no se permite

We are fortunate that the author Jack Kerouac lived when he did; if he were alive today, he would be in jail for vagrancy. His was a subtle and unique culture, one we lost when the era of the tramp came to a close, when we Americans came to see people who are perpetually on the move as threatening and dangerous, when we passed laws to outlaw their existence, effectively destroying a unique culture, language, and way of life. Kerouac wrote his book On The Road in the heyday of the vagabond, in that glorious period when hitch-hiking was not illegal, when strangers and transients were looked upon as humans rather than scum, when it was still possible for the auto-less to make their way across our fine continent on conveyances other than corporate-run buses, trains, or airliners. If the author would have attempted to live such a life in our current era, he'd have been marginalized, spat upon, and despised by uncaring people who gladly pay five dollars for an cup of coffee.

The life of the tramp had its inconveniences (bad weather, hunger) and its perils (dogs, floods, robbers), but it was also a deeply American condition, a restless embodiment of the notion that a new life awaits on the other side of this ridge, on the far bank of that river, on the shores of some distant ocean. The tramp trusted in the chalk marks left by of his fellow vagrants, ciphers that alerted him to a hostile town or to one with generous inhabitants, that told him where labor was available for the eager but wanderlustig. It is unlikely that we will ever have another author such as Kerouac, another person able to perambulate across the land in the manner of Herodotus and Pliny before him, absorbing and retelling the stories he heard, a person who has made the way his goal. In this country, we see greed and egocentricity as virtues, when, in my opinion, they are the beginning of folly, cul-de-sacs that nearly always end in mid-life-crises during which the individual lays down his lust for money to pursue something he knew would make himself and the people around him intrinsically Happy.

Today, we are a nation of clones, a people resigned to rigid conformity. We were founded, however, as a nation of Many who shared a common binding purpose: to make of ourselves One, to pursue a common Happiness in a thousand different ways. I fear, however, that we have over-legislated, that we have made so many things illegal in an effort to protect ourselves from potential harm that we may never again know the destructive but necessary process of upheaval. We have made it difficult to wander the land in search of an undefined yet important goal, a goal found neither in the cubicle farms of the corporation nor in the halls of our supermarkets, a goal that eschews materialism for spiritual tranquility. There is no going back – the child-like wonder and inherent purity exhibited by the characters in On The Road have been drowned out by the white noise of the television, supplanted by the ferocity of religious extremism, and paved over by the hatred that hides in an Us Versus Them mentality. Woe be unto us, for we have strayed from the Path and calcified in our ways, blinded to subtlety and humor, convinced that turban-wearing bogeymen lurk in every shadow, and wary of things we do not understand. If more of us cared less, if some of us could but wander for a spell in search of nothing in particular, we might all be better off.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

eyes in graffiti

Walk through Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia, Berlin, Amsterdam, or Bangkok, and look in the forgotten, in the grimy, and in the underused places. With a keen glance and a bit of luck, you will witness the riotous beauty known as graffiti. Oh, what a profusion it is of style and color, of shape and size, of message and image, all blending into a whole that, if viewed from afar, resembles little more than clutter. Step closer, however, and trust your peripheral vision, and your most tender of sphincters will drink gladly of the intoxicating power of street art. Why, though, do we look? Why are we powerless against the urge to sweep our gazes down into worn and sticky curbs and up onto soot-stained poles? Eyes, my friends, we look at graffiti because it is full of eyes (and not just any eyes, but human eyes). They may have stumbled upon the technique accidentally, they may have copied it from advertisers, but, for whatever reason, graffitos exploit one of mankind's primal and deep-seated fears, using a time-proven method for getting people to look at something – giving it eyes.

Since our time as forest-creeping, prairie-running, skull-bashing troglodytes, the species homo sapiens has developed the uncanny ability to recognize the shape of the eye even if it should be obscured by layers of random patterns. Experts argue whether this ability is restricted merely to recognizing human eyes or if it applies to those of our former predators (i.e. bear, cougar, coyote), but I hazard that our subconscious brains are constantly trying to figuring out if someone, or something, is looking at us. Advertisers exploit this evolutionary adaptation to our status as Top Predator Of One Another by blanketing the asphalt landscape – the phaltscape – with pictures of pretty people who nearly all happened to have been staring directly at the camera's shutter when it opened. (Now, however, instead of our powers giving us the upper hand in a fight-or-flight situation, they allow us to be convinced that we need that new and re-formulated cucumber body scrub. Woe be unto mankind.)

All quasi-scientific, pseudo-evolutionary nonsense aside, why do graffiti-writers use eyes in their designs? Why does they want people to look at their works of art? Few graffitos apply their craft for financial gain; as with other labors of love, people cipher-write regardless of the risks it poses to life, limb, liberty, and liability. SDUBS (Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists) are wily and suspicious by nature; they maintain a level of honor, decorum, and discipline so profound as to make inquiry into their personal matters a life-threatening endeavor; therefore, these questions shall likely go unanswered for generations to come. For now, however, please enjoy the street-side galleries of free-to-the-consumer art wherever you may be, and rest easily in the knowledge that, by looking back at eyes that look at you, you are merely executing a deeply-ingrained survival reflex that is as natural to humans as is laughter. Never forget, however, to keep an eye out for mankind's oldest enemy – itself.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit