This morning, draining my first cup of coffee and circling the drain of my artistic well, I read “Updates to This is bullshit and so can you’s Terms of Service.” It contained, among other gems, these sentences: Writing and then posting content on the internet has created this odd Möbius strip-like cycle of genuine, fulfilling creative expression—followed by this absolute, undeniable loss of self. And this loss of self has happened rather quickly and I have found it to be increasingly unbecoming of me.
You're on to something here. There's something very cathartic about writing what one wants, how they want, and when they want. The upside? People seem to appreciate that authenticity. That wearing of one's heart on their sleeve is something that AI can't touch. For everyone that seems excited about this weird new frontier, there are 5-6 that are saying "absolutely the F not." It's heartening.
I think there is so much left unsaid about those quiet hours of the night. The best work is done unwatched. Even in school, my best work was done last minute, in the middle of the night. Procrastination is king 😉.
But so much more than our art is done it’s best while the house and city sleeps. My best cleaning, organizing and planning happens then too.
Stare back at those eerie eyes in those caverns. We grow the best facing those unknowns.
It's hard to define that line we want to ride between expanding the horizon of potential as the universe of who we're becoming unfolds through brain-kneading work, work, work, and paying the rent/mortgage to remain sleeping under a roof, and consuming sufficient calories to write another day after buying the books we need to survive. Perhaps continuing that athletic battle upright on the knife-edge of "who-I-am" preserves our elusive "selves" and keeps us ever outside the reach of the bastard posers monitizing meme-movements as art. They'll never catch us, only imitate us. I somewhat delightedly accept a potent "who the fuck cares if you like my work" from an artist spiny enough to stand under their own standard and slam the door on the invited audience so they can get back to work.
You're on to something here. There's something very cathartic about writing what one wants, how they want, and when they want. The upside? People seem to appreciate that authenticity. That wearing of one's heart on their sleeve is something that AI can't touch. For everyone that seems excited about this weird new frontier, there are 5-6 that are saying "absolutely the F not." It's heartening.
I think there is so much left unsaid about those quiet hours of the night. The best work is done unwatched. Even in school, my best work was done last minute, in the middle of the night. Procrastination is king 😉.
But so much more than our art is done it’s best while the house and city sleeps. My best cleaning, organizing and planning happens then too.
Stare back at those eerie eyes in those caverns. We grow the best facing those unknowns.
It's hard to define that line we want to ride between expanding the horizon of potential as the universe of who we're becoming unfolds through brain-kneading work, work, work, and paying the rent/mortgage to remain sleeping under a roof, and consuming sufficient calories to write another day after buying the books we need to survive. Perhaps continuing that athletic battle upright on the knife-edge of "who-I-am" preserves our elusive "selves" and keeps us ever outside the reach of the bastard posers monitizing meme-movements as art. They'll never catch us, only imitate us. I somewhat delightedly accept a potent "who the fuck cares if you like my work" from an artist spiny enough to stand under their own standard and slam the door on the invited audience so they can get back to work.
Holy crap! Dark-night-of-the-soul alert! Now forgive me while I pull on my jammies, have a hot milk, and crawl into bed.