Avenged Sevenfold.

 I was trying to draw a deathbat from Hail to the King when your subtle remark reminded me that my sense of view had been twisted and my eyes had been deceived.

Why was it that I had not been able to see a simple observation? As I probed deeper into that feeling, my sense of perception morphed around me. There was creative goo there that did not yet have the requisite skill to stand under focused attention.

I brushed up against pure chaos; A will for expression without an outlet. It pushed up against the inside of my head and yet could not yet find an expression in strokes on a page. And so it now finds itself in the words of a blog. 

What is art? It is too broad a question. My mind jumps to find a reflexive answer that seems unassailable enough that my rational mind won't want to dissect it. 

Art is a phenomenological orientation to reality.

It is what I see when I look at your eyes. Into the pupils inside as they expand and contract, breathing the air and moisture through your ocassional breathing. The darkness I see and the slight glimmer of a shine. 

It is art when I see the relaxed expression of your face, unabashedly expressing it's desire without any shameful microexpressions.

It calls out to me, to express it. To continue it, in my expression. 

In the grand scheme of things, there is no meaning to it. 

And in that way, Art is existential defiance. 

It is that quietening of the mind.

It is that mediumless connection to the human being's interiority, that pulls his limitlessness outside of him. 

The mind settles, and stops compromising. It is jerked back into this very moment. 

The skill one gathers, is not art. It is what art demands. 

The creed of a creative. 

The musicality of a musician is not in his technicality. 

The taste of an artist is not in his training. 

Is it possible, to live a life everyday, inspired and free?

Those are dangerous words, that bring the mind of all but a serious individual dangerously close to abusing and reflexive answers.

To tuning out and going numb. 

Is it possible to live embodied in one's life, expressing their truth through languages and skills of their choosing everyday?

As my brain begins to bring in questions of practicality, I remind myself of how math is an art.

An expression of visual-spatial reasoning coupled with symbolic rigour. 

Engineering software is an art - of ensuring that the design entropy of a system remains as low as possible. 

And in having to remind my brain I have already lost my spark. 

So then really the question is, what makes us lose this?

How do we forget everyday the simple truth.

There are only so many days in your life. And you will die on one of them. sooner rather than later. 

If humans understood poisson processes, they would be more impatiently serious about life. 

Is it possible to make each day full in itself? From fullness to fullness as the upanishads say?

It is a path that one must come to on their own. 

Some may make it as a kid - finding the one thing they may dedicate their life to. 

Some may require midlife crises and failed marriages - and still continue living like they have forever. 

What really inspires us? Beauty? Desire?

Desire flows in many forms. 

From fast and coarse, to delicate and wistful. 

From novel and slippery, to a comfortable halo.

Art is the pursuit of understanding desire. 

But if desire is why we are here, why our bodies had not had enough, then desire is life. 

Art is life in motion. 

The smile of a woman. 

The sway of her hips. 

The blowing of leaves.

The small irritation of a wetness of drizzling evening. 

A puddle of dirty water. 

A staring into souls. 

An anxious reminder of your todo list. 

Leaning into your center in a social interaction. 

Or was that just today.

No.

There really is more to it. 

As these words dry out, my brain resists not having more depth to what I have been exploring since morning. How I molded thinking about art into development of the human's visual and spatial cortex. How I have been trying to apply it to understanding and working through problems. 

There is something much simpler to this urge. 

I cannot think in colour. 

I want to think in colour.

I can think colour, with difficulty. Caching in linguistic associations into my brain to have some stimuli weakly blossom into my visual field. 

Really these words are all I have. All my model has been reduced to. And sport.

Something deep about moving through, moving with my body. 

Something that I have connected with in breathless moments where the air set my brain and body on fire. 

It is a small world I invite you into, reader. 

There is not much space here. 

You can see the inside of this closed room. A Messy pile of books where I sit in a contorted posture to do calligraphy. 

I sleep in the same shithole, and express the same thought patterns through my drums. 

And yet even this is not enough.  

There is some depth to the distortion guitars pairing with the drums on a metal album railing on my heart.

There is some depth to the relationships of humans that make me feel like I may not be alone on this climb after all.

But that is not the place from which these words come. 

No, this cottage is at 12000 feet in the himalays. 

A radioactive center powers me and morphs me into an abomination. I let it.

Mary Shelley's frankenstein slips out giggling, into knee deep sandy snow in a bleak winter storm. 

This is the creed of the artist, if you decide to make your own path. 

I know some such cool people around me. They love raw dogging life like I do. 

Yet the contortions are just my eccentricities. These are habits my frankenstein picked up along the way hoping they would make me arrive. Yet in the climb to the top, even my monstrous isolation must be discarded. 

What is left is something rather simple and rather monstrous. Like a bald saitama. Like this nigga who fought Baki's dad. The previous sentence was written just to check whether you are still with me. 

Groups of people and their complications lie far below this height. 

Societal implications of actions lie far below this point.

I wonder sometimes whether I have truly reached here, or this is a snowglobe in a facility for creating artificial humans, and I shall fall back down to the lowest common denominator when I go back into the real world. 

My brain tires of being here, and yet I know I must push further. The labour required to go beyond is almost herculean. I ask myself in every step to the top why I could not have been easier. Why I could not just give in and conform. 

And then I realise I can. Monsters do live with us in everyday life. 

Society filters them out and life gives them more and more. And yet they are not done. The thirst for life abounds still. Deeper and deeper.

This is the depth a weak brain can go, for the only way to go further is to go deeper. 

So here I do it again. 

Art is the taboo of creativity. 

When everything is burned away by passionate discernment, and the snow fogs up your sense of perception of everything else around, what is left?

Is there an incentive for one to let the person who inspired this know?

To take up new forms, plays, positions is a rebellion. As we all wait around to die, in this artificial waiting room - to be alive is the greatest rebellion. grabbing someone's (butt) cheeks, taking an ideological position, creating play - it is the fingernail digging into and underneath a lover's skin.

Something that just doesn't give in.

Something that doesn't quite let a dead body fall into silent rest. 

Art is vulnerability. 

Aren't such movements always available to us?

Lines of flight - Lines of chaos. 

Fat tail events are the norm rather than the exception. 

Seduction, otherworldliness, and inconceivable depth is always around the corner.

A single touch that may electrify the lover's body. 

A slight drape of cloth that adds infinite depth to what its covering.

A slight bravery in presentation, that breaks the other's brittle vulnerability into smithereens. 

A conversation whose words pour like wine into the participants thoughts. 

Our simplified models of reality coarsen the truth. 

Far beyond killing its beauty. 

We forget that our epistemology is only a tool to engage with reality. 

We forget art.

The greatest tragedy, we subject ourselves to everyday. 

The hangover of that tragedy continues into the next day - for any healthy human would numb themselves into a stupor. 

It takes a maverick, a revolutionary to go through it with consciousness. 

Perhaps as I am doing now. 

Art is revolution.