“All you have to do to be a miracle — is breathe.”
Who said that?
Here is the thing with me this morning, my comrades; here is the thing:
Defeatists make me lose my hard-on, for life!
Because no matter my own chaotic, insane; perpetually hysterical or complicated; difficult or impossible to decipher mindset, I tend to march around this kinky town while daring to have a stubborn enthusiasm for some good livin’.
“What?!” you might snap. “You call yourself a Russian?!”
Well, here is the thing, here is the thing: Yes, there is an inherited quality to my former nation’s character to be dark (and perhaps, to be simultaneously or accidentally poignant, thank goodness). And yes, Motha Russia is a continent full of old souls nostalgic for their lost innocence. And finally, yes: No other nationality seems to beat us at our love for death. Because in death, we no longer suffer, da?
But the other national quality of my former motha’land — is an ingrained desire for some stubborn livin’ (not necessarily good livin’ — but livin’ nonetheless). Be it an incredible vastness or beauty of my Motha Russia; but the variety of its scenery makes our old souls want to howl at the moon, with desire. Or is it love? Or wanting to take in one more breath — because in it, there still may be some hope? (One of my favorite thinkers o’er there once identified this quality as “godliness”.) Da: Motha Russia — is one gorgeous motha’fucker; and she makes you want to live.
“You are an artist: You CANNOT be a defeatist!”
Who said that?
On this 175th day of my rant blogging, my thoughts on the meaning of art appear to be better formulated. (They better be, da?) This year, I’ve had a slew of mouth-foaming arguments on the definition of art and who exactly identifies it as such; and what makes it last; and whether or not art makes any difference at all.
And here is the thing, there is the thing: I believe that art — is in the eye of the beholder. And yes, it does indeed have the power to change a mind, a mood, and maybe even, to change a heart. But making a difference — cannot be an artists’ objective. Or at least, it cannot be this artist’s objective. Because I live — in the very doing of it. It is the process of creation that turns me on. Kinda like breathing.
Because in it, there still may be some hope, da?
Which must be why the mandatory discipline of it comes to me with such ease. As for its sacrifices — they merely add inches to my writerly dick. ‘Cause here is the thing, here is the thing: I could take an easier route; perhaps, get myself one of those nine-to-five gigs, excel at it and settle for a more mundane survival. Maybe, I could play it up a bit on weekends or live vicariously through my affairs with men. And eventually, I could start raping other dreamers with my skepticism, hating them for reminding me of my own unhappening ambitions. And I could wait for my death. Because in death, we no longer suffer, da?
“And that is exactly where defeatism must dwell: Wherever the soul surrenders its dreams.”
Who said that?
“Man, I hate this fucking town!” a comrade I hadn’t heard from for months was venting to me last night.
I got his spiel. Really, I did. I was’t even judging. Because I too have faced some challenges in this city and allowed my inability or fear to expand beyond the difficulty of the moment; then, blame the entire city for it. Because here is the thing, here is the thing: LA-LA is one of the most common scapegoats for personal failures. Here, the defeated equal the dreamers. (But oh, how I have always wished for the defeated to move on; to return home or to leave for better suitable cities! But for whatever geographical reasons, they stay, making this — the capital of defeat. So: Thank goodness for its dreamers. Because in them, there still may be some hope, da?)
Last night, I tried to work with the brother, trying to convince him out of his hatred:
“Yeah, but look at all these things you have accomplished!” I strained my memories of our rare encounters for any recollections of his pursuits. Sadly, there were none. None that I could remember. Yet, still, somehow, in this man’s occasional sweetness and simplicity — in his mere breathing — I saw some hope.
But he was on the roll by then: “I mean: There are no jobs here! And the women are shit, and…” He wasn’t even listening.
I studied his face and wondered what had brought him here in the first place, to this city shared by dreamers and the defeated alike. Surely, there had to be a plan, a vision; or perhaps, a former love. And what made him stay here, long enough to immerse into the pool of such bitterness and self-pity?
“So? What are you up to?” he had exhausted himself with his monologue and politely remembered that I was still there. He wasn’t a complete goner, I suppose. Not yet.
But no way! No way was I going to tell him of my dreams, still in the making; of my art — still in the happening.
Because here is the thing, here is the thing: I believe that art — is a celebration of life. It’s a celebration of livin’, not necessarily good livin’ but still: Livin’! Stubborn livin’ in pursuit of love, in pursuit of hope — all of which must live in the very next breath; in the very doing of it. And it is this very pursuit that makes my livin’ — a good one. And good livin’ — is a celebration of the miracle that is self.
Who said that?