I understand all the notions of brain chemistry. Too much of this, not enough of that, etc. Our brains and bodies are, basically, one big cake. Sometimes that cake is delicious and other times it’s juat a hot mess that you’re eating out of sympathy for the cook all the while thinking that there’s not enough insulin on earth to get you out of this soon to be happening diabetic coma of sorrow.
But let me tell you how I really feel. In the darkness there’s nothing to offer hope. The old ascetics should have lived in the modern era. They’d never have had to head to the desert to be truly alone–all they’d have had to do was stay in their house.
Come to think of it they could have done that back then as well. So why head into the desert? Dramatic effect?
What’s the point of misery if no one knows about it?
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…
It’s hard to pretend like I’ve got something going on here other than a nonsensical ramble on a 7-10 day basis.
I look over the code and realize that I’m accomplishing nothing.
Maybe something? But mostly not.
I wonder about all the computing power that’s lost because we only use our phones to play games. I’m not about to run calculations but it certainly feels like there’s a lot of processing that we’re just whizzing down our legs.
In a way it makes me feel somewhat ok about botnets. Someone should be using it, right? If no one is going to use it for good then evil’s gotta fill the void.
Applications used were:
As for the Ghost Town where this photo was taken it was, indeed, from Nevada City, Montana. This is what happens when I attempt to extract facts from my head at 3am.
Various other music machine related links:
Been working on a body of work that utilizes old photos that I took during road trip years back (like 15ish?). Years back I was making paintings based off of them but that time has come and gone. The memories are faded. It’s hard to believe that that time ever occurred. That I was ever outside of my house and in the wide open country.
And when those memories come they’re glitched. Certain things are out of place, colors have either faded or been exacerbated. Detail has been lost or muddled.
So that’s what I’m trying to represent–a moment in time that is gone for me. Nothing more than a pictorial representation of some memories that may or may not be true.
I’ve also started making screen recordings of the process. I believe the documentation of their creation to be essential. A combination of how the sausage gets made disgust and intrinsic awe at the nonchalance utilization of multiple permutations of glitch.
Which then pushes me past the notion of art making. You can control the glitch and when you’re combining them there’s a million different ways you can take it. This is impressive. Also, since there’s no shortage of data storage space anymore you can make these millions but you must always just choose one.
Life is unfair.
“Why is art beautiful? Because it’s useless. Why is life ugly? Because it’s all aims, objectives and intentions.” – Fernando Pessoa
The creation of my work is mostly self-satisfying in a most destructive manner. The work exists in my head, is created in a moment of passion and then exists in a state of being that is neither alive or dead.
That final state kills me since I’d prefer to not be reminded of my mortality, loneliness and uselessness.
Life goes on–bills must be paid, supplies gotten, food eaten.
The created work sits idly by slowly being covered in dust. But what of it? Everything is slowly covered by dust and/or turning to it.
To sit in a basement, hang on a lonely wall or live in a speculators tax shelter are all the same. The preciousness of your idea is either totally ignored or sold for a premium and then ignored.
But I digress. I’m tired of stewing in the soup of pecuniary philosophy!
One must live and for me to live is for me to insist on art and to insist on an artist’s life is to insist on living uselessly.
And that is what I shall do.
A while back I started a writing project. It gets absolutely no traction and is, basically, written in name only. The curious thing is that I have the whole project fleshed out so it’s production should be easy.
But this is only a symptom of a bigger tautological issue.
Art is less of a world changer and market/tax dodger as we’d like to believe. If anything it’s simply an artifact. Some terrible future archaeologist’s wet dream and a worshipful historians lust-filled fantasy.
The minute we realize that the painting isn’t a Rembrandt we no longer give a damn. After centuries in a museum it’s not leaning up against the wall in a small town thrift store. Condemned to be (maybe) appreciated by the common lot because their appreciation is nothing like our appreciation.
We understand the mysticism that comes from the hand and, regardless of quality, some hands are just more mystical than others.
It’s hard to think at the moment–too much circuitous reasoning about what to do next.
It’d be nice if there was a clear path.
But, then again, no. The reward is in the discovery.
I don’t know. I just don’t want to die alone.
But I will.
I got through quiet spells. To force conversation or words or even utterances past a couple syllables from me is near impossible.
I don’t enjoy this quietude. My brain is active–always thinking, planning. Entire projects get built in my mind from beginning to end. Plans are seen to fruition. Lives come and go.
But there I sit thinking.
It is in these moments that nostalgia hits. I live vast lives in worlds I’ve never seen. In times I’ve never been a part of and places I’ll never go. The causes of such a nostalgia can be anything from an old song to a glance at an advertisement. Old movies, buildings, etc.
The nostalgia is certainly terminal. It causes action to die and a life ever after to be lived in my head.
How many times must I be an tragic film noir figure before the end credits finally roll?