(no subject)
of my many sins.
Ramen.
Why in all of Bathala's creation does ramen mark my life cycles?
In the beginning of the golden age, the mid 90's version of Ben would survive by consuming ramen, and scabbing crouton packets from salad bars. Crouton. Packets. Clubs would miraculously be a hook-up in a time when 15 dollars was full price to enter. Never signed up for cable. Phone line didn’t have call waiting. No way in hell’s name did I EVER sign up for a gym I had to pay for. And the refrigerator had nothing but Boones.
Come 10 years later, I find myself… eating ramen. How the hell we get up HERE? Haha. In a time when one has to look ahead rather than behind themself, mid 2000’s version of Ben is not touching his savings and other investments in prep for property. Paycheck money dropped into a separate account for wedding expenses causes a domino deal. After bills, petty cash seems to decline rather fast. Leaving Ben to… eat ramen.
Television.
And how I have hatred for it.
I, as a consumer whore have no problem with corporations selling me product. Selling me the lifestyle of Caucasian diet perspective, while -and this one of the great American paradoxes- selling me the newest form of greased burger for under 6 dollars. Then selling me the black and whites of politics. And then selling me scandal as news. As an assimilated member of a society that sustains skewed demographical suffrage, I have no problem with media attempting to define my arts. My crafts.
But don’t try to sell me reality. That isn’t fucking reality. Reality is boring. And tedious. And monotonous. Dynamics is dynamics… but dynamics in spades is NOT reality. So for one of 7 or 8 times in my life, consumerism at it’s grossest surfaces and permits me to be disgusted. With retching comes the ability to see a failed product I’ve known my entire existence.
Credit
And how, of all my sins, I can’t seem to escape the concept.
I just recently read that there is no boundary to achievement, if one has no need to credit themselves for it. It went on to give the example of how Shakespeare didn’t REALLY write his own plays… but received the accolades throughout history. As such, the writings of the 17th duke of Oxford lived on regardless.
I claim the love of art, but realize I love my credit just as much. And in the end, that’s a really selfish crime. An affirmation of creation. Because as tortured as any artist claims to be, he/she claims SOMETHING. And he/she puts his stamp on it. Otherwise.. shit.. how the hell else would you know this bastard is tortured? I tell myself I love my work. I ask myself if that's enough. Still haven't figured out the answer to that one.
Ramen.
Why in all of Bathala's creation does ramen mark my life cycles?
In the beginning of the golden age, the mid 90's version of Ben would survive by consuming ramen, and scabbing crouton packets from salad bars. Crouton. Packets. Clubs would miraculously be a hook-up in a time when 15 dollars was full price to enter. Never signed up for cable. Phone line didn’t have call waiting. No way in hell’s name did I EVER sign up for a gym I had to pay for. And the refrigerator had nothing but Boones.
Come 10 years later, I find myself… eating ramen. How the hell we get up HERE? Haha. In a time when one has to look ahead rather than behind themself, mid 2000’s version of Ben is not touching his savings and other investments in prep for property. Paycheck money dropped into a separate account for wedding expenses causes a domino deal. After bills, petty cash seems to decline rather fast. Leaving Ben to… eat ramen.
Television.
And how I have hatred for it.
I, as a consumer whore have no problem with corporations selling me product. Selling me the lifestyle of Caucasian diet perspective, while -and this one of the great American paradoxes- selling me the newest form of greased burger for under 6 dollars. Then selling me the black and whites of politics. And then selling me scandal as news. As an assimilated member of a society that sustains skewed demographical suffrage, I have no problem with media attempting to define my arts. My crafts.
But don’t try to sell me reality. That isn’t fucking reality. Reality is boring. And tedious. And monotonous. Dynamics is dynamics… but dynamics in spades is NOT reality. So for one of 7 or 8 times in my life, consumerism at it’s grossest surfaces and permits me to be disgusted. With retching comes the ability to see a failed product I’ve known my entire existence.
Credit
And how, of all my sins, I can’t seem to escape the concept.
I just recently read that there is no boundary to achievement, if one has no need to credit themselves for it. It went on to give the example of how Shakespeare didn’t REALLY write his own plays… but received the accolades throughout history. As such, the writings of the 17th duke of Oxford lived on regardless.
I claim the love of art, but realize I love my credit just as much. And in the end, that’s a really selfish crime. An affirmation of creation. Because as tortured as any artist claims to be, he/she claims SOMETHING. And he/she puts his stamp on it. Otherwise.. shit.. how the hell else would you know this bastard is tortured? I tell myself I love my work. I ask myself if that's enough. Still haven't figured out the answer to that one.