Oh noez!

I am considering becoming a recluse, or a Buddhist monk, or ascetic. Ideally I would become a kind of J.D. Salinger, shutting myself away from all the idiots, crazies, and assholes of the world to create hauntingly sincere works of art for the enjoyment of no one but those who I know would understand them. Well, that's probably what Salinger did; I wouldn't know, would I, since he kept to himself. And good for him.
Human flaws and frailties are fascinating and moving when you encounter them in a book or a play or a movie. The metaphors and allegories insulate you from the raw pain, the paralyzing and logic-deadening emotion of dealing with real people. You can turn off a movie and throw a book across the room, but you can't make someone understand on anything but a superficial level, no matter how patiently you explain. You can't avoid hurt, you matter how carefully you choose your companions. You can't erase your own flaws, no matter how bad you want it.
Art hands you the bulletproof vest so you can reflect upon yourself and your weaknesses with little damage to yourself and none to others. I could spend the rest of my life in Zen-like literary contemplation, puttering away at improving myself while doing the least harm to others.
If I'm strong enough, and disciplined enough, I will start working a lot harder on creating the best work that I possibly can, completely ignoring the distracting infantile babbling of the world at large, disregarding everything and everyone but objective brutality from a dozen intelligent, informed and reliable people. A better version of J.D. Salinger. Considering the way today has gone, I think today might be the day to start.
I won't get far as an artist without cultivating contacts and networking and all that ghastly fake ladder-climbing, but I suppose if I can produce a few works that I can die being proud of, the general consensus of the mouthbreathers is immaterial.
Practical section of blog:
California...

I am considering becoming a recluse, or a Buddhist monk, or ascetic. Ideally I would become a kind of J.D. Salinger, shutting myself away from all the idiots, crazies, and assholes of the world to create hauntingly sincere works of art for the enjoyment of no one but those who I know would understand them. Well, that's probably what Salinger did; I wouldn't know, would I, since he kept to himself. And good for him.
Human flaws and frailties are fascinating and moving when you encounter them in a book or a play or a movie. The metaphors and allegories insulate you from the raw pain, the paralyzing and logic-deadening emotion of dealing with real people. You can turn off a movie and throw a book across the room, but you can't make someone understand on anything but a superficial level, no matter how patiently you explain. You can't avoid hurt, you matter how carefully you choose your companions. You can't erase your own flaws, no matter how bad you want it.
Art hands you the bulletproof vest so you can reflect upon yourself and your weaknesses with little damage to yourself and none to others. I could spend the rest of my life in Zen-like literary contemplation, puttering away at improving myself while doing the least harm to others.
If I'm strong enough, and disciplined enough, I will start working a lot harder on creating the best work that I possibly can, completely ignoring the distracting infantile babbling of the world at large, disregarding everything and everyone but objective brutality from a dozen intelligent, informed and reliable people. A better version of J.D. Salinger. Considering the way today has gone, I think today might be the day to start.
I won't get far as an artist without cultivating contacts and networking and all that ghastly fake ladder-climbing, but I suppose if I can produce a few works that I can die being proud of, the general consensus of the mouthbreathers is immaterial.
Practical section of blog:
California...


































