and on saturday morning i woke up and saw pidgeons murder the sky

I must find out his name. The third-year drawing teacher from QCA. I have got to find out who he is, and buy his book, and speak to him breathlessly, because I don't think you know, but sometimes some people go under the limelight line, undiscovered, quietly lurching in their own astounding genius. I saw this guy's book, he does splashes of paint but they are not so much that; they are also spray paint techniques, or can be fabric dying techniques. I'm not too sure; I was convulsing in awe, shocked at the sight of such beautiful extraterrestrial sightings, the landmarks and the conic stains of blue, and oceans - or skies, I am not too sure. It was like a modern Sistine chapel, I think: the close-up of his blotches made the figure of a tiny angel in a soft pastel cloud. And I slipped into silence while the two boys stared at me with intrigue. They seemed surprised at my eye, shocked at the fact I could ever be so moved by something as measly as modern art.

In all respect, I can see now how Jack and Ryan have been inspired by this mysterious teacher of theirs, and how come they are both true artists in the make, and it makes me feel a bit scared. Scared to see true talent up so close. It scares the fucking shit out of me, because it is kind of magic, kind of regal, and kind of supernatural, and possessed. I left Sam's house in a state of non-speaking. Like you had seen something truly beautiful for the first time, and had no fucking idea where to place it amongst all the old furniture. And then later on I saw more refreshing talent; perhaps not as grand but quite partially stare-gaze worthy. It's something about the place, I reckon: the atmosphere. But I feel like such a hypocrite talking about atmosphere, and mood, that I might as well forget this sentence all together. It was the Christmas lights and Whitney's wool jacket and the square-framed glasses of the singer. It was a whole collective, and I think they were all quite present in the stage, in a way, being taken seriously by people that were willing to take them seriously, and not just the usual bunch of followers of this inflamed and degraded music scene. But they played and they were alive. They played, soundlessly. I was stunned. Slightly stoned, too, but that is factual, and of little guilt value.

And next were some guys adored by some, despised by most. And these categories we put ourselves into, they are so ridiculous! At times. But they are, they are. To categorize a band with a preppy backing, a slick electro-boy feel to them: rather, a jock-in-a-band kind of context; yes, to categorize their background as a bad influence on their sound - isn't that a quick judgement to make? Isn't that tearing the pod before it has a chance to show its shit out? British India look like a bunch of preppy idiots too, but they sound bloody amazing. Yes, we've seen it all before, and honestly speaking, she was right: there was a common thread to their sound; something slightly ordinary about the fuzzy synth and the pop-drenched choruses - but in many ways, they were such a blend of personas, it made me interested. Moreover, he held my interest. He held my head. Literally.

What strikes me is that no one is willing to recognize beauty. No one bothers to even point it out, because it's such a subjective thing. Unless, of course, there is an already established following behind it; if there are fans to be held, already. But if it's a loose happening or a singular girl, dressed in colour, then suddenly everything is so thrown to chance, and opinion. But last night - that painting book, the talent of his students, my friend's band, the yelps - I saw so much more beauty than anyone was willing to recognize, to validate, that it makes me doubt my character. But no: I saw what I saw, and it's true, and I'll believe it. Even if no one else will.

And I gathered up a silly theory in my mind's backbone. I thought, that in order to inspire, it's better to just not waste time. It's for the interest of the commonwealth of the self that you pick someone that really makes you ohhh and ahhh, and follow them. And most importantly: it's important that you feel as though you must impress them, as only that will bring out the true (if any) creative genius within. And to aim this high, all the time, is a good thing. To think poorly of oneself because the expectations of the master are high - that's an awfully humbling feeling, and it shouldn't be an idea abandoned. The trick is choosing the right master.

We end up picking some true deadbeats as father figures. We end up thinking that they have some form of figurative silver spade. It happens. And when the armour falls off during a night of battle, it can be a real shock - or a real laugh. Or both. But, in all reality, I think getting disappointed with someone that impresses us is another great feeling. It puts us in a righteous space; a space of advantage that is truly ours, ever so conquered. And then, all there is to be done at such a strange stage is to move on to someone better. Someone shinier. Hang another painting up to admire, so to speak. And there's nothing wrong with that. It's called self-improvement. It's called personal growth, I think.

But lastly, and not least of all, there are other things that happened, and that got me thinking. Things that the large professor predicted, as per usual. Things he cursed into me. As per example, hypocrisy. And lack of loyalty, but not a lack of the good kind, the friendly type: rather, lack (or loss) of the essential kind. But this is only factual too, and although of large guilt value, I will give it none, because it will remain unspoken till the end of time, if not through a song. In which case it will be trapped forever in it's verses, much like a good photograph, with a lot of large words surrounding the simple truth.