Art on my walls

Rant

I'm so fucking lonely right now...I am willing to admit that, but I don't like that I am admitting that. I mean, I shouldn't be lonely, I should be fine. I have a safe home, a restful peaceful life, plenty of free time, enough resources to move forward in life...But I am miserable, nonetheless.
No, its not always, every day misery. Its the 'wake up call' variety. Home hum, I go through my day, believing any number of self-help affirmations about the power of focus, about having a clear vision of what one wants, etc etc. I practice gratitude daily, reminding myself to recall that I invited what is in my life, into my life from previous day dreams about life. For instance, I wondered, for years, about what being single would feel like, what living on my own, would be like. Well, here I am. Is it any wonder, then that I'm in this position. Is the basic level of satisfaction in life increased or is it about the same?
All I know is, I find it increasingly more difficult to buy into my bullshit. I find it far easier to rest in the 'pessimistic' view. The 'realist' view. Anyway, it comes on like a freight train, it hits hard, and my mind churns out reason after reason for why this is like this, why that is that, and how it will always be and will never change, no matter what I think, focus on, lose or achieve.
I gnash about, forcing myself to cry, to 'grieve' over the tremendous loss I've experienced in the last couple years, and then I realize, I'm just indulging it, or at least that's the judgement...I am lost. I just cannot seem to shake the grief. I don't know what is going on inside me anymore, but I am exhausted, and desire to feel at ease with what is, what has been, and what can be. I want to feel bliss in the anticipation of life, to feel surprised by myself. Problem is, I cannot seem to pull my head out of my ass long enough to do anything of any value. I have no faith in my natural abilities. I over-analyze and over-think every.little.fucking.thing...I can barely leave the house without a peptalk, without propping myself with empowering thoughts...
I have no idea what I am doing in life. I have no motivation. I have no energy. My body hurts. I do not trust my mind to think thoughts that help me, I trust it to churn out fantasies, and miseries, and distortions and nonsense.
And socially, I feel like a leper. I hate everyone. I hate that I am not more popular. Then I remind myself, "you get what you put out," and have to accept that I am not a very good friend to anyone. I am cold, detached, selfish and distant. I seek out others only for my own benefit. I do not trust in people, I do not really care about anyone else very much. I love people, as an idea, but when it comes to actually being in their lives, I am unreliable, moody, and make people uncomfortable. Wierd. I think that's the right word.
I want to belong to something again. I miss the feeling of belonging that I perceive I once had. When we lived in San Diego? When we lived in Santa Barbara before we moved to San Francisco? Before it all fell apart...?
I can't bear not knowing, not being in control. And I have this on-going dialogue in my head with an antogonistic voice that constantly watches over my other thoughts, checks them for accuracy, watches what I say, how I express myself and is constantly picking me apart, picking apart the validity of what I am feeling, pointing out the flaws in optimism, seizing at the opportunity to take over when I give up and don't know what to do or say or how to act or what I want.
Anyway, this is just a means to an end. Writing this out. I wonder, however, if anyone sees this, and wonders, because they feel similar if they're depressed, I'd advise seeing a therapist. I saw one for 7 years, and I would love to continue to see one, but I am 400 miles away from my therapist and owe him $400.00. Which reminds me, I have a constant, nagging stress over how little I can manifest materially, and how much I consume. I owe, conservatively, $140,000.00. I have no job. I have very little to show for my life, thing-wise. I took solace in my relationship, as though it was something I could be proud of, but that's now becoming a stale memory, as well, and is no help anymore.
And I get older. And feel more fragile, less certain, less capable. More beaten down. More accepting of being beaten down. Tired. Hurt and incapable of healing from it entirely.
I want to be happy. I want to feel connected to my life. I want to be in love: with life, with a woman, with my calling. I want to grow and learn and smile. However, right now I feel like smashing my head through the windshield of a car that has just collided with a pilon below an underpass that I swerved to hit to see if not wearing my seatbelt really is fatal.

The ocean (short story)

"...It was early spring. Girl met boy, led boy to the beach. The sun was out, sand was warm. I forget whether they held hands, but I remember feeling that hands were being held; there was presence. Barefoot, they walked. Who are you? They each thought. I know you.

And shortly, in each other's mirrors, they drove off into their lives. Before long, it had faded into where those things go. Its effect was felt within, like a dangling story thread, a need to turn the page, to be in the cinema of life'. He was restless, thinking upon the girl in loneliness. Within him, prayers developed. Shuffling along night time streets, the stars, coldly comforted him as he daydreamed in his headphones. He sought divinatory clues in lyrics to songs written before he was born..."

