dec 31.2014
its been said by someone greater than i, that a happy writer is a shit writer. i've read and have listened to records by the greats and its just a scientific fact that its when an artist is grasping at straws and trying his damnedest not to off himself is when the best work shines through. it's when you have nothing left and youre in the death throes of losing even that last bit of your mind that you are free to create the most beautiful pictures. the grandness in the flailing.
so then, it is the heavy hand of death that makes one seek to live vividly. death is the greatest artist of us all. or the muse-iest siren ever to sing her hymns to those frail enough to admire her voice.
i, by no means, consider myself a great writer. i recently forgot how to use commas. i am an idiot in sheeps clothing. but i do gett off on the creation of something from nothingness. the blank page, suddenly alive in blood, sweat, tears or other fluid. catharsis. a mark on the world to even when deleted or torn from the bind of the old empty journal... a mark nonetheless. that is coolness to me. that is where i feel, when so much of the time i can't feel anything. that's why i will always return to her broken brownstone arches on the wrong side of the tracks to get another taste... just another hit... just one fix more...
so this murderous ravaging mass of finality and cause screams, and some of us go tractorbeam forth blinded by the light, bugs blindly flying to that glowing flicker flame.
but when happiness is apparent. when the world has finally shone such a light on your total mediocrity, returning to those broken places where you keep your cigarbox of doubt and self-deprecation and dashed hopes and dreams, is the last place you wanna be found. the last place you want to have your light find you.
sadness breeds art. how good that art is based on how true the artist can be with himself. how limitless he can stand amongst the ruins with all of the walls down to show you where mommy and daddy failed and where all the girls with their hidden agendas got in and rearranged things. where all the atrocities of time and history and the world all fucked him over deeply without him even knowing it was all hurting. where the smell from all the burnt bridges singes the nose, settles smokey into your hair and skin.
happiness is the enemy of art. this is true. i have come to this platform several times over this last year with a voice in my head wanting out... things i've thought i wanted to say. eulogies to spill over. stories to share.
KEEP IT SIMPLE STUPID. id tell myself in someone elses voice, not my own.
the fact is... im happy and i know my art is suffering because of it.
ive been on a slow sad train for the better part of my life and as that train rolled into another sad station in april this year, my life would be changed by the magick that i am still experiencing. and she is robbing you ALL of my art. but i seriously could never trade her for anything else. love is such a strange division of death. the feels are kinda the same but totally opposite. because i met this woman... and i want to sing all the songs from the mountaintops. and i want to write sonnets with the vibrations that she sends through me like electrical currents. and i want to write her name on all the cathedrals because they will be the only thing left standing when we are all dead and gone... but i come here. and i am too happy to feel like i have written anything worth a damn, and i feel like i have cheated you.
thats just gonna have to be how it goes dummies! if there's one thing ive learned in life, it's you gotta get used to feeling cheated.
its been said by someone greater than i, that a happy writer is a shit writer. i've read and have listened to records by the greats and its just a scientific fact that its when an artist is grasping at straws and trying his damnedest not to off himself is when the best work shines through. it's when you have nothing left and youre in the death throes of losing even that last bit of your mind that you are free to create the most beautiful pictures. the grandness in the flailing.
so then, it is the heavy hand of death that makes one seek to live vividly. death is the greatest artist of us all. or the muse-iest siren ever to sing her hymns to those frail enough to admire her voice.
i, by no means, consider myself a great writer. i recently forgot how to use commas. i am an idiot in sheeps clothing. but i do gett off on the creation of something from nothingness. the blank page, suddenly alive in blood, sweat, tears or other fluid. catharsis. a mark on the world to even when deleted or torn from the bind of the old empty journal... a mark nonetheless. that is coolness to me. that is where i feel, when so much of the time i can't feel anything. that's why i will always return to her broken brownstone arches on the wrong side of the tracks to get another taste... just another hit... just one fix more...
so this murderous ravaging mass of finality and cause screams, and some of us go tractorbeam forth blinded by the light, bugs blindly flying to that glowing flicker flame.
but when happiness is apparent. when the world has finally shone such a light on your total mediocrity, returning to those broken places where you keep your cigarbox of doubt and self-deprecation and dashed hopes and dreams, is the last place you wanna be found. the last place you want to have your light find you.
sadness breeds art. how good that art is based on how true the artist can be with himself. how limitless he can stand amongst the ruins with all of the walls down to show you where mommy and daddy failed and where all the girls with their hidden agendas got in and rearranged things. where all the atrocities of time and history and the world all fucked him over deeply without him even knowing it was all hurting. where the smell from all the burnt bridges singes the nose, settles smokey into your hair and skin.
happiness is the enemy of art. this is true. i have come to this platform several times over this last year with a voice in my head wanting out... things i've thought i wanted to say. eulogies to spill over. stories to share.
KEEP IT SIMPLE STUPID. id tell myself in someone elses voice, not my own.
the fact is... im happy and i know my art is suffering because of it.
ive been on a slow sad train for the better part of my life and as that train rolled into another sad station in april this year, my life would be changed by the magick that i am still experiencing. and she is robbing you ALL of my art. but i seriously could never trade her for anything else. love is such a strange division of death. the feels are kinda the same but totally opposite. because i met this woman... and i want to sing all the songs from the mountaintops. and i want to write sonnets with the vibrations that she sends through me like electrical currents. and i want to write her name on all the cathedrals because they will be the only thing left standing when we are all dead and gone... but i come here. and i am too happy to feel like i have written anything worth a damn, and i feel like i have cheated you.
thats just gonna have to be how it goes dummies! if there's one thing ive learned in life, it's you gotta get used to feeling cheated.
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