Friday, March 14, 2003

"Ducking for apples - change one letter and it's the story of my life." Dorothy Parker

I should feel fortunate. At least I get an apple. Some people don't get any apples. Some people get less than apples, they get apples taken away from them. However, Mrs Parker's vicious assessment of life seems so true at the moment for alot of people. What are we doing? Why are we doing it? Who is giving it to us (no pun intended)?
I think of talented people working their asses off and I think of me. Uninspired, daydreaming and distracted. How do I get back onto some creative track at the lost age of [edited out] without seeming like a dilatante? Or all we all just amatuers out there now? Has the bar been raised so incredibly high that people cannot attain true discipline or artistry? Are there no masters - only computers? Are we all just simulating something akin to emotion and parroting real life in a series of reality-based tv shows? Is irony truly dead and reanimated now as new sincerity and people thinking how clever when they see it, laid out on a table like an installation piece (or worse, science project). How do I take something real when I don't even know if I am real myself. (Whoa there - going into PK Dick territory).
Back to "ducking". I wonder about talented people versus lucky breaks. I wonder about people who had both and blew it. I wonder if I ever blew it? I wonder if I should go see a therapist to tell me if I blew it and where to seek atonement in blowing it and never blow it again. I have the rock in my stomach from inactivity and inability to digest my modern life at the metabolic rate that is suggested by marketing analysts and culture dieticians. I am sick from exposure to said reality based tv shows and the evils of booze (which lubricates my hatred of said reality based TV shows and people who choose to be on them). I want to Elima-date the 21st century. I want to choose the path of best resistance and go off and live a fucking pious life because I feel like an an amatuer amorlist, a bad sensualist and person who can't appreciate anything.
I am a dilatante.
I am a drunk.
I am a petty artist.
It's all about me. No. It's not. Mousey me won't upstage true talent. Please take over reading my lines. I should be the understudy in my life. You are truly the master. I am the computer. I haven't had an original idea since 1978 when I thought about the plastic brick idea and reversable rain jacket-long underwear.
Who am i talking to on this blog? I need a new apple.