I walk within this sea of mist- I breathe in the whispers from the shadows lips, I drink from the fountain in the middle of my mind and search once more for those left behind. It is not often such a task can be completed, the phantoms are easily seen- but to bring them back to reality requires a journey, one in which you must let go- I am uncertain that preparation will ever be completed. It is said that such feelings will fade, time is the great destroyer whilst only being a concept we’ve invented. Such mortal creatures create rulers for their lives in hopes their predictions will be just right, so that when the hour is at hand, theirs will be empty- and in their head a warm peace. I wish it were so easy to become that familiar with those I choose to seek. I wish I could become one, so that they could instead search for me.
My feet continue ahead of myself- my body lacking, sighing, porous. Inside of my mind I hear them whispering again, this time of the land before death had begun- one so empty that their whispers chill my heart. There is something to be achieved, that much I was certain of, there at least was something to be done, to be had, to be won. Victory does not come cheap to losers like us, victory comes at a price higher than the soul of the winners you seek to destroy. That is the unfortunate truth of the matter, or at least it is what I have witnessed. If we all play the same game, if there is only one spot to win, we all act with superior command, with sharp whit, straining not to be like those around us, striving to be just enough, striving to hear the defeated screams of our enemies, or striding towards our own defeat in self-pitied squalor. There is little for those left behind, nothing for those who give up, pure emptiness for those who have lost, and the terrible knowledge of victory for those who have won. The game was rigged from the start, we were all losers taught to destroy one another for the sake of someone else’s hopeful vision. Those visions forced upon us, which we foolishly cling to, are what will inevitably be our downfall, for they are also our own. As much as we wish to be our own people, so too do we wish foolish ideas be ours, and we make it so in the mind of our eyes so that complacency is a natural reaction to utter incompetency. This is why I seek answers from those I am familiar with, it is why I must become familiar with all I wish to learn from. It is why I stride through the rotting forests of dead minds, through that sea of mist, from those shadowy lips, and that familiar fountain.
As little as their was left behind in the hearts of those who were, I sense the weight of their deceived nature and beyond all, it is that which is the most crushing to me. The fact that their faces spell the folly of all humanity, the wasteful nature of their collective deaths invented through the necessity of our collective frailty. We leave behind so little in the mind of the comforted dead, but so much in the lives of those who continue to live, an impossibly complicated compounding of corrosive coroners can be credited with constructing such a depressingly destructive force. Something which builds upon itself twice as much as it is, and those constructed do the same until that peak is reached and that wedge is driven directly through the hearts of those who are wishing that death would come swift, for we all will invariably unless it is forced upon us. It is within the nature of the familiar to tell us the truth.
Become familiar with the strangers death to learn the truth of humans success, to learn the ups and downs of life, and to see through the eyes of wastefulness, breathe success, drink your failure.
There is something that separates those who achieve consistent success from those who do not, and I should not really say that it is one thing- it is more or less several factors. There is the factor of simple luck which plays a fair part in success, and there is also the factor of consistency- and even the rules of supply and demand can take part here, simple economics can determine whether or not one will achieve success within any given market with any given idea. Another extremely important thing that should be overlooked for one who can avoid or waive the overhead fee’s involved would be experimentation, the act of trying something different and presenting it to the public as a means of simply doing what needs to be done. This is not the most successful method perhaps, but it does bolster the portfolio of one who inevitably does achieve success, showing the ability to go out there and fail- whilst still keeping spirits high enough to run into a successful event following that failure is an incredibly important skill for any to acquire when attempting to push nearly anything. I would go so far as to argue that a successful event which has happened due to rigorous planning and intense work may be less fruitful than one which had failed but had been put together through experimental means towards a different end-goal.
