We do live in an era where any imbecile with some paints and a song in his heart feels like they must share it with the world.
And as art imitates life, presumably, it has now become a samplers dais where little children mix their paints and instead of looking upon the world to gain inspiration they refer and defer to previous art, and in a gesture of needy appreciation they try to imitate the style, simply repeating the metaphors which they have no understanding of.
This is art?
No, this is (f)art.
The world is flooded with feces, with the accompanying smells, and in the muck all that is valuable gets a thick coating of shit making it indistinguishable form everything else.
And what do these sub0-human artsy-farsty liberal weakling have to offer, besides the usual Judeo-Christian excuses and anti-nature tirades?
Not even the need that drives it, the sheer terror, is admitted by them.
They fancy themselves tabula rasa, clean fuckin’ slates, coming into this world with the innocent purity of a divinely sanctioned immaculate conception.
We’ve hears those songs dripping with nectar, singing the praises of love,a s if it were some mystical force that permeates existence but nobody dare dissect…you might find its base motives unappetizing, making it less enticing and mysterious and oh so inspirational.
Children are always a bit miffed when they are told their lovable Santa is nothing but a story adults made up to make Christmas more marketable and less boring.
Have these adults grown or are they now seduced by different fairy-tales?
Rule of thumb:
When you come across a man claiming fearlessness, then know that you are in the presence of a coward, who’s courage, seeped in ignorance and delusion, has never been tested by anything tangible…a theoretical king of bravado.
When of come across a dullard claiming that his art is a product of overflowing fulfillment, implying his perfection like a child does its Superman status, then know that you are in the presence of an artless buffoon, so needy and void of substance that his art cannot but reflect this naivete.
Just as when you come across a man claiming sexual exploits reaching the fantastic, you should be reassured that you are before a limp biscuit.
Need, as I’ve stated already, is the conscious interpretation of existence, of the existential state. suffering is but an extreme case of it.
But what do I lack?
This question presupposes a fullness.
It is like asking, when at a party, who is missing?
It could be anything…in fact that it is missing leaves it open to any projection and any assumption.
The best answer is: I lack the absolute.
I lack absolute knowledge, for I am not omniscient.
I lack absolute power, for i am not omnipotent.
I lack eternal life, for I am mortal.
I lack certainty, for I am skeptical.
I lack perfection, for I am imperfect.
I lack completion, for I am incomplete.
There are a myriad of ways to express what I lack, to symbolize it, to project it as an ideal I then strive towards - as the ideal of God is - because what I lack is an innate aspect of my existence and I sense it with every breath and every hunger and every desire.
When I need to procreate, nature blindly manifesting in an urge i need not rationalize until later, I express this lack of immortality of my perfection. With every birth I renew my possibilities.
When I create, not necessarily know why I am driven to do so, unless I am lucid and honest enough to admit certain things, I am expressing this absence in me.
It overflows out of me as a byproduct of all the things I’ve gathered, from material stuff to experiences to ideas, which have failed to satiate my hunger…and that the other can appreciate my creations is because (s)he shares in my lack and recognizes the symbols of it, and can relate to my metaphors.