if you eat fish in a dream, does it count?
So here's how it goes:
"Inside, everything was white-walled, moss-tiled and moonlit. Everything smelled of recent rain. The thin priest was asleep on a mat on the raised stone veranda. A brass platter of coins lay near his pillow like a comic-strip illustration of his dreams. The compound was littered with moons, one in each mud puddle."
I decide, occasionally, to be satisfied with striving. Fuck BELIEVING, you know? In a brain full of ideals, sometimes the reality of day after day and night after night and closing and opening the blinds and coming and going is awfully jarring. In a brain full of bullshit sometimes all I can understand is
what
I
can
not
concept
ualize.
Being an artist doesn't have anything to do with being a student; being a viable manifestation of mySELF doesn't have anything to do with being relevant or being profitable or even being Intelligent.
I am interested in the words that fall out along the way, but even more than that I am interested in the words that don't. Why? Why don't they? What does it mean to Feel a Thought and not be able to inject it into the atmosphere or to write it out in curling calligraphy or to paint it gold and hang it on a Christmas tree? Does it Count?
Sure. Yes.
Fasc
in
at
ing.
If I have learned anything in the last five months, it's that a lot of times fascinating questions are more interesting than their fascinating answers.
I'm starting to learn what is interesting and what is not. I'm starting to learn what makes me respect myself. It isn't an answer, it isn't a logical progression, it isn't a research paper, it has never taken the form of literary criticism -- and, for that matter, it doesn't have a goddamn thing to do with WORDS.
"Inside, everything was white-walled, moss-tiled and moonlit. Everything smelled of recent rain. The thin priest was asleep on a mat on the raised stone veranda. A brass platter of coins lay near his pillow like a comic-strip illustration of his dreams. The compound was littered with moons, one in each mud puddle."
I decide, occasionally, to be satisfied with striving. Fuck BELIEVING, you know? In a brain full of ideals, sometimes the reality of day after day and night after night and closing and opening the blinds and coming and going is awfully jarring. In a brain full of bullshit sometimes all I can understand is
what
I
can
not
concept
ualize.
Being an artist doesn't have anything to do with being a student; being a viable manifestation of mySELF doesn't have anything to do with being relevant or being profitable or even being Intelligent.
I am interested in the words that fall out along the way, but even more than that I am interested in the words that don't. Why? Why don't they? What does it mean to Feel a Thought and not be able to inject it into the atmosphere or to write it out in curling calligraphy or to paint it gold and hang it on a Christmas tree? Does it Count?
Sure. Yes.
Fasc
in
at
ing.
If I have learned anything in the last five months, it's that a lot of times fascinating questions are more interesting than their fascinating answers.
I'm starting to learn what is interesting and what is not. I'm starting to learn what makes me respect myself. It isn't an answer, it isn't a logical progression, it isn't a research paper, it has never taken the form of literary criticism -- and, for that matter, it doesn't have a goddamn thing to do with WORDS.