I am concerned for my friend, he is heading down a slippery slope. His habit is not healthy and to be frank it has sucked the life out of him. Just want to get that out there, so I can have practice for talking to his parents or him.
It's funny to think about the people I surround myself with. It seems like a human predisposition to surround yourself with people that praise you, or maybe that's just me. Sometimes it's hard to confront my demons and sometimes it's not. surprisingly it is when I am my most eccentric and my ego is sweltering at record temperatures that I am best able to confront my sad truths. It is at the peak of the roller coaster ride in my feelings that a missing piece of the track doesn't bother me, I'm free to die at any time* I am at the crest of my wave and the sun is in my face instead of refracted in the ripples of my watery random thoughts.
Right now it is not hard to confront my problems, I feel something incredible is going to happen soon. It's like that burning sensation I had when I turned my life around before, and this time around I have gained the painful wisdom of experience, I am not getting knocked down this time. I had a dream last night that was so incredible I was aloof all day, my friend would talk to me and I would space out everything he was saying. The dream was a lucid dream, and my brain knows what kind of hell can be raised when this happens. I kept imagining colors and objects that were so beautiful and abstract they could never exist in real life. The colors had identities and feelings. I could feel the colors;
But not the way you feel them on psychedelics.
No, I felt them in a way that was highly complex. Where one green could be mixed with a thousand different blues in a thousand different combinations and the frequency it would vibrate at would give it a kind of oscillation and free forming dimensionality. This is the downright interesting part of the dream, this is a part I might paint of many.
No the strange part of my dream seemed like a face off with destiny, the existence of which is debatable but I would stand to pose a theory that our lives are a self fulfilling prophecy, part of which is satisfied in our dreams. What happened in the dream reminds me of the quote "As you gaze into the Abyss, so the Abyss gazes back into you."
I was looking at a giant movie poster, of my own face. My hair was blowing in the wind and I felt detached to this personage. Like it was my mental projection of myself and my true self was sitting outside of my body looking at what other people see when they see me. In the picture my mustache was much thicker and it started turning upright into a Dali style. As this happened my face turned into a grimacing smile and white letters bled into the foreground saying, "Coming soon to a theatre near you!" Very strange, strange that this came out of my mind.
Everything hinges on me making it to the summer, I can do this. This is the end of my post. My posts can end at any time because writing for me is a healing process, while painting is a process that makes me whole so it can never end.
*In this post I would like to leave an asterisk to show what point that the sadness I felt at the beginning of the post melted away. Strange that it happened from those simple words.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
This is F.A.B
F A N D P
A U
L
L G
I N
N I
G D
L
D I
O U
W B
N A N D
Building up seems like so much longer and the decent is just far enough that the plunge downward seems more appealing. They should just call Reincarnation "Spiritual Recycling" and Heaven "the final purchase." Religion is the most beautiful part of humanity and I can never take part. I cannot commit, and when I do I can never believe. I can write with both hands quite well now, I am reaching fever pitch. It's either make it now or spiral into madness forever.
