“What is compulsory is said to be oppressive to everyone”.
Creativity is the art of questioning, speculating, and critiquing yours and others’ works (works being the attempted leap beyond the subconscious, if it’s possible to penetrate the unconscious).
The knowledge of the impressiveness of our bodies was granted to us through our senses, which proactively attacks and attempts to protect against the invasion of the unconscious. This is because of the suffering one goes through in accepting one’s id, the allowing of ones most “corrupting” and foreign ideas to permeate one’s reality.
There are two attitudes towards sensation, and they are paradoxical: the scientistic/ material explanation and the mystical/ obscure explanation, which aren’t really explanations at all but merely fruitless questionings. Would we still question our senses if we knew where they came from? What or who created these neurotransmitters which spark off, jolting through our organic bodies, thus giving us sensation? Pain? Pleasure? Emotion? Do we need a creator in order to comfort us? What is the psychology behind this? I believe that our psyches have some deep, dark secret hidden within which, inevitably causes us to feel shame, thus provoking the need for comfort, which a possible creator could offer to us.
I believe Christians answer to this problem of demoralization: “It is the first catastrophe, the horrible mistake the very first humans made in dissenting to corruption by biting into ‘the’ apple.” Similarly, some of the ancient Greeks might say that it was the cataclysm which ensued after Pandora gained knowledge after opening a jar which created the inherent corruption of mankind.
Since this comfort is merely a sensation, can we trust that it is both right and good? We do (trust our sensations to be real) so regularly that is somehow disallows us from believing in a creator – why would we need “feelings” if they are subordinate to eternity? There is a conscious hatred and phobia of what is unknowable, unable to experienced or sensed. Is this because the ultimate truth is painful? If God is not benevolent (which I believe ((that he is not)), why do we invariably anticipate gratification from it (a creator)? This in particular is a question that I consider to be unanswerable, which develops in my own psyche serious anguish.
But what about our ensuing deaths? We are terrified not of the process of dying exactly, but of the terrible idea of losing our senses which we rely on so heavily everyday. We are afraid of this alteration/ distortion of our reality because our “senses” will somehow mutate into another for of sensation – what this sensation is, we don’t know! This knowledge perpetually disgraces and challenges exactly what we habitually experience.
But is this fear logical? How can we feel pain after we are dead? Do we perceive fear in the same way then? If we take to be true: “The fear of change and the fear of the unknown could either be benevolent or injurious to us,” we realize ANGUISH is merely the anticipation of either of these things, therefore we can guess that, after death, we will not feel anguish anymore, but will know the truth – whether or not that truth is going to be agreeable to us, we still don’t know, but since we will know the “truth” we will ATLEAST not experience anguish – unless God is depraved – but you, personally; what do you think is good? What is this fixation with duality? (good vs. evil). If God is good, are we bad? And if we are good, must God be the villain?
What does “purity of thought” mean? We long for the exposure of new sensations – we desire knowledge. If this inherently tragic, if we take the Old Testament seriously? “Knowing does not make you anymore special than anyone else”. This statement exposes the duality of our reality and quandary over “What happens after death?” In other words, is consciousness just a self-fulfilling prophecy that leads to unhappiness and loneliness within our universe?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
-Neither, because a circle has no beginning.
-It does, when “someone” is draws it.
We are very much acquainted with drawing circles – since this is a fact in this reality (that a circle DOES have a beginning ((when we create circles)), why do we think it is not congruent with the “ultimate truth”?
Life reminds me of the story of Sisyphus who was destined, because of his own failings, to push a boulder up a hill for eternity in spite of his own will. There is the constant ebb and flow of challenges in our lives, which is allegorical – our lives mirror the structure of fiction in that we require the anticipation of conflict, conflict, and the relief of overcoming a conflict; but does this apprehension ever cease? Doubt is all encompassing, and is so integral to our natures that it’s difficult (since we are so accustomed to it) to see the end.
What counts as oppression to a people?
