Let go of bad thoughts. Let go of bad habits. Let go of bad people? Fuck, yeah, even that. Whatever hurts to let go, it runs too deep. Melt away the iron chains of the anchors that keep you from sailing adrift in feared freedom.
Lot has been said about letting go of negative influences. But what about those that we ourselves have produced. Years of tritely understood pain may have left behind a lot of creative output for some of us.
I sat on a shitload of passive-aggressive poems biting away at every object of envy I had ever been able to find. Dystopian fantasies about oppression through society. Pitiful analyses of the minds that had oppressed me. Oh, girl, why couldn’t you love (me)? What stopped you?
Art is a great way to express yourself. To find (and bind) kindred souls. Sounds like something acceptable to write in a tehveh magazine.
Whatever phenomenal parades may be hosted and attended in the service of catharsis, it is often but a self-delusion to expect change through relief. I dare argue that an art that means to seduce is less dangerous to its author than art that is meant to elevate him by taking on his burden. Wow, that sounds deep.
When I do art, I reach within or without myself, wherever my senses may lie at the time. I spit out what bothers me, cut free from what smothers me and engulf my most cherished feelings in words meant for the ages.
But think about it. Why am I doing it? It feels great. Is writing a song about misery really so much better than eating pizza or drinking liquor to forget? Have the lonely pop stars at Hollywood horizon found their inner peace after sharing crops of their pain with the earth around and gained but millionfold (self-)pity in return? How many have died from drug abuse? Coincidence on the stairway to heaven? Has writing a song ever solved your problems?
There’s another angle on this. Catharsis means cleanse. There’s something ugly inside you – in fact, that’s the reason you want to get it out, isn’t it. I’m not saying you are ugly, but let’s face it – we are all human and we are to a certain extent filled with shit. Shit is stuff you need to get out. There’s a reason you don’t eat your shit. But it’s quite different in the case of art, isn’t it. Shit is glorified. Wherever painful shit is expressed, the thinker flies of the artosphere come bathe in it until their very wings cleave to the foul texture of spiritual excrement. Why? They know the pain. They understand it, therefore it is custom to them. Flying is a distant dream when you can crawl on the ground and pity those who know no better than you. While everyone with a clear mind and self-compassion would.
A man lays bare his soul. It appeals to the people. But what if the mans soul is ugly? Is art good for arts sake? And for those of you who have actually met artists and art lovers like that in your life: Tell me earnestly if you think that these bland intellectuals have really the farthest sense of compassion for the artist. Yada. I know, that’s strongly suggestive. Please disagree. Also, please disagree if you think that compassion for the artist is irrelevant. Tell me why.
It is the principle of shared pain that the blind lead the blind. Misunderstoodneeds meaning.
So I have all these poems I’m damn proud of; I know I write well –. I keep reading them because they remind me of a skill I have. I keep eating my own shit.
Some months ago I; part of that was a large quantity of intellectual memos, sad poems, glib discourses over the injustices of society and lonely words directed at people I had been infatuated with. I kept a few pieces as examples of a place I don’t want to be at again.
I don’t know if that’s myspeaking, but I’m really glad I got rid of that waste; just the idea of having those written words near me gives me the creeps. In a way, bad art can be like a bad friend. Whenever you try to change with the most puny but honest spark of heart, it will remind you how pathetic you are. It will not uplift you. Because it is not good. And goodness has nothing to do with exquisite delivery, don’t misunderstand. Bad art can be perfectly executed, magnificently overwhelming even; but it will eat away at .
And as a, therein may lie the temptation of not letting go of old art. If you have developed a reasonably strong skill, your art will be magnificent enough to remind you of your own fucking glory. Acquaintances will repeatedly give you acknowledgment.
In hindsight, the most toxic thing about my writing – the one that makes me want to puke now – is the mindless projection of my own shortcomings into the world. Quite literally I have written essays and songs about people I know. About the way they were unjust, about their problems, struggles and shortcomings. And in almost every single one of those cases. It amazes me to no end now that I had been so unable to see other people as separate persons. Really, it’s baffling. It’s like those scam websites that sell you ; once your mind leaves a place of scarcity and need, you absolutely cannot understand how such a blatantly cheap setup was able to evoke the faintest hint of credibility in you. So much for the rational mind.
. But since that moment, everything makes sense. I feel deeply flawed and vulnerable; I’m a small child, . I wrote a song about that now.
I feel that there’s no need to ever write another song; never been a need to write another song than that one. Because this is, although melancholic and lost, the first song I ever wrote out of real compassion for myself. Possibly due to this, listening to it doesn’t have the drug effect anymore. It stays with me as a reminder. But it must not stop me on my journey.
Having said that, there is good art. I seldom did some. Look at the great works of humanity. To borrow words from Mike Cernovich, look at the Sistine Chapel and its modern counterpart, Danger & Play. Listen to Vivaldis Four Seasons, to Smetanas Moldau and to The Gremlins 2 Soundtrack by Jerry Goldsmith.