A U
L
L G
I N
N I
G D
L
D I
O U
W B
N A N D
Building up seems like so much longer and the decent is just far enough that the plunge downward seems more appealing. They should just call Reincarnation "Spiritual Recycling" and Heaven "the final purchase." Religion is the most beautiful part of humanity and I can never take part. I cannot commit, and when I do I can never believe. I can write with both hands quite well now, I am reaching fever pitch. It's either make it now or spiral into madness forever.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Soaking into this sentence
Back to check out this hole I have dug, what a deep one. All blog updates from followers, none. Perfect. The key to modern living as a poor person is to learn to enjoy the color of white walls, especially as it fades into a dull Grey and almost coffee type tone depending on the occupants dirt and dander. I like dandy lions and lions that are dandy, that is something I don't have to learn to enjoy. I would like to start a college course, Enjoying Sunsets 201. It will be a class that goes so in depth about the patterns of sunsets that they become utterly mundane. Every sunset the passing student See's will never leave them dumbfounded but rather unimpressed by the forms and colors. I've got many more ideas to send to the board of directors:
Exasperating moments of Happiness 312
Using Favors as leverage 111
How to Convince a Junkie 113
During the winter I have two loves: music and art. However I consider those two the same thing, along with writing. and during the summer nature gets added to the list. However I have recently been severely deprived of all three. This is what makes me unhappy. I have been a largely emotional guy most of my life, but that was because I didn't realize what my true outlet was. Now that I have it and can't use it I feel so empty, like I am trapped in the cookie cutter jaws of familiarity. Wake up, eat oatmeal or whatever I can find, Wait for my room mate to shoot up for like 45 minutes, share a cigarette, get dropped off at Front range a couple hours before class depending on his work schedule, go to the library instead of doing homework, go into class and barely manage to keep up, go back to the library and read about fossils, physics, light refraction etc. . . . get picked up. Come home and procrastinate procrastinate procrastinate.
In a way I am like a junkie as well, I am addicted to expression. I am addicted to my curiosity. I am addicted to actually having something to show for my work. What are we supposed to do with our tools we are given in college? Become a teacher? A pharmacist? A translator? A designer? It seems like it boils down to two things, recycling old ways or creating something new. How differently can a person in architecture build a bathroom? How many different poses do people really desire to portray in portraiture? I want to create things that do one better than just copying the old design of god, a form a function a law a obfuscation to mask it a purpose a resolution. I want to show combination's of forms that portray something inexpressible and beyond our normal plane of sight, something that actually twists the mind. But I want to display it in such a way that the person knows it's happening and wants it to happen. But I am really tired and I don't know what I am saying
Exasperating moments of Happiness 312
Using Favors as leverage 111
How to Convince a Junkie 113
During the winter I have two loves: music and art. However I consider those two the same thing, along with writing. and during the summer nature gets added to the list. However I have recently been severely deprived of all three. This is what makes me unhappy. I have been a largely emotional guy most of my life, but that was because I didn't realize what my true outlet was. Now that I have it and can't use it I feel so empty, like I am trapped in the cookie cutter jaws of familiarity. Wake up, eat oatmeal or whatever I can find, Wait for my room mate to shoot up for like 45 minutes, share a cigarette, get dropped off at Front range a couple hours before class depending on his work schedule, go to the library instead of doing homework, go into class and barely manage to keep up, go back to the library and read about fossils, physics, light refraction etc. . . . get picked up. Come home and procrastinate procrastinate procrastinate.
In a way I am like a junkie as well, I am addicted to expression. I am addicted to my curiosity. I am addicted to actually having something to show for my work. What are we supposed to do with our tools we are given in college? Become a teacher? A pharmacist? A translator? A designer? It seems like it boils down to two things, recycling old ways or creating something new. How differently can a person in architecture build a bathroom? How many different poses do people really desire to portray in portraiture? I want to create things that do one better than just copying the old design of god, a form a function a law a obfuscation to mask it a purpose a resolution. I want to show combination's of forms that portray something inexpressible and beyond our normal plane of sight, something that actually twists the mind. But I want to display it in such a way that the person knows it's happening and wants it to happen. But I am really tired and I don't know what I am saying
Thursday, March 10, 2011
you don't have to
Another night of studying and I have to get my thoughts into words or I will die with them in a sea of paperwork.
It isn't necessary to imagine the world ending in fire or ice. There are two other possibilities: one is paperwork, and the other is nostalgia. ~Frank Zappa
I love Zappa, he is like my Uncle Erny, optimistic, intelligent and down right silly.
How true that is, nostalgia is a silent killer of progress and it is more infectious than any virus. It comes from the inside, and I would liken it to cancer. All my ties to home are like a tumor that needs to be abscessed. Cruel words, Cruel words from a not nearly as serious or cruel man. Obviously the love is there in space but it shouldn't be weighed by time.
