WE'RE SAYING EVERYTHING SO HOW CAN WE BE ANYTHING BUT?
Desole, here's the deal. Saturday night I went to see The Fugitives play a show on St. Laurent. It was amazing, transcendent, perfection, it was a ridiculously good show. I then came home, stayed up until about 4:30 listening to their album, then then until 4 the next day, which would be Sunday afternoon. I have slept for maybe an hour since then. While I am doing alright with the present circumstance, no matter how undesirable they are, I cannot entirely be accounted for what I'm doing.
For this reason, I am truly sorry if this post degenerates into strange parables and convoluted metaphors, though that may not be far from what usually happens around here.
I am also considering a site redesign. So I'm sorry if there's a transformation, but I assure you, if it's really weird, and weird in a bad way, I will burn it all.
As you can probably imagine, having been awake for so long, and since such a transcendent experience, a lots been running through my head, screaming, like I don't know, I was trying to force something to come out there, but it just wasn't happening. I'll let you in on a secret, one that may not be so much of a secret, and is now definitely not one, since I'm telling the entire internet about it, but I'm side-tracked. The secret is that I don't like to plan. Like, at all. In so many matters, I find it easier and funner and better to just wing it, and see what happens, what comes out. This is usually the case with things like writing or walking or such trivial pursuits as those. I write a lot, and right now I'm trying to get this portfolio done for fiction, but the thing is, the stories I'm writing are sequential drafts of things I wrote organically. I know "organic" is an artistic buzzword, but I've been rolling with it more and more lately. I mean, I'm doing this thing right now with my ink and papers where I'm introducing water. Water wrinkles the paper and thins the ink and it always looks really cool in the end and for lack of a better word, it is organic, because I don't entirely feel like I can take credit for what's coming out. Scientific forces I barely understand and gravity are effecting what comes out on paper more than my mind ever is, and part of me hates this lack of control, but at the same time, it's amazing and humbling, because what is on the paper are these patterns and little wrinkles and crinkles that I could never mimic, and that could never really exist anywhere else, and I don't know, it's like I didn't do it, but without me, it wouldn't be there. It's like I'm working in tandem with these forces, but these forces are forces that have no sentience, no thought, no motivation, they're just energy, they're just pushing me different places and there's no reason for it, it's just happening. And I guess that's a scary thought, but at the same time, because of these forces, things are turning out pretty okay for me, I'd say.
Uhm, yeah, so that just came out, I didn't really plan on saying any of that. It's like there's two things happening in my head, like minor schizo or something like that. There's the things my hands are doing, the words that are coming out when I'm hitting the keyboard like a punching bag, but that's all muscle memory, there's no real conscious thought to these words and yes I could make myself slow down and think. about. the. words. I'm. typing. But there's no fun to that, it's like the Beat sensibility of "First thought best thought" and I guess I never really understood what that meant, before it was just an excuse to not edit, but now I think I get it. Because I have entrenched myself in recent days in books and pop culture and caffeine and for me to say, right now, what I really want to, what I need to, for me to tell the truest truth I can, then I have to just write and trust that my body and my hands know what has to be done. And I guess it's more than muscle memory moving my hands right now, and I guess on some level my mind is dictating this, telling my fingers what to do, telling my artistic sensibilities what to do, but I'm not conscious to that, I'm just writing what I want to, and what I want is the greatest truth I can think of. And fuck it, is this art? I don't even know what the fuck art is, no definition I have read has really told me what to believe in terms of art. And I guess art is like love, there's no way to really explain it, it's one of those things that needs to be felt and touched to be understood, and yeah, that satisfies me. Because, really, I could give a basic definition of love in the same way I could give a basic definition of art, but neither of them would really encapsulated what is meant by the terms. I mean, love and art have so many implications that to separate them from these would be disastrous, it'd be the Hindenburg crashing in Taiwan, there's no real way to explain it. I mean, I'm not sure if what I do is art, and I act like an artist but until I know that what I do is art I can't really call myself an artist but, really, I've been spending the bulk of my time painting and writing right now and if what I'm doing isn't art then who the fuck am I? How would I define myself? But fuck this existentialism, I don't need to deal with this, I'm just doing what makes me happy. And I guess that means drawing pandas and writing about kittens and I guess that's pretty fucking cool in so many ways, but man, what I'm writing right now isn't really making me happy.
I mean, I'm taking this idea, of a box of kittens that grant true love, and I'm trying to make it dark and twisted but that isn't what I want to do, I don't want to write about a man who's life is ruined because of love and kittens, I want to write about someone falling in love and it all going to shit but him being happy because, fuck it, love is what's important. And that's what I want to get across, but those endings are completely shit, and those characters are flat and boring and cliches and I just want to write stuff that makes me happy, but I know that things that make me happy are terrible things. I mean, I love Transformers and G.I. Joe.
And shit man, I didn't want to get this self-deprecating. I'm going to go and figure out what I want to say and do, have a good night, and sorry for how this turned out.
