independence day
I've been in a fit for days, my own fault, I admit.
My work habits, well honed to a particular brand of avoidance, are beyond random, as unexpected as involuntary spurts of salivary exclamation.
It's no revelation, but each day, though I "do", I do not make anything to record those days.
Without detritus, it is as if today did not happen, but is just someone else's dream you happen to be privy to.
What do you do with that? I spend hours at the grove watching what my contemporaries have done or listen to the crunchy bootlegs of a moment that I shall not recover. At least there is that.
Oddly, I believe I've stumbled upon the piracy issue. We take what we cannot make and what we hold as dear because we've already paid too goddam much for these tickets. Cheapest scalped Radiohead seats...a hundred bucks a pop. While willing to make deep sacrifices to hear them play, somehow I resent paying through the nose visit my friends. Of course they're not actually my friends, just blokes who in my mind's eye or another life I fancy I might actually enjoy breaking bread with. But I missed meeting them at Oxford in 1990. Of course I was at Univ, not Exeter. Fuck me. Movie tickets...12.75...and I saw two movies in a row and paid for them too, just to recreate what a double feature must've been on hot summer nights in Brooklyn. Parking for two hours...five bucks. Tell me, how do you bootleg a parking space?
The other day I mentioned I did not have a "constitutional disregard" for something or other and a buddhist in the conversation particularly appreciated that turn of phrase so I don't want to forget it...a moment of unconscious wordsmithing. Funny how something that sounds so fucking polite in conversation is, in fact, about the most appalling thing one can imagine when taken literally as a description of government. Of course it takes a mind more settled than my own to appreciate only the beauty and not the horror.
Spent the morning reading the band's blog and investigating links they've attached. I'm someow pleased to know that I knew about something before Thom Yorke, if only a website. Ah well, he's been distracted, erasing things...is he the de kooning of the sonic landscape? I don't even know what that means...
Mulling over what to do with myself between checkouts and checkins at the JOB. What is it you are trying to say? Rather than scribbling notes like a fucking madman on scraps that litter every corner of your life, make some sense of it man. Woman provides inspiration and a safe place to be. Can an autistic soloist share? Can a structural engineer write a fragrant note of symphonic bliss? Both scare the crap out of me.
A few years ago I was walking in the MOCA SF with friends and one suggested that if we make something, anything every day without judgment, then over time you would have made at least a few worthwhile things, the million monkey approach to art. We don't have a million days, though, but rather a number much more terrifyingly fragile. While honing one's skills is, perhaps, the best way to increase one's odds, very often, the only thing we've perfected is the art of being human...but we're still monkeys.
Today a semifinal worldcup match in which we imagine ourselves twentysomethings kicking the shit out of our passions for all the world to see. Then we will watch the night burn.
My work habits, well honed to a particular brand of avoidance, are beyond random, as unexpected as involuntary spurts of salivary exclamation.
It's no revelation, but each day, though I "do", I do not make anything to record those days.
Without detritus, it is as if today did not happen, but is just someone else's dream you happen to be privy to.
What do you do with that? I spend hours at the grove watching what my contemporaries have done or listen to the crunchy bootlegs of a moment that I shall not recover. At least there is that.
Oddly, I believe I've stumbled upon the piracy issue. We take what we cannot make and what we hold as dear because we've already paid too goddam much for these tickets. Cheapest scalped Radiohead seats...a hundred bucks a pop. While willing to make deep sacrifices to hear them play, somehow I resent paying through the nose visit my friends. Of course they're not actually my friends, just blokes who in my mind's eye or another life I fancy I might actually enjoy breaking bread with. But I missed meeting them at Oxford in 1990. Of course I was at Univ, not Exeter. Fuck me. Movie tickets...12.75...and I saw two movies in a row and paid for them too, just to recreate what a double feature must've been on hot summer nights in Brooklyn. Parking for two hours...five bucks. Tell me, how do you bootleg a parking space?
The other day I mentioned I did not have a "constitutional disregard" for something or other and a buddhist in the conversation particularly appreciated that turn of phrase so I don't want to forget it...a moment of unconscious wordsmithing. Funny how something that sounds so fucking polite in conversation is, in fact, about the most appalling thing one can imagine when taken literally as a description of government. Of course it takes a mind more settled than my own to appreciate only the beauty and not the horror.
Spent the morning reading the band's blog and investigating links they've attached. I'm someow pleased to know that I knew about something before Thom Yorke, if only a website. Ah well, he's been distracted, erasing things...is he the de kooning of the sonic landscape? I don't even know what that means...
Mulling over what to do with myself between checkouts and checkins at the JOB. What is it you are trying to say? Rather than scribbling notes like a fucking madman on scraps that litter every corner of your life, make some sense of it man. Woman provides inspiration and a safe place to be. Can an autistic soloist share? Can a structural engineer write a fragrant note of symphonic bliss? Both scare the crap out of me.
A few years ago I was walking in the MOCA SF with friends and one suggested that if we make something, anything every day without judgment, then over time you would have made at least a few worthwhile things, the million monkey approach to art. We don't have a million days, though, but rather a number much more terrifyingly fragile. While honing one's skills is, perhaps, the best way to increase one's odds, very often, the only thing we've perfected is the art of being human...but we're still monkeys.
Today a semifinal worldcup match in which we imagine ourselves twentysomethings kicking the shit out of our passions for all the world to see. Then we will watch the night burn.
posted by wally @ 8:49 AM
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