Let’s delve into that further, why would anyone think that proper planning and hard work should be replaced by mere experimentation? Well- it’s not quite that simple, you aren’t really avoiding work by experimenting- if anything you are making things harder on yourself. Depending on your means of experimentation you could wind up hosting events at strange locations wherein you do strange things, and now due to that experimental subject you have to go out and convince others that it’s a good idea to join you there. You didn’t pick the most popular venue, and you didn’t pick the best time for everyone to show up, but you have to get people there somehow- you have to make the most out of the experimental ideas that you have decided to go forward with. It is that ability that you practice by doing experimental events that you learn to be able to deal with anything that is thrown at you- for if you present yourself with challenges hard enough, and strange enough- you will be prepared for the wrenches which could be thrown into a much better planned event. Convincing someone to trust in your ability to hold successful events, gatherings, or simply to produce the best product for any end goal- will be bolstered by your ability to show how you deal with complex situations with strange answers. You can take the route a million others have taken before and hope that the work that you put into that route places you above them, you can try to be better than hundreds of thousands of others who have been in your shoes before- or you can show the world something new – something strange, and convince them why they need it above that same approach which had been presented to them many times.
There is a level of practiced response which inevitably comes to one who has created something in the same veins as the public has seen so many times before, they will inevitably say very similar things- and take very similar actions in regards to what you have made for yourself. They will rightfully sigh in face of going to another one of the same things they had gone to several times before, and if they associate bad experience with these sorts of events- you find yourself in deeper trouble than previously- convincing them to show up to something similar will be entirely based upon the merit of your ability to convince them that similar thing is in fact different. And it is most easy to convince them of this, when it actually is different. And this isn’t really to say that all experiments you take will be successful or easy to sell to the public, or even that easy to do. But the experiences that you can take with you, from what you learn from the public, from the creators you reach out to inevitably, from the successful nature of the event or its abject failure. These are the experiences that you need to take with you, to build upon- to study its formula. Create for yourself a pseudo random formulaic approach from the ashes of your failures, and the blueprints of your success, and you will find yourself creating things which are fresh to the public and ease your mind with their likely ability to impress.
More important than any of what I just said though, is to do- is to create- and be what you aspire to. If you find the right value in your own work, and convince others of theirs through your own- you will be left with a winning formula. One which will improve your community, even if it doesn’t necessarily leave you in abject adoration and success.
A short exposition on the stark emotional opposites you may feel in creating. The following are recent/recurring conversations and happenstances.
Art is Pain –
“My mom switches between working life sucking day jobs for money, and being happy as an artist, but broke. Right now she’s in the artist phase again.”
Art is done after you’ve already done something responsible with the day. Though it may be what fulfills you most, you must prove that, and ultimately suffer for it.
Art is always a labor of love. Art becomes labor for you must refine it, and pass back over it, and accept criticism, and stand by it, and always in the back of your mind be thinking about what function it serves.
Art is Pleasure –
When you can retreat into creating, and for a short time be cut off from the world in your own place, it is pleasing.
Cartoons and imagination expand the possibilities of what the human world is like. With a medium as childish as play-doh, you can learn to be creative again.
To talk with others and share your world is necessary, for what impact can you know your creation has if it remains in secret? To be received by fellow artists is pleasing. But to hear your work lingers fondly in the minds of your patrons, is to most pleasing.
Through the Pain & Pleasure-
Creative Cult Lives
Inside the mind of the dying live I, the thought infinite of the left behind- or rather, the builder of such thoughts. I construct every dying fear that is had by everything that understands its life is fleeting. I was contracted by all who take breathe to teach those who take it for granted the value of their life in retrospect, not here to build upon the worlds they enjoy- or to make themselves fulfill the prospect of their life. It’s hard for me to understand why they fail to grasp such simple concepts- but in spite of all they seem quite capable of it. That is, they are capable of taking life completely for granted until the moment they either experience themselves leaving it, or the thought of such things are thrust upon them- either by misfortune to another they know and hold dear, or due to my own existence- creeping in upon them. Whatever you may call me, I am had in one form or another- only in one who is taken quicker than I can act may they not experience the terror that I bring.
What is it you wish?
