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.
Why raise questions, throw lights, or see shadows? Why should I bother?
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.
No one believes in ingenuity anymore. No one trusts it, no one thinks it’s worth anything, no one sees any face value on it. I think it’s because it doesn’t have the capability to hurt and destroy. Everything worth something these days is measured by how big it is and/or how much destructive power it has.
It’s so easy to become a victim of our circumstances and sink in sad, scared, or angry feelings. I think sometimes that’s inevitable, but other times it seems as if we’re drawn by the gloom of suffering, and we purposely avoid overcoming it.
The reality of my own body is one of the most terrible realities. Being constantly aware of my nerves, my back, my stomach, my hair puts my own unconscious spirit in the back row. My body is not an illusion, or a vessel. It is a reality.
I had a friend a few years ago that used to emotionally mistreat me. I was always available, always flexible, always tending any needs. I finally walked out and parted ways. It’s not that I believe codependency is always terrible, or that interdependency is the way to go. I learned to be comfortable somewhere in between.
A few times in my life I’ve had the feeling of getting to a turning point, a specific moment when I knew my expectations would not be deceiving and so they didn’t have to be lowered. It’s happened perhaps only twice, maybe 3 times? I think that’s plenty.
It seems like today no one gives out patronage to other people without seeking recognition. The Good Samaritan doesn’t want to remain silent and anonymous anymore, but rather expects being in the spotlight, anticipating the applause, presuming the attention.
Special thanks to the Bouvier Beale family http://www.greygardenscollections.com.
Sometimes I think that the constant fight to amass things that weigh on us and subjugate us comes from the inability to live the present. What is that I insist on achieving? What happens if I don’t get there?