But let me digress from all this bullshit, it is my strongest appeal and allure. I try to bounce, the sentences, around, so it seems like, I am actually talking to you. and I really am! I am actually shouting in your ear, I am actually stepping on your toes. Soooo. . . . . . .Onto the heart of the matter;
My current feelings:
Frustration, but of a sympathetic kind.
Pessimism
and finally nostalgia.
I have frustration and an almost fascination with people who avoid sentimentality. I am actually not a very sentimental guy, I express my thoughts sentimentally to give them weight and truth. How I feel about most things is usually never how they actually are, so if I expressed my true sentiments, which I sometimes do; it seems so deceitful and therein lies my humor. Humor is psychologically defined as a violation of your expectations, a somewhat cold and sterile approach I suppose, but effective for the masses all the same. If I give my true feelings about a piece of furniture and tell how it reminds me of old dishrags and sweaty maids, the result (9 times out of 10, and 10 times out of 9) will be laughter. This is easy, to make someone laugh you have to give them the impression you are breaking the rules but at the same time indicate you are nervous to what the people around you are thinking. It's a delicate process, easily shattered and easily manipulated. However the best way to manipulate people is to be so effective that we manipulate ourselves, so I am not frightened by manipulation. I wish we could be better at it, so the game could be more fun. Of course if and only if the game hurts just a little rather than a lot.
So I have given two thesis for what makes me who I am; unsentimental, but honest. Which is a bit of a paradox as personalities can be this way. Thus the personality traits have been fused into one, hypocrisy. I find being called a hypocrite is a compliment, it is the most effective approach to avoiding the stagnation of routine and decision making. However I also indirectly have shown another part of my personality, my dissecting nature. Whether or not I have the knowledge to back it up is always thrown onto the table, but effectively I have never paid heed to knowledge as the great decider of what makes a person a genius. It is all the attitude, A person can speculate about what is underground all they want, it is the adventurous spirit that digs up the soil and uncovers those hidden worlds. No my friends Knowledge is what you display at dinner parties when somebody mentions a subject you know about. Wisedom is something we all get for free but it comes at a time when nobody will listen to you. Intelligence is something we are born with but is something we must slowly destroy to fit into society. Logic is where the genius reigns supreme, but it is a monarchy, the only way we can expand logic is war and every thought of every minute is a war for me. You can teach me and I can teach you, but when will we all learn? Paradigm shifts require vast remodeling of the public concious, a real tedious process which requires interpreters. Luckily we come from many lines of organisms that self organize.
I'm done, coffee is brewing and I need to finish my streak of 3 nights without sleep.
It isn't necessary to imagine the world ending in fire or ice. There are two other possibilities: one is paperwork, and the other is nostalgia. ~Frank Zappa
I love Zappa, he is like my Uncle Erny, optimistic, intelligent and down right silly.
How true that is, nostalgia is a silent killer of progress and it is more infectious than any virus. It comes from the inside, and I would liken it to cancer. All my ties to home are like a tumor that needs to be abscessed. Cruel words, Cruel words from a not nearly as serious or cruel man. Obviously the love is there in space but it shouldn't be weighed by time.
But let me digress from all this bullshit, it is my strongest appeal and allure. I try to bounce, the sentences, around, so it seems like, I am actually talking to you. and I really am! I am actually shouting in your ear, I am actually stepping on your toes. Soooo. . . . . . .Onto the heart of the matter;
My current feelings:
Frustration, but of a sympathetic kind.
Pessimism
and finally nostalgia.