Without a second thought you made your statement very clear, when entering my mind- the mind of the one who delivers such news you had one purpose and one purpose alone. That purpose became known when your bow became deep and your voice so rough to speak – Inevitability’. That one word that I believed that I had come to embody, inevitability standing in front of me. That is the skin you wear, so gray and tattered – as a figure in the fog, a silhouette so strong in that swamp of my mind- that is who you are. A perfect mirror to my own mind, a perfect reflection of what it is I had become. But of course, you came for me- wearing my face- to show me who I had become just as I have for so many in the past, so many that I had thought I was enlightening I never even considered for a second that I would be in need of it. But it was clear that I had, for you had came- and that was the only way that you could come. Through that door, that door I knew so well- the door built by time and policed by natural law. There was nothing that I could do to stop your stride, for you were not actually here- it is because I understand the inner workings of my own lives work that I know that you could not exist. For I did not even truly exist, not in any physical form- but to think that even a thought could die after so long- an inevitability of nature would lose its cling towards consciousness unwittingly only to have it cut off whenever all had found a way to deny it. You were the new wearer, one who would teach the living gradually and gently of the loss of their own minds- it was not due to the lack of body function which I had realized so long ago was my own purpose. But it was the inevitable decay of organic material that could not be reversed by any sort of modern technologies that you would come to preside over. Taking my place, ending my own thought- I would enter that same vegetative state now, as I had wrought upon so many in the past. And there was nothing I could do to prevent such things moving forward. I don’t know why it is I feel so sad, to know I was not different I suppose is the reason, but such thoughts as that even seem beyond myself. Perhaps it is not my job to put forth such questions and it most certainly isn’t for me to fulfill them in answer.
Your purpose is clear to me now, as mine is to rot away.
My mind will leave me slowly, as my body decays.
There is not but one who leaves me with such regret.
It is only for the inevitability of death that I kneel to thee.
I prithee take my name with you, at least for yourself.
Whispered to the next successor of your own I had hoped.
But in the end you only whispered your own.
He noticed the residents staring at him. “I’m actually an artist you know.” We all laughed. They all prefer to know nothing about him, it’s just easier that way. What do you like to do? “I like to stay busy,” he said. The sweat soaks his clothes during trash pickup. Every kind of person walks the streets, what a collection of souls! There are those here who’ve lost their soul. It’s been crushed by the soul crusher.
J followed in the footsteps of his father and warned of following other’s ambitions. S keeps a straight face when you joke with him. One man has an artistic son. He swears he wont tote his son around with a pop up art display. T is too young to die but wishes he would. Another man was cast in Shawshank Redemption, and listens to movie scores throughout the day. Each person is living how they know, running from the soul crusher.
Painters, industrial designers, writers, state house workers, vocalists, they all end up there in the end. And the end is now. But in purgatory you bide your time and think while you carry things too and fro. He meets a few friends who also know what’s happening, and they team up, covering and moving. Find an empty unit to hide in, because here comes the soul crusher.
There are goals we cannot meet, there are times we cannot succeed, there are times when we must fail, there are times when we choose to. There is a constant in the life of one who creates, and that is that failure is an inevitability- even upon the greatest creators of the world who seemed able to do no wrong, in retrospect their greatest creation will seem light-years beyond their worst and their worst will seem a failure even if it is revolutionary. This is not to say that it is okay to fail, but rather that it is impossible to avoid it. No matter where you go the weight of humanity will wear upon you- for as much a machine as we make ourselves to be- the organic nature of our beings will bleed through onto our work inevitably. There will be times where the brain runs dry, but the world dictates it requires more from us, it tells us how to change to become better, and we create pieces the world deems better- but on the inside we resent every brush stroke. We can actively create failures in the process of pursuing success, but in the end only we can determine for ourselves if we have succeeded, and it is this quality of self defeat that can turn the creators inside out and cause self implosion. Where the artist will take the emotional pillars which hold its insides together, the glue which makes it human, and replace it with nothing- simply to feel it collapse in hopes of building something better than who they are from the ashes. There are times when this purge will lead to great art, and it is almost inevitable that it will, but at the same time- such a purge of the self will also lead to great suffering and if the creator is not a phoenix they will only build a pile of their failures from the ashes of their own self destruction.
