Surprisingly, I’ve found that the less I think, the more I do, the better results I get. There is a certain naivete to this type of thinking, but at the same time, the expectations do not exist as they normally would. Existence, then, is a highly overrated phenomenon.
Pulling myself in categories is vanity. Taking the time to wait around to debate over what I should be, what I should do, is nonsense. Existence is without meaning until the minute we begin thinking. Do plants decide to grow? Do lions decide to join a pride?
No, but we as humans do. We’re do super-ego driven, we act as if the id and Spirit have no quality whatsoever. Will my decisions hurt people? If I think about it, yeah, they will. If I don’t, however, I will get blamed for not thinking, thus having to explain myself. This is a lot less of a problem than the guilt of intentionally doing something wrong rather than absent-minded-ly doing it so.
Society revolves around the door which keeps us in a room. We’re expected to do things based on what is in this room, our likes and dislikes affirmed.
It is all a very careful method of control. Obviously, I am tired of it. I’m done thinking about it.
“You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.”—Anaïs Nin (via ernini)
“You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us. Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. It will be the stuff of legend, endless discussion and limitless inspiration for the brave of heart. It’s you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection. I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams agains…t my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you’re here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know.”—
To an outside observer it must be incredible to perceive the fact that our auditory cortex can actually understand and interpret multiple noises that eventually make contact with our brains. Music, then, must be a beautiful thing. Organized sound. John Cage made sense of silence by saying that even when humans are dead, sound will exist. A postmodern view that is entirely optimistic. Everything vibrates. Our perception of sound is so limited and two dimensional that Music still retains a certain dissonance, yet a car alarm makes sense to us. We can ignore cries for help. Exceptions are pivotal.
So Music moves in and out of ages. We’re in the strange divide right now between entirely emotionless popular Music and avant garde pieces which display the same kind of resignation. The question remains: “What is art and how does Music fit in?”
I am about to make a very bold and defiant statement. If you don’t agree, I understand.
Art is not about expression. Art is the highest form of discipline, to truly invoke and divide emotion from the mind at a given point inside or outside of time. This emotion may eventually undergo a transformation within those who feel them, yet art retains this emotion.
Now, I know I have stated that Art, all Art, is a form of discipline. Why though?
Maybe it is the discussion of expression. Expression is being able to divide one’s feelings or thoughts from the internal to the external. I seem to feel that this is perfectly achievable throughout any point in time through speech, body language, perspiration, etc.
So why would we express ourselves through Art?
I don’t think we need to anymore. Art is not a dead form, but it has underwent a metamorphosis of sorts.
The Artist has a role in a lot of ways to entice, entertain, and enthuse. Provoking thought is a good role as well as relaxing or revealing something to the listener. So the artist has a certain number of responsibilities, not necessarily always adhering to them all.
I have come to the conclusion after much discussion with a friend of the Hindu faith that a lot of the problem with Western culture is tradition and discipline. They basically go hand-in-hand, yet we neglect them so.
You see, if Art is created with the idea that nothing came before it and nothing will come after it, the expressive part of art would be utterly inert. However, we see this today. Artists tend to throw the old ideas out the window and build monuments from nothing. It is entirely possible. Difficult because the ideas are initially rejected, thought of as radical.
These ideas, however, still contain two things: tradition and discipline.
Discipline to create something new: tradition to stick with it: vice-versa.
Tradition/Discipline might as well be the same word.
But what do I mean by discipline as it applies to Art, specifically Music?
Well, if you hear a song you like and you know you know the emotion behind it, something was brought into the song that is going to be there, regardless of how the Artist currently feels. I write a song about how much I love my mom, yet I argue with her. Simple case and point. It took a certain amount of discipline to write the song. Yes, I may be expressing that I love my mother, but regardless of what I want to express, something is going to either be obvious or completely misunderstood by the listener.
If I work diligently as a Musician to proactively create happy Music, I am doing something very specific. It is like the idea of Yoga, how in Western society it is a way to keep healthy and in shape, yet in India it is a discipline for the body and mind. We like Yoga here in the states because it makes us feel good about ourselves, yet in an Indian culture (and I am saying this in a way ethnocentric-ally) it is about being one with the self without the idea of emotion.
It is very possible for Musicians and other Artists to maintain emotion-filled playing, impacting runs and phrasing. Not without hard work, however.
The most beautiful Music in the world is not written in a day. Maybe it is, but I suppose it is one of the longer days, the busier ones at the instruments, in the mind or the like.
