Jose Padua: A Short History of Monsters and Everything Else that Gives Substance to the Dream
In certain ways the thirty-year old guy with the man-bun and beard wearing a neatly fitting tee shirt on a summer day is just as much of an asshole as the drunk guy with the Confederate flag and gun who ends up shooting himself in the leg thinking he’s defending America from the next great invasion, each deluded by the pressure and trends within their respective peer groups, except it’s unlikely that the hipster with the man-bun is ever going to shoot anyone or consciously exercise his political will for the purpose of oppressing anyone who doesn’t look like him, while the only person the good ole guy with the gun is going to save is a man wearing a three piece suit who worries less about his sagging balls than the possibility that his profits might one day sag along with them. And so the system as it now exists continues to flourish like influenza and seasonal allergies, depending on the time of year, and its structures are firmly in place to the benefit of the idle rich and in deference to the perverse dreaming of the dwindling numbers of the upwardly mobile as they trash and burn their merry way to their new luxury condominiums decorated in beautiful pastel colors. When I’m not dreaming in black and white my dreams are the color of monsters, of the scary characters in fairy tales the way they were originally written, full of sadness and distress and cold, bitter endings. But every day I wake up, every day I open my eyes and feel alive. Every day I consider the effect of wind and falling rain on white marble monuments, and wonder how the colors of the ancient world might be best applied in the creation of new civilizations, new names.