Dissent From Entropy

Homo-Sapien, Homo-Mortalis, Homo-Fabula.

Writing is the hard drive of our memory. Primal medicine, qualia abacus, and resistance to early erasure.

Even stones hammered with our minds will be atomized. So the least we can say is, if we write it all down, it won’t go too early. It gives us another inch, maybe a mile, to be known.

I told a friend once why I keep a diary. I said, even if jotting down my days doesn’t slow down time, I’ll never be able to say they got away from me. They said they were going to miss me. I’ve never seen them again.

Scrimmage of Death: The Desire to Be Known

It’s a tragedy when the people who share memories you adore forget them.

The pain from being forgotten by someone is an insinuation of death. That’s why it hurts so mysteriously. When they don’t value the fact that they knew the most intimate, most deep-set aspects of you as a being, and don’t reminisce in those memories, it’s a failure to preserve sacred art. A reminder of our cosmic guilt, Humanity’s double bind: that there is so much splendor in our experience and yet we are fragile creatures who die on impact.

So what to do with that? The first inclination is to go cynical. Harden and assume death everywhere. Assume death in every lover. Assume it in every moment. And commune only with oneself. Even if the most important experiences are those that are shared. Chris McCandless’s last words, written in the throes of death, were, “Happiness is only real when it is shared.”

Our experiences feel more immortal when they’re communal, don’t they? When you laugh alone it’s damp. When you laugh with friends it feels captured somehow. It feels like it makes an impression on life. But it doesn’t. We know that feeling of the last day of high school. Those people we saw every day, who were a part of a community, who built with their voices and bodies a world that had total character and life and identity. Yet that aggregate life is dead.

I don’t want to be a hermit. I don’t want to learn to laugh alone and force it to impress life. I don’t want to be the sole preserver of my sanctity. I don’t want to be the only witness of the deepest, most intimate qualia. I want to be witnessed by someone I know just as well. Even if the outcome is always death. 

The desire to avoid the pain is the only reason we lose sleep over lost time, lost loves, lost moments. But the pain is inevitable given the Sisyphus in our machinery. We will always want to be known and valued by people. But people always go away. There is no metaphysical chisel and hammer. Everything said and done feels like ichor but is written in vapor. You can only let it happen to you. Doomed to be raped by death.

Dogs

In the search for extraterrestrial life, at least two desires are hoped to be satisfied. One, the satisfaction of confirming that life can and has occurred elsewhere. And two, the satisfaction of being acknowledged by an intelligent life form to confirm that we are both experiencing reality. I suspect that the second also confirms the noumenon, but that’s a separate essay.

Look no further than dogs to satisfy both. I’ll explain.

Cats are close to us. Herpes is probably closer. But dogs have had the greatest spiritual and culturally symbiotic relationship to us for the longest time.

For one, life happening on another planet is arbitrary. Especially because we’re damn near certain it’s possible. Life is here, already, and we can have emotional and spiritual connections with other lifeforms right now. For two, dogs may not be as intelligent as we are but the same oxytocin courses through their brains that gives us the satisfaction we desire when searching for acknowledgment anyway. They see us, they feel us, and they evidently love us for us and not just because they know we have food.

It’s banal, the relationship between dogs and humans. That’s the greatest sin. That we let such a bond that transcends taxonomy become ordinary. Another human can articulate that we are not alone because we have each other. But dogs provide a simple version of that witnessing from a completely different branch of the tree of life. We know it’s possible to share love with a different species. That’s it. We aren’t alone, not even as a human beings because we have—and have needed—dogs.

Demonic Genius

“Genius” is most likely a mirage spawned from ignorance of an individual’s circumstance. A placeholder, like string theory or dark matter, for the unexplained gap between capacity from one individual to another.

The most important components of a supposed genius are their inclination to want to think about their chosen field. Further, their capacity to think creatively within it. These two pieces are the most “genius” attributes they can have. However, no one chooses their inclinations.

The deflationary theory of genius is that the genius just happens to do something unthinkable, thought impossible, not because we are in a zero-sum and they are superhuman. They are, at the very most, born with proclivities for fields we are normally not interested in, and allow them to think extraordinarily creatively within those fields. Is that not the same thing?

