Looking out the window, the landscape seems very drab today.
People are bothering me. It seems nobody bothers to listen to anything but they're own voice sometimes. At school, on the telephone, at the store. They just assume from what is usually a very narrow spectrum of experience, and answer in a pre programmed way that makes us not all that different than robots.
Except that Robots are more easily upgraded.
Driving out into the sticks to go to the Volkswagen dealership, I noticed again how all the god and country signs outside of stores were superimposed upon the depressing midwestern landscape. It made it seem so much more like the fifties.
This is a religious war. You can tell by all the mentions of Jesus in their patriotism. If the people who attacked us had been Baptists, you can bet that we wouldn't be seeing this level of fervor.
It's sad and I'm oddly numb. I've just given up on humankind, It almost doesn't seem worth trying. It's spinning so quickly out of control, our future is a grim place, and the hope of making even a ripple of influence on that toward the positive seem futile.
October.
It just makes me miss Chicago more.
I have class tonight. I don't want to go. I just want to give in on the whole thing but at least it's a reason to get out of the house.
My own views on art sort of warp before my eyes. I don't know if it's worth it to give out the love of it to acquire the skill of it.
I get sick of thinking of it all in commercial terms. I'm sick of looking at all of this with the constriction of whether it takes me in a profitable direction being in my head. I hate thinking about what I can do with my art. I don't want that. I want it to be mine.
I'm sick of imagining what it would be like to do it professionally. I'm sick of wondering if I have what it takes to make a living at my art. Unless I can find someone who will pay me to paint these weird, darkly cartoony pictures and make clay zombies of my friends, I won't be making a living at my art. I'll be making a living at someone else's art, and I'm not sure I want that.
Days of absolute mind numbing boredom and depressing sterility brought me to this. Answering phones, and filing crap and sorting through endless documents for the slightest typo--that's what brought me to this, some sort of idealized vision of what it would mean to do something more creative. But somehow being someone's ad whore and web whore seems like the antithesis of creativity. Maybe I'm wrong and there's a way to do it in those guidelines. But it really doesn't seem that way, and it seems like a tragic death of a loved one, to have all these tools that can spur such imaginative ideas used for soulless shlock and boring repetition. It seems just as sterile as what I've tried to escape, only moreso because it takes something away from me in the process.
I want to be Bukowski.
I want to write with a bottle of booze by my side.
I want to be Argento.
I want to create these wacky bits of directorial genius that no one but my dedicated cult following knows, and I want my life to be committed to it.
I don't know if I can ever achieve this. Right now, I'd settle for an uninterrupted day to shut out the world.