Storm of Insanity

What is it about art?

2010-01-10T21:16:00.000-08:00

Why do we do art? What is art? What is its point?

Whatever it is, it is not about expression. Art is about introspection. Do not, though, confuse introspection here with Aristotle's catharsis; catharsis is not really about expressing yourself in the art you see, but about understanding what you feel when you see it - not necessarily of understanding why: we do not need to understand why we are here in order to understand what we do and what happens. In catharsis, we do not express our feelings so much as understand what they are, by seeing it from a dislocated point of view.

Those who need art to express themselves and what they feel do it because they do not understand those feelings and do not understand themselves. It is entirely natural, of course, and it happens to all of us, especially those who do not express in art at all, but through uncontrolled acts. However, that is not what art is about. This makes it merely a tool for certain people.

The ultimate goal of art is, like catharsis, understanding. Art is only useful individually as a method of expression, but it is used collectively as a means of introspection. In order to understand not the world around us, but the mysteries that cannot possibly be answered by observation and calculation. Art is an attempt to understand consciousness, to understand life, and consequently, death. It is, at worst, a means for us to cope with the meaninglessness of it all. But I would rather use this meaninglessness, cope with it, than live constantly staring at the blank.

Are we not all just trying to cope with our existence? Religion is not the answer here, inasmuch as it is defined arbitrarily. It is not open to whatever might be revealed - think of the dilemma for the religious if we should find proof of other intelligent life. That is not to say it would kill religion, but art is not impacted by this kind of violent collision. In fact, it thrives in it.

Philosophy is not the way either. Philosophy, defined here as thinking of what lies beyond physical life, beyond consciousness, cannot possibly be useful yet. How can we understand the purpose of the universe, if there is one at all, if we do not understand it? How are we supposed to understand why we die when we do not even know what death really is? Philosophy will come into play once we figure out, through art, through looking at ourselves and understanding how we work - not just mechanically, but as self-aware beings, as living and dying creatures.

Art is done because, in doing it, we find out what it is, and thus understand ourselves and each other.

The violonist in the sky

2009-10-20T20:54:00.001-07:00

So string theory has been replaced by, expanded into m-theory, but I find that the image of a string, of strings on a violin, is much more apt for the idea of the question that is still missing from all the equations:

Who plays the violin?*

Well, naturally, God does, but that word has to be stripped of all its religious connotation. We are so infinitely insignificant in comparison to the m-theory god, or everything, that all we can do is find our place in the grand scheme of things. This does not mean, however, that we know what the grand scheme is.

Suppose we have a full understanding of m-theory. We would still have that question, why are there these infinite parallel universes? And even if we answer that, we will still have an even greater question. But even if we do, so to speak, gaze into the eye of God...the question is no longer 'why,' but 'and then what.'

In the end, God might be everything and nothing all at once. It could be chaos, it could be a quintessential order, a perfect synchrony, perfect rhyme, imperfect art, a gray-bearded man or a spaghetti monster. It is at the same time irrelevant to our existence, yet at the same time everything we aspire to know. The quintessentialness of all is exactly this: a paradox, all that is nothing, or perhaps just something. Certainly explains a lot about the paradoxic nature of man. We are, after all, fragments of this greater paradox.

* It is a much more fulfilling image than someone shaking blankets at random (m-theory replaced strings with 10-dimensional blankets - seen from the 11th dimension)

CityStateCountry

2009-03-31T21:16:00.001-07:00

How Orwellian is Brasilia?

I live in Superblock two-one-three Building "T" Apartment four-oh-eight.

Art != Reality

2009-03-04T21:10:00.000-08:00

Life is an imitation of art. Sometimes, very possible. Art is an imitation of life. No, it's not.

Art is not made to mirror reality. It is there to juxtapose it. To be the antonym of reality. Otherwise what's the point? We already have reality, we have access to it at all times. Not to art, though, not to this escape from reality. We live in a world of possibilities, and when we aren't given the better one, we do, or at least should go after it. Doesn't really matter how.

Daytrippers

2009-02-18T20:20:00.000-08:00

Those who fantasise the most act the least.

If only I'd learn the lesson. Or accept it.