The importance of divorcing genius from the individual and attributing it to determinism, circumstance, luck, right place right time, is to keep us humble, of course, but to also release tension from damning our brains to be genius, and acknowledge that we are not in control of genius. That “genius”, or rather, acute inclinations and capacity for sharp creativity, is bestowed by forces beyond us and must be respected as such.

“Let’s just look at the word “visionary” and remove the complimentary element of it, and think of it as an objective thing. Some people are maths people, some people see stuff. It’s not like I think that much about like what I’m doing. All I’m really trying to do is get out what I can see. I’m not a “visionary” but it’s me catching up with whatever I’m seeing in my head.” - Matty Healy

Philosophical-Aesthetic Anarchism

A term I‘m eager to use when assessing a work of art, a movie, a song, is "Firing on all cylinders”. When every component of a work feels pushed to its very limit, or, serves so wholly the greater sum, that no weakness is worthy of mention and not only the piece in and of itself but the medium in which it was presumably constrained is advanced in its capabilities or nature.

Le Coup, Philippe Petit, 1974.

This total greatness of a piece no matter how effective is still achieving its greatness within a glass sphere. In a different manner of evaluation: there may be works that break artistic barriers so totally and replace the rift with novelty in ways so effective, one might claim to “feel God” when witnessing it. I understand that sentiment. However, that sublime feeling is due to being shown unexpected human fortitudes.

Jimi Hendrix’s Voodoo Chile Slight Return, Philippe Petit’s “Le Coup”, and Michael Craig-Martin’s An Oak Tree are the works I will examine as sound Anarchistic contributions to the aesthetic canon.

First, what is an Anarchist contribution in any canon, let alone an aesthetic one?

Anarchism’s essence, which I posit is the most ubiquitous and natural human tendency, is the tendency to scrutinize authority, test its legitimacy, and dismantle authority if it is found illegitimate. Think of the irreverence one has for ridiculous-looking art in a prestigious museum. There at least two feelings here. One, it feels ridiculous to be asked to take something serious that looks like garbage. And, two, it feels like something is laughing at you after worming its way into the Museum.

What is authority? Authority is fear. We may say it is the power bestowed on some rather than others, but authority is first experienced not as the abstract designation with all its outfits and accolades, but as fear in the heart of someone without it. The overwhelming urge to behave in the halls of a museum, the towering heights of trade buildings, the horror of a disgusted audience below the stage.

An Anarchistic contribution to art is one that scrutinizes the authority of any or all aspects that chain behind the very impetus of making a work of art up until its consumption and even its potential placement in history.

What’s the difference between an Anarchistic contribution and what is deemed Avant-garde? Maybe nothing. However, the avant-garde is usually a title bestowed on works that advance a medium for art’s sake and not a greater leap to gain ground for human fortitude. That the art world took the newly broken ground of say Duchamp’s urinal and flooded it with art that paid little thought to its anarchistic DNA does not belittle the original act. But perhaps we overlook the original pieces because their once-radical natures have become homogenous with their mediums. Thus the breakthroughs become utilities of authority. Think of the bizarre, inscrutable, ugly conceptual art in the quiet, high-walled cathedral of a gallery. How that piece could even be considered to show in a gallery is a gift of anarchism, that it is now in service to authority is not.

In Voodoo Chile Slight Return, the previously ignored or avoided and unintended “noise” created by distortion and overload via pickups and amplification was utilized, not merely explored, as an instrument and further mastered, thus advancing not only a genre, but all the tools and motifs in its aggregate. The sound of the record itself totally captures the essence of its lyrical content and not in a treaded manner, but a wholly new sound that was not experimental nor given charity by critics, but singularly pioneered and honed by the artist himself.

In Philippe’s WTC tight rope walk, not only was an extreme athletic performance displayed perfectly, which could occur at ground level, but a transcendent irreverence for architectural authority and societal convention was achieved and shown to be achievable. An entire city had no choice but to stand bewildered by the weight of human possibility and, more acutely, the liberation of the act, showing that a human being can be so far removed from circumstantial restraint, cultural boundaries, and personal fear, that they seem to be more than human, yet entirely within the domains of human interest and capability. This work of art might be the most sharply spectacular anarchistic act in history given the magnitude of its medium, the setting, and the effect on such a grand number of people.

