Tradition
Backwards into promises made of what the future was.
Tempted by a fantasy that leant it all some meaning.
Remember when a life could be a life and not a screening,
And things, cue the strings, were either true or not?
Forwards into yesterday, desperate for a clammy thread
Held against the avalanche of what we can’t compute.
Watching life play with the sound on mute
So we can hear ourselves posting what we think about instead.
The whole thing’s performance art, right? I give it five stars.
Love the ineffective audience participation.
Ever get the feeling that you’ve had the conversation?
When nostalgia is a riptide, tradition is a life raft. But don’t be held by it; skate across the shimmering reflection of a future made accountable for everything it’s built on, turning in the echo chamber, vomit in the maelstrom. Sickened by the whole thing but look at us, still strong! They used to tell us all the time we were built wrong, until we hated every beauty we were built from. They said life was a mill, and someone had to be the water in the millpond. But all this guilt gone sour is a waste of power; underneath it is a stillness every vessel can be filled from. So come on then, let’s you and I do or die, suit and tie, new boots and Friday’s a night out and mine is a sidecar so why get ahead when you’d rather get head it’s a fried egg in bed kind of weekend and yeah we can utilise you, you’ve been scrutinised, you, your computerised youth and the grief you were brutalised by. Some things are true sometimes. I’ll let you decide. Meanwhile, Revolution! Said the rings around Saturn, keep spinning my friends, we are atoms and patterns that come to no end only balance, imbalance and when the wind changes, the grasses are flattened but they’ll spring back, like none of it happened. Trappings of fame going cheap, and haven’t you heard? Things are much better these days than they were. All these causes and no effects, look to the past long enough, you might see what’s next. All this air in my mouth but no breath, let’s breathe. Tradition never wanted me. But listen though, believe. My tradition is a deeper current, the frequency beneath every moment. Atonement. Release. We are miniature components of a much bigger piece. We’re eternal. Or maybe just one fucking infernal sneeze, or a gerbil in its cage, or the colonel on his knees before the firing squad, or the girl who spends her evenings giving thermals to the people who are sleeping in the streets. Or the breeze through the stifling heat of the packed city eating itself and picking its teeth with the hands of the clocks, tick tocking to keep us all locked into what’s coming up; just be sweet to the people around you. Completely at ease when the morning comes down. Since I found you, I see: Nothing’s broken at all. We’re alright, my friends. Strong back. Stand tall. This panic is a fever. Let it burn itself out. If they want to ring the alarm, it’s their call.
The December 2023 issue of British Vogue is on newsstands from Tuesday 21 November