Personally, Music has become a sort of religion to me. I don’t try to put my two cents in on a piece anymore. It is sort of a detachment from what I love in order to love and appreciate it more. If I cannot figure out what they are trying to say right away, perhaps they are not even sure themselves. Or maybe it is meant to happen this way that my education needs to extend it’s reach to them.
Music and I have a relationship now, one that needs time to foster, one that is going to take a lot of work, a lot of reading and studying to become what I think is a master.
Make sure the apples in your basket are not rotten before you pitch fits about everybody’s apples. This is a lesson I am learning very slowly. That which I cannot do is more frustrating than that which I cannot change.
“Usually we walk around constantly believing ourselves. “I’m okay” we say. “I’m alright”. But sometimes the truth arrives on you and you can’t get it off. That’s when you realize that sometimes it isn’t even an answer—it’s a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.”—The Book Thief, Markus Zusak (via silversouled, fuckyeahliteraryquotes)
Not that it is in a bad state, but obviously something leads to sudden appendectomies. There is a quaint bitterness lingering in my throat for reasons unknown and this is a shallow and reluctant behavior I no longer wish to take part in. I want to move on and forward. I want to be something more than I was and more than I am capable of. I’ve done some childish things, like relishing in past successes rather than moving forward, and it is about time to make something of myself. Despite the workload school deems upon me, nothing is stopping me from greatness but my own shallowness. Perhaps it is my undertaking that leads me to this onset of one-way-or-the-other-ness, but I can easily prevail with cautious steps forward towards a better future and better tomorrow.
We are in control of our destiny, but our fate, I think, is set in stone. I am tired of sitting idly watching others become something when I could be doing the same.
I’m not going to claim life has a purpose, nor that it has none. That would be a bold statement that cannot be proven. But in my opinion life has no purpose as all this philosophical layer of life had been added by us – the human kind. Life would exist even without people being here – again, with no specific purpose. Purpose of life is to survive – breed new offsprings – keep the species alive.
We tend to put the human kind above all other life forms (no big news, huh?) – and yes, our lives are special in some ways. What defines our lives? Unfortunately we’re different to the purpose-less life less and less. This consuming society is generating an enormous amount of new products every day – all of them meant to be consumed as soon as possible so more can be produced.
Your life is defined by what you leave behind when you die.
And I don’t mean children, mortgage, car, … Fine, disagree with me, but tell me what are people going to remember you for. Is anyone going to notice you’re gone? If you don’t leave anything behind, then no. No one’s going to notice. How many of you know what’s your great-grandfather’s name? Or your grandma’s maiden name?
When I’m on my deathbed, I want to be able to look at my life and see that I’ve made an impact. If I were on my deathbed right now, I’d be satisfied – I’ve painted 100+ paintings, planted 100+ pine trees with 50+ pine trees planned for planting each year, made furniture that will be used by me and perhaps my children, etc.
What are you going leave behind?
Very important, dominates my mind.
I will write a symphony. I will start a band. I will write a book.
It’s a quarter past the cosmos and the rain has begun. Pilfered with the smell of cigarettes, my body is laid out like a reeking ashtray. It’s almost Sunday, I think. Maybe that’s just suspicious hope, but it’s almost Sunday.
"Remember the sabbath and keep it holy."
Remember your birthday and celebrate accordingly. Remember Christmas and make a mockery of a pagan celebration. Ah, you cynics and your life-styles. It’s like imitation meat: good in small doses where it is not noticed.
So I played at this club earlier, getting back on topic. The woman serving the beverages for young teens and some adults in a similar mindset was top-heavy and loving it. I’m sure there were more tips between her breasts than crumbs that had fallen into that canyon of a chest.
"And God said, ‘Let there be boobies!’" And she steps into the frame. She’s wearing a pair of those glasses. You know, those glasses. The black ones with the thick frames, but they are thin on the face. They make women look like librarians, hot librarians, and men look like metro-homosexuals. Other gay men turn and go, “Oh, what a fag!”
Suffice it to say, women can dig on stuff they monopolize. Breasts, glasses, vagina, tampons (not placed in noses, so maybe “pads” fits better in this list), breast milk, and huge aureoles make the top six in my book of ladies’ wear.
Where was I a-going with this? A-sailing?
Possibly. Tonight was quite the boat ride of emotions for such a character as myself. You see, I’m twenty and I act fifteen. I make decisions and get pissed off like a child would.