This was originally about depth perception

The skky is so three-dimensional, it's more complex than anything humans could make, except that it would probably be difficult to sculpt the sky anyway-- sculpt the sky, should be the goal of every philosophy, ever artist's dream: to sculpt the sky. It's a statement that could mean The Sky-- you change every aspect of life, to the extent that you have sculpted the way people look at everything, no one even looks at the sky the same way anymore, or you could take the easy way out and just sculpt the sky itself, or sculpt a copy of the sky, which makes more sense, potentially.

What you kind of have to wonder is what's up there in the sky, in all three dimensions and even the fourth, but the thing is there's so much to really contemplate even in the three dimensions we can perceive as humans that it's difficult to understan why people are always trying to find a fourth; what, is what we've got not good enough? I really think if you open your eyes to the world around you, to the absolutely limitless potential for shapes, static, kinetic, it's impossible not to be overwhelmed, and, perhaps, impossible to retain sanity-- which is probably why we can't, or don't, do it. Like whatever-it's-called, the eternity code or the eternity paradox or virus or the reality bug maybe? that essay that was all about how people would read this code-- and, of course, it's been confronted by literature of all kinds, in all methods-- and their minds would just shut down, because the sheer eternity of the thing would overload them. The debate, I believe, the major debate was over whether they had transcended reality into a state of pure bliss and omniscience, or whether they had just lost their mind completely, sanity wiped out-- but some people hypothesized that it all amounted to the same thing. Like the paradoxes which shut down computers, but the human brain... instead. The closest thing the author had said came was a sentence written in which a word was deleted, but the author let both the word and the deltion stand. Personally, I think if that's the best we can do, we might as well hand over the keys of reality to the birds-- ah, if only we had them.

If you sold the keys of reality, what price would they fetch, and what price would you want, and who exactly would want to buy such a thing, as though our own perceptions of reality were not enough, as if our own perceptions were too much, which, of course, they are, and that's why we can't even take those and we step out of them and we step into other perceptions either with drugs or omniscience which is shut off by sheer willpower or lack thereof because to know eternity is simply frightening as the lunatics know from their experiences with the great wonderful world of wild wonder eternity or something like that, it's like when you contemplate the sky and not just how far it goes-- limits and eternal stretching is the easy part, even when you think about the fact that the universe is (supposedly) expanding constantly, and perhaps even exponentially, but then you think about every shape that could be contained in that-- the abstract, the cubist, the natural, the sheer impossibility of it blows your mind simply because it is actually possible after all, the shapes are there-- we just don't see them because they're all the same, like if you connected every molecule of nitrogen with opaque or translucent lines and made them not transparent (except that they probably aren't, it's just that the atoms are mostly empty space, especially since the cloud of electrons is spread out and the molecules are so far apart because it's the nature of a gas-- if you compressed it to a state of solidity would it still be transparent? I think liquid nitrogen is opaque), and the shapes would utterly blow your mind, just as the shapes of clouds, except if we could perceive them in three dimensions, rather than the two which come with the lack of depth perception induced by seeing them from such a great distance, as is the natural state or so they tell us.

Maybe that's why we watch sunsets, because we can't bear the daylight sky, and it gives us such great pleasure to see it finally ending, and the imagination of our overworked minds can finally take a rest on the night sky and start contemplating stars, which are infinitely more complex than clouds unless you take eternity into account, at which point everything is equally simple and complex, and you spend hours just staring at a rock, because the rock is so interesting, infinitely more interesting than some strange philosophical doctrine (that sentence, by the way, was written that way partly because I tried to write it while Born In The USA started playing and the lyrics just carried over), even if that philosophy is about how everything is equally complex, because at some point every philosophy starts talking about actual people, and how you or they are supposed to behave, and after a while it just gets depressing-- you've got the idealists, the cynics, the Christians, the atheists, the existentialists and the nihilists (who claim, or are claimed by their critics, which makes it probably more true than the former, at least according to someone (possibly Gilbert Keith Chesterton) that they are merely the logical end of the existentialist philosophy-- though I must protest that existentialism only turns to nihilism if you're utterly cynical, which, of course, is half the point) and the optimists and the Marxists and the modernists and the postmodernists and now, you've got the pretentious sort of artists who look back at postmodernism as, somehow, not postmodern enough (or maybe just too postmodern, depending on the day of the week and trend), and turn out making things that are, honestly, just strange, which I always thought was part of the point of postmodernism (to be fair, that's only part of it-- strangeness in and of itself must be more than simply itself, or less, or only just, because if you are being strange for the sake of strange it's post-postmodernism, or maybe post-post-post-neomodernism, or neopostmodernism or something, but if you're being strange to prove that, say, life is strange, or life is not strange, or people are strange, or people are not strange but society is, then it's postmodernism, or sometimes just modernism, depending on your overall point, point of view, and whatever critic happens to be talking about your work), but I guess that's only if you really don't care what the critics think, unless you do.

