(no subject)
Due to triumphant teamwork between me and K, the (it turns out) 8kbtu/h air conditioner got installed without killing anybody on the sidewalk below. We got some bricks from Loew's to prop up the fat end in a manner which, glancing around the neighborhood, appears to be thoroughly customary. Did you know that bricks are only like 50c each? I did not know this. The main thing was, we were missing a bagful of screws, which K's dad found after being deliberately asked whether there were any missing screws.
I watched this fascinating interview with ray bradbury. I was not aware that his stance on creative work was an exceedingly perfect articulation of the very problematic but equally familiar "do what you love" trope. If that trope makes you feel only "ugh", you will probably not enjoy watching this interview. But I find it tantalizing even as I acknowledge its problems, because the experience of loving (the process, and the output, and the circumstances, and the mystery of) creative work --- it's such a compelling, such a human experience. Or at least --- a kind of human experience that isn't humans-living-in-harmony-with-nature, but a brassier, more imposing humanity, that shapes, that speaks, that leaves a mark on the hillside.
I keep having this feeling reading bits of Blake and Swedenborg and Kazantzakis lately too, a feeling that points at them and says, this is wrong --- but not a petty wrong --- a great wrong, an artful wrong.
I watched this fascinating interview with ray bradbury. I was not aware that his stance on creative work was an exceedingly perfect articulation of the very problematic but equally familiar "do what you love" trope. If that trope makes you feel only "ugh", you will probably not enjoy watching this interview. But I find it tantalizing even as I acknowledge its problems, because the experience of loving (the process, and the output, and the circumstances, and the mystery of) creative work --- it's such a compelling, such a human experience. Or at least --- a kind of human experience that isn't humans-living-in-harmony-with-nature, but a brassier, more imposing humanity, that shapes, that speaks, that leaves a mark on the hillside.
I keep having this feeling reading bits of Blake and Swedenborg and Kazantzakis lately too, a feeling that points at them and says, this is wrong --- but not a petty wrong --- a great wrong, an artful wrong.