i don’t like books again. i like the object, i like pages and i like the product ‘book’, but i don’t like reading them. people either take themselves too seriously, or try to impress me, and i really don’t care to spend time with those sorts of things or people.
my life is stupid, the person writing the book, their life is stupid. it is no better than mine or more interesting than mine. there is no way to quantify ‘worth’ in terms of life, so it doesn’t exist. even ghandi’s life was, by the most fundamental definition of life, no greater than mine. he lived, and he died.
if you are writing poetry or prose and using a very large vocabulary to express very general feelings or describe the world around you, you are not paying close enough attention to the world around you. what you are missing is billboards and packages of beef jerky. lotto tickets. you are missing these things. none of these things take big words to describe. ‘the mall’ is two words. i was there today.
if you are an academic or reviewer, big words are fine. you are describing the feeling you get when an artist does something. big words are necessary, because you are going into an extreme amount of subjective reasoning and abstraction. without that, the other half of art would not exist, the processing part.
there is making shit, and there is the processing of that shit. if you are an artist, you do both. if you are workforce, you do the former. if you are an academic, you do the latter. this is not a blanket statement, people cross lines, but i don’t think i’m being an asshole by making this statement. it’s not that much of a stretch.
what bothers me, is the predictive reasoning that goes into becoming an “artist” for some people. most artists try to fit themselves into some sort of linear construction of time, and cut-and-paste their work into a time-line of evolving art. when, in reality, time is just a stupid tool for empirical reasoning. in reality, time exists only in ‘now’. time is something happening all at once, now, and now is not the past or some extension of it, it is just now. no trend or forward movement changes the existence of now, or what it means to exist now. which is partially why i’m bored with books, they don’t exist now. people exist now. jenny exists now. i’m going dancing at the mexican club.