Me and Granma. #wings
I do a form of meditation that I most benefit from through expressing very personal thought journeys. I've always been taught the 'why' of anything we do should have some significance, because everything we do requires that we take the energy from something or someone else. I think that I grew the most as a person through being able to somehow enjoy the personal glimpses of women's lives. That's actually always the sort of literature I've enjoyed, planet EArth: through the "female" perspective. Although it was only ever motivated by my need to understand the male mentality. I could go on and on, actually, about how wonderful it is that women have found a way to publish their literary work - through 'blogging'. Because, from a feminist perspective: the idea that a woman's literary endeavours could possibly have any kind of audience actually wasn't a thing - not too long a time ago. My personal meditations carry my thoughtscape to and through a progress (pilgrimage? what is the correct word?) (what word could possibly quantify or convey why I meditate at all?) of evolution or perhaps devolution or perhaps a word that hasn't been introduced to my vocabulary that is suggestive, or indicative, somehow of a very particular kind of (cellular?) growth and expansion and development of an entirely and exclusively non-physical kind. My choice to document these - is that I believe that through the act of documenting, I access my inner-place to explore and also to be comfortably 'weird'. Through being weird, through being eccentric, through being unlike anyone else (the product-result of a life spent in solitude perhaps) I feel as though I might give at least one, maybe two others the liberty to be 'unusual' too. As far as I am concerned - you cannot humiliate yourself more than I have in my life, certainly not through any kind of literary or verbal communication. How do I permit the universal you to not feel embarrassed? To not feel enslaved by the need to conform to what - the 'line' of 'normality'? Something that makes no conceptual sense outside of mathematics or physics - and especially not in the arts - where there truly are rules that must align both proportion and dimension. (And when those rules are ignored and disregarded, some of the most fantastic artwork is the result - art that, for me personally, can emanate in something of a culmination that fully describes and summates the most nonsensical experience that fucking is: existing in a body at all.) That is to say: If I am capable of hating myself at all, it is when I feel embarrassment at the compulsion I have within me that truly compels me to divulge a personal truth - and that my experience of life and of others - has me expressing any kind of sentiment or expansive truth then has me succumbing to fucking genuine feelings of embarrassment or fear of ...rejection! There was a time in my life - a few years that passed a little too slowly - where rejection was all I allowed myself to be prepared for. I lived insecure and uncertain and that repressed any kind of capacity I might have had to do better, to evolve. I mean tl;dr: This blog is my personal truth disguised in the form of an "art blog". The only thing you should take away from reading the stuff I write, or looking at the art I make - is perhaps that you really should stop caring about how the real you is received by others. People are going to find excuses to reject you for forever and that will continue, until people learn to stop rejecting themselves.
just another internet addicted ultra-introvert / i live in pyjamas & men's shirts but i love to dress up for the right adventure / i'm sure i'd be a night wandering street artist if I weren't so worried about getting you in trouble.
My ultimate ambition is to live an inimitable life.