? -> 42 but we still have a question mark

2009-02-08T20:15:00.000-08:00

In spite of connotations, there's a problem with a thirst for knowledge. It's still a thirst. It's still something you're going to feel every day, and no matter how much you drink, you'll wake up the next day thirsty again.

I think the big problem is that, no matter how much we care about knowledge, whether you're me or someone in a coma, we'll never really attain it. We trudge on to find the answer to our questions, what do I wanna eat today, would she do me, but deep down we don't have the answers that really matter, or at least that we think matter. And it's probably because it's hard to answer a question when you don't know the question. Douglas Adams might have been joking, no one will ever know, but he hit the nail on the head...even if we do find the answer (and there's no reason it can't be 42), that alone is entirely useless, and can actually lead to trouble. Just like everything else

Everyone is Ramesses

2008-09-16T21:20:00.000-07:00

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

The second law of thermodynamics is pervasive, and THAT is despairing.

Clash

2008-09-06T22:10:00.000-07:00

A pear tree,
A swarm of bees,
Under the burning sun;
Desert heats
Where vultures feast.
But blades of grass
will not be encroached;
The root grows deep
To keep the spark alive.
Soft scent mesmerises,
Puts to sleep: sweet dreams.
The sand is strong,
Slick, and cunning, still
No beam goes through, for the vines are you:
Forever on and so
We sew the line anew

Shark Attack

2008-09-02T22:50:00.000-07:00

EDIT: I hate to make one click. Honestly.

Nobdi gives a shit

2008-08-27T21:06:00.000-07:00

*knock*

-Who's there?
-Nobdi
-Who is it?
-It's Nobdi
-If's no one's there, who's talking?
-Nobdi!
-Stop this crap! How can you not be somebody?
-I am somebody! I am Nobdi!
-Oh gawd he gets metaphysical and shit
-Will you let me in?
-I'll let nobody in!
-So open the door!
-If there's nobody there, why should I?
-So Nobdi can come in!
-Go to hell
-But...what did Nobdi do?

*gunshot*

And again...

2008-08-22T12:51:00.000-07:00

Discussing Usain Bolt's eligibility for the NFL, he cracks another Jamaica joke:

"Then again, we don’t know when Bolt graduated from high school, or if he even attended. Indeed, the term “high” school in Jamaica might have an entirely different meaning."

What the hell? I guess there's a reason these people are writing sports columns and not Conan O'Brien's jokes (I should hope they're better than this...)

Oh, they think they're so funny

2008-08-20T21:13:00.000-07:00

Mike Florio, on a piece for profootballtalk.com:

"We just saw Jamaica’s Usain Bolt set the world record in the 200-meter dash. And the first thing that came to mind was this."

How fast would he be if he hadn’t spent much of his life breathing second-hand marijuana smoke?

Hardy. Har. Har. Let's poke the drug taboo.

The Power of Natasha

2008-08-19T22:17:00.000-07:00

From Grant Wahl's article about the Brazilian loss today:

"Surely the Brazilian fans will be in full force. Caipirinhas! Samba! Scantily-clad soccer-loving beauties!"

We all know about the two clichés, but wow, caipirinhas first?

(yes, this was mostly to mess with formatting)

EDIT: Ohmigod what an awful pun at the end: "It's fun to stir the pot, even when it's a pot of Brazilian feijoada."

This man knows how to live, damn

Divison

2008-08-18T19:58:00.000-07:00

It's an interesting dilemma. On the one hand, materialism is harmful to people in that it creates a false sense of inadequacy to those who don't have enough shit (and no one does). On the other hand, world economy is booming (relatively at least) in part because people are buying so much shit. Where do you draw the line?

Hah

2008-08-12T20:21:00.000-07:00

I was looking for a picture of a homeless man next to a car, meaning to make social commentary. This, however, is better:

In hindsight...

2008-08-11T20:38:00.000-07:00

When you're young, you're as light as air; when you're old, you feel heavy. It's as if the burden of years piles up on your back

It's All Wonderful Nights

2008-03-12T23:00:00.000-07:00

I really don't know what's cause and what's consequence. I don't know if I am who I hang out with or I'm just really lucky to know the right people. No doubt a little bit of both.

