i realize that as i grow older i hate driving more and more and find all the excuses in the world to not do it. being trapped in a metallic cage, a slave to my surroundings and to others in a way that chokes my lust for freedom (ironic, i know, as cars are a symbol of individual liberation) is not my favorite activity. admittedly, this sense of being trapped is most prominent within the confines of a city much too small to have such a large amount of people passing through daily and residing inside permanently.
alas, on this particular day, my head was spinning with the late afternoon heat. sun beating down and intensifying the claustrophobic atmosphere of my car, once a safe haven, i turned on the radio, hoping for some reprieve from the reality of my situation.
the sound of intricately-picked guitar met my ears, and my spirit became quite literally frozen. i pride myself in being able to identify within milliseconds what sounds resonate with me and which do not, and whether this is due to heightened musical senses cultivated by years of focused listening or to a deep and often-undermined understanding of my own self i am not sure. but i knew instantly that this perfect guitar sound, accompanied by a warbling and deep voice reminiscent of none other in the absolute best way, must be further investigated.
and so it was, and now you, too, may share in its glory.
i present to you sunny war, and her song "static," off of her album with the sun (2018).
she is classified as folk-punk and her lyrical content deals heavily with addiction, and that of alcoholism especially.
she isn't trying too hard. she is a fantastic guitarist. every song on the album is just as lovely as this, although i have to say i enjoy her acoustic versions (as that is how i first encountered her music) slightly more than the fleshed-out texture of those tracks on her album, but this is a minor complaint.
thanks, sunny.
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日
i've been writing, as a form of exercise or maybe therapy, and it feels circular and cyclical but somehow conclusive. i write myself into the state i wish to be.
something's been lost in the ebb and flow, and i'd like to find it again.
日
i'd like to come at this whole displaying-of-my-self-with-words thing from a standpoint of not knowing - hoping, maybe, that i'll come to some conclusions along the way in a reasonable manner.
after all, the ego is what allows the artist to feel any right to make any claim, to say anything with any certainty ...
(or maybe the SELF has all the right in the whole fucking world to claim anything at all and stick to that claim, as who could actually place restrictions on the SELF, anyway?)
after all, the ego is what allows the artist to feel any right to make any claim, to say anything with any certainty ...
(or maybe the SELF has all the right in the whole fucking world to claim anything at all and stick to that claim, as who could actually place restrictions on the SELF, anyway?)
日
creation is the wild and uncensored stream of input/output;
data collection/then processed;
filtered information/flowing outwards.
日
,
all purpose is either absurd or altruistic. something serves or it indulges itself. one may choose to act out of one or the other at any level of abstraction but i believe those are the most condensed forms of what we generally do as humans, as artists, as floating selves, as meat sacks.
i guess i struggle with purpose as i don't inherently find much of one in this existence. this (un)fortunate state of mine is perhaps more a result of years of intermittent depression than anything else, but even if that is the excuse i'm choosing to go with (there are perhaps plenty of other things which factor in?), it's a pretty uneventful way to go about life.
so maybe in writing meaning is found, is searched for, is created. i don't believe there really must be a meaning, as i don't know quite what we humans mean when we say the word. it is a concept that intends to, ideally, add more to that which we see than what is there. giving depth, placing into context, involving potential masses and linking together disparate cultures and traditions - meaning can bundle up a large group of people into collectively acting according to similar codes, and can help push forth the aspiration towards a specific, shared goal.
that sounds a bit too technical, convoluted. there must be a better way to explain meaning, because in explaining the meaning of meaning one could most likely decide whether or not it's something worth bothering with.
and in the case of it being a mere figment of human imagination (i mean, aren't the objective existences of our more abstract concepts completely impossible to prove?), what's stopping me or anyone from being abrasive, discordant, maddeningly mundane with my life, with my work?