Why do we love seeing things in color? (Why is variety so desirable? Is the idea of becoming one with everyone innately attractive? Maybe that’s too abstract a thought to go ahead with. O.k.! )
Successful artists possess the ability to record logical inferences by penetrating the collective unconscious, the truth that we so constantly deny. Human law is arbitrary to the laws of the Universe, which I believe to be anarchistic (there are no “laws”, because these rules are put in place in the anticipation of chaos, that people will “break” the rules; this anticipation is not relevant to the unmovable force of life after death, because in death, entities are in a sort of state of peace, and do not possess desire or anguish which is/are the birth(s) of pain – there are no laws after death, there is only a calm sea of black silence.) In my opinion, the fear of anarchy is also the fear of death – humans require rules; and these rules that humans have created are the antithesis of the transcendent truth. To sum up, in death, rules are arbitrary since we don’t need them due to a lack of desire for anything more than what we have, since desire ultimately leads to pain.
These ideas that i’ve stated (namely that we desire sensational reward and inevitably feel sadness and frustration when we don’t reach it) lead me to question the phenomenon of free will – is stoicism the best practice in order to yield/mirror the way of the universe? This all depends on what you believe happens after you die – do the stoics take the trouble to deny themselves what is natural to them looking towards something more ultimately desirable?
Why do humans want to be special? Because it’s easy to reject others; becoming one (loving someone, or even loving everyone) requires a leap of faith and makes people vulnerable in the anticipation of connectedness through reciprocation – this is a state of anguish. And anguish is bad bad bad!
I hate my handwriting. Does this mean I hate myself?
Humans are equally intelligent, because we essentially were born out of a sort of anti-unconscious. I am convinced all artists were and are (at the least) residually “mentally disturbed”. Being mentally disturbed requires a close connection with the unconscious – how people treat the mentally disturbed seems to be extremely paradoxical – in one sense, their fluidity of motion and their ability to create and grab ideas in the deepest sense produces beautiful art which people inherently enjoy and admire but, conversely, these people are treated as little entities of the anti-christ. The ability to articulate speculations of the truth is surely a gift and a curse when others deny your being through fear of the unknown.
We are fascinated by this communication with the collective unconscious which governs our actions, yet we are terrified by it since the anticipation of death produces anxiety. What the truth is we don’t know – because the truth is outward from our control – this is somewhat proven through the phenomenon of children and their lack of control; this is us, as children, in our purest forms – children do not possess the ability to be stoic – somewhere in our natures, we desire to be free from jurisdiction; to allow ourselves to correlate our actions with our deepest selves (our unconscious).
When a persons’ most strongly held beliefs are attacked, is their true self seen? Or is this “self” simply an ego or superego that has been developed due to our ever-changing and subjective environment?
The phenomenon of being “good at things” stems from the primal connection between the former “good” and the collective unconscious. Essentially, the more unconscious an act or state of being, the more connected it is to the unconscious – and the unconscious is closer to the truth. Men desire a knowledge (or at least communication) with “dreams” (another word for unconscious) individually – but what makes a person creative, in more accordance with their dreams? Are subconscious thoughts worthy even of being recorded, and communicated, ultimately? People do desire communication with others, but so many walls – the process of dissolving these walls is intricate and very difficult; trust between persons is like a flickering flame, and must be regarded with the most admiration we are capable of. Becoming one with a person is not quite “pleasurable”, but more “pleasant” because it is, like Plato’s Symposium, more in accordance with the “truth” because people were, due to our errors, split in half and must become one with each other again.
Patience is a virtue.
“But I want…”
The communication with the originator is subtle, and very rocky – it’s difficult to live in accordance with things you can’t prove to be real. WHAT IS REAL GODDAMMNIT? A hate/ phobia for the remains of food in liquids is the rejection of the process of becoming one with the contents of our world, and the people in our world. The repulsion of parasites and bugs is the same sort of rejection, because they are in accordance with the end of things. The latching onto other objects (the closeness of them to one another and everything else) is more in accordance with our origins. Things which you can touch, sense, (and especially believe they are part of reality) are in contrast with the truth, and are an illusion. Does this mean God is not benevolent but slightly wicked? If this is true, we are in a sort of Hell.