They say change is good. Guess it is. I imagine it's a bit like balding. You don't wanna lose the hair, but taking pills is only gonna delay the inevitable (at best), so you just go with the flow. You might hate it all the time, but you also hate scumbags and dimwits, and it's even harder to stop those.

Which brings me to my point, that I'm so alike certain people it makes me feel normal, up to a certain point. I mean, Mario, for one, with whom I agree on just about nothing, but we survive in a pacific manner for three weeks. Natasha watches movies with me no one else would even feign interest about. Stefano, well, sometimes it's just freaky. Teo, guess he proves that mixed-race friendships aren't so stereotypical in the end (LAF).

And you all left. Well, some not really, but sometimes it just feels like it. And I'm sure you do it because you know it's right, but that doesn't mean I don't get to hate it.

I hope I haven't offended anyone not mentioned. You're what makes sanity worthwhile.

Well, sometimes you do go insane, because otherwise that would be like eating chili without pepper.

My god I hope chicks dig corny guys.

(On an unrelated note, it's amazing how Jesus said so many smart things (not only, but no one's perfect), yet ended up indirectly causing tons of deaths, torture, book burnings (gah), wars, greed, etc...Goes to show how mankind can take a bunch of cool ideas, make it into religion, and send the whole thing on a downward spiral. Ungrateful biatches)

Roots

2008-01-21T22:53:00.000-08:00

"Maybe it's just true. It's her cousin. People have cousins. I mean, I have a female cousin. [pause] Maybe he's gay and she's afraid it'll make me feel insecure. Well that's not very encouraging, her attitude towards me. I guess there isn't even anyone. She just needs some time to clear her mind and her pores. Chicks dig that. Pores, definitely the pores. Women can't stand that, right? Oh, she probably put it in her head that I don't like her spending time with her girl friends. Which I don't, but I don't let her know...skanks. She's insecure, poor thing. She wants to handle her world on her own a bit. She's not a fornicator, we have moderate sex. Moderate sex."
"Hi, honey, what's that you just
"I don't believe you. [pause] Get out."

Sadly, he wouldn't win the Peace Prize

2007-12-16T21:00:00.000-08:00

Jesus was not exceptional because he turned water into wine, or because he walked on water. He was out of the ordinary because he turned the other cheek

Arson

2007-11-30T21:06:00.000-08:00

-Why do you feel this fright?
-It's my only delight.
-Why do you always take flight?
-It's my only delight.

Photographs

2007-11-29T21:20:00.000-08:00

I dunno
I dunno what to say
to evoke, to scandalise, marginalise
What to do with these words
Figments of time, bit by bit
Splatter over my sky
These dice are rolled every day
Wayward jogger winding way
The gray haze begins to billow
Makes me turn so mellow
Why, why, why the sky?
I just, I wanna keep my feet on the ground
I wanna vandalise my land
Twist the streets
And not just stare from stand
Ephemeral soul seeks stone to turn

The end

2007-11-26T21:17:00.000-08:00

Behind the wheel at first
Then comes the thirst
The burst of orgasm
Still a fathomless chasm
But at the fields of moneyless green
The mind comes to keen
A machine no longer machine

When hell first appears
The sight is too fierce
No roar from within
Yellow and grey
United display is achieved
Tantalising decadence
Opalescence for a soul in need

First a dystopia
All black, all grim, all sin
Famine that ravages
Lonely spirit houses savages
Kaleidoscope eyes
No surprise in the skies
The light comes to utopia

Soular System

2007-11-15T20:46:00.000-08:00

The world is at your feet. The problem is that most people say "What, it's just there? For free? What's the catch?" You have to take it as it comes, and enjoying every bit, because if you think about it, THERE'S NO REASON YOU SHOULDN'T. Go on a stroll around the orbit of your mind, and stop to admire it, to watch the beautiful blue beneath you, and know that that's where you come from. It takes distance to be able to truly appreciate and understand something, temporal or physical, so in order to know yourself, take a walk outside your spirit.

And just watch.