"That's all I have so far." He said. "What do you think? "
She looked at him briefly, turning back to glance at the journal focused on her thoughts.
"I think it's sweet." It wasn't what she meant to say.
"I mean," she hesistated, "the sentiment is over-wrought, but it's nice."
"Nice?" He said. "Okay."
"Trying to wrap my brain around it all, now that's its really over." He said, looking down.
"Maybe I write something about 'our story,' get it out of me. Look at it and have it be 'that story' now, instead of me, without an Us, anymore."
He looked up, noticed her small ears. He loved her profile. Her gaze was intense and it bore into him. It was hard for him to see her softness when her eyes were looking into him. She was one of the few people that he felt saw into his heart. Through his illusion, the self-deception.
"We made-I made a lot of careless promises to you," he paused, thinking about whether she wanted to 'go there,' again.
"Anyway, I wonder about you a lot these days" He dismissed the opportunity to have the deep conversation now. Decided it didn't matter anymore.
"I still have this want in me, for you," he blurted, though it was meant to be a comfort to her, it came out desperate.
"I wonder about you too, you know," she deflected. "but I am in love again," she regretted saying that, even though it was true.
"I couldn't keep being a fool. I hate feeling foolish," she said. And she watched him, watched his face.
He purred, mumbling something to himself, a smile spread slowly and resided.
"I am happy for you," he wanted that to be true, but it wasn't.
"Can I bum a cigarette from you?" she said.
"Ya."
He searched through his coat, padding his body with his hands looking for a pack of cigarettes.
"I'll smoke one with you," he said.
He lit her cigarette, then lit his. He watched her inhale. He had wondered if she was smoking again. They fought over smoking inumerable times and now it was a bridge.
"I'm glad you're being creative again. Writing." she said.
She wanted to move the comfort level back to something less intense.
"I have to, no choice." He felt strong saying that, like it was something worth living for.
"Anyway, I keep thinking now 'why not?' even though I don't have that much to say," he paused,
"Heh. I want to see you again."
He wanted to sound sincere. What he wanted was sex.
He wanted to be naked with her again. Close. Fill her. Like the first time, but better, because it would be now.
"I want to," she paused.
"You know me." She took a drag, smirked. She felt resolve come over her.
"He's a good man. I laugh a lot with him. He takes care of me. It's working this time."
She was impressed how easy that was to say. She had worried about whether she would be able to stand up for her new life to him.
"I guess I was feeling that too," he said.
"Mom and I had lunch a couple months ago," he quickly added, "I was trying to convince her that it was real, what you're doing with him. I said something about how each person has a different key to our lock, and when they use it, it opens up something in us that no other key could." The first time he'd said that it had been more believeable, now it seemed like a greeting card, but the point was made.
"Anyway, I'm not ready myself," he concluded.
"I'm still in love with you," he smiled a defiant "I told you I loved you more" smile he'd been saving up.
"But you knew that," he said. And they both knew he didn't have any idea was he was talking about anymore.
"You are a sweetheart," she smiled, stiffly.
Inside, her heart was breaking again. She strained to keep from letting it show. She watched him cling and it hurt her. She felt his very deep, long need. It was familiar and painful. She felt him ache for her, she knew he would never fully comprehend his desire, that he had let it consume him. Her skin tingled like a breeze was blowing inside her body. Thoughts raced through her mind, she focused, discarding the flooding memories. She observed herself not being swept up anymore, she was proud and felt she had conquered something.
"I have to get going," she leaned into him.
 "Okay-"he heaved, pulling her weight into him for a hug.
 "Mmmhmm," she said. One last time, she thought. His body. His chest. She kissed his face, and rested her head on his shoulder.
 Feeling selfish, he pulled her closer. The fit their bodies created when they combined together. A safe timeless warmth. His head rested on top of her head. He kissed her hair, slightly adjusting her sweater. His mind rested.
This moment made sense.
"You know," he said.
"I went back to our beach a couple days ago." Oh shit, he thought. Even if it took some of the meaning out of the gesture, he had to share it.
"I threw my ring and the silver necklace you gave me in the ocean." He sighed.
"It was meaningless, now that you're getting married. Besides," he said, "if there is, or was any psychic, or mystical bond between us," he hesitated, feeling foolish.
The woman he was holding on to was gone, and maybe had never been. She had been hurt too much to trust him again. It was too late. And he knew that. He focused on how much she used to irritate him, it made him smile now. Her fussiness, his oafishness. Seemed silly now.
"I wanted you to be free from all that. You know, no sense weighing you down, pyschically. I need the resolution, anyway. I would have loved for you to have been there, magically, to stop me. Or see a mermaid, have her show me our lives in the reflections of a shell. Something to believe in, to make it a good story. The way it ended, the way I treated you at the end-"
He stopped, knowing it was going nowhere, he was rambling.
"Anyway, I miss you, but I'm doing better." He left it that.
"Thank you," she said. She didn't know what to say. The news felt stale. She understood it was important to him, and she wanted to be kind. He seemed quite fragile now. Like a child. She felt grace come over her, and moved away from him.
Within a moment, she was across the street. Then, three blocks away. After walking a few steps he decided he would rather wrench every last drop of memory out of this moment, even if it meant watching her never turn back, which she didn't.
Her eyes filled. Her chest stiffened, tightened. I'm wearing sunglasses, she thought. She walked, determined. She sorted through her purse for her phone, what time is it, she thought. She wanted to get back to her life, she loved her life, now. And then she cried. The tears, like a tide, over her cheeks. It felt raw and clean and scary. Its over, she thought, its over.
He watched her walk until he wasn't sure if he was watching her anymore. His lips curled slightly, his mouth hurt. His jaw tightened. He dropped into numbness. He thought of Camus, of The Stranger. Of grief. And he made a choice. It was as if it had never happened, he thought. He pulled a cigarette out, lit it.
Maybe I'll quit smoking, now, he thought.
He looked back in the direction she had gone. He saw holiday shoppers, a street lined with cars moving slowly, their headlights an early indication of evening. I'm tired, he thought, I need to eat something. And it was in that thought that he laughed, gently, knowingly in himself. It was impossible to know, wasn't it. All that effort, he thought. And now, all I want is a burger. He smiled. I love burgers.
He knew that he would be eating a burger shortly, daydreaming about what had happened. He would use this memory for all it was worth. Turning to cross the street, he noticed a small child. Big brown eyes, mussy hair, a hoodie the size of a wash cloth. He smiled at her. He smiled at her as though he was looking at a child that they might have had together. His mind stopped because it made sense in that it didn't make sense. He thought to himself how he was grateful for his ipod and music and burgers and that it was now cold out and how he liked to wear layers.

