I’m so glad that the keyboard of my laptop is readily available to me, to access the internet to match works of literature and thought to my own in a array of constant thought. The internet speeds match up my own brain waves. The buzz of activity ringing, and telephone cords of dial-up aligning.
That day I walked down 42nd Street subway station, under the horrors of Times Square, I remarked aloud, “Wow! So many people! They just feel like cameos in my life.”
Like animals, we want to be in the in-group. Protected, accepted.
Letting others determine your self-worth. Self-worth.
We all admire a natural beauty, a woman who holds her own ground without much care as to what others may think of her. As effortless. But this privilege of seemingly natural beauty comes only to those who are deemed beautiful in the eyes of the public. Who are rewarded this attribute. Because they are casted as superior, they are granted this freedom to walk, to think, on their own two feet. And that is profound beauty in any language, because confidence is beautiful.
Some of us normal folk can only achieve a fraction of these elite’s confidence by adapting their styles, fashions, behaviors, mannerisms. It’s all such a tragedy. Because rarely is self-worth, confidence, esteem, ever found within oneself.
It’s as if we give the power of confidence to our peers, and have them determine when and if we are fit enough for the golden seal of approval.
Do not fret, I think it is an absolute mistake to give beautiful people the freedom of expression, to somehow become the beacon of light, the spokesperson of the world. Yet, I contribute to this mess all the same, praising and admiring people for their looks.
We pose as if the camera is always front facing. The spotlight on us, embarrassingly laughing at our own mistakes.
We love narratives of beautiful people who reject all rationale, and live and feed off of the hedonism of emotions. To be directed by a flow of a mood, to alluring high cliff, approaching their downfall. Because that’s what it feels like to be alive. We become, uncharacteristically, so human.
Matisse isn’t an artist renowned for being “one-of-a-kind,” but instead an ordinary man, just like any one of us, who took the task of displaying art. He embodies the life that would have been, of a man who took up the art, specific to that time period.
It’s his relatability that astounds us, not his “uniqueness.” His lines are easy to understand, because his sketches are products of the same learned lessons of handy work we have all taken up in primary school. He just unleashed that tool well into adulthood.
There should be no reverence when taking up Matisse’s work, except comical joy. A peculiar vision we all once had, in the late summer sloth fever, in seaside resort.
I think people with “mental disorders” are addicted to emotions, and how it feels. Because only in these extreme moments of sadness and euphoria, do we ever feel more ALIVE.
And heartbreak rejection hurts more because it’s a thing we have admitted to ourselves, and other person, as something we REALLY want. And our self-centered minds cannot fathom that cut to our ego. It’s aggravating, extremely mad. We cannot accept it, and we refuse to. But the reality is, we cannot have that person. No action we do will suffice, and therefore we take up our disappointment in emotions, and constant, unhealthy, thought.
Reality as art: Louis CK (Comedy), David Foster Wallace (Essays), Edward Hopper (Painting), Ted Hughes (Poetry). Music and images where our language fails us, with a shortage of vocabulary. Because I hate pop art that speaks universal truths without analyzation, without the self-awareness necessary to produce profound change and meaning.