.
the truth is, i don't want to upset anyone. in fact, i'd like to do the very opposite, if i can help it.
giving happiness brings happiness. that much is true, whether the philosopher in me wants to acknowledge it plainly or not.
this is plainly seen, but is more difficult when bringing the happiness to one's self, to legitimize the good feelings one feels the same way others so effortlessly do when you see a smile on their face. what about the smile on your face? what about the weight being lifted off of your shoulders when laying in your favorite meadow, unashamed, basking in the golden ocean of existence?
sometimes the simplest truths aren't so simple.
happiness might not belong only to the conscious.
doing something out of necessity, like creating art as an act of salvation, desperation, redemption, might bring about happiness. sometimes that satisfaction is felt much later along the road, at an unexpected or inopportune moment. and sometimes it is a private moment, never to be shared, but a blossoming all the same.
constructing a happy state is not often a carefully-calculated thing.
i hardly think it can be - just as recipes followed to a t are kind of dead things, a fabrication of an original, perfectly imperfect motion.
"perfectly imperfect" is a concept i'd like to familiar myself with more.
the runaround of life, its ups and downs, its repetitive sunups and sundowns, has beaten me up lately.
i ought to allow the repetition a chance to charm me once in a while.
magic still exists, even in this far-off place.
all purpose is either absurd or altruistic. something serves or it indulges itself. one may choose to act out of one or the other at any level of abstraction but i believe those are the most condensed forms of what we generally do as humans, as artists, as floating selves, as meat sacks.
i guess i struggle with purpose as i don't inherently find much of one in this existence. this (un)fortunate state of mine is perhaps more a result of years of intermittent depression than anything else, but even if that is the excuse i'm choosing to go with (there are perhaps plenty of other things which factor in?), it's a pretty uneventful way to go about life.
so maybe in writing meaning is found, is searched for, is created. i don't believe there really must be a meaning, as i don't know quite what we humans mean when we say the word. it is a concept that intends to, ideally, add more to that which we see than what is there. giving depth, placing into context, involving potential masses and linking together disparate cultures and traditions - meaning can bundle up a large group of people into collectively acting according to similar codes, and can help push forth the aspiration towards a specific, shared goal.
that sounds a bit too technical, convoluted. there must be a better way to explain meaning, because in explaining the meaning of meaning one could most likely decide whether or not it's something worth bothering with.
and in the case of it being a mere figment of human imagination (i mean, aren't the objective existences of our more abstract concepts completely impossible to prove?), what's stopping me or anyone from being abrasive, discordant, maddeningly mundane with my life, with my work?
.
the truth is, i don't want to upset anyone. in fact, i'd like to do the very opposite, if i can help it.
日
giving happiness brings happiness. that much is true, whether the philosopher in me wants to acknowledge it plainly or not.
this is plainly seen, but is more difficult when bringing the happiness to one's self, to legitimize the good feelings one feels the same way others so effortlessly do when you see a smile on their face. what about the smile on your face? what about the weight being lifted off of your shoulders when laying in your favorite meadow, unashamed, basking in the golden ocean of existence?
sometimes the simplest truths aren't so simple.
日
happiness might not belong only to the conscious.
doing something out of necessity, like creating art as an act of salvation, desperation, redemption, might bring about happiness. sometimes that satisfaction is felt much later along the road, at an unexpected or inopportune moment. and sometimes it is a private moment, never to be shared, but a blossoming all the same.
日
constructing a happy state is not often a carefully-calculated thing.
i hardly think it can be - just as recipes followed to a t are kind of dead things, a fabrication of an original, perfectly imperfect motion.
"perfectly imperfect" is a concept i'd like to familiar myself with more.
日
the runaround of life, its ups and downs, its repetitive sunups and sundowns, has beaten me up lately.
i ought to allow the repetition a chance to charm me once in a while.
magic still exists, even in this far-off place.
日
it takes courage,
striving to see yourself as exactly what you are
it takes courage,
striving to see yourself as exactly what you are
