“Real Artists Don’t Starve - They Thrive · “ was enough of a trigger to provoke me to my last version of this essay begun at the end of last year and has been stalled for the past 3 months having deteriorated into a miasma of self-indulgent dreck. I capitulated this morning when i sat upright out of an existential stupor hoping the change in surroundings i landed in due to a precipitous decision to evade “The inevitable;” my neighbors where i live are ‘noise thugs’, meaning that to make their pound of flesh, they think nothing of coopting the tranquility of the entire colonia to whatever variation of ‘music’ deemed popular for whatever crowd by whoever is making those choices, nor to they give a fig whether their volume of entertainment might disrupt anyone else’s activity for a radius of 300 meters; the insult is their contempt for the sleep of those who depend on their weekends for rest - these ‘masters of music’ feel their creativity is so sacred that 1, 2, or 3 in the morning is too soon to interrupt their cultural ‘elan’.
So i took a room in a lodge away from the gossips who have ascribed ‘hatred’ of the culture as motivation for my seemingly bizarre choices - or so it seems to me. The irony is that the hope to ‘evade’ rather than adapt has only created a cascading gaggle of ‘ducklings’ waddling after my every effort to control my environment. The room i was placed in was catty-corner to the ‘off-cycle’ kitchen at precisely the moment when the chef-master wished to do his most creative work on the same Sunday morning i was hoping to disentangle myself from real vs fantasy impediments of my creative process. “En Vino Veritas” once again saved the day and kept me from acquiescing to rudeness and so found my self further complicating the scene by sharing my ‘unframed-inarticulate’ objections with the Dame/Manager on her Sunday morning, knowing i’d be calling down the dogs of sanctimonious indignation for my arrogance.
I’m really not sure what to do next; it is impractical to countries every time a cultural rift sticks in my craw, the equivalent echo would be to change families when yours will not alter their preferred brand of toxin when you object. The problem for me is that my yen for kindness is retreating more quickly than my ability to adapt to solitude and rationalize my circumstance as a form of existential dignity without any attending support. Media and its orchestrated distraction is a poor substitute for flesh and blood; while fear and isolation are poor compensation for the courage it takes to defy coalescing into the ‘pod’. The irony is that it “T’was been ever thus.” - Larry Golden · I did not sleep well after the kerfuffle but could’ve; it was the anxious child in my looking forward to the pleasure i know can be found in massage + temezcal (steam bath). Sadly i no longer access easily the metaphysical wonder found in not understanding some things. In my earlier pilgrimages to where i now live; may die, i’d channel Don Juan, and find magic under every rock.
Now i’m just tired, possibly besotted, having found sober allure in the wisdom of Mescalito - ‘the more things change the more they remain the same.’ - old french proverb. Mescal is the most benign intoxicant i’ve found, while the catechism is oddly the same; moderation, all things moderation. Days ago, I thought for a moment i’d fallen for a woman; mostly because i’m a ‘hopeless romantic’ but i know in the darker chambers of my being i want to vindicate myself and be worthy of what lovers know, rather than the hard-bitten realist i have become. The paradox is for those 60 seconds that i flirted with this woman, i lost 10 lbs of angst and added 15 years to what is increasingly looking to be a telescoping future. My bravado has met its match in degenerative osteoarthritis of the hip, even if i can analyze whys and wherefores and maintain an optimum physical condition - the world i face doesn’t admit my type of genius, and as much as it galls me to say, George’s boot on the throat is as courageous a commentary as i’ve found.
And it would be a lot of fun to devise an existential ‘Hail Mary’ that might provide some leverage for liberty to those who’ve peeled the digital claw from their skullcap and stand outside the tangle of what had at one time been a human vista which yielded the Shakespeares, the Dylans, Rembrandts, and Einsteins of our world. I don’t know what it takes to gain traction over the blare of computer models and their handmaiden, artificial intelligence. I am proud to think i can continue to stand here with my ‘little wild bouquet’ of aphorisms cobbled together in the manner of a modern day Montaigne, and would love to leave you reading with a lighter heart than the one you brought to the screen; the best i can tell you is it will be more valuable to you when you find it within your own tool box, because the same as you are peering over my shoulder is a search for the right size screw to cinch this ‘bad boy’ in place, there is no doubt someone in your world peering over your should assessing and evaluating what you read, why and noting what you build. Good luck ·:·
resistance · a sonnet ·:·
X / X / X / X / X /
Adaptation isn’t resistance, it’s life;
and what resists, persists - a paradox
for both states - life and death · describe much strife:
life through fullness, death’s void walled off by locks.
To what end persist, if both states lack peace?
What state teaches peace; can it be acquired
If it can’t be learned, what about hired - a lease?
My flesh is borrowed, why can’t calm be hired?
“A bunch of words” - how’d they learn to fight back?
Do words resist writing, to serve a poem birth
adding strength to its life ducking’n ai hack
Does it matter to this world’s shrinking girth?
so goes the saga - ‘Willy or Won’t he -
performed on the stage of ‘Don’t get a Fee’ ·
jts 17032924 adaptation - the essay / resistance · a sonnet ·:·
http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com
http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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