what I miss

You know, I don't know what it is, but the older I get, the less I feel inclined to talk about any idea of truth. I have no big theories about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. No really, is it tiredness? I don't know. All I know is that I hate insincerity, whatever form it may come in--the worst is when people try to play it off as art. Whatever. Philosophy is fine, as long as you keep it to yourself. I have no interest in hearing how deep this thing you're trying to create is. I detest it. I would much rather read something genuine and poorly written than well crafted pretentious shit.

This might be able to explain why I can't much stand independent films with no sense of humor, (and boy there are so many of them out there). It gets to a point when I would read a synopsis or see a poster and cringe. There is something strangely disturbing about people who take themselves and their creation too seriously. It is always fishy to me when people talk about what they are trying to say. Their message. Their artistic statement. Their philosophy. Their world view. All bullshit. I sometimes wish people would shut up, shut up and be still.

I wonder if it has to do with being in the U.S, everyone is always endlessly talking talking talking about something, most of the time themselves. But everyone is obsessed with self exhibition nowadays, how else can we explain the popularity of Facebook? I don't want to sound like that angry bitter person who came to speak in our art class during J.C. I remember him so clearly. He went on and on and on about how we are all being manipulated by the media, and how everything, everything is contaminated. I remember telling Jane, getting just as worked up as the speaker--that if he hated the entire society so much why doesn't he just go live in a cave. The ironic thing was that he is a graphic designer, so what else does he do but get paid by all these businesses who are trying to manipulate people into buying their goods & services. That makes him a hypocrite. The world is crawling with them, but nowhere are they are pronounced and as in the "art scene."

I don't hate artists/musicians/poets/writers. I just hate it when they forget that the highest calling is not that of art. Not in my opinion at least, the highest calling of course is to live, fully and honestly and genuinely without all this silly front and dressing up. Recently, I saw a video of a secondary school mate who is now a composer. Her music, I can't speak too much of, because she went on and on so much about what she was trying to do with her music. I asked myself very honestly afterwards if my gut reaction of disgust was not founded on envy. It honestly wasn't.

Sometimes, what I miss are the simple afternoons those summer days when I was six and we spend the day at my grandparents' house. Where their black rotary phone is an object of fascination. When joy was the taste of condense milk on white bread. When my neighbor's sun flowers heads high against the blue of the sky was sheer happiness. Ecstasy and fear used to come in through me unmediated. I think it is in the sate of innocence that we experience most intensely, and it is the very thing I am always after. It is never thoughts or ideas I am after, it is always a sensation. A sensation so pure it brings me right back to being a child spreading out newspaper on the floor, watching grandmother dry orange peel in the sun, feeling their stiff barks, their mouldy smells, and feeling like this moment would live forever, feeling like I have been touched by something. It is always innocence I miss. And every time I come in touch with art, I long for this direct and intense experience, but always run right up against a wall of people talking, talking, talking.