sailordrunk

Humans are strange. They are most curious in nature, more so than even they realize. Communication between humans is often characterized by the use of what they call a "question," which they employ whenever they want to inquire about something and feed their curiosity. This questioning, this curiosity, is their ultimate expression of their self awareness and sensitvity to their environment. In an experiment I had two humans engage in conversation, but I prevented them from asking each other questions. I found that this resulted in a rather stilted and akward situation, conversation leading to nowhere. In conclusion, I find that human curiosity and their use of the question is indeed responsible for the success of their race. Still, I suspect that the human propensity for questioning and curiosity could very well become their own undoing. Indeed, in a few subjects I found that with intense curiosity comes symptoms of a malfunctioning brain. Extreme self awareness prevents action, as the brain becomes paralyzed in thought, and in the most extreme of the extreme cases, a complete breakdown occurs, the mind poisoning itself against itself. All interaction with the environment seizes and the subject is no longer able to care for themselves. Questions on philosophical issues are the most common cause of this sort of brain malfunction. When philosophical questions are poised in a conversation between two human subjects, the answers are rarely consistant. Worse still, a curious human mind may begin to ask questions of themselves, such as, "why am I here?" At this point a destructive feedback loop can occur, as the self answers back to the self an answer such as, "where is here?"



Ah! I feel much better now, thank you!

"The Enlightenment will come to a bad end; the head is much too heavy and the pelvis way too frivolous." - Paul Klee.

Heart, intuition, sincerity, bliss.
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A mixed bag. As always, I have so much to say, so much to express. I long for simplicity as an antidote to my own complex and contradictory nature. Pure logic and reason, artificial and synthesized, or so it seems, perhaps this is the path once championed by Rimbaud: the "long, immense and rational derangement of all the senses" (italics mine). The path of the heart can be just as treacherous, prone to melodramatics and naive delusion. Who knows which is the more honorable path?

I start in one vein and end in another.

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From the "Basquiat" screenplay:

There was this little prince with a magic crown. An evil warlock kidnapped him, locked him in a cell in a huge tower and took away his voice. There was a window made of bars. The prince would smash his head against the bars hoping that someone would hear the sound and find him. The crown made the most beautiful sound that anyone ever heard. You could hear the ringing for miles. It was so beautiful, that people wanted to grab the air. They never found the prince. He never got out of the room. But the sound he made filled everything up with beauty.

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I have learned that is dangerous to find that you completely relate to a fictional character or situation, especially an archetype.

Still, my situation here, and here (temporary exile in suburbia and in cyberspace) I find that my words lack a suitable sounding board to resound against. I try not to view this as a waste or to indulge myself in quiet rage or the melancholy of my solitude. Talking to one's self often leads nowhere. I am smashing my head against the bars, starving for company, inviting people to feast on my atrophying brain before my thoughts become once again lost and meaningless. This is not fishing for compliments; even a friendly criticism would make my day. There must be something, someone, somewhere! I don't know if what I have to say, what I have to express in my words, paint, or music, have any worth. I would like to think that they do. I really would like to think they do. Lately I feel as if I do not exist. I am what I write, paint, create, dare I say that I am looking for a justification for my own existance?

This is openess, in all it's pathetic glory.

Hold my hand. Let's think hard and try to find something to toast to.

Dark clouds overhead, the pleasant kind of dark clouds, a quiet afternoon downtown, a downtown anywhere in your imagination, a warm summer breeze and then finally these words: __________________________________________


'clink.'




Update: Does a work of art require an audience in order to exist as a work of art? Is it painfully obvious where I am going with this?