Yeh, I used to vote Labour.
I made it through the thatcherites, but I'm not sure I can survive the camerongs.
D'you know something? Why don't they give the tree hugger a chance...I'm not for the monarchy, but he couldn't do any worse could he?
And he's not in it for the money.
OK I'm joking, but you've only got to look at his mother; she's given her whole life to this country. She's allowed to do that.
What if they actually care about real people and not just subjects in the abstract?
Christ, will you listen to me?
I've not met one single person who admits to voting for the election winners...
We're lost aren't we. Bloody hell.
This partly comedic conversation was so surreal. And parallel to my sense of overwhelmingly unreal life in Britain today - a seasonally soggy version of the equally surreal home of the entertainment industry - ideal opportunity to expand on the Con.Text formula. Plus a unique chance to showcase my broke-back brolly with other broken Objects Trouvé
I wait, unclear if I wait in mourning,
confusion, or merely disappointment;
frustration eats at me. I struggle with
impatience and everything is on hold.
Making is impossible until I
come to terms with my fear and the unrest.
The hunger that drives creativity
gnaws at me and stuff slips out of my hands.
Prototype ghosts emerging unready,
threaten my integrity, mock my lack
of practice. Experience holds me back;
my head will come good, the hands will follow,
the fear will fall silent and the need to
create will rise like a firebird; phoenix
to save me from the masked daemon
and the crocodiles of hypocrisy.
Making is where I belong, where I find
sense and reasons for not letting go. Yet.
Did we what?
Vote Farage of course!
Don't ask. Don't mention politics. Ever.
That was the last time; we are not going to be part of it any more.
But you used to be such staunch Greens...
I mean it. We've had enough. We won't be voting again.
Anyway it was a tactical thing, we've been fed up with the situation for years, but we still had dreams of getting the Conservatives out. We just don't believe in it any more.
And it's quite pointless discussing it.
Actually we are the lucky ones, where we live we get a lot of support. We're grateful, we really are, but then when you look at the rest of the country ... it's heartbreaking.
It's not how I thought life would be - more like being in someone else's B movie. It's wrong, it's embarrassing, it's immoral.
We won't give up fighting for rights and dignity.
We just won't vote.
It's not the same thing.
We used to love this country.
We won't give up on her.
Let me be as urgent as a knife
on those days when I lean into
imagining that there is yet
eternity waiting on the words
that dance across the splendid
array of neurons decaying
unkindly as I dream of line,
of shapes, bodies yet unformed,
sculpture awaiting the birth
that distorts my body, the pain
and urgency at cross purposes
in the making; the realization
of my self escaping while it may;
the knife remembering lives
unspoken. The pain creating
it's own urgent reality.
Reasons for making increasing;
escalating, with the clarity
of the knife; and time like broken glass.
You voted what?
You heard me: Tory.
To fully illustrate my reaction to this I should leave an empty page or two; wordless, utterly wordless.
And when I do gather myself to respond: how could you, it sounds so pathetic. I even followed it up with: "but you're disabled."
Disabled and in his second year awaiting a PIP decision. I flounder.
"I've always voted Conservative", he offers. I'm a fully paid up believer in the Capitalist religion and yes, they axed our arts funding, but with good reason: keeping the elderly clean and fed.
He is also poet.
Brainwashed. We all are.
Throwaway people. Offers on the altar of production; subordinate to money and the accumulation of things in place of creativity; believers in the myth of austerity as a solution rather than the cause of the next financial crisis.
And seemingly at ease with denying true human value.
Maybe it's easier for crips. Our gains were so new, we'd hardly begun to believe in them, but the un-disabled lot? They've had voices for donkey's years and some of them fought really hard...
I'm watching us all step back into history, one step forward two steps back.
Did we think this was supposed to be our time? It is not.
Making, in a time of disappointment
requires finding the sun in my soul;
the undefeated essence of me that is
so much more than I think, therefor I am;
requires communion with the part of me
that listens and therefor seeks connection
with the shadows that shape beauty and the
surviving truth. And making is where I am
still taken by surprise with reasons to smile.