(no subject)
A journalistic entry of existintial woe, which has pushed through the jaded feeling I have developed of late for all such entries in which I lament my weaknesses and lack of focus and drive and wasted opportunities. Through jaded self reflection and into the state of paralyzed, empty speculation - will there ever be change, growth, maturity, creative energy and style? The eternal question in which the artist asks if he is any good and is told that that question can’t be answered, that while art is a means towards communicating the celebration of living as the artist sees it it can never escape the lens of the artist’s eye and thus never be anything but the artist on paper, wholey in some facet or other, whose ability to communicate is dependant on the artist’s inherent talent and discipline and truthfullness towards himself.
Be yourself! Write what you will, how you wish and about what only you would like to read. Metaphysics is a bitch, and the hardest thing to do once you’ve learnt from the masters is to forget them, forget their genius and narrow your gaze myopically to the page before you, clean and pure and pristine and awaiting to be despoiled by you, you and you only, unconscious and vicious and streaming and crying and laughing and always on the verge of quitting. Forget them - you can never be what they were, nor speak as they did, nor imagine worlds and people like they did either. No - for you, there is only yourself, your own alpha and omega, your own empty audience hall in which you perform before a mirror and bow to the empty applause that never resounds inside your head.
Gods, to be driven, to be alive, to be filled with passion! Why do I not have a monkey on my shoulder, forcing me to write write write? Why do I opt for such an indolent life, filled with wasted time and spurious thoughts, wishful thinking and laziness? To be driven, to see the world in such a different way that you must express it as best you can, must write it down over and over again so that you may make sense of it, may understand why it seems so different to others and why you are so unique. Not I, no, not I, far from the realms of genius and individual vision do I stand. I do not see the world differently, but perhaps only with greater understanding of what little I manage to see. What I do comprehend, I comprehend well, but it is like having a single spot of sunlight in a vast and terrible jungle that is otherwise filled with night. In that spot glistens a crimson toadstool, jeweled with dew and an of such intense hues and shades that it hurts the mind. Marvel at how well you perceive it, this strange and wondrous fungi, and ignore the forest that stretches out into infinity on all sides, dark and mysterious and beyond your ken.
To struggle, to fight, to rise up like a horse at bay, neighing and kicking, fighting the pack of wolves that are time and the death of all hope, that hold you at bay, that pursue you and corner you and never give you surcease from your troubles. To fight and scream and rage and flail, to stand before the oceans like Canute and bid them be still, to attempt the impossible and have faith in yourself while doing it - this I would have be mine own mindset, be me, Canute II, sitting confidently at the keyboard and knowing that what I write matters not to anybody else but me, that I should write as if each page were being deleted as it were produced, for refinement and sales mean nothing when the only true source of creation is to reveal yourself, to communicate your pain and love and passion and fear and perversity to a world that cares not at all.
Futile! All, all futile! There is no meaning, no cause, no effect. There is only now, the infinite now that stretches away as far as you can see and ends when you blink, as soon as you sit down to rest and close your eyes and never open them again. A trillion blinks end in one closure and then its over and what have you done? Produced thousands of works of art like Picasso, driven like a mad thing, whipped by his muse, fevered and driven and hailed as a genius? Sat around in your room like a rock, accumulating nothing but dust and dead dreams that are curled around your stooped and defeated form like dry leaves? My heart is a coliseum in which a flame gutters. Nobody could ever understand, you cry into the night, knowing that while many actually could, they never would be you, they never would stand in your own casing of skin and blood and see the world through your eyes and feel it all with your heart and mind.
Be yourself! Write what you will, how you wish and about what only you would like to read. Metaphysics is a bitch, and the hardest thing to do once you’ve learnt from the masters is to forget them, forget their genius and narrow your gaze myopically to the page before you, clean and pure and pristine and awaiting to be despoiled by you, you and you only, unconscious and vicious and streaming and crying and laughing and always on the verge of quitting. Forget them - you can never be what they were, nor speak as they did, nor imagine worlds and people like they did either. No - for you, there is only yourself, your own alpha and omega, your own empty audience hall in which you perform before a mirror and bow to the empty applause that never resounds inside your head.
Gods, to be driven, to be alive, to be filled with passion! Why do I not have a monkey on my shoulder, forcing me to write write write? Why do I opt for such an indolent life, filled with wasted time and spurious thoughts, wishful thinking and laziness? To be driven, to see the world in such a different way that you must express it as best you can, must write it down over and over again so that you may make sense of it, may understand why it seems so different to others and why you are so unique. Not I, no, not I, far from the realms of genius and individual vision do I stand. I do not see the world differently, but perhaps only with greater understanding of what little I manage to see. What I do comprehend, I comprehend well, but it is like having a single spot of sunlight in a vast and terrible jungle that is otherwise filled with night. In that spot glistens a crimson toadstool, jeweled with dew and an of such intense hues and shades that it hurts the mind. Marvel at how well you perceive it, this strange and wondrous fungi, and ignore the forest that stretches out into infinity on all sides, dark and mysterious and beyond your ken.
To struggle, to fight, to rise up like a horse at bay, neighing and kicking, fighting the pack of wolves that are time and the death of all hope, that hold you at bay, that pursue you and corner you and never give you surcease from your troubles. To fight and scream and rage and flail, to stand before the oceans like Canute and bid them be still, to attempt the impossible and have faith in yourself while doing it - this I would have be mine own mindset, be me, Canute II, sitting confidently at the keyboard and knowing that what I write matters not to anybody else but me, that I should write as if each page were being deleted as it were produced, for refinement and sales mean nothing when the only true source of creation is to reveal yourself, to communicate your pain and love and passion and fear and perversity to a world that cares not at all.
Futile! All, all futile! There is no meaning, no cause, no effect. There is only now, the infinite now that stretches away as far as you can see and ends when you blink, as soon as you sit down to rest and close your eyes and never open them again. A trillion blinks end in one closure and then its over and what have you done? Produced thousands of works of art like Picasso, driven like a mad thing, whipped by his muse, fevered and driven and hailed as a genius? Sat around in your room like a rock, accumulating nothing but dust and dead dreams that are curled around your stooped and defeated form like dry leaves? My heart is a coliseum in which a flame gutters. Nobody could ever understand, you cry into the night, knowing that while many actually could, they never would be you, they never would stand in your own casing of skin and blood and see the world through your eyes and feel it all with your heart and mind.