And in watching, you'll also notice how magnificent the sun is, and you'll bask in the morning light like no one else ever has. Jupiter is also there, but now it's not just a point among endless glowing periods, it's really there. A giant planet, rings slowly spinning, radiating.

Mars, it really is there, is your neighbour. Mostly you look at it, and you know it's supposed to be there, but you've never quite seen it, never taken a quick tour along the hallways. But the rumours are true, it's red, it's round and it's there.

Finally, you discover there are satellites spinning around, beaming waves down, and feeding the planet with so much information, and it's something we never realize. It's thanks to those that you can even read these words. And they're there, all hundreds or thousands of them.

Then, you come back. And you look to the sky, and you don't see Jupiter or Mars, much less the satellites, and the sun is small and insignificant, but you know they're there, and you have full awareness of their existence.

Perspective is for free. It's there, you can grab it. Tax free. But the rebate is more than you can imagine.

Storm of Insanity

2007-11-14T20:38:00.000-08:00

So many thoughts, but not a coherent one
Abstractions of higher being
Lower being
Philosophy for little children
There's no trepassing
Only glancing at the meadows beyond
Feeling the fresh wind of rain
Flesh and only flesh
The jester knocks at the door
The bumblebee soars freely
I spin and I spin and I spin
But my anchor's chains are diamond
Diamond and lead
My mind billows around my being
But impermeable am I
Unliftable am I
Stoic and statue
Under the weight of sanity

Where?

2007-11-03T19:23:00.000-07:00

A foot on shore and one in sea
A desire to see
And really feel
The real wind, the real stream
A glimpse of nature's dream
Feel not the leaves against my skin
But against my soul
To truly feel whole
Outside this world of no kin

Anachronism

2007-10-27T22:14:00.000-07:00

It's not that the best things in life are free. It's just, they were around even before money was invented

Wake up

2007-10-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

Wake Up
by Win Butler, William Butler, Régine Chassagne, Timothy Kingsbury, Richard Reed Parry and Howard Bailerman

Somethin'
filled up
my heart with
nothin',
someone told me not to cry.
But now that
I'm older,
my heart's
colder,
and I can see that it's a lie.
Children
wake up,
hold your
mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust.
If the children
don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our get
torn up.
We're just
a million little god's
causin' rainstorm
turnin' everything good to rust.
I guess we'll just have to adjust.
With my
lightnin' bolts a glowin'
I can see where I am
goin'.
With my
lightning bolts a glowin'
I can see where I am
goin' to be
when the reaper he reaches and touches my hand.
Better look out below!

It's a fine between music and poetry. Song by The Arcade Fire

We are but couches

2007-10-16T12:34:00.000-07:00

Goods? A misnomer, if you ask me. More like unnecessaries. Books and CDs and movies aren't what first comes to mind when goods are mentioned, but they're more good than most goods. People want to have, have, have, but how many want to be, be, be? They live not for themselves, they live for goods, never realizing that the only real good is them. They're not their skin and their spleen, they're their ideas, they're mind. Healthy mind, healthy body? Likely. But the inverse isn't necessarily true. At all, really

The progress of civilization is but the progress of comfort. The progress of longevity. Who among us has seem real progress of state of mind? Who among us should really care what their house looks like if it's home? Whose dream is a Ferrari and not another dream? We all strive for the material and for the spiritual, but who strives for their heart's prize instead of their eyes' or their hands', or their genitals, really? Stuff is nice, no doubt. But the problem is when stuff becomes the stuffing inside our skin

Live and let go, live and let flow

Blow

2007-10-16T12:09:00.000-07:00

A song, a ballad, a thin rope around the waist,
Can you feel the taste of hope humming along?
Undertow, undertow, let me see your tape unwound,
Your breast exposed,
The true colour of your eyes.
Carry me where I may go, but will you never show
That sweet sweet face of yours
That ego that I’ve come know?

