I’ve attempted to write this blog post of me moving to London on at least three separate occasions now, with each attempt being as unsuccessful as the last. I end up writing the first paragraph, struggle to continue the narrative of the post naturally and say that I’ll come back to it at a future date. But by the time that I come back to it, what I wanted to write about has completely changed.
But in a sense my ever changing voice is fitting for my experience since leaving New Zealand. The whole ordeal happened within a blink of an eye, buying the tickets on the Monday night and flying out at six the next morning. The next thing I knew I was in a different country, with a different currency and a different set of keys on chain.
So much has happened so quickly that I’m afraid to blink. I’ve moved into my first flat and made new best friends, I’ve travelled for work and I’ve travelled for pleasure, and I’ve had an amazing London Summer and am preparing for a cruel London Winter. The pace of life has become relentless and unforgiving, but at the same time is full of precious moments and tiny conversations that help keep me somewhat grounded.
With every passing day I feel memories of my life in New Zealand falling gracefully through my fingertips. Places and faces become less familiar, because it’s not just the memories that I feel passing me by but my relationships as well. I’ve never been particularly masterful with maintaining friendships, and it’s become abundantly clear since I’ve moved. I know it sounds trite (and a little bullshit), but sometimes life just gets in the way.
A life of new places, experiences and new relationships. The latter of the three, fundamentally being the most important, and thankfully I’ve met some amazing people and made some brilliant friends (cliché adjectives galore). Some of which that I’ve only known for a few days, and some that I’ve known for a few months. But the impact these people have made is enormous and I’m thankful.
It’s been an exciting, yet strange first six months, and I apologise that it’s taken me this long to pen down my passing thoughts. I’m kind of shit when it comes to words, I normally end up just quoting obscure song lyrics as I feel that my musical idols can properly articulate my thoughts better than I. And on that note…
So fucking on, so fucking forth. We’ve got your back, whatever that’s worth.
So I was thinking about humour on my run today, and how jokes lose the majority of their impact if they need to be spelled out. But I don’t think it’s limited just to purely humour, I think it can be extended to pretty much any medium, whether it be traditional art, music, or film. Granted contextualization of the work is often needed in order to fully appreciate the work, but there’s a distinction between that and the artist stating a message through their work to the point of banality. Personally I prefer subtlety in a piece of work, along with a hint of ambiguity. I feel then it allows the recipient to have their own interpretations and let their imagination flourish.
I’m just realising that I’m pointlessly rambling and there’s no real conclusion. But I’m going to post this anyway.
Hope you all had a good weekend. Please ignore my jumps in logic.
TL;DR: Art is art. That shit is all subjective.