There is much I can say about this, for I have ripped myself down many times- I may not be a phoenix, but the pile of trash I have built from the many times I’ve blown up on the inside suits me well enough. For the creator who does not rise from the ashes, we must become kings of the trash kingdom we have created, and if we fail to rule over the lands- anarchy will run rampant. It is priority number one to survive this state, if we die in our minds- we die in real life. It sounds really stupid, but I believe this point is true in a sense- if we lose a grip upon what we build in our minds by having our hands wither away to nothing it will be entirely up to the natural forces of our body to keep us in check- and more often than not chance is a cruel mistress, and the pile of organized trash- or even magnificent structures will inevitably be destroyed and dispersed evenly across the floor until a flat grey dust is all that remains. If we stick to life we will always have ourselves, and we will always be able to learn to love the pile of sticks we have, we cannot learn to love those if we have died within ourselves. So I implore all the failures of the world to appreciate the intricacy of their trash heaps, and to not only do this but to become kings and queens within themselves- to become one who resides over the lands and sees to the construction of new monuments of self-reflection. Build something in your mind that lasts a century and it will serve as an inspiration for a century of future buildings- continue this pursuit until you have granted the world a perfect and immortal reflection of yourself. For after your physical form leaves you, and the truth is revealed to you- whatever it may be, your impact upon the world will only amount to what you have given it that no others could. And the true-est reflection of yourself may be the only thing that you can teach the world- especially if you are a failure. Go out and fail, and die, and rot- and let the whole world know what you did- for if you do not, somebody else will- they will not see what you were or what you did, they will not take your inspiration to become themselves and let the world know who they are- and they may die a part of the lonely heart c*ult instead of the creative one. Indoctrinate your fellow human through the successful telling of your failures to the world, inspire them to tell their own- and more important than that- see to it that your failures of creation are gilded in gold within your mind so that fear never enters it when you show it. Every criticism heaved at your golden statue of trash, your great monument of self-reflected failure – is another step towards ever inescapable perfection- and potentially easily attainable success. Slowly your mountains of trash will become inhibited by the most beautiful creatures in the world, creatures of your own creation- from the sweat of your brow grow the crops of the land within your mind- for the beautiful creatures to feast upon and grow and thrive to live over their own slightly better kingdoms of trash.
Become a failure with me, so we can preside over our kingdoms of trash together- and take over the world.
With Love – June of the Creative C*ult
This Final Friday. July 28th. 5:30pm-10:00pm
The Creative C*ult is bringing you a live painting performance with the aim of making the Boneyfiddle District more beautiful. But, not just with the art we create on Friday night. There’s more, and we need your help.
We’re asking for your input! Come to our canvas with a project suggestion that might make Boneyfiddle more beautiful. Donate any amount to the cause, and we’ll paint your idea into our collage. Once all the ideas for a beautification project are on the table ( or the canvas in this matter) we’ll choose a project, and use the funds raised to help see it through.
The Creative C*ult is looking forward to seeing how creative the Boneyfiddle community can be, don’t miss your shot! It’s really this simple;
1.) Suggest a project.
2.) Donate any amount $$$ to the cause
3.) See it painted by the Creative C*ult
4.) Select a project to receive the funds.
5.) Make Boneyfiddle more beautiful.
We’ll see your there.
With Love, Creative Cult Lives.
It has come to my attention over this summer that I have successfully managed to stretch myself thin on almost all areas of my life- but at the same time I’ve also realized that despite this distinct lack of time I’m still able to make schedule just fine and I also have not found myself particularly crushed or exhausted- despite the hefty workload and I think this boils down to one very simple formula. The amount of energy you exert versus time for work- needs to be counterbalanced equally by an amount of “Play”- versus time for play.
