sacrifice control

and now I am guided... by those invisible forces that push and pull. I'm in a storm. Being sucked under waves of the turbulent time line of life's curse. I turn to the greats. The musicians, the painters, and especially the writers. I pull from that pool of life experience and mistake. That's why I hate the fakes. The imitators. In music we have phony gangsters, terrible poets who say the same things the same ways. There is no soul. Writers are the worst. I don't want to read some posh novel or story with nothing real for my mind to escape. Everyone needs to go to the streets. Sleep on park benches, try to get dinner without spending anything. We might have some experiences to draw from, more so than this modern sterility. Where everything is so organized, and our paths are all close to the same. This house is like that house and the people inside want more, but they are still ok. That guy smoking a cigar in a ten thousand dollar high rise leans back without shame. He wants more, and then more, he is not the same. He is tho, the one using the pen, the words, the simple act of putting black lines on white background. He uses it like a weapon, everyday. Crunching numbers, writing books, living life in the fast lane. What is it worth. When he walks down the street, which he probably doesn't, doesn't he fear everyone who has less money. I would, I would be stuck in some paranoid greed. You can't live like that. So he moves the family to the burbs and commutes everyday. He loses that little bit of life he once had. Now he's the suckerfish on the side of the building, getting fat, never putting anything back into the city. Except when he needs a new sofa, or loafers, a jacket, or tie. I don' t want to read his stuff. I don't care about his life, his soccer mom wife, his nasty kids fat from the grease of cheeseburgers and fries. It's just, it gets to a point where this is not a country anyone should respect. What do we do? We consume, and now recently we are trying to go green. Sure after we shot the resources to shit and mass produced everything we could think. There are no craftsmen anymore, there is only the corporate entity. People should feel ashamed they are living to buy some crap that they think they need, furniture, cars, houses. How many people have that same coffee table, those drapes or sheets? How bland is that. How many of us have the same shoes, underwear, or carpet? It makes the world seem so much more boring. We have lost creativity. Being in art school I thought I would see individuality, home made clothes, everything fresh and old and crazy. It's not. It's more bland than a computer club meeting. I know this person, I know that one, I live, I love(I think), I'm going to do this and do that, but I don't know what I'm going to do to change the face of the world permanently. I don't know how I'm going to use my work to spark something in the minds and souls of the public seeing me. Thats what these artists don't think. It's just shallow meanings, stupidity, finding beauty in the ugly, filling moronic meanings. Pasting them on like a cardboard afterthought. Doesn't anyone dream? Nothing, nothing, nothing, is inspiring quite like the smooth notes of a Jazz song. Much better than nasal whiney screams. I complain too much. I should just move on. I'm tired of talking, you are probably tired of trying to read. Good luck, and good night.

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