Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Put a tiger in your tank.
So seductive is blogging that we seem to ignore the major project of our lives and instead splatter the white space with words, hoping to craft some sort of symbol out of the chaos of our life which we hope somebody will understand, and maybe relate to.
Compusive-obsessive blogger, like a madman in a ward,
staring at white all around, hoping for the day's symbol to get him through. Wouldn't you?
There have been psychologists who would deliberately sign theselves into a ward of schizophrenics just to see what they do, and most times they spend all day working at the symbol on the wall. Once the symbol is complete, there is some sort of catharsis. The day is over.
I wish I had that kind of time, to have nothing to do all day but to eat, smoke and excrete, staring at the wall and constructing a symbol.
Hell, I do all that without being in a ward.
Fact is, I once ran for office, and people seeing me on television, nervous as a Dostoevsky, with trembling lips, said," the man is a speedfreak. What's he doing running for Regional Coucillor?" Well, it was a job, like our schizos being in the ward. They have a job. They're all out there doing the same thing. Building symbols. It's a job. Keep busy, or go mad. Hoo-Hah.
For the artist, symbol builing is his or her bread and butter.
Certainly in the high days of modernism, but now we are into post-modernism, which suggests that your novel or painting is only one version of a reality that is quite different from the way you describe. There is no answer. Fare thee well.
This attitude, of course, approaches nihilism and you have to see just one Alain Robbe Grillet novel or movie to realize how f*cked up things had really gotten. Proust with a penis and hardly knowing what to do with it.
Which might probably be an insight.Screw anybody. Screw anything that moves. Screw your parents, at least financially. "I need time to be alone in bed."
Masturbate for posterity, and he did.
There are adeps and there are jerkoffs. There are guitar players and there are hackers. Fortune favours the fast.
I swear that on a Pompeii wall, there was a graffito: "Circa non copulare". Don't fuck around.
Well, it seems I for one have been fucking around.
Botch a novel, cut it up into pieces and run it off. Cut-up art.
If Burroughs could do it, why couldn't I? High modernism.
The Ticket That Exploded. Naked Lunch. Henry Miller with his pervert adepts making it with cored Macintosh apples--hey, that's us!
Here and there someone produces a real novel, maybe like Christ in Concrete. Ha. Renaissance monk. Artiste. Fucking wop.
Oh I so want to be a Renassance monk. So want to be an artiste and fucking wop.
But the talent, the talent.
I shot a talent in the air.
It fell to earth, I know not where.
...I lose more talent that way.
That old master painter from the far away hills.
That old master painter on the keyboard. Master painting, Master painting.
Imitaing the actions of the tiger.
Oh to get ones paws off the machine.
And be that tiger.