I have frustration and an almost fascination with people who avoid sentimentality. I am actually not a very sentimental guy, I express my thoughts sentimentally to give them weight and truth. How I feel about most things is usually never how they actually are, so if I expressed my true sentiments, which I sometimes do; it seems so deceitful and therein lies my humor. Humor is psychologically defined as a violation of your expectations, a somewhat cold and sterile approach I suppose, but effective for the masses all the same. If I give my true feelings about a piece of furniture and tell how it reminds me of old dishrags and sweaty maids, the result (9 times out of 10, and 10 times out of 9) will be laughter. This is easy, to make someone laugh you have to give them the impression you are breaking the rules but at the same time indicate you are nervous to what the people around you are thinking. It's a delicate process, easily shattered and easily manipulated. However the best way to manipulate people is to be so effective that we manipulate ourselves, so I am not frightened by manipulation. I wish we could be better at it, so the game could be more fun. Of course if and only if the game hurts just a little rather than a lot.
So I have given two thesis for what makes me who I am; unsentimental, but honest. Which is a bit of a paradox as personalities can be this way. Thus the personality traits have been fused into one, hypocrisy. I find being called a hypocrite is a compliment, it is the most effective approach to avoiding the stagnation of routine and decision making. However I also indirectly have shown another part of my personality, my dissecting nature. Whether or not I have the knowledge to back it up is always thrown onto the table, but effectively I have never paid heed to knowledge as the great decider of what makes a person a genius. It is all the attitude, A person can speculate about what is underground all they want, it is the adventurous spirit that digs up the soil and uncovers those hidden worlds. No my friends Knowledge is what you display at dinner parties when somebody mentions a subject you know about. Wisedom is something we all get for free but it comes at a time when nobody will listen to you. Intelligence is something we are born with but is something we must slowly destroy to fit into society. Logic is where the genius reigns supreme, but it is a monarchy, the only way we can expand logic is war and every thought of every minute is a war for me. You can teach me and I can teach you, but when will we all learn? Paradigm shifts require vast remodeling of the public concious, a real tedious process which requires interpreters. Luckily we come from many lines of organisms that self organize.
I'm done, coffee is brewing and I need to finish my streak of 3 nights without sleep.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Giving up: (The Summary of my time in Fort Collins so far.)
I am giving up on being normal, successful, or meaningful. Giving up on the game and going to look at the clouds. I am giving up on finding out the meaning of life and focusing on finding out the meaning of myself. Nietzsche once said every man is his own prison but for me I am my only escape. You can try and follow my trail of tears to find their delta but all you will see is the negative image of roots deeply embedded in laughter.
I have stowed myself in the fibers of every canvas and sealed myself in a tomb of paint, so when you look at me what you see is the image I want you to see; A narcissistic fanatic who exceeds his egotism by pretending he is a virtuoso, he pretends he's a Dali by becoming a Domi, he pretends he's from the renaissance by becoming a Domini, but that is not me for I am the son of Anthony, the greatest father in history who is cursed with me, the devilish child. I love my father, but I also am my father and he does not love himself. I want to show the world what he can make, I want to show how great he is to the world through myself; the prodigal son.
Art was a legitimate possession for me, it took over my entire psyche. I remember feeling my brain change the moment I set those markers to her arm, and I could hear and feel her heart beating faster. It was throbbing in my mind until it reached my cerebellum and took the rhythm of my heart. The transfer of the gift of art happened right there in that room, almost as if we were experiencing history in the making. Maybe. . . Even if I make no difference as an artist I know that some aspect of my life could serve as a lesson to somebody, I have seen too much and been a part of way too many profound things.
I had a friend tell me about a girl I used to see the other day, he was telling me that after they had sex she talked to him about me. Saying that she had a huge crush on me, but that I was crazy. and I was, and I am. It's a fact that I am just going to have to accept, what is the difference between genius and insanity? One small step forward and out into a chasm of shrill screams. I used to be immersed in science as a child and then I found music and then I got expelled from school. My mom told me she always thought she lost a naturalist in the making during that transition, watching that child chase insects down the bank until he slipped into the rhythm of the river of creativity. Soon I would emerge and be reborn once more, science would take over my life again for another brief heave and sigh in the tension of my life's web. Then I found drugs and art made me fall into a decomposing cave among collapsing veins and dying junkies. I am not like them in my habit choices, but I am like them in my addiction and my obsessions. Food, money, shelter, and comfort mean nothing to me. I need to find that answer I have been looking for, I need to find my way back into the light. The instant greed corrupts the mind you become more poor than you will ever be. I found that out the hard way, but I never desired wealth or status. I desired fame, but indirectly for something else, a legacy. A way for my life to matter.