Let’s assume that you get approximately 8 hours of sleep- and a generous 1.5 hours of eating/snacking throughout the day. This leaves you with 14.5 hours to do whatever- now obviously you need to pay the bills and that leads us to our next problem- well, what I would call a problem- but that is more or less something which is easily solved – how long do you need to work? What I would argue is that you need to find the perfect balance between working to gain resources of slightly greater value than what you currently would spend- significant enough to cushion you should you need any immediate funds. Let’s assume you split things up relatively evenly with your 14.5 hours- You do 7.25 HRS of work per day on average and 7.25 HRS of “Play”- That multiplied by 7 gives you 50.75 HRS of each- If you work 5 days a week you work approximately 10.15 hours a day with 3.85 hours outside work for “Play”- And then 14.5 hours for two days a week for “Play”- I would argue that this is one of the most ideal situations- as it allows a deceptive balance between work and “Play”- whilst still making It feel like you get a lot of time to do what you want over the weekends- Or whatever day it is you manage to get off. Very manageable, this however- ignores entirely the intensity of the work at hand. Perhaps you’d like to make more than enough money to sustain yourself- so you decide to work a very hard job, it’s exhausting but it pays the bills very well. The 3.85 hours of “Play” during the five days a week is almost immediately absorbed into time that you need for your body to physically recuperate from work as well as handle chores around the house- This means that those 14.5 hours you spend doing actual “Play”- Over the weekend are suddenly VERY important- in that you need to be getting enough recuperation mentally and through joy- to refuel your tank for another taxing week. You need to be able to “Play”- at minimum as efficient as you expend mental and physical energy to be able to sustain your job over a long period of time without decaying into a sort of mental drone… You would have to do this less vigorously if you work less- though having a significantly higher “Play”- than work- will lead to you experiencing too much rest and lead to inevitable stagnation- the balance here is an incredibly important thing for you to achieve. Doing this will allow you to achieve a zen state, the black and white will be in balance- if you “Play” right- But… What the heck does it mean to “Play”- Anyways?…
OKAY SO- Playing, to those who would understand it can mean a whole lot of things- and it will almost never be something that is consistent as working can be- you CAN schedule to be as easy but it may diminish the quality or necessity of play. Play can consist of any or all of the following watching T.V, playing Dungeons and Dragons with friends, Drinking and Hanging Out, Playing Video Games, Going out to watch a new Movie- , going on a vacation to an amusement park, any hobby you find enjoyable, going to a concert, and even participating in a Creative C*ult meeting (TM TM TM TM TM TM)….. All jokes aside, it should be easy after you come up with a list of things that you enjoy to do, things you enjoy spending your time on, to figure out which ones will be best balanced and where you should arrange them according to which one is going to be the most relaxing and refueling to you- and fun- balance all of those values to create a list and perform that list based upon your needs. Don’t overload anything in particular- and if you find yourself overloading a lot you may want to either put some more work on yourself- or try to find a way to work a little harder.
As far as being able to tell when you’re getting too much of one or the other- when you’re at a “Play”- moment ask yourself if you dread the coming work that you have- are you enjoying yourself- Do you sleep well enough? – If you fail to sleep well, you are quite possibly working too hard, if you find yourself completely bored with “Play”- you may be very well not working enough. It’s a difficult thing to find balance in this life, and it’s not something that I can say I’ve ever been able to maintain too well- but in my opinion- it’s something worth pursuing.
That’s all for me this week. Sorry I’m a bit late- Hope you enjoyed or took SOMETHING from this.
W/Love- From June of the Creative C*ult Lives. </3
Exercise (when used intentionally) alters our state of mind, and can lead to creative outcomes.
Today I drove 2 hours back into Portsmouth from Columbus, Ohio. My legs and mind where heavy, and I felt like laying about while the night wasted away. My plan initially was to work upon returning to Portsmouth tonight, but where am I to find the motivation after a long days work? After some time in quiet to read and reflect, I resolved myself to go outside and run.
Before exercising, I was clueless on the topic of my blog today, and uninspired to write it. Post exercise, I was tired, dripping in sweat, and full of ideas to write.
What about exercise inspired a creative act?
This inspiration was not just exercise, but an, “Altered State of Consciousness.” A new frame of mind is a powerful tool in creating inspired and fresh works! Consider the obvious and more subtle advantages of exercise (especially rigorous exercise) such as;
1.) Overall health and wellness.
2.) endorphin release (heightened awareness)
3.) “positive distraction”, or an act that is not explicitly on task, while still contributing in some way to the task at hand.
