is this real life? 11/01/25

Note to self: If it feels fake, looks fake, smells fake, it probably is.

I’ve got to be honest. I have been chasing ‘real’ for a long time now. I have chased dreams trying to turn them into reality and have tried to make as many choices as I could based on what I felt was real to me at the time. But in a world of fake this and fake that, I am left wondering if there is very much realness out there anymore.

What do I mean by ‘real’? Well, in shorter terms, I am terrified because do any of us really know the answer to that anymore? As I am writing this, Chat Ai keeps trying to make ‘better’ suggestions. I used to be able to write a piece and be happy with my wrongness and grammar incorrectness; now, I am apparently not good enough for something invented to help me. That’s wild.

When did things stop making sense? Do I even make any sense? Probably not. But then again, neither does much else.

Going back to when I was at art school in the now-avoidable city of Birmingham, I remember a time when things felt lighter, funnier, and more romantic. When I was 14 social media wasn’t the most prominent part of an artist’s entire existence and we weren't all having an existential crisis on how many views, likes, shares and comments we had every time we posted. I’d leave class to meet my friend, my soul sister, my other half and the only other person who understood the intoxicating infatuation with nicotine, tequila and tattoos at the ripe age of 14. We would get changed in the school toilets, throw on some ripped jeans, fishnets and sequin tops, and maybe even smoke a roll-up on the way to the lock-up, feeling like we were the coolest 14-year-old art students out there. I remember this time vividly. We made our way to a gig venue, The Sunflower Lounge, most likely with our phones turned off so we didn’t have to lie to our parents about the fact we were not watching a movie and eating pizza and tried to get in to watch a band we had never heard of before with our not so real ID’s.

Like I said If it feels fake, looks fake, smells fake, it probably is.

With no luck in getting into the over-18’s gig, we hung out outside and decided to strike up a conversation with a guy by asking him for a lighter. I am sure he knew I had one in my pocket. A group then flooded out of the backstage door and as it turns out, they were the band and it just so happened that a sparkly top and the classic filth ignition line worked and there we were, backstage, drinking beer and kicking around a football.

We headed to an island and as they lay on the grass, smoking their grass, me not being a fan and not ready to sit around and wait for everyone to be so stoned they couldn’t have a ‘real’ conversation. I decided to read aloud ‘A Paradox of our time in History.’ If it wasn’t real enough for me then, it is now. So, I would like to share it. Maybe it will resonate, maybe it won’t, but in a time of quick content and reckless scrolling, it can’t hurt to share a little insight into something that may or not offer a thing or two to think about.

“The paradox of our time in history is that we have taller buildings but shorter tempers, wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints. We spend more, but have less, we buy more, but enjoy less. We have bigger houses and smaller families, more conveniences, but less time. We have more degrees but less sense, more knowledge, but less judgment, more experts, yet more problems, more medicine, but less wellness.

We drink too much, smoke too much, spend too recklessly, laugh too little, drive too fast, get too angry, stay up too late, get up too tired, read too little, watch TV too much, and pray too seldom. We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values. We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.

We've learned how to make a living, but not a life. We've added years to life not life to years. We've been all the way to the moon and back, but have trouble crossing the street to meet a new neighbor. We conquered outer space but not inner space. We've done larger things, but not better things.

We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul. We've conquered the atom, but not our prejudice. We write more, but learn less. We plan more, but accomplish less. We've learned to rush, but not to wait. We build more computers to hold more information, to produce more copies than ever, but we communicate less and less.

These are the times of fast foods and slow digestion, big men and small character, steep profits and shallow relationships. These are the days of two incomes but more divorce, fancier houses, but broken homes. These are days of quick trips, disposable diapers, throwaway morality, one night stands, overweight bodies, and pills that do everything from cheer, to quiet, to kill. It is a time when there is much in the showroom window and nothing in the stockroom. A time when technology can bring this letter to you, and a time when you can choose either to share this insight, or to just hit delete.

Remember, spend some time with your loved ones, because they are not going to be around forever. Remember, say a kind word to someone who looks up to you in awe, because that little person soon will grow up and leave your side. Remember, to give a warm hug to the one next to you, because that is the only treasure you can give with your heart and it doesn't cost a cent.

Remember, to say, I love you to your partner and your loved ones, but most of all mean it. A kiss and an embrace will mend hurt when it comes from deep inside of you. Remember to hold hands and cherish the moment for someday that person will not be there again. Give time to love, give time to speak, and give time to share the precious thoughts in your mind.

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”

“Sources of this poem have different creators. Some say it’s from the 14th Dalai Lama, George Carlin, Jeff Dickson, a student who witnessed a massacre, and an anonymous. Also, there are sources that strongly affirm the credit to Dr. Bob Moorehead. If you know the real creator, please correct me.”

https://www.craftdeology.com/a-must-read-poem-the-paradox-of-our-age/

Now, when I walk into a bar or try and buy cigarettes and I am asked for my ID, for some reason I feel it is faker than that time I was 14 with a ‘real’ fake ID in my pocket and a big smile on my face when they would hand it back and move aside.

Always love,

Gia

Selected Winning Image 'Gorecore' - Veiled, Collage

Portrait taken of John the camera man on Portobello Road Market 2024. He traded me a lens cap for my film camera for a photograph of him on film.

portrait on portobello

hands

As I’ve grown older, my hands have softened. As a child, my hands were large and lumpy and seemed to get in the way, never felt much attached to my body. They seemed out of place as if they didn’t belong to me, but to a person who I had not yet learned enough about, to become.

Now, I see my hands, as pure as they are, attached to my body. As if the work I have done, throughout my time on this earth, has presented me with a gift, a gift of my own hands. I am proud they are my own.

When I see them, I see my inner being, pure, relentless, old yet still so young. Touched many times, shaken by proud men, and women who have laid a kiss upon them. A cigarette between two of their fingers, much to their dismay, yet honoured to hold between them, what makes who is attached to them, feel at ease. They have felt softness and become hard from the times they have had to raise a finger, stern. Money has slipped from them, knowing they will feel the cool coin once again. Washed, numerous times out of anxiety and touched skin to skin of past lovers, slowly guiding over marks that one endured.

My hands were a burden, and now, they are fixated on the focus, the rolling bellows of the camera that captures everything they wish to touch, yet appreciating the food they have raised to my lips, the kindness they have handed out, as if it would not sacrifice their own, the touches they have given to people who needed it more than they did. The hand of sacrifice, pain, kindness, love. The hand that has given, yet taken recklessly. Who has possessed and hopelessly given?

I thank my hands for knowing kindness before I did. For knowing anger before I could tell them to settle. To belong to me and to no one else. My hands are my own.