Perspective

2007-10-12T23:55:00.000-07:00

favoured are the blissful
in their ignorance of poetry
they taste the nectar full
which the despaired can only seek
the poet's soul knows no existence
it's but a myth and but a sin
to which no man should be allowed admittance
it's but a game, there is no way to win
they know they only dream
My beautiful Calliope,
Will you also be
Ulysses' home, Penelope?
but rhyme is but a pipeline
an excuse for mere insanity
in the end the distance only
can be seen by eyes so lonely

Safe havens are a thing of the past

2007-10-11T16:31:00.000-07:00

Globalisation.

It's a nice word. The world coming together, the world not being a group of distinct countries, but only one giant city. The internet makes this reality even stronger, in spite of the paradox that might seem to arise; people linked in so many ways you can't even count them anymore. A real sense of community where everyone can take part in. One big, open-armed village

Or almost.

There are no outskirts. No woods just outside, no river to hike idly along, no trees to mindlessly gaze at. You can look around all the forests in the world, but will never find Walden anymore. Thoreau himself could be reborn today, but where would he take his seclusion? Where could he live in Nature?

Mankind is all over the world now. The problem, of course, is that mankind is all over the world. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide anymore. Everywhere one looks, he sees concrete, he sees people, he sees machinery. But nowhere does he find a spot he can call just his, a spot he can run to when things become too overwhelming. And sadly, being overwhelmed is all too easy, since everything and everyone seems to be just around the corner

No guide, no sign, no love, no death

2007-10-05T06:29:00.000-07:00

When I read about Third Cultures Kids, I thought it was a very appropriate, very fitting metaphor. Now I realize that it wasn't a metaphor at all. It's exactly what happens

I have felt like a foreigner on strange lands for a few years now. Every now and then I get a glimpse of home, but much like anything good, it's just flitting. I don't know these people, I don't know this language. And no matter where I go, it'll never be home. Home, unlike is usually thought, and a bit like heaven and hell, is not a physical place, but a state of spirit. I don't know where my home is anymore, and nothing will apparently ever make sense until I find it. Unless I've already found it, but forgot to write down the address. Don't you ever get that feeling of walking by somewhere and knowing that that place is significant somehow, but you just don't know why?

All I want is a place I can come back to whenever I need. And not a real place, but a corner of my mind where I can just sit and drink hot cocoa, not a worry in sight. Maybe that's my undertow, afterall. No matter how dark, or how late it gets, the fire that lights my dark study is endlessly ignited. However, it's also the searing touch that wakes you up every time you get just that close to bliss. I don't know what kindles it. Maybe I never will. I guess no one really knows. I just want to sit down and watch the flames dance their eternal tango

Balance is not the evening out of an extremity, it's a constant push towards the middle. Of course, much like anything else, that in itself is also a double-edged sword. I want to get burnt at this fireplace so that I'll always know where it is, so that I can come back to it when it's too cold outside and I just need some warmth, nothing but a little cozy heat

Only eyes can see beauty, not the mind

2007-09-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

Beauty is a concept that, much like any other, changes over time. Some people cling to the old contexts, for fear of letting them go and not being able to grasp anything else. Some others cling to them simply because they're stubborn. But the ebb and flow of time makes it harder and harder for things to last, with every day and every second that goes by.

Beauty isn't being married to someone, it's loving someone. Beauty isn't admittance to an Ivy League school, it's a good education. It's having your feet on the dash, admiring the sunset from a car moving down a highway from somewhere far to somewhere even farther. It's not being free, it's knowing where freedom ends. It's not visiting the Champs Elysées, it's visiting Les Halles. How many artists write songs about supermodels and Halle Berry, instead of about what's real, at least what's real inside? The muse isn't an idea anymore, the muse is your lover, your friend, your trip.

There are people who see beauty in their own terms who have allowed me to see it in mine, and that in itself is also beauty. It is the ability to see beyond what you expect to see, to see what you really see, like a child. A child always sees, and then thinks about what he saw in terms only of what he saw, not of what he thought before seeing. It is much like the best scientist, the one who always sees, whether it's what expects to see or not, and then proceeds to test and to form his theories. In the end, science and beauty aren't concepts that are all too distant to each other

Ego

2006-07-11T10:41:00.000-07:00

Insanity is the storm which assaults the cabin that is my consciousness. I leave my window open, but I'm aware that that the wind will never be strong enough to tear down the walls