Something more despondent

shoppingcartengineer, ß, jewish person, whatever you want to call him , is a revelation. mike ma for the anti-racist. Brett Easton ellis for disgruntled Bernie voters. a straight man for the gays.

An Artist Formerly Known as Shopping Cart Engineer

The most regret a person can experience is when lamenting lost potential. I’m horrified by it every waking moment of every day. I stand petrified by it, the looming specter of my failure inching closer every with every second that passes without me working towards my aspirations. Sometimes I think it stems from some kind of self-hatred. I hardly think I’m talented enough to make it big and make my mark before I wither away, failing to have my name stay on the lips more than two generations down the line. On the other hand, it might be due to some kind of unacknowledged megalomania, a craving for exceptionalism that forces me to ignore the true joys in life in favor of some unachievable, selfish dream. I think about it every day, ruminating on my every move trying to see where specifically I fucked up, flinging myself down a timeline…

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paglia-type beat

The statement that most provoked me most forcefully from the questionnaire was, “What counts as art, or good art, or beautiful, is a subjective matter of one’s own preferences.” I decided to ‘strongly disagree’ with the statement.  If the statement were true, then art and beauty would cease to exist, their value tantamount to refuse. Art, and good art especially, is a reflection of the artist’s lived experiences and trauma. This truth is where many decide to stop their analysis of the nature of art, and simply declare that because art is created subjectively and individually, art itself must be subjective. I reject this truncated and banal conception of art. Great art is made in the hopeless struggle by man to understand and combat the ever-shifting dynamo of the natural world. Great art is an attempt to bring order to the chaos of life.  The creation of great art  is a deeply personal and challenging experience for an artist. The artist creates his art as a projection, as a way to save himself. Whether he knows it or not, this struggle for order and understanding against the endless flux of nature and its endless apocalypse is a struggle that sometimes reaches the realm of the beautiful. What is beautiful, much like what is art, is not decided by the subjective whims of man. What is beautiful is that which reflects the immortal and the beloved and the divine. Beauty is when man’s attempt to combat nature ends up becoming it. There is beauty in the primordial sludge that is nature. To simply believe that what is beautiful is what you deem to be beautiful, is selfish and ignorant. There is a part of everyone’s mind and heart that deep down is able to recognize the objective realm of the beautiful. Without believing in Beauty, art is drained of meaning. This draining of meaning is similar to the modern crisis of sex.  

Sex has been cut and drained of its lifeblood, eroticism. Sex has been reduced to the act, divorced from the metaphysical realm of erotic love. It could be said that sex has been reduced to the realm of the subjective.  Really, the core of my gripe with the application of subjectivity to art and beauty is that it removes the grandeur and drama from art. Art without suffering isn’t art.  If any fool could create something and proclaim it to be art, there would be no art. The same goes for the ability of anybody to decide for themselves what constitutes art. While this is of great personal utility, ultimately, it kills all motivation. If great art is subjective then why try and create great art? Beauty is a realm, an unchanging set of feelings and waves that can only be glimpsed through the wonders of the world and the triumph of great art. 

last day of summer

We will slip back into innocence, and revel in its intoxicating embrace

The wind rustling, shifting, picking up yet another spring snow

In a week’s time it will be summer and 

We will be warm and we will be joyous

We can be alone with each other

Being Being Being! Around you is like 

The snow it kisses my face and it reminds me of you white and perfect and powerful and soft  

I love when the snow doesn’t know what month it is 

I would love you but maybe I shouldn’t for if I wish for you too long I will become lost in my own desire, made a slave to my passion but is that such a bad thing? 

