Irony, thy name is Balsa-Wood Man
Wow...I really haven't been on here.
Shock, shock, horror, horror, shock, shock, horror!
Okay, so I was thinking...
Maybe I'm living below my potential. I have often in my life found myself inflated with delusions of grandeur and an over-inflated sense of self-importance. Many have been the moments spent thinking that, one day, I could be a really great man.
I can admit it. When the light is just right, I can see egomania lurking behind my reflection.
I'm reading Tropic of Cancer, by some guy. Yes, I'm still reading it. Honestly...not too impressed. Rather, I wasn't, until today. Today I read the first bit of this book that I really liked. There was quite a lot of it, and to repeat it verbatim would most assuredly be a tedious thing for both you and I, but I think it's important.
First, he talked about the fact that people don't write about what they *really* think and feel. Not real, honest stuff. Like the contempt that's bread from familiarity, or the secret passions that swim inside them, breeding visions of bathing in the blood of their loved ones. People don't write about that. Mr. Miller did. Today, I realized what the book was about. It's about him writing really, truly honest things. It's full of overblown metaphor and it stretches itself constantly, seeking some kind of artistic expression that's really more like watching a severely obese person bathe in Crisco and buttermilk. It's full of a truly pathetic contempt for everything around him, not least of all himself, but with a bent of superiority that makes my ass twitch (the book is set in Paris, so I feel perfectly comfortable using that phrase).
But, damn...isn't that really what curdles around inside any of us? At least, any of us who have passion and art in us? And, isn't that all of us?
Or maybe it's not all of us, because that's the other thing I read today that struck me...
Mr. Miller went on about how alien artists are. Himself included. He described at length how inhuman he and his ilk are. Reveled in the separation that exists between the artist and the human. He painted pictures of people painting pictures with the blood and semen, piss and puss of the human race. He talked about how rules aught not apply...blahblahblah...
He also noted how important it is that some people break free. The importance of some people evolving, ascending, becoming enlightened...incandescing...
Mr. Miller seems to think that people who can do that should do that...
I started having a fit of self-important doubt...
What if I am one of those people? What if I am capable of greatness and the wreaking of terrible, rejuvenative chaos upon the world? What if I should be making art and taking names!!?
WHAT AM I DOING IN LAW SCHOOL?
I should be reveling in my inhumanity! I should be sprawled in the spume of life, ascending into glorious decadence! I should be inventing new ways to destroy old ways!! I should be evolving ahead of Them.
*shrug*
And maybe it's so.
And maybe I just don't wanna go if I can't take all the world with me.
Maybe an awakening into the brilliant light of real reality isn't enough for me.
I don't want to reach enlightenment. I don't think I want to be free and swim in blood-colored pigments. I don't think I want to step completely outside the dominant paradigm.
I want to crack the shell of EVERYONE. One at a time, I am bound and determined to loop and link us until we can all climb to freedom together.
I want to be a spiritual Marine. No one gets left behind!
I want to cockpunch Henry Miller and every single egocentric, self-fellating, in-group/out-group-creating artist and intellectual I've ever met.
I am a magnificent and unique being. I reek of glory and creation. I will deign to elevate everyone.
Or maybe I'm just some guy, y'know?
Shock, shock, horror, horror, shock, shock, horror!
Okay, so I was thinking...
Maybe I'm living below my potential. I have often in my life found myself inflated with delusions of grandeur and an over-inflated sense of self-importance. Many have been the moments spent thinking that, one day, I could be a really great man.
I can admit it. When the light is just right, I can see egomania lurking behind my reflection.
I'm reading Tropic of Cancer, by some guy. Yes, I'm still reading it. Honestly...not too impressed. Rather, I wasn't, until today. Today I read the first bit of this book that I really liked. There was quite a lot of it, and to repeat it verbatim would most assuredly be a tedious thing for both you and I, but I think it's important.
First, he talked about the fact that people don't write about what they *really* think and feel. Not real, honest stuff. Like the contempt that's bread from familiarity, or the secret passions that swim inside them, breeding visions of bathing in the blood of their loved ones. People don't write about that. Mr. Miller did. Today, I realized what the book was about. It's about him writing really, truly honest things. It's full of overblown metaphor and it stretches itself constantly, seeking some kind of artistic expression that's really more like watching a severely obese person bathe in Crisco and buttermilk. It's full of a truly pathetic contempt for everything around him, not least of all himself, but with a bent of superiority that makes my ass twitch (the book is set in Paris, so I feel perfectly comfortable using that phrase).
But, damn...isn't that really what curdles around inside any of us? At least, any of us who have passion and art in us? And, isn't that all of us?
Or maybe it's not all of us, because that's the other thing I read today that struck me...
Mr. Miller went on about how alien artists are. Himself included. He described at length how inhuman he and his ilk are. Reveled in the separation that exists between the artist and the human. He painted pictures of people painting pictures with the blood and semen, piss and puss of the human race. He talked about how rules aught not apply...blahblahblah...
He also noted how important it is that some people break free. The importance of some people evolving, ascending, becoming enlightened...incandescing...
Mr. Miller seems to think that people who can do that should do that...
I started having a fit of self-important doubt...
What if I am one of those people? What if I am capable of greatness and the wreaking of terrible, rejuvenative chaos upon the world? What if I should be making art and taking names!!?
WHAT AM I DOING IN LAW SCHOOL?
I should be reveling in my inhumanity! I should be sprawled in the spume of life, ascending into glorious decadence! I should be inventing new ways to destroy old ways!! I should be evolving ahead of Them.
*shrug*
And maybe it's so.
And maybe I just don't wanna go if I can't take all the world with me.
Maybe an awakening into the brilliant light of real reality isn't enough for me.
I don't want to reach enlightenment. I don't think I want to be free and swim in blood-colored pigments. I don't think I want to step completely outside the dominant paradigm.
I want to crack the shell of EVERYONE. One at a time, I am bound and determined to loop and link us until we can all climb to freedom together.
I want to be a spiritual Marine. No one gets left behind!
I want to cockpunch Henry Miller and every single egocentric, self-fellating, in-group/out-group-creating artist and intellectual I've ever met.
I am a magnificent and unique being. I reek of glory and creation. I will deign to elevate everyone.
Or maybe I'm just some guy, y'know?