An Oak Tree, Michael Craig-Martin, 1973.

I’ve long since believed that Michael Craig-Martin’s An Oak Tree was the ultimate art piece in both denotations of the word. It is ultimate in and of itself and also final in that nothing has revealed the nature of art or broken our understanding of art since its creation. It uses the transmogrification of the Eucharist to show that the process of viewing art as a human being is no different. We create art, claim something about its meaning or purpose, and viewers enter a schizophrenic or forced nebuloturgic* perspective in witnessing it especially given the gallery’s power on perspective. The anarchistic aspect of the piece is in the courage to oust the nature of art regardless of the authority for institutions who’d wish to preserve art’s “sanctity” or mystique, and regardless of the authority of the history of making art. The work is a deflationist act that exposes what happens when we make and view art and the methods of meaning that follows.

These people are not geniuses for these works. There is no such thing as a genius. There are only Anarchists reaching the apogee of Anarchistic expression, and those who are momentarily too smothered by authority to express their nature.

*Nebuloturgy is the process of mental phenomenon being brought into the physical world.

Reality Bath

Essentially my philosophical life has regarded deflationism, an anarchistic process of distinguishing words games of logic and meaning, etc. from applicable prescriptions.

Timothy Leary.

Such a vast majority of philosophy’s contributions to mind, being, and purpose have been nothing more than abstract word games which are considered sound when they make self-referential sense within their own rules. Say, formal logic, ethical prescriptions, proof of God. They are finished when the philosopher feels it is right.

None of these contributions escape the abstract sphere of thoughts, perhaps visions, all of which are purely mental. Like a fence builder envisions a more efficient fence. Regardless of one’s blueprints, the applicability of innovation is proved precisely at the time of its execution; in the fence builder’s case, it is when the fence is built and tested.

Why philosophy intends to keep its innovations and discoveries from being applicable and therefore proven is beyond me. Ethics, of course, intend to give us prescriptions but in no easy manner. I suspect it’s because the ulterior aim is to—again—win a game of words and logical processes.

Human beings know what is right and wrong. What is good for me is good for you. Relativists would point out the supposed chasm between acceptable behavior displayed in different cultures. This is no argument against universal ethics. It shows our range, all of which is surely biologically determined; where else would altruism and the willful negation of altruism arise without the explanatory aid of supernature?

And wherefore does a sadist or combatant will evil behavior if they know it is evil? Precisely because they know what is bad for them is bad for their enemies. In all cases of evil, broken brains or ideology are the drivers.

The hallmark of a broken individual is the preoccupation with fixing themselves and others. Fitness, goals, self-improvement, charity, gospels and evangelism of the right way to live, improved diets, improved lifestyles, a better life gained by rugged discipline and forcing habits. These are the most popular people in the world. They are assumed sages and often peddle wares, supplements, and advice.

The hallmark of a healthy individual is a complete detachment from the gap between their agency and nature’s determination. People who cannot be bothered by politics in any personal way. People who do not engage with prescriptions for life, love, and health, unless it’s to humor themselves.

There’s a common remark to the criticism of our sages that states that no sage can be perfect themselves regardless of how transcendental their advice appears. Alan Watts was an alcoholic. Liver King is clearly a child of trauma. Jordan Peterson is insane. However, how concerned with sagely advice should the average person be if the tenets themselves do not in fact restructure or transcend the initial condition irrevocably? What kind of advice are we seeking then if not for everlasting improvement? The self-improvement component of sages is nothing more than entertainment. Where is the fun in it? That sublime little glint of joy you get when you think you’ve found an answer or made sense of something, despite how true the answers are, despite the answers being utter nonsense upon further investigation.

A person’s platform is not equivalent to value. We understand this unanimously with other figures in entertainment. But we are often charitable with self-help gurus, public intellectuals, etc. If people find something that helps them so be it. That goes without saying. Criticizing someone’s preference in milk is just as innocuous.