Philosophy, Dualism, unlikely but interesting people

Today, it seems, is a day for dualism. Well, yesterday was, I guess; it's now almost three in the morning of this new day, which I'll probably miss the first few hours of, sleeping. At least I won't miss much-- it's pouring rain right now, and will continue to do so until well after sunrise, I think. The only real hope is that it lets off before I have to go to work, and in enough time for me to get to the bank, too. That's another thing! When I can drive, I won't have to worry about scrambling up steep, muddy banks on high-speed roads with sharp curves and no sidewalks so I don't get run over! That, and I won't have to drag my work uniform around in that huge backpack anymore, which will be nice. I'm sick of that stupid thing. I look like a little kid, and I feel like one, and when my shift seems to always start at the same time all the little kids are getting out of school... Well.

Anyway, dualism. A friend was telling me today about a book of Bruce Lee's he picked up (it should be noted that, although many people see Bruce Lee as a great martial artist, or a great philosopher, he saw himself as a philosopher first-- at this point in the conversation I pointed out that a great martial artist must needs also be a philosopher, or at least that's always been my perception, and my friend agreed), and how he was talking about the Western and Eastern philosophies. The main point was that Bruce Lee took the same approach to philosophy that he always had with martial arts-- an approach he could take, having seen both sides of the coin-- which was that both had their merits, and rather than standing around arguing about which was better, you'd be better off studying both and taking what looked right.

And then I ran into this blog post/speech by Stephen Fry:

[After a long bit on self-help books, and sugar, and enterprise, which I almost entirely agreed with*]

Well, I count myself one of those suckers for at least 50% of the time. I love dumb action movies, and sentimental weepies. I love hamburgers smothered in sweet tangy sauce. I love toys and games and theme parks and RVs and spectacle and simple solutions. I love having my vulgar glands and cheap sensation receptors tweaked and tickled. I love believing in promises of a brighter future. I love the idea that training myself to breathe only through my nose or to chew my food 48 times before swallowing will make me thinner, less stressed and sleep better or whatever the latest fad might be. I love the idea that five simple mantras chanted twice a day might help me concentrate, make love more satisfyingly and become richer or that by following Jesus or Anthony Robbins will make me rich and happy.

But for the rest of the time I want the truth. I want it unsweetened. I want to wash my mouth free of all sweeteners. I want to test all claims and statements on the anvil of experience or by empirical double blind randomised cohorts according to best scientific practice. I want to doubt, to experience, to think, to challenge and to scoff. I want art and literature and cinema and music that rejects easy pappy, poppy formulae and which reflects the truth of experience and all the ambiguities and complexities of existence. I want not sweet but bitter and sour and salt. I want realism not idealism. I want facts not fancies. I want imagination not wishing upon a star. I want learning, language and literature not philistinism, fantasy and infantilism.

First GK Chesterton, then Bruce Lee, now Stephen Fry. Maybe instead of going to school, I'll just spend the next ten years hiding out in a library, occasionally coming out to climb trees once a week or something.

*I don't know what it is that bothers me so much about books like How To Win Friends And Influence People. Maybe it's pride-- the idea that I somehow need -help- to "win friends" No! No, the idea that friends are something to be won! and "influence people." You see, I damn well -know- how to make friends. I just don't care enough about most people to make the effort. Ye gods, that sounds awful. What I mean is, if someone needs help, I will by all means help them out if it is in my power to do so. I will not go party with them, nor will I make small talk, nor will I giggle at their stupid jokes, nor will I spare them long rambling verbal essays on philosophy if we are in proximity. I don't want to win friends. I want to be friends with the people who I care about, and the rest of the world can go fuck off.

DISCLAIMER: It's three in the morning. If I made this speech to the above-mentioned Bruce Lee fan, musician, and close friend, he would probably smack me upside the head and point out all the problems with this footnote and all it implies and outright states. But it is late/early, and my aqueous humor hurts, and I don't care.

Talkin' 'Bout My (nameless) Generation

Friend: You’re from Generation X, right?
Me: No, that’s my older sister’s generation. My generation… my generation has no name.
Friend: That is an excellent song title. You should write that song.
Me: Heh. I’ve been thinking about it for a while – it is, isn’t it?
Friend: Yes. And you are going to write it.
Me: …I am?
Friend: Yes. Tonight.
Me: …Okay.