At least that's what I thought made it matter; there was a schism in my personality that resulted from psychedelics, there is the clown, the artist, and the philosopher. However the philosopher is also divided into the idealist and the nihilist. Plato and Nietzsche are always fighting each other in my mind; it's when they make love that things get strange. But how many times will I write down a good idea for a painting when I feel I don't have time to make the painting instead of actually making it!? How many times will my most profound insights turn into an idea for a painting? How often will my inner clown feel the temptation to become anarchic and make it impossible for anyone to see the essence and truth behind what I say in words and in images? The answer is indefinitely, it's a part of my curse, but it's a blessing in disguise for I have found the key to to true perpetual motion in thought, the paradox will generate a tremendous feedback loop, and maybe at any moment I will reach the zenith of momentum and finally plummet into the hands of fate. I'm either going to die a legend or die in the depths of a rainforest smothered in life, I will never be buried in the those modern cookie cutter sarcophagus' we call coffins, the thought of having to have yet another house to trap me in death disturbs me greatly.
I have stowed myself in the fibers of every canvas and sealed myself in a tomb of paint, so when you look at me what you see is the image I want you to see; A narcissistic fanatic who exceeds his egotism by pretending he is a virtuoso, he pretends he's a Dali by becoming a Domi, he pretends he's from the renaissance by becoming a Domini, but that is not me for I am the son of Anthony, the greatest father in history who is cursed with me, the devilish child. I love my father, but I also am my father and he does not love himself. I want to show the world what he can make, I want to show how great he is to the world through myself; the prodigal son.
Art was a legitimate possession for me, it took over my entire psyche. I remember feeling my brain change the moment I set those markers to her arm, and I could hear and feel her heart beating faster. It was throbbing in my mind until it reached my cerebellum and took the rhythm of my heart. The transfer of the gift of art happened right there in that room, almost as if we were experiencing history in the making. Maybe. . . Even if I make no difference as an artist I know that some aspect of my life could serve as a lesson to somebody, I have seen too much and been a part of way too many profound things.
I had a friend tell me about a girl I used to see the other day, he was telling me that after they had sex she talked to him about me. Saying that she had a huge crush on me, but that I was crazy. and I was, and I am. It's a fact that I am just going to have to accept, what is the difference between genius and insanity? One small step forward and out into a chasm of shrill screams. I used to be immersed in science as a child and then I found music and then I got expelled from school. My mom told me she always thought she lost a naturalist in the making during that transition, watching that child chase insects down the bank until he slipped into the rhythm of the river of creativity. Soon I would emerge and be reborn once more, science would take over my life again for another brief heave and sigh in the tension of my life's web. Then I found drugs and art made me fall into a decomposing cave among collapsing veins and dying junkies. I am not like them in my habit choices, but I am like them in my addiction and my obsessions. Food, money, shelter, and comfort mean nothing to me. I need to find that answer I have been looking for, I need to find my way back into the light. The instant greed corrupts the mind you become more poor than you will ever be. I found that out the hard way, but I never desired wealth or status. I desired fame, but indirectly for something else, a legacy. A way for my life to matter.
