Hiatus explanations are weak, however. At least compared to the effect of what is supposed to follow. Not to put myself in a position to sell said self as successful. Nor to contradict towards failure.
So, the ‘why’ of such time will be little more than pandering and excuses. However, the ‘what’ may prove a bit more substantial.
So, what have I been up to in the several weeks of absence?
Aside from the sometimes (maybe often times) fruitless ventures into unenthused self-reflection, I have but a single grand-ish claim.
I completed an album. Of music. My alter ego and myself. Or perhaps it is I the alter and he the ego seen. Secret split identities.
But an idea turned substantial. An endeavor dreamt up after returning, post-New Year, from a trip abroad. Seasonal musical works. Originally composed, and for at least this first one, totally self-produced. With an intention for more before the closing of this calendar year.
It’s a thing I did. And yes, I do feel a bit of pride in it. Even with a self-critical ear. It is an accomplishment that most do not undertake. And I did.
Yet, I wonder. Is it possible to feel both accomplished and unfulfilled within proximity? Perhaps, even simultaneous? The itch. The constant quest for substance, throughout much of mankind in all sorts of forms. A feeling not between, but near equal parts gluttonous and starved.
It certainly seems to me that such can occur, as ‘tis how I feel at the moment. Might even be why I am making sure I reignite this specific endeavor today.
I had thought of the absence here, and how it may be brought back. There were schemes and structures half formed. They can never be more than that for me. I have a thing against repetition. Against singular tempos and redundant expression. It is a fear of mine in action. Which makes it funny, I’d imagine, to see how often it is that I repeat myself.
Not a few hours ago, I had a conversation about art. This one may have been inching towards argument. There was disagreement. Not disrespect, but a difference of opinion for sure.
Apologies, but I just don’t think Drake is good. At all, really. Might be a nice guy, and sure, vastly more ‘successful’ than I will ever be… but fuck ‘em. I have reason why and I can certainly back them up. That’s all I’ll say here upon such a subject.
The interesting thing about this discussion, occurred to me only after. For the life of me, I couldn’t even tell you my ideological sparring partners name. New guy at work. I had certainly met him before. And he left a positive impression upon your dumbass narrator. His name, however, does not find itself in my mind.
What a wonderfully human thing, to glimpse into the mind of another without knowing who the hell they are.
It does hold the potential for quite profound introspection. And the outside spectrum as well. The sharing of ideas that vary. The diversity of thought that the world has harbored for us.
Of course, this could lead to discourse. Though I cannot say to the statistics of it, I know from anecdotal experience it can occur often. Also, I occasionally check in on world events. And it turns out, people still dangerously disagree. To the points of violence in both meta and the regular kind of physical forms. To death, in an alarming amount if instances for a species that thinks itself the advanced.
So, have I solved the woes of the world?
No, not at all. I have hardly solved any of the woes of my own soul. But I have taken another in the many steps possible in the development of a singular human life. And history tends to believe the idea that significant individuals can be capable of making waves much large than themselves. For destruction or otherwise. Benevolent purposes, perhaps.
Will I be on the global scale tomorrow? Unlikely. My methods don’t adhere to what currently influences mass consumption. But not many things of lasting substance do. Profound feats and their crafters are not recipients of instant gratification.
When having the chat with the nameless man, as mentioned earlier, Van Gogh was mention. Not by me. By my friendly adversary. Along with Picasso and another whose name escapes me. He said something along the lines comparing poor Vincent’s artistic success to the Canadian rapper’s.
So, I reminded him that Van Gogh never saw his own success. He instead, died alone and by his own hand. And a madman, many believed. And yet he created art until the very end.
I hadn’t fully formed the thought until now, but I have a mild response to one of his inquiries into my perspective.
How can you define what is art?
Well, at least a bit, it has to do with why it occurred to begin with. The beast who makes something for recognition, or worse, exclusively profit does not make art.
The beast that has no other choice but to make and do and feel the depths a less active mind might ignore- they are more likely making art. They itch with no true satisfaction. They hunger whilst drowning.
Or something like that.
That’s enough for today. Remember kids, you cannot force inspiration.
You can, however, cultivate it.