Welcome to my new (and first) literary blog! It will most likely solve two problems I've been having...
1. I'm tired of posting writing on facebook
2. I want a blog.
Yeah, I think we're good there. Anyways, this will mostly be for writings, but also for anything else I decide to use it for. I think most of it goes without explanation.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Voyager Prose
I am struggling with an impulse that has confounded and pained me more than any other. Whenever I create beauty, whether it be poetry, music, or (rarely) prose, I am overwhelmed with a gastrointestinal desire to haphazardly yet permanently attach a grotesque, off-color remark of blatant self mockery to the work. In simpler turns, I would like to create a masterwork and then write PENIS! across it in Sharpie.
The strength of this impulse is porportional to my esteem of my work. It is curious because I have never had nor likely will have an impulse to destroy the works of others. I cannot decide whether it is the enlightened or self-loathing faction of me that wants me to shit myself into a fat, happy zero, vanishing among the nothings we cannot imagine.
Perhaps it is the part of me that knows how much we idealize our knowledge of beauty, never dreaming about what treasures lie unburied. Personally, my soul is entirely invested in saving the old lady over the Rembrandt. True, we value our arts in accordance to their ambiguity and universality. Yet we lazy half-breeds stop at the first appearance of meaning, deciding the beauties of the world are best founds in books, music, painting, and nature.
The entirety of petty art humankind has created does not measure up to the beauty and inherent value of a sentient, conscious being. No matter how many flowery, schizophrenic essays urinate immortality on art, it reaps its meaning solely from the human mind and its experience (HME), which has no boundaries except the definitional. Altruistic action thus triumphs over contemplation as the most relevant response to the human experience (or should I say, my human experience), because, although the models our actions are based on are necessarily imperfect, the well-nutured human mind is the best known agent for improving models. Although, since we know that humans are experts and screwing themselves over royally, there is no reason to assume that humanity will be perpetuated forever, its existence should allow us to live in peace, knowing that, since we exist, the cosmos are really in working order.
"Do you know what else else? Death is irrelevant. It's just another word for saying, 'I really have no idea what I'm talking about.'"
The sarcasm and self-mockery that I am so stubbornly drawn to are, in fact, playthings as dangerous as missiles and fighter planes. Allowing the audience to discredit the hypnotist's suggestions out of shock makes communication rather unreliable, especially considering the excessive amount of boundaries and shock there are in the world.
And now I am going to finish this voyage. That was the conclusion, and here is the clincher:
Death is irrelevant. It's just another word for saying, "I really have no idea what I'm talking about."
The strength of this impulse is porportional to my esteem of my work. It is curious because I have never had nor likely will have an impulse to destroy the works of others. I cannot decide whether it is the enlightened or self-loathing faction of me that wants me to shit myself into a fat, happy zero, vanishing among the nothings we cannot imagine.
Perhaps it is the part of me that knows how much we idealize our knowledge of beauty, never dreaming about what treasures lie unburied. Personally, my soul is entirely invested in saving the old lady over the Rembrandt. True, we value our arts in accordance to their ambiguity and universality. Yet we lazy half-breeds stop at the first appearance of meaning, deciding the beauties of the world are best founds in books, music, painting, and nature.
The entirety of petty art humankind has created does not measure up to the beauty and inherent value of a sentient, conscious being. No matter how many flowery, schizophrenic essays urinate immortality on art, it reaps its meaning solely from the human mind and its experience (HME), which has no boundaries except the definitional. Altruistic action thus triumphs over contemplation as the most relevant response to the human experience (or should I say, my human experience), because, although the models our actions are based on are necessarily imperfect, the well-nutured human mind is the best known agent for improving models. Although, since we know that humans are experts and screwing themselves over royally, there is no reason to assume that humanity will be perpetuated forever, its existence should allow us to live in peace, knowing that, since we exist, the cosmos are really in working order.
"Do you know what else else? Death is irrelevant. It's just another word for saying, 'I really have no idea what I'm talking about.'"
The sarcasm and self-mockery that I am so stubbornly drawn to are, in fact, playthings as dangerous as missiles and fighter planes. Allowing the audience to discredit the hypnotist's suggestions out of shock makes communication rather unreliable, especially considering the excessive amount of boundaries and shock there are in the world.
And now I am going to finish this voyage. That was the conclusion, and here is the clincher:
Death is irrelevant. It's just another word for saying, "I really have no idea what I'm talking about."
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