creating art
at what point do your inner thoughts, your daily flow of emotions, senses and instincts, become art?
it is when you decide.
your pounding headache, the taste of coffee in the morning, waking up starving and then slowly replenishing your body of nutrients and fuel, being in commute, traveling to work by bus, train, car, bike or foot, that sense of transport, then you arrive at your job and are in a box being yelled at to complete tasks for someone, you get a lunch break and the food briefly tells the chemicals in your brain of another time and place.
your body is happy because you feed it, so your brain rewards you with feel-good chemicals.
O sandwich, transport me to that other place, the cliche palm trees and tangerine sunset above with the heated sand seeping through your toes below, the chair below you made of a living organism, a tree, tells you its story, of growing up in a forest on a mountain, tranquility, feeling the seasons, the excitement of spring, the blissful arrival of summer, the fleeting dread of autumn, and the cold hibernation of winter.
the chair under you on the sand in the beach under the sunset in your head, a creation of brain chemicals triggered by the sandwich you eat at your job in a building, in a city, in reality
i breathe tangents. they are just geometry, which is a rule explaining an aspect of reality created by man to explain himself and his surroundings to himself. someone told me theoretical thinking is an art. "art is the umbrella" i said. art is just a word you designate to an idea. words are only one part of art; they lie under the umbrella. words only function as a protocol for interaction between two brains. like the http of brain waves. the ethernet jack from the back of my head into yours. communication=art
see? these words, they are working on something. it is a seed of an idea in your head that can grow into a tree in a forest. a forest in your head. the same forest that i got the wood for the imaginary chair in my head. the chair i sit on when i eat my sandwich during lunch at work at my job in reality (o boring listless reality.)
Oh food, please fuel me so i can zoom around in my imagination. reality is here and real. terrible things happen. innocent black children in the sahara desert die of starvation because some fat white man wants to zoom around in his private jet in reality. we were given brains and imaginations so we could realize these things (reality) but also cope with the horrors of reality (imagination)
duality, the dual-spouted funnel that all my ideas unintentionally end up traveling through.
//and on that note, my surf wave of creativity has reached the beach and dissipated into the sand. …the same sandy beach that i sit on while i eat my sandwich at lunch time. im getting hungry. need more fuel. my tangents, my geometry poured in my head from the thought cloud of electricity in the atmosphere have somehow built a shape, a shape that looks like a strange mysterious seed, a seed that will grow into a tree in the forest on the mountain in my head. the tree will grow, experiencing the seasons peacefully, until some day, my imaginary hero/villain character in my head will chop down the tree with a lazar beam and craft himself a chair that he will sit on the next time the reality me (Ben is what they call him) eats a sandwich to fuel his fragile, slowly dying body.
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