But of course, their are many other ways to make an, “Altered State of Consciousness.” Consider the following ideas, and how they impact a new way of thinking:
– conversations with new and interesting individuals
– travel to new places.
-activities that require your full engagement.
-the art of others: video-games, galleries, writings, performance.
To encounter an altered state of consciousness, you must find something that immerses you, or challenges you, or makes you uncomfortable, OR ALL 3. This state of mind is most valuable in creative pursuits because it can broaden you thinking, and help you to approach problem solving from different angles. The greatest detriment to your creativity is to constantly be unchanged, and stagnant in the same vacuum of influences all the time.
Creative minds of all sorts fine processes that optimize creative performance. Exercise is often a key part of this process. Here are a few creative minds that exercise I know of Personally, and their procedures.
Chris Do: Ceo of “The Futur,” and “Blind Studios,” both notable design agencies in Santa Monica California. Chris does calisthenics with his team after lunch everyday to optimize creative energy levels.
Bastien Lecouffe: Bastien, a digital fine artist for Wizards of the Coast, has admitted in his classes at Shawnee to doing pushups on every hour in order to stay focused.
Laine Raiser: An influential man in the start of the creative cult, and the most creative man I’ve ever know. His favorite time in the day was often landscaping and digging up rocks on his steep hillside. He spent nearly 1,000 hours on a few of his watercolor paintings.
Tony Robbins: In a ted talk on his success, Tony provoked the crowd to, “exercise and have an edge.” Implying that there were advantages to stepping away from work for a moment, and being good to your body.
Peter Chan: Concept artist for Double Fine Studios, and other massively popular works such as Monsters Inc. (University). Peter lives centralized in a forest. He advocates the benefits of walking through nature in order to gain to insights on projects.
What’s the take away then?
Exercise and Diversify. You’ll be more creative for it. Try taking a brisk walk for 20 minutes the next time you’re up against a computer screen for too long. Don’t take that notepad with you this time. Just walk, breathe, and observe. Let your subconscious do the rest.
What’s incredible about being open to new stimulus and altering your state of consciousness is that most often what seems the least likely to help solve a problem ends up being a crucial component of your process.
So Ugly She Pretty
I was born in a void, one in which all of existence was and had always been- perhaps it was not that I was born but that I remembered all at once that I did exist. When I looked upon the worlds around me- inspecting their rocks and powerful storms- I found myself intrigued by creatures who clung to existence in pockets of turbulent fires. Observation granted me empathetic visions into their lives- I seen stretched before me the blood of human history in the eyes of families born and stamped out by the weight and strength of an invisible force. Something linked all of them, even those wrought insane by predicament of a poorly constructed mind – whether naturally or artificially. Even those breathing no life upon birth would have an impact, a painful impact to condense their potential lives into the brains of those who felt them fall. There was nothing I could do but watch these creatures exist, through tragedy and defeat all of their lives seemed to amount to a terrible burden that I could not understand for the longest of times. Looking back on it now it is so obvious to me, but at the time- the question of why would often be the most prudent thing inside my own mind. Why do they still keep going, keep living, keep breathing, keep creating- what is this mysterious force I am witnessing that turns all the pains of each of their lives into some sort of forward momentum- a prophetic evolution of capability that leads towards greater emotional understanding-. Until one day it all clicked into place, one theme was ever present in each and every of these humans I witnessed- and that was in the end an understanding of their own ugly emotions. Yes, these insects upon this rock in the middle of space that had clung onto life for so long had come to be empathetic creatures, this was their gain- they seen in the ugly bloody machine of their own progress the story the palm of every hand could tell- the sights each deep set eye could see. Maybe it was not all of them, but those who saw it- you could tell by their actions- in what moved all of humanity forward into what it was, an act of emotional understanding for creation and existence. This vaguely gave the creatures a hope, within despair- that the complexities of existence could paint a picture beautiful enough to inspire the wheels of progress to turn on for eternity. And as far as my eyes could see- the painting was nearly complete- and the creatures seemed to know that their fate was locked deep within that canvas.
