Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sag Mal
tell me the difference between artist and junkie--not in the sense of 80s-90s movies rendering of the LES as a haven of the degenerate (Fatal Attraction, Life Lessons, A Perfect Murder)--but simply, what are you? what are you doing?
Stopping the rhetoric of the unconventional life--that bucking convention/tradition is of itself intrinsically meaningful--what does the artist and the junkie have in common? The absolute commitment to the self, to that individual served by the act, above and beyond relationship, community, humanity.
[as always: we are discussing my own loss]
I have no way of reconciling the pointless of what I what I have been given to believe in. The idea of the story--sitting quietly, writing, making--no longer strikes me an inevitable part of my life, a part of my life not yet lived, but feeding into the constant fantasy of the future /when I will have value, because I make./
It as little and pathetic as imagining I am *not*, because I bear not [kinder]. But with that evaluation, we can at least detect evidence of biology. Or if not evidence, we can at least call it biological, that funny female condition of 30, the inevitable consequence of evolution: an internal clock. But words? the urge, belief one is a writer, or *will* be? Mass hysteria, but untreatable as all real plagues are, because the cause is blossoming from the fabric [tvscreen] of our condition.
Stopping the rhetoric of the unconventional life--that bucking convention/tradition is of itself intrinsically meaningful--what does the artist and the junkie have in common? The absolute commitment to the self, to that individual served by the act, above and beyond relationship, community, humanity.
[as always: we are discussing my own loss]
I have no way of reconciling the pointless of what I what I have been given to believe in. The idea of the story--sitting quietly, writing, making--no longer strikes me an inevitable part of my life, a part of my life not yet lived, but feeding into the constant fantasy of the future /when I will have value, because I make./
It as little and pathetic as imagining I am *not*, because I bear not [kinder]. But with that evaluation, we can at least detect evidence of biology. Or if not evidence, we can at least call it biological, that funny female condition of 30, the inevitable consequence of evolution: an internal clock. But words? the urge, belief one is a writer, or *will* be? Mass hysteria, but untreatable as all real plagues are, because the cause is blossoming from the fabric [tvscreen] of our condition.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
surrender
this blog will probably not survive beyond the first post or the dull tepid weeks of nascent thought. still.
we'll begin with the surrender.
we'll begin with the surrender.
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