i followed most of my trains of thought to their logical conclusion, expecting the last stop on the journey to be some sublime state of bliss where no more words were necessary.
to some degree, this happened, but i wouldn’t necessarily call it bliss. and sometimes, i become filled with the need to just sit and write, if only to let release the buildup that accrues throughout the week, like passing gas or some other unenlightened activity.
dog-walking chick j is the only person right now with whom i share lengthier trains of thought. i don’t think she’s accommodating me merely to have a dog-walking buddy, but nor do i carry the illusion like i did with d that i’ve discovered a soulmate who resonates with me deeply.
j has on multiple occasions alluded to her hatred of Christianity–a vitriol sneaking beneath the surface that sounds powerful enough to be caused by some memory of a Christian who did her wrong personally. other than this, and her insistence on us just being dog-walking buddies, j could jump on the radar.
she smells nice. i always underestimate how important this is. a nice-smelling lady can oftentimes be far more sexually attractive than one who is that much more beautiful on some hotness scale.
she is kind of tall–probably as tall or slightly taller than me. her ass at times seems on the large side, but she told me she’s been hitting the exercise bike pretty hard, and it shows.
she’s hot enough that if she decided at a moment’s notice to become more than friends, i doubt i would say no. however, things have reached a nice equilibrium or pitch, if you will, and i don’t want to spoil that. does that sound gay?
j is willing to walk with me through some rather gnarly natural areas–it’s so hard to find someone like that.
enough of her.
i reached the end of the week in quite the state of despondency. it is occurring to me on a more regular basis that i may not have properly gotten over my mother’s death yet–i think a true sabbatical could really do me some good, as opposed to a mere three extra days off.
i am also struggling with being so alone all the time. each time the workplace gang congregates around j’s desk, it drives me deeper into my little hole–maddening and frustrating to say the least. part of the problem is due to the fact that i’ve existed for so long in environments where the presence of other males was minimal. i don’t know how to act when the balance of testosterone is suddenly such that i have to contend with the fact that i’m just another dude among dudes.
looking back on relationships and friendships–the ones that made me the happiest were the ones i had to do the least amount of lying to myself to obtain them.
i would rather have my writing get passed on for centuries to come with its author long forgotten or the writing attributed to someone else, than to experience even a day of fame in this life for it if it doesn’t outlive me.
who the hell am i to be ruminating so frequently on love and friendship when i so rarely obtain it?
perhaps the reason i so often fall short of my mark when trying to reach a new way of being, is because i work too hard toward a place created by my imagination, rather than simply saying i want to move toward a greater state of happiness, love, bliss, etc., and allowing my instincts to guide me there.
could be much the same as attempting to travel to a place once visited only through memory, instead of actually getting on a plane and going back there.
each has its strengths, though. the second time i flew to sf as an adult, it wasn’t nearly as wonderful as the first time, because i had so little time to enjoy seeing new sights. my remembered first trip was more pleasurable– each time i returned to it in memory– than the actual trip i was having.
could also explain a lot of other things that are wrong with me–why i seem to be so stuck in one place. i keep going back to memories and finding them more exquisite than anything i’m experiencing in the present, incapable of allowing new experiences to take hold as they are being handily dismissed as inferior to older ones from a more magical era.
could also explain man’s notion of a golden age. his discovery of the arts follows an arc like many prodigies–first crude, but formally interesting, then suddenly magnificent and highly developed, often flawless. the ancient Greeks, Hindus and Chinese all left behind philosophy and some other trains of thought that we return to time and again, as they were perhaps all hitting that place in the arc of the learning curve where discovery and intellect accelerate before plateauing then declining. the same for, say Shakespeare at just the right point in the evolution of the English language, and the old masters with their painting. all arguments for artistic merits and new exploration of form and color aside, the old masters exhibited a meticulous attention to craftsmanship and prodigious output that often goes unmatched with your pollock, rothko, etc. type artist.
and, why does so much “deeper” exploration of a medium result in output that to the untrained eye appears to be nothing more than the work of a child? take jazz, for instance. as guys like coltrane and ornette coleman pursued more complicated rhythm structures and atonal harmonies, their work began to sound like some kid bleating out random notes in an undisciplined fashion. modern composers like john cage offered up brilliant symphonies of nothing but silence. beat poets looked to scatting and stream-of-conscious writing, stylistically composing what looks by all accounts to be gibberish. and, of course, jackson pollock and mark rothko could be said to represent the culmination of a modern to post-modern evolution of aesthetic, giving us splatters of paint and big blocks of bright color. the artistic merits of any of the above are mostly left unquestioned by the students of the work, but any untrained observer would pronounce a devolution in artistic progress.
what is the artist to do when it’s all been done before?
1. seek out a style that can only be achieved through alignment with his uniqueness as an individual.
2. sensationalize, push envelopes, scandalize, etc.
3. draw on the forgetfulness of the popular audience, relying mostly on being a fad that is not so original, but merely appears to be.
art, for the artist manque, is nothing more than the excess pieces of life that don’t fit anywhere while living.
art for the artist is one and the same as living.