I listen for the sounds of the coming summer

The insects buzzing the wind sighing with heady relief

My misfortune is knowing that your beauty won’t allow me to be with you 

Your beauty won’t allow me to be warm and in your bed 

I curse language itself for keeping the truth just that far away

The way I think about you I just want to say without saying, and I hope you know without really knowing 

Kids, playing outside

Wrapped in sunshine and kissed by God

We were just kids 

And now we’re laying under a tree 

The night is warm 

I pass the wine and we drink because we think it’s fun 

And we laugh, thinking about those kids 

Thinking about how they grew up 

And how they are us 

And how we are happy, 

together and alone

jesus and mary chain type beat

Our parents don’t even know where we are

Soaked in sun and rain 

We’ve been gone for days

Chasing the real 

Settling for the so-so and the imaginary

Barreling down country roads 

Taking each other each night 

I wake you up but you aren’t the same 

Your smile is there 

But your face is changed 

Lips curled and cheeks dimpled

You are smiling I know it 

But there is nothing

Not nothing 

But something other 

Than yourself 

Lurking in the depth of your eyes

Is it regret? 

on Sex, and her daughter Eroticism

The Young People, especially those that have deluded themselves into thinking they are ‘artists’, have lost sense of sex, or of love, or of beauty, although according to them this couldn’t be further from the truth. They consider themselves “sex positive” and support the euphemistic charade that is “sex work.” Really, sex work is the commodification of the perfect human form, that of woman, and it is a degradation of her flesh and soul. They are not ‘taking advantage of capitalistic systems’ they are playing right into Capitalism’s hands. They preach love but have no understanding of Desire, the driving force of both its daughter eroticism and of everyone’s every move and thought. They seek to drain sex of the erotic and replace it with the banal and empty outrageousness of pornography, showing everything and at the same time losing all meaning. Sex is outrageous, yes, but it is the love and the pure jouissance and the pure pleasure that makes it Sex. Sex is more than just the physical act, we are talking about more than that! Physical consummation aside, Sex is the force and the will that makes up the unconscious. Sex is dangerous and threatening because it is the Other. It is unknowable, and in our pathetic attempts to understand it we encounter the hedonistic and chaotic realm of THE EROTIC. The Young People now seek to outlaw true artistic purity in any of its forms. Every poem, film, book, artwork, must have a clearly defined and easily palatable political message. Anything that makes you uncomfortable, truly uncomfortable, isn’t art, you see. And don’t be fooled, all art is Sex! Art is the desperate attempt by man to understand that which exists beyond us, the realm of the sexual and of the divine. The young people think they understand Beauty when all they know of Beauty is is her reflection in a cracked mirror. Its full visage would cause many a young ‘artist’ to keel over.

cigarette in your bed

The soft and inviting light of early morning flits through our window as I wake from a night of well-earned sleep. Our apartment is still half-empty, with boxes full of adolescent memories we’ve both long since forgot. We just moved in yesterday. I reach over to the bedside table and grab a cigarette from an all-too-empty pack. I take a long drag and feel my blood hungrily soak up the nicotine. I turn to you. I see the outline of your back. I see your velvety swaths of dark brown hair draped down onto the shitty bed we got from your parents. You’re still fast asleep. I hope you’re having a beautiful dream. As I listen to your gentle breath, I look past you to the world outside. The city was waking up with me. Cars drove past the window going too fast. Men and women with places to be rushed to those places the way they’ve done it every day for 15 years. I think to myself that we’ll do things differently. I look back to you. You’re looking right back at me with eyes full of love. Your eyes are so full of intelligence and kindness and devotion that I almost start to cry. I pray you see the same in my eyes. Without looking away, you ask for a cigarette.

which, way, western man?

At age 18, you stand at the precipice of either your ultimate downfall or your greatest triumph. Every decision you make pushes you closer towards either oblivion or salvation. Sure, you’re most likely in college and you might think that what really matters is how well you’re doing with your grades or how hot the girl you’ve been fucking is, but really what matters is who you are as a person.

 Do you value hard work? Do you value forging your own way, even if it means complete isolation? Or are you complacent, destined to repeat the mistakes of your parents and to fall in line with a society that has left everyone behind? A society that is perfectly constructed to keep us in a cage. A cage of ignorance and obesity. A cage of humanity’s own subconscious design that keeps us safe from how we’re truly meant to live. The luxuries of modern life are killing us slowly, but it’s an easier death. 

So you’re 18. You can choose to buy your ticket into this system and live the life everyone expects you to live, or you can do everything in your power to save you and your friends from the 21st century hell world.