No one, no matter how studied, should be taken seriously. Only laughed at. Humor is the only value of people who tell you how to live your life.

First There Is A Mountain

In the mountains is where endorphin’s canary of the noumenon awakes. I’m afraid, aesthetically, if it’s bluebird and spindrift illumines off the ridge crest. Horrifically, if lenticulars loom and the way is lost. Despite all, the names of things are burnt away. The busy weavings of people are scored. Convention, stigma, and language. You are not there. There is only me. And on the spiritless face of terrain, the scents of lovers, and inner children begin whaling. Whatever unresolved endgame adjourned in the valley finally tips my King off-court. Black seconds unresolved, and those yet to pass, make themselves known, and not with a whisper.

Dream Death and Trauma Portals

There are times when I commune with pictures of Chicago and my time in school where it feels so certain that I could go back to that time, not out of desire alone, but toxic nostalgia. A longing to correct inebriation, stay true to discipline, have good nature toward lovers and friends, focus on a single craft, or hold on to that ready-made dream of being someone known for something.

10 years later and it still has a profound hold on me. It was just school. Art school—something to laugh at having spent money on.

The lasting impact was made possible by my expectations going in. I never thought I’d make it out of my hometown, a farm-hugging suburb. I never thought I’d be associated with anything prestigious. But I always wanted to be so exceptional, recognized, and affecting, that I never believed I’d be stuck.

When I got to Chicago, I clutched SAIC as a time-sensitive vantage point with which to leap toward dreams of being a celebrity artist. It was like a race to the cornucopia, and I assumed everyone else felt the same way. After all, we were pouring out work, seniors went to NYC for their last semester, Yale scouted Advanced Painters, some of us got shows before graduating, kids took up as much space as they could in critique to show how avant grade they were, and teachers doomed us, “Most people stop making work after they graduate,” which put in our heads, “Are you a Real artist?”

To this day, I don’t know if a single person was as megalomaniacally driven by such narcissistically-deluded visions of grandeur as myself. When my mother and I put ourselves in debt over tuition, we had bought a lottery ticket on credit. The ticket was merit-based, so urgency flooded my mind to prove myself, and my inferiority complex was unable to transition gracefully. At once, it was obvious, of course, that I was accepted by a rich art school. That was validation. But it was undermined by many things. Not least was the 70% acceptance rate, for-profit model, money laundering, tax-write offs via art donations and learning about auction buyers not viewing a piece but its flippability before purchase.

When the disillusionment with art institutions hit me, I didn’t know how to process if the whole dream was fake, if I was giving up on a legitimate dream, or if SAIC was even that good of a place to realize dreams. Either way, there was a death in me when I stopped painting. It felt like when I went to go play with my toys one day as a ten-year-old and saw it as no longer fun and creative but silly and childish. The thoughtless play ended with a seed of doubt.

And I think that’s what I mourn when I reflect on that time. I morn the version of myself that could have continued thinking Advanced Painting placement was the anointment of the gods, who could have actually gone to NYC their last semester to be scouted by galleries. That version of myself had such blind faith in the reciprocity of the sanctity of Art within institutions that all stages, all rungs and ladders, all awards and accolades fabricated in its name had to be holy. It was truly my religion for five years straight.

That religion and that version of myself are dead for many reasons. There’s just no way I would have not read The Million Dollar Stuffed Shark. And there’s no way I could have tolerated another critique with people who have nothing to say but allotted an hour and a half to say it. There’s no way I would have continued spending an extra two grand a semester for my materials while tuition bought the film department’s RED cameras. Had I not quit and stayed the course, failure would have burned me twice by reminding me how I never tried anything else but what I came for. Painting wasn’t god’s work. It was a scam.

