 |
| Ponderings |
| Dancing on Angels… Older than movies… And other deep phrases… What is it, my friend? Why are we so attracted to the mysterious? Why do we insist on thinking that something we do not understand is not because of its absurdity, falsity, or uselessness, but rather our own incompetence? Any fool among us can string together a set of words and call it poetic, then come the intellectuals to tell us just how dramatically important this particular item is to our spiritual, intellectual, or artistic well being. All too often, the correlation between nearness of familial relationships and the quality of the work. Curious… Then also exist those musings of the skeptic, those ruminations on the lack of integrity in the rest of society, leaving us who are to ask it, the question of their accuracy, or the desperate attempt at a kind of acceptance for themselves in a harsh and lonely world. Insanity does not exist. But I don't suppose this statement will receive much credence being that only those considered to be insane will indeed understand, and they, for their own protection cannot agree. The point being, art considered art because of the mindset of the artist does not count. True, to achieve the status of art, the artist must be considered. Were this not to be taken account of, everything from leaves blown haphazard by a wind to the dropping of a constipated parrot are elevated into the category. However the artist's intent proves the level of the art, it cannot be the only criterion. Obviously there is also to be considered that quality of the art in question. For yes, though in this society of pussificatoin, no one cares to admit it, but there is a better and worse art. There is bad art… |
 |
| What is this, our obsession with sleep? It seems that the only creatures that out sleep us are the domesticated enough to be taken care of by us. Is it that sleep is an escape? Dreams being, whether nightmare or blissful wisps of a fantasy life we wish we had, they are intrinsically good because they are different than our waking lives which are apparently so horrible that even being chased by our mother who had an axe and insists that we kill our sister or she will shop off our penises and feed them to the dogs who actually have the faces of all of our former significant other, even this is apparently better for our psyche than facing one more minute of our conscious mind and having to deal with things that we know is actually real. Is that the attraction? Is it just that we are simply so lazy that we would rather lie motionless for so long that our boredom overwhelms us into a slumber? Would we rather shut our eyes on the world and waste our all too short lives than to make a garden, teach our children, or heaven forbid, do something helpful for someone else? The taking of responsibility away so much that we unplug our phones lock our doors, close the shades, creating night when there is provided to us light by which to do useful things, and to not even think, not meditate, just totally lose control and sleep? What drug can promise us something this blissful? The total loss of all control and thought, we won't make an ass out of ourselves or have a hangover the next day, and save for the somnambulists, who have the right idea I should say, no aftereffects or actually during effects, just fucking lying there and sleeping until the next thing that we deem important enough to get off our lazy fat asses and go do something for the love of all things that are holy. |