Honesty is a good step towards this “becoming one”. We are forced to choose (to “do” something) because it is a test the universe (or the creator of the universe) put to us after some digression that took place which separated us from “it”.
Why this digression? Why did the first humans (although time is a relevator, this good since it is accompanied with epiphanies / forethought) have to take place? Were we predestined to fuck up, to maul our purity? Pointing out paradoxes is all I seem to do, shoot.
Hypo-allergenic genesis
What makes a person moral?
it’s almost as if there aren’t others asking the same question of one another
it’s like the inevitability of falling in love with everyone you see while on dopaminergic drugs
all writing is pigshit
all writing is is the easiest way out
of that state of denial of one’s repetitive nature
empty nothing out of your shoes
and there’s this french woman giggling in her falsetto triads
stars ask me questions as I lie upon my lecherous bed and i don’t know what to say
and my stained goulashes cause this liquid to invariably churn and trickle downwind
and to be the crimson, cursory, preemptory flailings of the muscles twitching in the curvature as my hands
move about over the chalky, absent page
what a curse man’s life is
what a waste, to be stuck on a lonely, Swedish mountaintop
all alone, except for those damned monkeys
you get so alone you run out of things to say
and you run out of time
and you run out of things to be moral at
affect is the keywords in the description of (what is art?)
emotional of physical since they were the same to begin with (don’t forget to take your pills)
it is an act of violence
This is some of me trying to do watercolors!
i drew this as my brother was watching south park. i think most people like sharing their art a lot because nobody really does it in the first place. yep! i hope to do more of this sort of stuff because it is the easiest.
WAKING dreams and a swollen membranes –
The curious sensation of rubbing two fingers together (it reminds me of being in a dream)
We live amongst wraiths, says my mother
And their furrowed brows spit and stab at one another
And then the boy realizes he is under glass,
So he paints his fingers in brass,
And raps on his canister, all dry and in his task,
Wringing his twisted hands, he begins to cry out,
“Oh Lord, why have you forsaken me?”
Destitute falcons and sharp-edged, glistening snow on your belly
A whole begins to show all dry,
He is overwhelmed with the knowledge
Of his fall from his blue sky
Why does his body react so?
Like some fractured anesthetic which heals lies?
He watches the people cross the bridge oscillating, silently
The rhythm of those half-hearted flickers makes you swoon
And the instinctive, rising moon
Takes no time to see you as you pass over the alley to your
Sister’s apartment,
Wondering when you will see your light
Protruding from the eternally trapped night
So I’ll pretend to not know what it is you don’t
Like the secret of a whore,
All we can do is make war.
Why must we walk in and out
While never letting that doubt
Sway us?
SO I’m headed down a road of jackals and short-sighted plans
Tormenting myself for something , beyond what I can understand
I took your hand, we held our breathe, feet floating above our chests –
And Professor Alligator is in the sky
(he sings his songs on his drab guitar, but it’s fine – because of it,
He is free
He is free
And one day I will learn to
Use your own religion against you
They learn to say the same thing when it’s all just too
Unholy, too rough of a sketch
For anyone to put their faith in.
And I have no faith in God
But all I want is for you to love me.
Then you and I, we will wander this ghost world
And learn
To discern
There is no right, no wrong way to live
All we can do is sing our songs,
And try to get back
Away from things that lack
Some arduous requisites
(spitting halos)
FLOWERS, in their putrid skins,
Lie awake at night, breathless in anticipation to
Escape that rotten stench that has sweetened through their years.
It is the smell of corruption, of lost fears
Dallying their way across black oceans
Wonder seeps out of their little heads, and they wonder,
“Are we alone in this endeavor? Will we ever reach the top of this
Nagging anxiety which dogs behind us like a rat on four wheels?”
They will take a shiv to their weaknesses
And reach the kingly Camphor tree, all shouting and shining
And I will go inside your skin
And come out of this hellish fog renewed.
(I’ve got something bad in my soul
And I intend to purge it soon)
To what purpose is honesty when
What is shared is devoid of substance?
And what, when, the substance in my soul has been empty
All my life?
Rebeccadeadwilder's Blog 