Asphalt Manifesto

We watch them like voyeurs.

We graffiti boards of cracked plastic wheels. We ride until the sun is gone and there's no more skin to heal. The passion of teenage angst, a sentiment carried with sarcastic parental advisories. We skate on the ice of asphalt, living only for the familiar scent perforating the bars. We sample flights through forests of parking meters and park benches. Women in short shorts, men's shirts, sneakers and mud erects a spirit of gravel and grass scented sex. We breathe hormone freedom. We live the music of the lyrics with worship and sacrosanct conviction. Nerve insured and youth approved. Jump once and caress comprehension. Jump twice and you're a god.

But wood splinters. Wheels find rocks. You age and learn the rule. You can't jump twice if you're committed to one. If you jump again you lose the first. We learn what frustration is, what loss is. The dirt sticks between your teeth, anger fills your lungs and you scream at the innocence that once caressed your soul. You loose her... when all you had to do was jump.

We are docile, we are complacent. Our children will not be.

John Michael Flaxman graduated from the Chicago Institute of Art May 1988. John died a
few months later at the age of twenty-two. In May 1988 John Flaxman wrote a short essay
entitled ‘On the Edge’.

I have recently come to believe that it is fear which motivates all of mankind. It is fear of
death, fear of evil, fear of God, and fear of self driving people towards their destiny. I
believe this to be true, although I suspect it may not be so, but this fault of logic is
acceptable to me. If I lace my faith in fear, there must be a reason. These are my thoughts
on the eve of my graduation.
It is difficult for me not to view life as the two scales of a balance. I am twenty-two years
old. Two-two; like a mirror, my previous life on one side and my future on the other. They
are equal, in balance. This too, I suspect is an incorrect perception, but I trust my feelings,
not my logic; of course, I’m an artist.
I see my previous life synthesizing. All the individual elements are focused and given new
purpose. The facets lose their meaning. They sacrifice themselves to a greater cause; like the
vocabulary of the dream-world, where the brain uses its ten percent language of
consciousness to express a ninety percent subconscious capacity. The mind struggles to
communicate its message through inadequate devices: out of fear, fear that it won’t be
heard.
…As Nietzsche said: “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster… and if you
gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” I am still chasing away my left-over
monsters, and it is my lifelong purpose to burn out the blackness within me with the bright
light of creation. Fear and failure wait hand in hand for me. They will always be there.
…I feel I am beginning to understand what happened to me in late adolescence, and with
this knowledge, I sense I am losing the meaning of the question. I am losing my teenage
power; a power based on confusion, protest, and outward blame that ultimately turned to
inner judgment. I find myself asking, “How did I get here?” but there is no time to answer
because I need to know where I’m going and how I’m going to get there. I suspect this is
an endless cycle. As our expectations of adulthood come to bear and our bodies and minds
finish their biological growth, as we leave home and suddenly every question of protest is
driven back down our own throats by our own feet, as the meaning of life becomes so
painfully obvious and at the same time shrinks away to nothing; we are gripped with cold,
deadly fear. Life is like a child in a warm bathtub. When the water drains out, the child
squirms in the remaining water to keep warm and safe. We are this child, but as the water
escapes, we physically grow too large even for the bathtub itself until the situation becomes
absurd. We chase after our lost security until, slowly and inexorably, we join the plodding
ranks of bewildered humanity who are all faces with their private fears of death.
Artists and lovers are saved from this grim fate. We retain our security in the form of
narcissistic creation. We recreate ourselves again and again in all our tasks, and in these
tasks we find salvation. I believe there is another fear by which mankind is driven; fear of
no communication, which is really fear of no love. I believe the human mind is so complex
and perceiving that is exists in perfect balance within a state of complete nondiscernment. It
constantly seeks to express itself, but lacks the ability to give or receive intelligibly. We are
all completely alone, like blind puppies searching for wet warmth. The only way to
eliminate the tremendous stress we face is through love. Love makes complete
communication unnecessary. Love creates God. Love conquers fear. I suspect love and
creation are the same.

May 1988- John Michael Flaxman

Lulu slept naked because she liked to feel the sheets caressing her body and also because laundry was expensive. In the beginning Henri protested: you shouldn’t go to bed naked like that, it isn’t nice; it’s dirty. Anyhow, he finally followed his wife’s example, though in his case it was merely laziness (…). Personally, Lulu did not despise uncleanliness: it was more intimate and made such tender shadows; in the crook of the arm, for instance; she couldn’t stand the English with their impersonal bodies which smelt of nothing. But she couldn’t bear her husband’s negligence because it was a way of getting himself cuddled. In the morning, when he arose, he was always very tender toward himself, his head full of dreams, and broad daylight, cold water, the coarse bristles of the brush made him suffer brutal injustices.
- Jean Paul Sartre (Intimacy, The Wall)

I lost a girl and an Ipod in the same night. I care more about the Ipod.

"I think I understand a little bit about how you think about some things, it's none of my business how you feel about some other things and I don't give a damn how you feel about some other things" -Johnny Cash

She was my June... but I was her Joe DiMaggio.

It doesn't matter what pop culture we inhale, what music we hear, what we obsess for, what we create for or destroy... we all know this. Those who care are bastards picketing their own funeral (John Cusack... I blame you). The question isn't 'does it matter'. The question is: if you've lived your life like it did, where the hell do you go from here?

Ladies and Gentlemen, a song about a hooker...