At least that's what I thought made it matter; there was a schism in my personality that resulted from psychedelics, there is the clown, the artist, and the philosopher. However the philosopher is also divided into the idealist and the nihilist. Plato and Nietzsche are always fighting each other in my mind; it's when they make love that things get strange. But how many times will I write down a good idea for a painting when I feel I don't have time to make the painting instead of actually making it!? How many times will my most profound insights turn into an idea for a painting? How often will my inner clown feel the temptation to become anarchic and make it impossible for anyone to see the essence and truth behind what I say in words and in images? The answer is indefinitely, it's a part of my curse, but it's a blessing in disguise for I have found the key to to true perpetual motion in thought, the paradox will generate a tremendous feedback loop, and maybe at any moment I will reach the zenith of momentum and finally plummet into the hands of fate. I'm either going to die a legend or die in the depths of a rainforest smothered in life, I will never be buried in the those modern cookie cutter sarcophagus' we call coffins, the thought of having to have yet another house to trap me in death disturbs me greatly.
Friday, March 4, 2011
New living and new dying
There has always been this idea that has disturbed me since I left an open mind to any facet of existence, and it is the heaven/hell concept. I would venture to say that if I can believe that there is a heaven or if there is a hell it wouldn't be hard to believe that we are in hell right now, because obviously life isn't perfect. The proportion of happiness to sadness and pain is always tipped in the favor of suffering. No matter how happy a person thinks they are there is always sadness present, this is not ideal. However one could point out that you could have more happiness in life than suffering and therefore for the most part we can be happy and that seeing the brighter side of sadness to move onward is a fact of life. But this is classic conditioning. As children we can never seem to deal with pain the way an adult can and it is a rough transition to get to that point of adulthood because of this. We start out innocent of pain and slowly feel that rape of consciousness as we develop. So idealisations are not that unfounded, we would all seize them at the chance. However it is not hard for me to adapt to feeling pain for myself, it is damn near impossible for me to adapt to seeing others suffer. Hell for me is watching my friends personalities slowly slip into the traps of adulthood, Hell for me is watching my best friend since before I could walk shoot up four times a day and spend hours looking for a vein. He is leeched of life, and leeched of that energy he had when we were younger. I always thought he would be better off than me because he was such a good kid and pursued everything with vivacity and love. However I am not a good person in the least, and I deserve this feeling, he however does not at all. That is where my empathy is tortured to my core.
Monday, February 14, 2011
So I lied. . . .
I guess I am posting again, not that it really matters.
When thinking of the sheer magnitude of the universe I feel the deepest apathy ripping and tearing over my body like a horrible storm. I am In the midst of a screeching cacophony and horrid cataclysm of howling and whistling tendrils, I am like the flame of a candle in the eye of a hurricane. The thundering phantom dark greys and blues of the towering volumes of tortured clouds seem to dapple gently on my skin but at the same time penetrate down to my heart rendering its beats all but a short spasm and a blood curdling sputter in a feeble attempt to outlast the storm. I say it would be better for me to go down in a deep loathing of sadness and self pity than to realize in the end that every one of my efforts were for nothing and any chance at seeing things as they are was drowned out by my naïve optimism. We are living inside a giant raindrop, waiting to hit that abyssal sea of eternity without a single glimmer of light to differentiate amongst the billions of droplets splattering in the froth at the crest of a giant wave threatening to tear into that infinitely renewing surface tension between chaos and order. The problem is that there is no true chaos and no true order, there is no true anything as we will never see where we are going. We could very well be that raindrop in it's final descent. It's at these moments when nothing would comfort me more than if at the last second god dipped his hand into the miasma of raindrops and pulled us out, but it's only a blind hope at best. This is the hopeless romantic dilemma of being human, we want the storm to come, we want the waves to come crashing down because we want to be saved by a messiah that is showered with light and that charges into the waves in a brilliant and beautiful act of martyrdom. We want there to be an amazing story behind what brought us up from the sea and into the dazzling temples of paradise, but out of our cynicism we want it to be more than just a fantasy, we want it to be REAL! Whatever that means, if I feel the way I do then as I am writing this very moment it is already happening right now; although it's only a fleeting glimpse flickering in my mind like the grains of a disintegrating reel of film projected on the wall of my life, waiting to be seen in my final moments.
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