17th February 2020

I have absolutely no talent in artistic of musical endeavors. As with many of my ineptitudes this lack of ability, of bent, causes me an enormous degree of displeasure and untold embarrassment. I could blame its lack of development upon the abundance of childhood parental and peer praise for wholly inadequate performance or the yoke of intellectual laziness that settled comfortably about my shoulders upon release from the swaddling shawl.

My family, never slow in stepping forward in judgement, proclaimed many a reason for my ongoing cognitive indolence, weak eyesight, hearing difficulties, lethargy in reading and writing, even my lack of worldly comprehension became transitory raison d’etre. Physically I was as gifted as could have been wished, a strong child of seeming unlimited athletic potential, naturally I was immediately cast in the role of future sportsman, soldier, sailor or mysteriously to modern thinking, a priest.

Explanations for my seeming backwardness were all equally erroneous, ludicrous propositions grasped with the urgency of drowning men looking for redemption. In reality I was simply born left-handed, a devil child, a fact either unobserved or more likely considered so socially unacceptable as to be ignored throughout my formative years.

Art has always had a particular fascination for me, something I felt obliged nay bound to perform not just adequately but with exemplary and unerring skill.  That some of my early creations collected praise from those who really should have known better went some way towards codling my belief that I possessed abilities I now realize were purely fictitious. I had simply discovered a knack for taking concepts that were singularly uninspiring, abutting or overlaying them in a purely haphazard fashion resultant in reactive ocular confusion, an effect that in the era of pop art was considered highly attractive and desirable. That one of my pieces was chosen for exhibition by a national gallery, that another became the focal point within an architecturally well-respected local governmental building are constant embarrassments to me, their production having been pure chance, a lucky happenstance of choosing color and design that appeased my vapid self and the cliché in others.

Last night I watched again, for the umpteenth time, the toxicity that is the interaction between Doctor Harleen Frances Quinzel and her puddin’, deliciously illustrated cinematically in ‘Suicide Squad’. A perfect physical and emotional reflection of the gymnastics so many of us have/do/will enjoy, endure and endlessly repeat in our daily relationships with one another.

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