These are the toughest weeks of winter, these first of spring. My life feels like a washed out grey canvas where once, maybe, there was a painting. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a conversation with someone. I can’t remember the last time I had sex to climax. I can’t remember who I am. What drives me? I started a project last weekend but fell tired, and now I look at it wondering why I began. I’ll finish it, soon. But why? Where’s the motivation in a grey washed out canvas? The sun has been brilliant these last few days, but again it just makes me tired.
What happened to art? I caught “The Northman” recently and was pleasantly reminded that interesting stories could be told. It wasn’t a spectacular experience, but it was at least somewhat novel and brave, and more than anything it made me ache for a culture that shared my interests and pursuits, as once it did. A culture preoccupied with mind expansion through any means necessary– typically drugs. But also the arts and philosophy. Everything served a purpose in potentially inspiring new ideas and new creations. The pinnacle of progressivism at least in my lifetime. What a spectacular lineup of films and television there is from that era, and what a disappointment everything has become since. Standards have cratered. All of the brave and unique entities- film studios and so forth- seem to have become swallowed by a handful of giant collectives that just shit out content instead of compete to produce something genuinely inspiring.
I blame political correctness, and the inherit Achilles heel of the safety-minded “compassionate” types that are responsible for its existence- the idea that increased physical safety, and diminished emotional stress, is- AT ALL- a preferable tradeoff for inspiration and innovation.