A few days in the making.
I figure it’s more than about time for Jessica to have an update on her thoughts or inner workings, life, perhaps write some terrible emo-istic poetry. I find myself stagnating in a complex simplicity. It’d as though no person but let me indulge an idea, especially no artistic person, finds satisfaction in fulfillment. I’ve debated on whether to end that sentence there. I will for now. I find I’ve prided myself on my more chaotic lifetimes. Perhaps you’ll call me a spoon-fed “tormented” artist with nothing left to bitch about, but yes I’m going to bitch at success. My life is not grandiose or by societies standards successful but I am happy, and stable, and peaceful. People used to say I searched out the oddest and most uncomfortable situations. I believe they were right that I found such comfort in my discomfort. Now I find in the midst of no resistance that I am awkwardly, comfortably panning my existence. Updated continuation two nights later and considerably more intoxicated… Where was I? Oh yes… panning existence. So I find myself thumbing through my worldly encyclopedia on the life of depraved artistic folks, when I find myself pondering where is my impending doom that comes in the starter kit of being an artist. I reach deep in my pockets and claw at the innocent lint of my pocket lining… begging… no demanding that I find my life’s misery awaiting deep within my breeches. It’s that I tell you. I miss those hands at my throat and that leather on my back forcing me forwards and against. I find my art and my life too easy into breath and life. Such little resistance and accepting arms towards the deformed creations of my womb and mind. Is it sad that I find exhilaration at the thought that the creation of my art may bring a hammer upon my house? I’m like this pile of cause lacking a cross to be a martyr. If Jesus had taught his teachings and never died for emitting them would he be so deeply imbued within our culture? And I doubt myself. Without the face of adversary I find it hard to discover what I truly believe and if those things I do believe would I die for them? How will I ever know without that threat to my life? I see the relevance of my freedom of speech to go unmeasured in the instance that I can not gauge with minds turned to my cause but only minds against. Are we all so jaded and desensitized that I can find nothing offensive with which to ease my tormenting mediocrity. And if I can somehow go beyond the eating of babies and fucking of nuns and actually… truly offend… will I still believe in it? Or will I be striving for just a reaction. I can paint a picture of a mother eating her baby and when I’ve brought someone to tears what will I have to say to them? “Ummm, Hi! Now that I have your attention I just wanted to let you know that you shouldn’t eat at Taco Bell because the underpay their tomato farmers” Yea that’s artistic strife and conviction. What is it I really want say… I lack that dreadful hardship in my life that I can spew out on paper and blame it on the government. “My girlfriend left me because you won’t allow gay marriage and she feels her homosexuality is a sin.” But it’s just not true. These things just don’t happen to me and I sometimes wish they would. Whats wrong with me? I’m HAPPY!!! Why can’t I be happy with that. Why can’t I be satisfied in my eutopia, however temporary, without there having to be some hated force directly opposing my happiness. Is my happiness only at the extent of forcing others to accept what makes me happy? “I like eating dead babies… it makes me happy… deal with it.” Is that what I need? I hope not but I wonder if there isn’t some sick satisfaction in it. Knowing what makes you happy makes someone else cringe to their deepest core. Another Continuation: 10 days later and sober. Maybe I don’t really want to offend anyone and I have no idea what my obsession with the dead baby thing is. But maybe if people still enjoyed beautiful things instead of different things… or offensive things… I’d be happier making them. Which brings us back to why religion was a good thing (not for the wars or all the people who died believing in nothing or killing other people for not believing in the same nothing or something or whatever. Religion was good for art, people could make beautiful things for God and people liked that. Whether it be Christianity, Islam, or tribal religions they all made pretty stuff for God. Like the Egyptians thought their pharaoh was God and they made pretty things for him. I’ve found it was always so much easier to create good artwork when I was making it for someone. But now I’m just making it to make it and what for? Am I making it for me? Am I making it for society? Am I making it for future generations. But that’s just the problem. I don’t love myself, society or, future generations like artists of the past loved their Gods. I know this whole blog is an argument with myself but it’s helping me figure some stuff out so hold on, there is an answer somewhere I feel it. Fuck it… I’m hungry… and I’ll just keep making my art, but first… food.