But that dead, boy’s dream is still in my head, like a persona trying to win over my body again. The boy’s dream was built by seeing write-ups of Jules de Balincourt in some art magazine, this handsome guy, sitting on a stool by his work in a light-drenched studio, smoking, wearing paint-covered pants. I wanted people to come to my studio to buy my work, meet cool people, and make cool things in inspiring cities. That dream whispers that there’s unfinished business. That the life we both wanted is still there and I’ve landed in a weird, derailed fog for the past eight years. “What about the controversy we wanted to brew? The people we wanted to meet? The neat lifestyle we used to want?” It’s unbelievable how deeply you can be indoctrinated by school, by yourself, by media, to want a particular life so badly. That’s why those four years haunt me, why the pictures haunt me. That dream was so desperate, so ego-fueled, so full of imposter syndrome that it became too traumatic to carry, and having aborted it in Chicago makes me feel like I’ve got a fucked-up child wandering alone out there.

I don’t know if looking at the pictures from that time will ever get softer. I wanted something bad and discovered what I wanted wasn’t real. Art isn’t sacred in this country. Moneymakers have just set up shop on an inexorable human tendency at every artery and are sucking artists dry while assuring us we’re special and precious. I always assumed being validated by the art world with recognition would change my life forever because there would be no doubt possible in the accolade. If you don’t love art then you don’t buy it, right? You wouldn’t look at it, you wouldn’t talk about it, you wouldn’t make it. But that’s a lie. The fine art world is a racket seeking to pigeonhole you into a one-trick pony as fast as possible. Beyond Impressionism in museums, the public doesn’t give a fuck about art either. Contemporary art is a joke to most people. Ideas are jokes. If it ain’t pretty, it’s trash. Art’s most personal, real-world purpose is to be decorations for wealth criminals. Or it’s supposed to spawn a KAWS empire for other leeches to get fat off of. In which case, prolificacy is malignancy. Filling the world with brightly colored collectible bullshit is rewarding the worst of our tendencies.

I wanted art to be a merging of science and philosophy within the context of fine art—a space where things are inherently looked at with unique attention. The same power of context that allows a doctor to grab your genitals; a gallery or museum should grab the audience with ideas. But I felt completely ostracized in that pursuit. Completely insane. In so many words, critiques devolved into claiming I was gaslighting them with trying to be conceptual in order to be controversial. That, in conjunction with learning about how the fine art world clanks, strangled the dream. Like someone in a hoe phase realizing sex appeal and beauty are not cups deep enough to overflow validation to their other cups—I abstained from trying to be validated.

I was a whore. Not an artist.

The Artist's Quarter-Life Crisis

the following are excerpts from a diary

The Dire Questions

• Am I coming to terms with the fact that I will never be great?

• Have I been under an illusion my entire life?

• Were the dreams I had for myself as a child unrealistic, the product of some Capitalist myth, or in need of an adult perspective?

• Are all of these re-framing devices excuses for failure?

• Could I have had greatness but fell short in some networking opportunity? Should I have said yes more?

• Do I lack one attribute, like enthusiasm, even though everything else is in tune for greatness?

• Was I destined from the beginning to just fall back in line?

• Am I the last of my friends to get it? Do I look silly to them for continuing to believe that I am great or that great things will come? Have people stopped believing that? Or did they never think this way?

I used to race my sister to see who could eat their Spaghetti O’s faster. When she won, I would say “I wasn’t even playing”. I hope I haven’t done this with the mediums I wasn’t immediately great at.

Descent Of An Extremist

I need to stop being a victim of my own mind, doubt, fear; I need to stop being a slave to validation from a world and people that don’t give a shit; I need to have unwavering faith in myself, in my vision, and in my abilities. I need to see institutions as my nemeses. In everything I do there must be transgression against the owners of art.

Extremism. Living, breathing, eating blank. Your “passion”. Being so dedicated to something that everything else goes away. Doing it 100% of the time. This is an unsustainable way of life. But we often admire, look up to, or are inspired by these individuals. Right now, much of my pressure to be extreme is an anxious pressure, a pressure of self-doubt, fear of never living up to my potential, of taking life for granted, being too comfortable, settling for low hanging fruit instead of my childhood dreams, giving up, making excuses, never being great. What would it take to become this type of extremist? One who works on the novel, the fine art, the album, the training, 100% of the time? Something’s gotta give. Well, self-care is cut. Romance is cut. A splendid lifestyle is cut. Enjoying the joyful simple things in life is cut. Living in a nice home is cut. The abundance of comfort is cut. Having someone take care of you when you’re suffering is cut. There is only you and the thing you are doing. I want this. But I can’t get it right now, I don’t want it bad enough. The scale is tipped 50/50. I am taking care of myself and also making things. Will I want this? Will my extremism be in phases?

