "Time for Wreckage", this was a series of loose writings centered around a doomed, sexist, male figure who is existing in a bleak postmodern city.

"Stop telling me how beautiful the countryside is.  I don’t understand that kind of beauty.  I am an urban junkie and I need to smell the old hippies smoking over prized dope on doorways, deeply inhale the smell of diesel and paraffin , see the shabby lit shop windows in the empty city centre at night, go bar hopping, blast myself in nightclubs and eat salty junk food at 5 in the morning in the car, forcing tasty uncooked plastic textured food in the stomach. 

I guess our generation has, by now, built up immunity against plastic food.  As a child, I always wondered whether Happy Meal burgers and toys were made out of some all-purpose material, suitable for both toys and food.  In my teens, I tried to be conscious and eat healthy food out of dirty farmer’s hands, but nowadays I concluded that being healthy means being boring.  

This afternoon, I took a bus ride during the rush hour cos I had nothing better to do.  The main roads built next to 1950’s industrial estates are killers at this time, with factory workers crawling out of side roads in their Jap cars. And, of course, the main roads would get blocked.  

Buses and traffic jams are excellent examples to explain democracy.  On buses everybody pays the same fare and given the same amount of space.  The driver, whether drunk or not, would take us to our destination.

Traffic jams are more democratic.  Everybody has to stop, move inch by inch.  Everybody in his own car which expresses his own personality....and sometimes one or two bully boys bypass the jam by passing over the pavement.

In the middle of this metal mayhem, I see a dreadlock girl walking with a hippie boy.  Dread boy dread girl discovering a concrete jungle.  In a main road with grey crash barriers, grey walls from exhaust, dirty black tarmac and torn monochrome posters, a colourful flowery dress, yellow pants and tie and dye shirt surely leave an impact.  It was like a divine intervention from some dope-smoking Jah, telling us that the end is near and we should follow these kids out of Babylon.

They walked on, deeply lost in their conversation, I’m sure they are happy and all they care about is their next joint.  As the bus starts moving slowly, I look back to see if they slipped into a side road, into an abandoned factory, force a garage open, be lucky and find an old mattress throw recklessly in a parking area…but they keep on going straight, always straight, they are making it on purpose, they are making all us workers jealous.  Wait, I don’t work anymore, I quit going to my dead end job last week.  No notice, no nothing.

I don’t know how anyone can complain about unemployment.  Even Jesus gave up his boring job when he felt like, so why shouldn’t I?

When you quit work, you suddenly start taking interest in life.  Getting up late and look forward for the day, look forward to do interesting stuff, meet new people, read weird books, watch art films while downing cheap whisky and go out for the night. No one is gonna complain about my badly exploited red eyes or my lack of interest in middle aged clients looking to remodel their living room."