when our favorite artists die

i want to die angry.  i don’t want to let the false bliss of beating down domestication swallow me whole—killing me off like too many artists.  i don’t want to forget the things that have not been corrected in this world.  i don’t want to forget the things that we humans have done to other humans, and that we CONTINUE to do to each other.  i don’t want that sleepy complacence that seems to knock singers senseless, that seems to kick painters & writers down the stairwell into irrelevance.  i want to remember myself as churning, kicking and screaming, in the only way i knew how to deal with this world—one that i was dragged into against whatever will i could have had at the time.  it seems that those that have had a taste of recognition forget what it was like to be nothing—what it was like to have every creative notion evaporate into the air unheard, unread, unobserved, unappreciated—like so many of us do daily—thoughts and ideas crumbling like leftover pieces of foodstuffs that we stopped eating of our own avail, as we who decide our own fate, us who know not the inner slavery of the status quo, of the gods and the states, of the mass appeal, of the crowd pleasing techniques do not—they will not wither.  we die in tact.  we die very much alone in our own nothingness, but we cease to ever not wanting to involve ourselves more in the mysteries that we encounter in our very absence of domestic bliss.  i have been watching my favorite artists die for years.  have you?  i have been watching them turn to piss.  have you?  i have stopped caring for them when they become simply another mommy or daddy—another practitioner of the white-picket-fence religion, a cult that seemingly never dies within our protected western walls.

the wisdom to walk in the opposite direction when encountering those who claim that they have wisdom—let me bathe in it.  the wisdom to understand that with each passing day i know even less than the day before about this world around me (and hence i am in a perpetual state of ALWAYS BEING INTERESTED in the world outside me and WANTING ALWAYS TO KNOW MORE—to plunge myself deep within the world—to swim amongst the fishes who claim NEVER CERTAINTY and yet always always questioning)—let me bathe in this luke warm natural extravagance.  my perturbed nature is not a bitter one, it is one that comes with the witness of brilliant minds gone dead—complacent—willing to surrender themselves to the norms that have killed off their fellow humans—and then to wonder in awe at the pockets of true resistance that can be found every day—people, breathing human lives who WILL NOT SETTLE, and who find in their own discontent, the only real and true human progress.  i long to die with them.  i long to die if never remembered, as only a flame amongst the fire, that will extinguish this pathetic slumber that comes with that allegiance to a way of being that has been rehearsed and written down, routinely run on the treadmill of mundane

pococurantism—let’s not become on of those wooden movable models whose arms of copper wire, sit and wait to be sold on the commercial market here in this capitalist kingdom of clichés.  instead, let us laugh our way into oblivion—each of us classified maniacal & disturbed, wretched & cast out—better crazy than boring.

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