talking to myself
I could write a book about me and karis and jeremy.
I could write a book about me and john and steven and howie.
I could write a book about me and wendy and richard and rick.
I could write a book about me and kristopher and lizzie.
I could write a book about me and Dain.
I could write a book about Harry Matthews.
By himself.
He's in his room entertaining Jeff's dog, Panda, with stories about India and old goldfriends while sweating out yesterdays.
Really, regardless of quality, I could write a book about anything.
What I need to stop doing is trying to write about everything. I paint myself a liar but am too beholden to the truth.
Truth is not interesting. When truth is interesting you don't sell it; you put it out on a shingle for the whole world to see. Tristan needs money. Truth is complicated. Truth is...truth is Proust's Rememberance of Things Past, and who the hell wants to read that?
Truth is not believable.
I feel like I get a better response when I camoflauge truth. It is too great to look at, Like Mighty Zeus! Mighty Zeus, do not show me your true form. Let me see you shadow against the sidewalk! Let me look at eclipses through cardboard and hear music played on old phonographs through underwater headphones!
I want to take you with me. I want to take someone with me. We are tubes that take things in and shit them out. It is our function. THIS IS THE MEANING OF LIFE. THIS IS WHY WE ARE HERE. I will say it again. We are here to consume and shit. The magic of who we are is that something happens in the process and what is consumed changes into what is shat. Not just food. Music, words, people, a clear sky and a rainy night.
Artists, real artists, can do this in a way that resonates with the observer or second-hand consumer. We look at the pieces people have shit out onto the walls of museums and consume them and shit them out again - possibly to be consumed once more or maybe just flushed. What I am overlooking is that the shit on the walls of museums is never the same thing that was consumed by the artist. The impetus - That moment is almost lost, save for the shit that marks its previous consumption. We are there with Henry James in Tropic of Cancer, but we are somewhere that never existed. It is not just that his Paris streets are never the same as his girl's: his Paris strets are never experienced by anyone but him. There is an allusion to his Paris streets but that is all. As soon as he wrote about them they vanished forever. They were turned into shit I paid $2 for at The Strand.
And it is just so hard because sometimes all the elements are in place and I stick on some post and complicate the climax needlessly or spend too much time developing in an attempt to make things totally accurate when they never will be. I will never be a creator if I continue being an archivist. I do this with my photos, too. I mean, I am not a photographer at all at all, but when i take photos i'm not as interested in the composition as I am in the cataloging of moments so that I can remember them later. What use is that to anyone else?
Right now I feel like there are two purposes in creating; to either distract us from thoughts of our own eventual death or to allow us to see that moment clearly. Truth? Was Jesus real? Was JJ Hunsecker real? Did we really walk on the moon? Does it matter? Sell it, boyo, sell it.
I could write a book about me and john and steven and howie.
I could write a book about me and wendy and richard and rick.
I could write a book about me and kristopher and lizzie.
I could write a book about me and Dain.
I could write a book about Harry Matthews.
By himself.
He's in his room entertaining Jeff's dog, Panda, with stories about India and old goldfriends while sweating out yesterdays.
Really, regardless of quality, I could write a book about anything.
What I need to stop doing is trying to write about everything. I paint myself a liar but am too beholden to the truth.
Truth is not interesting. When truth is interesting you don't sell it; you put it out on a shingle for the whole world to see. Tristan needs money. Truth is complicated. Truth is...truth is Proust's Rememberance of Things Past, and who the hell wants to read that?
Truth is not believable.
I feel like I get a better response when I camoflauge truth. It is too great to look at, Like Mighty Zeus! Mighty Zeus, do not show me your true form. Let me see you shadow against the sidewalk! Let me look at eclipses through cardboard and hear music played on old phonographs through underwater headphones!
I want to take you with me. I want to take someone with me. We are tubes that take things in and shit them out. It is our function. THIS IS THE MEANING OF LIFE. THIS IS WHY WE ARE HERE. I will say it again. We are here to consume and shit. The magic of who we are is that something happens in the process and what is consumed changes into what is shat. Not just food. Music, words, people, a clear sky and a rainy night.
Artists, real artists, can do this in a way that resonates with the observer or second-hand consumer. We look at the pieces people have shit out onto the walls of museums and consume them and shit them out again - possibly to be consumed once more or maybe just flushed. What I am overlooking is that the shit on the walls of museums is never the same thing that was consumed by the artist. The impetus - That moment is almost lost, save for the shit that marks its previous consumption. We are there with Henry James in Tropic of Cancer, but we are somewhere that never existed. It is not just that his Paris streets are never the same as his girl's: his Paris strets are never experienced by anyone but him. There is an allusion to his Paris streets but that is all. As soon as he wrote about them they vanished forever. They were turned into shit I paid $2 for at The Strand.
And it is just so hard because sometimes all the elements are in place and I stick on some post and complicate the climax needlessly or spend too much time developing in an attempt to make things totally accurate when they never will be. I will never be a creator if I continue being an archivist. I do this with my photos, too. I mean, I am not a photographer at all at all, but when i take photos i'm not as interested in the composition as I am in the cataloging of moments so that I can remember them later. What use is that to anyone else?
Right now I feel like there are two purposes in creating; to either distract us from thoughts of our own eventual death or to allow us to see that moment clearly. Truth? Was Jesus real? Was JJ Hunsecker real? Did we really walk on the moon? Does it matter? Sell it, boyo, sell it.