Where has imagination disappeared to? Why are we so scared of getting in any way involved with material things? I’ll tell you why! Our imaginations have suffered, and continue to suffer from, a terrible defeat.
At that confusing stage in life when we begin to live with words and have to swallow the invective of others, the magical universe inside each of us, which also lives inside our favourite things, comes under siege. Objects begin to lose their emotional meaning, the love we had for them dies, because we are taught to strip them of life, cut the umbilical cord of magical symbiosis. They are out of our hands, out of our minds, over there in the dark corner, tarnished, banished, dead. We are made to feel guilty for the universes we soared through in our heads. We are forced to grow up, to follow the grey rules of growing up.
But our things, our objects, should have meaning. We must rediscover the magic, the imagination, burnish it. They must all recover the life we were forced to tear from them.
Take good note! There is a real difference between investing a real object with an imaginary life, which enriches, which is honourable, and investing something imaginary, some John Doe, with real life, which doesn’t and which is not. The defeated are prone to the second activity. They have fallen, captives to be fed and led virtually from cradle to grave.
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Evidently happy in some other dimension, Bug Eyed Peter glances around his room at his collection of precious objects. Blue light flickers, Red light burns, flashes off a silver ashtray. No circuits that aren’t in the head needed to bring any of these beauties to life. Beauty. Beautiful. Gleaming metals most of them and it’s easy to see why the gods of objects were quickly exiled to the vaults of a supposedly savage, uncivilised, unthinking past.
It just wouldn’t do to have every Tom, Dick or Harry inventing their own gods for every object they were in love with now would it?
Number plate, silver code, black background, BS 2824. Keys to the golden door. Fire deep in the heart. Love in the throat, tears in the eyes. Chrome silver blue power. Cold wind in the face. Foot hard down. Peter at the wheel.
Blue roadsters roar down Sanctuary Road, a rich throbbing roar that you can not only hear, but feel deep down inside, a rich throbbing roar that grips your gut.
BS 2824. Bug Eyed Peter’s blue roadster roars down Sanctuary Road……
Power you can not only dream, but live. Fire in the blood.