Desole, here's the deal. Saturday night I went to see The Fugitives play a show on St. Laurent. It was amazing, transcendent, perfection, it was a ridiculously good show. I then came home, stayed up until about 4:30 listening to their album, then then until 4 the next day, which would be Sunday afternoon. I have slept for maybe an hour since then. While I am doing alright with the present circumstance, no matter how undesirable they are, I cannot entirely be accounted for what I'm doing.
For this reason, I am truly sorry if this post degenerates into strange parables and convoluted metaphors, though that may not be far from what usually happens around here.
I am also considering a site redesign. So I'm sorry if there's a transformation, but I assure you, if it's really weird, and weird in a bad way, I will burn it all.
As you can probably imagine, having been awake for so long, and since such a transcendent experience, a lots been running through my head, screaming, like I don't know, I was trying to force something to come out there, but it just wasn't happening. I'll let you in on a secret, one that may not be so much of a secret, and is now definitely not one, since I'm telling the entire internet about it, but I'm side-tracked. The secret is that I don't like to plan. Like, at all. In so many matters, I find it easier and funner and better to just wing it, and see what happens, what comes out. This is usually the case with things like writing or walking or such trivial pursuits as those. I write a lot, and right now I'm trying to get this portfolio done for fiction, but the thing is, the stories I'm writing are sequential drafts of things I wrote organically. I know "organic" is an artistic buzzword, but I've been rolling with it more and more lately. I mean, I'm doing this thing right now with my ink and papers where I'm introducing water. Water wrinkles the paper and thins the ink and it always looks really cool in the end and for lack of a better word, it is organic, because I don't entirely feel like I can take credit for what's coming out. Scientific forces I barely understand and gravity are effecting what comes out on paper more than my mind ever is, and part of me hates this lack of control, but at the same time, it's amazing and humbling, because what is on the paper are these patterns and little wrinkles and crinkles that I could never mimic, and that could never really exist anywhere else, and I don't know, it's like I didn't do it, but without me, it wouldn't be there. It's like I'm working in tandem with these forces, but these forces are forces that have no sentience, no thought, no motivation, they're just energy, they're just pushing me different places and there's no reason for it, it's just happening. And I guess that's a scary thought, but at the same time, because of these forces, things are turning out pretty okay for me, I'd say.
Uhm, yeah, so that just came out, I didn't really plan on saying any of that. It's like there's two things happening in my head, like minor schizo or something like that. There's the things my hands are doing, the words that are coming out when I'm hitting the keyboard like a punching bag, but that's all muscle memory, there's no real conscious thought to these words and yes I could make myself slow down and think. about. the. words. I'm. typing. But there's no fun to that, it's like the Beat sensibility of "First thought best thought" and I guess I never really understood what that meant, before it was just an excuse to not edit, but now I think I get it. Because I have entrenched myself in recent days in books and pop culture and caffeine and for me to say, right now, what I really want to, what I need to, for me to tell the truest truth I can, then I have to just write and trust that my body and my hands know what has to be done. And I guess it's more than muscle memory moving my hands right now, and I guess on some level my mind is dictating this, telling my fingers what to do, telling my artistic sensibilities what to do, but I'm not conscious to that, I'm just writing what I want to, and what I want is the greatest truth I can think of. And fuck it, is this art? I don't even know what the fuck art is, no definition I have read has really told me what to believe in terms of art. And I guess art is like love, there's no way to really explain it, it's one of those things that needs to be felt and touched to be understood, and yeah, that satisfies me. Because, really, I could give a basic definition of love in the same way I could give a basic definition of art, but neither of them would really encapsulated what is meant by the terms. I mean, love and art have so many implications that to separate them from these would be disastrous, it'd be the Hindenburg crashing in Taiwan, there's no real way to explain it. I mean, I'm not sure if what I do is art, and I act like an artist but until I know that what I do is art I can't really call myself an artist but, really, I've been spending the bulk of my time painting and writing right now and if what I'm doing isn't art then who the fuck am I? How would I define myself? But fuck this existentialism, I don't need to deal with this, I'm just doing what makes me happy. And I guess that means drawing pandas and writing about kittens and I guess that's pretty fucking cool in so many ways, but man, what I'm writing right now isn't really making me happy.
I mean, I'm taking this idea, of a box of kittens that grant true love, and I'm trying to make it dark and twisted but that isn't what I want to do, I don't want to write about a man who's life is ruined because of love and kittens, I want to write about someone falling in love and it all going to shit but him being happy because, fuck it, love is what's important. And that's what I want to get across, but those endings are completely shit, and those characters are flat and boring and cliches and I just want to write stuff that makes me happy, but I know that things that make me happy are terrible things. I mean, I love Transformers and G.I. Joe.
And shit man, I didn't want to get this self-deprecating. I'm going to go and figure out what I want to say and do, have a good night, and sorry for how this turned out.
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