I don’t think someone can create indefinitely. Sometimes I see artists giving expression and meaning to things that are already exhausted. I think we’ve all done it. In a way, it is expected from artists to do the same thing over and over and over. That is decadence. I admire some people that try to awaken from this productive hypnosis. They want to live because they are defying decadence. They are defying decadence because they want to live.
We live in idolatry of Disaster. We act sometimes like mere puppets stuffed with stubborn and argumentative red cells, who love to birth history by disgust. We secretly adore Disaster and dread adapting ourselves to the possibility of Hope. That’s why touchy-feelings bother some people.
As an artist, I realized that when there is an excess of subjectivity, that leads to either an unbearable megalomaniac state, or a path down to self-denigration. I see it on other artists as well: either they love themselves too much, or they hate themselves too much. It’s exhausting.
The fall from a moment of mundane vagueness into a whirlwind of feelings sometimes is steep and sudden, and messy. Despite the anxiety, I think those moments of absolute confusion provide things that really matter, like renewed expectations, and a sense of real hope. Too bad we forget those so soon.
I don’t even remember when I started my first journal. I don’t know how old I was. I used to fill pages after pages about things I lived or I wanted to live, feelings I felt or I wanted to feel. I have not stopped writing on journals ever since.
For some people, the passion for the absurd is the only thing that gives meaning to life. They love the absolute useless, they enjoy the poisonous things, every surprise is a painful surprise, every experience is a new chance for torture. They are usually nice and sweet, fun to be around, but lonely. I think I’ve been one of those people in the past.
My grandma used to raise turkeys. Sometimes, as a treat during the cold months, she used to give them bread crumbs soaked in wine, and a single peppercorn each. They were not sulky or booby birds. They were happy turkeys. I created this page in her memory.
Please donate to my campaign to save Miss Havisham: http://www.fundly.com/saving-miss-havisham.
Are brutes ignorant because they are brutes, or are they brutes because they are ignorant? In any case, my way to dealing with their bullying has always been to get around it while helping others. They eventually self-combust with bitterness and dumb decisions.
I remember when I believed that sleep was almost a nuisance, an obstacle for living, a waste of time. I went from there to believe of sleep as nourishment, and of waking life as being a nuisance, an obstacle, a waste of time, particularly when it shows up uninvited in the middle of the night.
As an artist, I have felt in the past that my career had been resolved into my own idea of success and failure. It was either one or the other, and it was always someone else idea. I’ve thrown that paradigm out the window. Success is failure. Failure is success. It’s all about love.
Proud of the small stuff, of the big stuff, of the stuff I own, of the stuff I got. Pride always puts me in a position of weakness and conflict, of separation, of rivalry. I try to strive for humbleness. But isn’t humbleness another way of being proud? As in proud to be humble? What is the opposite of pride? How I can get to ‘nothingness’ so I don’t have to be this or be that?
I remember one of those times when I thought I was done with love. I locked my heart and threw away the key. I want to think everyone has done the same at some point or another. Of course that’s just silly. You can’t be done with it, or lock it in. It doesn’t work. Resistance is futile.