I wonder sometimes about the purpose of my life. Not for too long, mind you, because I’m certain that there is no overarching purpose. Nothing magnificent or overwhelming. There will be no heroic movie about my art making where I fling paint on a canvas while a cigarette dangles from my lips.
At best there will be a 30 minute clip of me bickering while playing games posted on youtube.
These types of certainties are disheartening to say the least.
However, isolation and insignificance drive me to one thing and one purpose - to figure myself out. How did I end up here? Why? and, to be grandiose, who am i?
Normally, I’d chalk this up to 21st century narcissism, however, I don’t fancy myself. I do the opposite. I loathe myself. If anything I recognize that my biggest failure is me. (which apparently is good ol’ fashioned narcissism after all)
So, I wander about in my memories–trying to trace the events that steered my course. Hoping, perhaps vainly, that I can at least provide a slight insight to fellow isolated wanderers - stay off this course. etc.
It’s amazing that so little can mean so much to so many people and that it all can vanish in a heartbeat.
There’s nothing profound in this. I’m pretty sure the Sumerians had some pretty sick beats back in their day but hell if we’ll ever hear them. We’re all the same vaporwave that’s just trapped in different dimensions of space and time.
In other news, I’m making an automatic glitcher in php/imagick/etc to remove further remove my hand from the process. We’ll see how it goes.
At the moment, I’m being beaten down by memories of Alvin and the Chipmunks. Fucking hell this brain…
A few weeks ago and what I gather was caused by some terrible combination of sinus medication I had a dream that was singing a lounge version of “head like a hole” in the Regal Begal. Jack, Larry, the girls, etc. were all there. Michelob was served.
It was a delightful night but also one of terrible, poisonous nostalgia.
I feel that nostalgia feeds on us now. It was weaponized by the marketers to get us to buy back feelings of youth and a “time” but it has gone beyond that now. It has become a bizarre Goya-esque version of Saturn eating his children.
Its filters alter our images to reflect a moment that never existed.