Each life makes its own immitation of immortality. -Stephen King
So hard to write, my thoughts are so confused.
Madness. Hatred. Lust I guess. My thoughts
they sprawl like concrete in America. Heavy
and fast. I was going to say what would I
do if it wasn’t for money? Art-wise that is.
How this culture of doom. Won’t let me be.
The town, the neighborhood. Not my home.
Never could be. The people here. Build
your houses. Say “Hey you doin’?” Talk like
that. And loud b/c they can’t hear themselves
anymore (It’s a loud place). Never enough
respect for this crew. I have been repeating
these ideas for over a decade. Any person
with any intelligence would have left a habitat
like this already, unless you are an animal
trapped in a zoo. It seems I exaggerate, but
that depends on the time of day. The hour or
minute. It is a nightmare. Girls. They are
vicious creatures. Maybe this place more so.
Maybe they have too much testosterone in
their macaroni. The children of these places
should be culled. The teenage boom is. Proud
little dipshits. Parents made the batter. I repeat
too often. Better to keep this post on top. It’s a
vicious cycle. Intolerance tested? I can continue
into some of my conspiracy, more like an evolution
of the Greater NYC Area. This always makes me
sad, divide and conquer. That leaves what? Just
black, maybe Prussian blue. Eggplant red. Channel
surf like I am immortal.
I always think that art is a form of sacrifice.
Yes, I wanted too much. This is long-lasting. It’s
origin long ago.
Now, I’m disenchanted with my failure.
One has to make some kind of sacrifice to achieve anything.
If I want to paint, I can’t be watching all the movies, playing a
guitar, cooking dishes, figuring out neuroscience mysteries,
reading the best books, and baking the best cakes. As my days
lessen, I feel the pressure mounting. On top of that my father
is a nut, prevents me from really getting into any kind of rhythm
during the day, ruins my sleep. More pressure, more stress.
It seems I need a new game plan. Time may be long, but
moves quickly. And of course, my health is flailing. 60 minutes
was airing a segment about Raphael Nadal. That guy is amazing.
So many injuries and so many triumphs. He’s fun to watch too.
I’ve been taking bacopa monneri recently. A slew of effects. It can
really control me. Woozy knockout punch, and I don’t know why. If
a drug is meant to make someone relax, but the taker doesn’t want
that, I think you have a problem.
It’s listed as a 5-HT1A partial agonist I have read it cures insanity.
This apparently, can reduce serotonin, but some science says it
increases serotonin. I know they don’t really understand. So
much conflicting science.
“There is an ocean of silence between us… and I am drowning in it.”
― Ranata Suzuki
Once there was a son on flight. He fought with his
insane father. He didn’t need boxing gloves. He said,
“I don’t need boxing gloves.”. The father couldn’t be
trusted by the son. The son couldn’t be trusted by the
son’s alter-ego. Nobody had any clue how it got to
this. They were living in a cave of darkness. Their
hearts were empty and joyless. The father’s
spirit had transcended the ordinary world and entered into
the netherworld. It was barren and cold. The robotic
body was left behind for the son to suffer….
Can you imagine a world without hope….I could then
perhaps settle down. Hope is a drug. I think I have
forgotten that too.
Why is it that I want to write and can’t, but I can think so
much. Maybe reason doesn’t sit well in one’s mind alone.
Makes me wonder if the thinker is insane. How
can one sip beer? I don’t understand that. If I want to
be reasonable I should write. My thoughts are too fast.
Remember the backside of Capitol Hill? Remember stuff.
I think I think better without the pressure of having to write.
So I lose the fluidity of ideas when I start to write.
Typing is also a learned skill. I can not type well and think too.
I guess one is getting used to it, but I can already feel my
thoughts slowing down. Shame is all this has no value.
Perhaps I can write about baseball. Perhaps I can write
about the goal. Today I got into a fight.
Tomorrow I will enter
It’s called consent – the next generation will likely too.
My example, is the lifeguard at the beach. They are
naturally a**holes. My guess the way it evolves like this:
A while back, they thought let’s provide a small service.
If you go out, get in trouble, we will come to save you!
But then they started to think, ‘well, we might jeopardize our
own lives in the act’. Thus they make laws and rules, that
are meant to protect me. I never asked for that. But they
insist. So now, you have to hear the a**holes telling you
where and when you can swim here and there.
When dealing with the insane, the best method is to pretend to be sane. -Herman Hesse
My brain hurts. I haven’t been sleeping well. Now I have an
excuse for not writing well. Ouch. I have given in to the lure
of Science. I am not so keen on the experimental, but as for
forming a successful hypothesis I enjoy this. My current
thesis is a secret of course. Magic is very powerful. One can
never be too sure. In this sense, Science is wicked awesome!
I’m the worst kind of artist; the kind that
makes everybody an artist. What could
be worse than that? – Shri
Again, am not well; not writing to make sense:
Well, what can I say? I’m still engulfed.
I’m still typical atypical. I’m still not
considerate of some other nice people’s feelings.
But not all. So many angry a**holes out here.
Ruin my way. And think about Art.
Like how the architecture is not understood well.
Like not like phenomena are not thought well.
Like making Maria mad. Like not as mad as I
can ever be. Although I doubt she gets mad
often. I can resist.
Unfortunately, it does seem perhaps in the
future I write this, having had the experience, i.e.,
not by reason alone, a priori. However, being
inpatient I give and will say this: unfortunately,
it seems as if the creation is thought to be perfect,
must be perfect in the eye of the beholder, then it
follows a perfect work is necessary in the creator’s
mind. However deluded others may find this believe,
it seems necessary for the creator.
I haven’t thought much about installation. Not
at all really. The manner in which painting and installation
intersect is of great interest for the perfectionist. That is
all I have to say.
Then something about GAD67, axon, NMDA + AMPA,
Norepinephrine, GABA analogue, Risperdone, NRIs, 5HT-x,