I want to be dissolved by my pursuits. I want to be so dominated by them that I no longer exist outside of their making. I want my art to make my decisions for me. I want them to own me. I want to have Stockholm Syndrome for my practice.

Spiritual Rehab

Is it a myth, propaganda, a tall-tale, bullshit, or unrealistic to be 100% committed to “the hustle”?

I don’t know if I can handle the controversy that comes from recognition anyway. I don’t know if I can handle people being mad at me, misunderstanding me, taking me out of context, focusing on things I didn’t fully consider, having to correct people, having to stand up for myself. I don’t know if I can handle fame and fandom. Once your name is out there, you cannot get it back. I will never get to be unknown again. This is the residue of “greatness”. How important is it to get your words in history? Is it worth the only life you will ever have being made uncomfortable? Is the true dream of this life in fact being comfortable? Are we fools to be ambitious? Is living a healthy life full of fun and splendid little moments and always staying under the radar of history the only heaven we can achieve?

When I was 18-20 I had an unshakeable, fanatical, extremist conception of art’s sanctimony. I was the suicide bomber of art faith. I thought I was destined for greatness, and that to make art was to do the most important work in the world. I felt like SAIC would be my jihad indoctrinator. I, along with many others, felt the pressure to be famous before graduation with some groundbreaking solo show. I was planning to start flash mobs of running people on state street to simulate a terrorist attack. (What happened to that artist in me? I wish I had done that). All of that just to make the art world see me and hold me up as their darling. Come graduation, I said, well it hasn’t happened yet, that’s okay, I don’t believe in art anymore, and moved on to a medium I thought was better at capturing what I wanted to do, which I still believe is true, but that faith in greatness has changed as well; I don’t feel like I’m destined for anything.

Can I just be great for me? Can I be the artist who wrote a couple of pretty good novels, climbed some moderate mountains, made a couple of films, painted some good work, wrote some cool music, was at least an okay lover, made a neat game, sailed a little, traveled a bit, was a good husband, dad, dog owner, then die with dignity? Will someone remember me for that and be affected positively? Will something I did please give another human being peace, power, and relation? What about all the people here right in front of me?

Do We Have Any Control Over Our Greatness?

In a reality where we don’t know what percentage of phenomena are ruled by will or determinism, the most useful thing for an artist to assume is that we have control over the stories we tell ourselves that can either make it easier or harder to create what we want to create. These stories are spectrum variations on either “You are destined for greatness” or “You won’t amount to shit.”

The reason we place so much value on these stories in the first place is that some part of us wants to be great, to do the right thing. We don’t know whether we have control over being great or shit, whether being great is a matter of “hard work, dedication, discipline, networking, and a positive attitude” and not completely up to other people to decide for us (luck).

All we can do is what we want to do. That is, some combination of “the path of least resistance” and “that which is within our realm of control”.

All I think we can assume is that we have control over these stories we tell ourselves, so you might as well tell yourself a story that makes it easier for you to do what you want to do.

Personal Dictionary

Mysterious Engine: The idea that everything in reality is necessary—no matter how repugnant—for the execution of God’s intention. This implies that He’s building something that requires pain, death, hell, evil.

Externon: A theoretical thing that is outside of our reality’s chain of deterministic reactions and trajectories. Should such a thing exist and enter our reality, would it be adapted seamlessly, or create chaos?

Dawning Memory Geography Associations: The often ineffable and dream-like qualia tied to one’s initial, absurd, fantastic or incomplete impressions of their location, the world, the world’s geography, cities, the positions or nature of buildings, as well as the workings of the world in relation to travel, global position and commerce, all of which can produce either a sense of otherworldly foreignness or sense of complicated belonging.

Nebuloturgy: The work or effect of mental phenomenon becoming physical. “From thought to form”.