art is not what you see

July 29, 2012

After “want” one of my least favorite words is “should.” Would, could, those vibrate nicely but “should” needs to die right here.

Day 22: Why should someone read your work?

Nahh. No one should do ish. Everyone gonn do what’s in their heart (and that’s enough right there).

My argument, feisty for a Sunday when I ain’t even tryinn to be, is that “should” implies requirement, and requirement is one bondage that no one needs. To have or to hold or to put on anyone else. “Should” is didactic in nature, and suggests that someone else knows best.

Ain’t no one know ishh. Ahh. Why should we know anything? The more mistakes I make, the more I learn what not to do today. But that’s just today. Tomorrow is another story, and tomorrow doesn’t even exist. Today is would if you wish and could if you can, but should just sounds like a dragggg.

Fuck that.

Last nite I was rereading some posts on this blog that I put up months ago. Most of them were dreadful. It was awesome! I was cringing all over the place. All this messiness. All this bad writing. All this knowing I could delete it all without second thought. But I choose to leave it for today because it reminds me who I am is who I was.

Integration is a masterful pose.

I’ve been thinking of faceted and fragmented, about how it’s all a diamond no matter what. Because words are not substance, they are vapor and vapor can be poisonous.

Words offer a point of view but alla that is relative. Objectivity is for the faint of heart. Truth is found in the space in between the words themselves. Words are like… boundaries. And boundaries do not actually exist. Believe you me, when that thang hits and I am swept away, I know what lies beneath.

Last nite I awoke at twoish. And my mind began to float and all of a sudden this pain entered my body and the words started to form and then I cut them off. This isn’t my thought! This is someone thinking of me. And just with those two sentences, me, even with no boundaries, I could begin to exhale those vapors from my body.

There are no boundaries. Literally. Lines, as I remember from freshman year art class, do not exist in nature. And they don’t exist is science. So maybe they are only fiction. Imagination. Illusion. Fantasy. Dreams of false gods. Wishes for prisons. Prisons are comfortable for so many.

There is only one requirement in prison and that is to stay alive. Not to live. There is no living in the dead. I’ve lost my thread here, yes. Well then let’s sum it up with the first half of Degas’ quote because that’s the only part I like ::

Art is not what you see (dot dot dot)

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