I didn’t finish the song in one night; I started writing concepts in a bookstore café, and when I picked up my guitar that night the chords felt right, and the notes came easy, and the melody and harmony just clicked, which it never has before, but the lyrics were absolute shit, and I knew it as I was writing them, and didn’t let it bother me because I needed the songwriting practice, musically speaking. I’ve begun again this night, sans guitar (though I believe a guitar would help, I’ve no desire to wake my family, as it is currently two o’clock in the morning), and it’s… better. It’s a rough draft, instead of, well, shit.

Here’s what I’d written ahead of time; I’m typing it up here to get me past the block I’m on right now.

I’m supposed to be writing a song, My Generation Has No Name. I’ve thought about that concept so many times, it’s strange to be thinking the actual… song. And… it’s true, you know. Our generation is undefined, the unknown value that could shape the equation and, consequently, the world. Heh. We’ve got rap, and synth-pop, and death/metal/gore/scream (etc)-core, and a bit of rock, even. We’ve got a pretty strong Indie crowd. We’ve got punks, and grinning cynics, and too many of us have come onto the scene pre-destined, defined to our last little trait – our personality as good as owned by the media. When will culture start charging by the soul?

Destiny in our control / when will you begin to charge us / by the soul? (Idea tho’)
These frozen clocks all look the same
my generation has no name

CONCEPTS
culture (moves on)
potential (infinite)
implied in the name [of the song] is a certain formlessness; we are allowing the world to shape us, while our voices become hollow(s) to echo, despite their boundless range – our generation has no name.

Aha, I can be as patriotic as I damn well want to be, and that includes toward my generation. I do believe in potential, and I do believe that every generation gets a chance to change the world, and we are wasting ours.

Stories, etc.

To date, I have begun stories about a man, an old general who tried to conquer the world and was sentenced, by those who stopped him – after much bloodshed, pain, heartache, and loss – to be eternally imprisoned in a stone tower, which would move every day from place to place, at random, throughout that world, so that his followers (for even after all that he had done, there were those who wanted to go on) could never find and rescue him, and he created a companion in his mind, out of regret for all the life he’d lost and wasted and spilled on barren wasteland, a wraith of the innocence left in him, a hallucination; an old god who keeps watch over a tiny eldritch monster which lives in the bottom of a bottomless pot of soup; a guitarist who accidentally goes wandering into another world, where dreams are watched by the servants of the king there, to keep them from the daemons who seek to conquer all; a man who is cursed to die a thousand thousand deaths, and each time he wakes there is some new horror he must face, for all of eternity. I have finished none of the above, and I don’t know why.

I’m angry, and lonely, and hurt, and mostly I don’t know why. I used to really like my job, but lately work in general bothers me – I don’t mind working. I don’t mind coming home tired, and sore, late, I don’t mind dealing with people (mostly), I don’t mind doing dirty work. What gets to me is when there’s politics. When it’s tough to do my job because the boss needs to keep this or that person happy, when I can’t get things done because they need to be done by this person only, for some stupid obscure reason, when things need to be super-professional because we’re trying to impress someone higher-up-the-chain, and I want to say “Are you fucking kidding me? I just dug through three different garbage cans looking for a catalogue I threw out too early, the both of us swear like sailors when we’re working on something particularly hard, when it’s raining I come into work soaked and when it’s snowing I come into work frosted over, you barely ever wear a uniform because it’s so cold in here three layers of fleece isn’t even enough (for you, anyway, personally I couldn’t care less about the cold), there’s three different handwritings on the smaller bags because we all take turns making them up, and this business works fine because everyone who works here cares about it (I think…), and because you’re damned good at what you do, and everything works, even if it isn’t clean enough to eat off of (which, mostly, it is). Who gives a shit if my hair is frizzy as hell? I wear a hat when you tell me to… why does it matter that everything I did last night besides the drawer was off the clock? Nobody was around. The drawer comes out even nine times out of ten, or more, and customers rarely leave unsatisfied. When I tell people stuff about birds, I’m helping them. I like doing that. I… just don’t. Get it.

I don’t really care about money. This, I’ve been told, is a failing. I don’t need a lot of stuff in my life, most of the stuff I like best is beat-up and old, and as long as I have clothes on my back and enough to eat, I’m fine. Most people either don’t understand that or don’t believe it. I don’t understand them. I don’t understand why it’s okay to lie, cheat, fuck people over, as long as you’re getting paid enough, but if you’re playing guitar in the street you damn well better be collecting. I don’t understand why it’s good form to put change in your hat so it looks like you’re making money already. Will people only give to someone they think others have given to? I don’t understand why crack whores are despicable, but Artists doing crack at Parties are glorious.

I hate this life, and I think one of these days I’ll just disappear, and in retrospect, my deepest apologies to any of you whom I abandoned in the doing thereof. I hope you understand.

The Untouched, Untouchable, Intangible HORIZON

I had to take the dove feather out of my notebook to paint it.


This is what the back looks like now: