A place for a


Destroy your art

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 run, scream in despair and hope to never again come back to such a dark place.

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. Misunderstood anger needs meaning.

So I have all these poems I’m damn proud of; I know I write well – do I. I keep reading them because they remind me of a skill I have. I keep eating my own shit.

Some months ago I eliminated most of my stuff; 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 my third eye speaking, 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 your soul if it exists.

And as a narcissist, 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 I have only perfectly described myself. 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 courses on how to get any woman; 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.

I never missed my father until very recently. But since that moment, everything makes sense. I feel deeply flawed and vulnerable; I’m a small child, desperately looking for someone to look up to. 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.

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  • Wald

    You say.

    “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. ”

    That’s why I like to know where people come from. So I can see their biases and likely projections and see where such tends to lead them and their arguments. Logic is all well and good, but wielded by an emotional vessel such as a human…well.


    P.S. I’ve listened to the song in this post – not bad. I still need to listen to the other one you suggested on Spotify.

    • Interesting point, yes. I believe that such a thing as rationality independent of emotions does not exist. Instead, a person believes the thngs that his emotions allow him to. Only a good foundation can carry a good mindset. So when a healthy person sees a mad person, they will know they are mad. But a mad person will not necessarily see that a healthy person is healthy, as they have not developed or dissociated their ability to recognize more mature and calm behavior. Compare this article I saw today:


      Thanks, glad you did not find it bad. I published a whole article about my songs. You will get through to it eventually.

      • Wald

        Fuck that SJW guy.


        • No, thanks.

          • Wald

            Funny. You know how I meant that.

            Unless you don’t. In which case I’d express my desire that he be hung from the neck till dead, the last thing he see being the code of conduct he so thoroughly tried to push.


          • People used to call me gay. Instead of protesting, I am experimenting with using it as silly provocation. Fits with my rebel identity.

            I wish I could heal him / her instead. Such a waste. God made animals for man to kill.

          • Wald

            When people call me gay I usually reply “Only on Tuesdays”.


          • Like Lou Reed.