“These life you crapper ‘legitimately’ verify someone else’s sheet soured the wall, secure it up somewhere and call that ‘process’ your own, and place verify to that as your creation.”
Wow. I think that’s called irony.
Find it here.
‘Translated’ from my oringial, here.
Thanks to Extracurricular T. for pointing this out.
Down de local – one of those almost ‘too cool for school’ Tom Waits worshipper type bars.
I usually enjoy a weekly after-work drink in there, and have indeed partied there most enjoyably of a weekend or two.
Having taken the order for a creamy one, punctuated with a mumbled ‘cheers’ from me, the bartender asks “What’s the word?”
“Pleeease!” is my resounding reply, cheery to the point of embarrassment – the kind of silliness usually reserved for close friends, but definitely not for surly-‘cool’ bar staff.
“No, man”, he reproaches, “I mean, what’s the word.”
I’m sure he thinks my scrunched up confused look is leagues below his blasé hipness, but I figure he’s fucking bonkers at this stage. I think I know what he means, but what an inappropriate point in a barfly/barkeep exchange to use his latest cool new phrasology.
I clear my throat and brace myself to address the enigma. “Like, what’s the word on the street/What’s going on, y’mean?” I ask still furrowing my brow back at his demeaning nonchalance.
“Yeah, man. What’s the word?”
He’s starting to grate me with this repetition. No, man, it is not a cool phrase, it’s fucking confusing.
“Fuck all man, fuck all… Yourself?” I respond.
Oddball.
…or a ‘nice surprise’ depending on what I believe of the story my mother told me.
But that’s entirely besides the point.
Yawn and flick off altogether with yourself if you want because I’m talking philosophy of creativity here. Beneficial mistakes in the creative process and ownership.
Go on, flick off.
[That image is taken from a blog post: 5 Blogging Mistakes You Should Avoid. Haven’t read it yet, but I bet I break all 5 in this post alone.]
My personal philosophy goes something like this:
Every creation is the result of countless mistakes and accidents down the line (’big bang’, gene mutations, many many inventions etc.), embrace that truth and mistakes in general.
And secondly, we ‘own’ nothing of ‘our’ creation. Consider (sub)conscious influence, accidents and mistakes, the physical/literal influence of the tools used, and so on, impinging on the ‘originality’ and purity of the creative process.
Yet, we all own everything.
These days you can ‘legitimately’ take someone else’s canvas off the wall, hang it up somewhere and call that ‘process’ your own, and lay claim to that as your creation.
Or you can doodle in a sensory deprivation chamber and disown the work, attributing it to all manner of outside influences.
What’s my point? Well… that mind masturbation is just pasted from a comment I made, inspired by T’s post Context Free and felt it was about meaty enough to post on its own merit. [All that’s probably advised against in that 5 blogging mistakes post, but bleh to that. So there.]
I’m not usually into all that current celebrity hysteria nonsense.
But it is just too perfect a post title and scandalous an observation to ignore any longer (not much longer than her eyelashes neither).
I wasn’t sure which Donnie had said during one of his psychiatry sessions.
A little more dialogue and I realised it was the latter, but it was so good I decided to keep it as my own.
Peter Randall‘s WOMB TOMB , 2000 – granite boulder
2 elements – cave: 229 x 335 x 270 cm, well: 213 x 270 x 230 cm
Every Living Creature
has a home/dies alone
As an aside, I’m reminded of sitting in the shed with my dog, riddled with cancer, willing him to die. It was sad. Poor fella clung on for weeks after. And also how, like Darko, I often have to consciously tell myself to give up the search for the ineffable. Absurd indeed. But I think I would rather die completely alone. [Sorry, if it’s Monday morning for you. *shudder*
Here, try this.]
I remember as a child the pure envy I felt of my parents who received mail at least once every second day.
They retorted and argued uselessly that they didn’t want those ‘letters’ for one reason or another but I felt they were unappreciative of those pages coming in, addressed to them with their names on!
Today I came home to two bills and a bank statement.
They lay unopened on my coffee table until tomorrow at the earliest.
Biker.
Comedic.
Eyelashes.
Recognisable.
More recognisable mate.
But regardless of who he is,
Bad Ambassador does a kick ass
Friday Album Cover or two or three.
Here’s my effort to show appreciation:
?
Answer here.
Life On Mars? 