The desired effect is what you get....
So, yesterday fell victim to my desire to do nothing. Today, I declare, shall survive.
I sometimes fail to believe that I should ever be of use to anyone, in any capacity. I believe in my own capacity for creation, synthesis, and originality, even significance, but if nobody is to appreciate it why should I not just occupy myself with the entertainment of my internal world and connecting the dots that others plot? There certainly are enough of them.
In many a way, that is what I do most successfully in whatever case. The question is, then, is it of use to evidence this to others? Last night, on the TV, Charlie Rose spoke to recipients of the MacArthur fellowship, one of whom was an artists whose work included filling an abandoned hospital with speakers over the course of a year, then playing a single piece over them; also, filling another mental hospital with flowers for four days. The latter produced some intriguing photographs, but in all, I am not sure how to value these as acts in the world.
She spoke of the fellowship as inspiring to her, for the very fact that someone saw her work and had faith in it.
The sheer joy of creating something new is something I miss greatly, as well as the prospect of sharing it with others. Somehow, though, the expectation that such would be appreciated is lacking. Or maybe just ignored.
Why the hell would I let that stop me? At the moment, my greatest social role is felt to be the payment of tax and interest upon loans. And I suppose it may be until I assert otherwise, demonstrate otherwise.
Naturally. I suppose the only reason I should occupy myself with something other than my internal world is if I acknowledge that I give a Fuck about how I touch others.
I do. But that really puts my ass on the line, doesnt it?
I sometimes fail to believe that I should ever be of use to anyone, in any capacity. I believe in my own capacity for creation, synthesis, and originality, even significance, but if nobody is to appreciate it why should I not just occupy myself with the entertainment of my internal world and connecting the dots that others plot? There certainly are enough of them.
In many a way, that is what I do most successfully in whatever case. The question is, then, is it of use to evidence this to others? Last night, on the TV, Charlie Rose spoke to recipients of the MacArthur fellowship, one of whom was an artists whose work included filling an abandoned hospital with speakers over the course of a year, then playing a single piece over them; also, filling another mental hospital with flowers for four days. The latter produced some intriguing photographs, but in all, I am not sure how to value these as acts in the world.
She spoke of the fellowship as inspiring to her, for the very fact that someone saw her work and had faith in it.
The sheer joy of creating something new is something I miss greatly, as well as the prospect of sharing it with others. Somehow, though, the expectation that such would be appreciated is lacking. Or maybe just ignored.
Why the hell would I let that stop me? At the moment, my greatest social role is felt to be the payment of tax and interest upon loans. And I suppose it may be until I assert otherwise, demonstrate otherwise.
Naturally. I suppose the only reason I should occupy myself with something other than my internal world is if I acknowledge that I give a Fuck about how I touch others.
I do. But that really puts my ass on the line, doesnt it?