MMO worlds as containers for art...or as inspiration for art in RL

Some years ago while in school, I discovered my first MMO: City of Heroes. It became an obsession, of sorts. I worked at least as hard on developing not only characters, but stories surrounding them, as I did on any official school art I was involved in. Shortly after, I discovered World of Warcraft, or WoW or Warcrack...And immediately, I knew this was something wholly new. Not only did it encapsalate a tightly produced, highly polished virtual dollhouse of everything Warcraft, it engaged individuals, millions of them worldwide to participate together, to play together. Millions of people, playing together. This is highly idealistic, but at its heart, there is something, some *thing* I am (and have been trying for a couple years) to locate which is highly fertile ground for art.

My primary concerns, however, lie in the constraints of the behavior within the world. Very little of the actual environment can be affected in anyway. There was an artist I met that was making sculptures in the FPS Tribes2. Apparently, one could use geometries in the game to build fortifications and the like. Instead, he would make sculptures in the middle of the battlefield. In plain view. He commented on how he wouldn't engage the 'enemy' in direct warfare, but used all his energy to repair the sculptures if they were attacked. Attacking sculptures sounds like more fun to me. Then again, I wanted to 'assassinate' the 'Michael Jackson and Bubbles' porcelain sculpture in the SFMoma, see if I could frame it in the same way that Rauschenburg framed erasing de Kooning's drawing...maybe because he did that is why I didn't...but I supremely digress.

So, here I am thinking art thoughts + WoW thoughts + inevitably, when the subject of the web comes up, porn thoughts and hoping something coalesces. I believe there is a whole world out there for artistic investigation that is being completely, and utterly ignored right now. Like maybe as big as Andy Warhol and the aha! he must have felt when he realized that he could just paint Brillo Boxes and soup cans and Mao Tse Tung and it would be the highest of the highly ironic art.

I am thinking about this too much, but these thoughts have been stewing in me for years. I think they are related to thoughts I had, just before I graduated, when I realized that my whole world was now being parsed through a filter of art philosophies, post-modern/Neolism, and other such things very art school. I knew my work had to die in the form it was, in order that I might make work that was more immediate in its response to all that theory. Far too much of what is being made now is didactic and worse, so obscure that it doesn't end up meaning anything to anyone but a very select few. And really, they don't much care about it either, they've simply invested so much time and energy into their "knowing of" art that, even when the Emperor isn't wearing anything, they'd never say.

I'm going to go log on and see if I can drum up any ideas...

I'm realizing the tone of this is a bit soap-boxy, and I must admit I made the mistake of thinking of an audience of many when writing this instead of just writing it for you, I apologize for the violence. Please forgive me.