When I look back upon the concepts that brought me to this level of understanding I undergo duress in my attempts to connect them logically with coherent thought- but I can explain the following from my own observations. – These are to be taken with a grain of salt of course.
The collective humanity can not be allowed to know with certainty where it is from, why it exists, or to what greater purpose it serves if any. This knowledge would provide humanity a resting point that it must not be allowed to have, the short lives of these beings need be peppered with the spices of the unknown and uncertain lest their minds become dormant and far less capable of the empathy which drives them forward on a whole.
The creatures within humanity are creative – each day unseen sights will become seen whilst known sights grow into age- and the questions of what is left to be seen will be asked. If there comes a day when all is known to all of these creatures- they will be beyond my writing capabilities- either that, or cease to exist under the weight of such knowledge.
Emotions are the spice of humanity, the subtraction of value or addition of value to any given works of truth, or falsehood will cause humanity much success and humiliation in the coming ages. The truth will only come known to them of their past generations- but not of their futures and only partly of their present
Humanity is constantly in a state of change- as time passes innovation is inescapable- and the spirit of humanity will live on in the mind of every new creator.
Above all else, empathy is the single most remarkable trait of the human species. Without their capability to understand the feelings of their fellow human beings, these creatures would not ever find a day of happiness upon them – only days where survival is likely, or unlikely.
Accept that you know nothing, and see with me the beauty of everything, the willing ignorant will run this place with smiles on their face- and I in despair with weight in my heart will hold more value than their empty stare. Because I can feel the emptiness in their smiles, and I know of a vision more beautiful than the countryside they wish to see- it exists deep within the glistening hues of a loved ones eyes. And I do not speak of their physical eyes, but rather of the portal through which they have experienced life- to look into their senses is the most powerful vision. The sound of silence means nothing but for the people who are polluted by noise, the sight of nature pales to those who live within its trees, the sight of the unseen is what you have always desired whether recognized or not- and it is that beauty which is encompassed more strongly through the eyes of empathy than any singly picture can grant.
Some day I will take my place among them, upon that rock in space-
With Love, from June – Of the Creative C*ult
“There is nothing new under the sun.” -the wisest man to ever live.
It began in nothing.
The universe began chaos and void. Order was formed, creations arose. Of whom we are the foremost. Made to reign and create and be free.
We are but a shadow, a very thin shadow. Originality is a very old tale told before the beginning of the Universe. The order, the logic, the law, it was all imposed upon us. True creativity, as it were.
We don’t create, we imitate.
Themes, categories, truisms, platitudes, cliches, all as inescapable by us as the last 100 generations before our kind. We are the collection of experiences had by those experiences, and the countless reiterations of the same matrix.
An original idea is collected by the stimulus of 1,000 other impressions. It may be more accurate to call the original idea a mutation.
There is till room for creativity, even if it is not original.
A friendship opens the door to discoveries of brand new people in the world. A fictional book describes the universe of a place in which you’ve never heard. No two snowflakes are alike. Drawing merits limitless possibility. You can sing a new song, write a new poem, paint a new place, and make a new world.
One can spend a lifetime on a masterpiece of oil-paints. Still, it pales in comparison to the sunset over a field. Man’s works falls hopelessly short of a mist rising in the valley. A single flower, in all its delicacy, came about by the force of an unfathomable.
We can be more than copying machines. We can be story tellers. Inspired by a work that is not our own. We can stare off into the vast expanse of blackness and yell.
We can tell about the nature of ultimate reality. We just can’t create it.
Nick of; Creative C*ULT Lives.
One is not completely themselves until they have rebuilt themselves beyond a number they can comprehend- and only then when breath has left them – can their retrospective identity as a combination of the monuments they built stand as a reflection of their true selves.
In the world of agriculture the rotation of crops is used in order not to drain the soil of any particular nutrient in order to reduce the erosion of soil as well as bolster yields through increased fertility. As with the way of nature so to must we rotate our own schedules that we may not become drained in any particular aspect of life, it is true that some thrive off of schedule and form- and for some, this predictable way of life is a goal as noble as any other and I am not here to deny them their success. I am simply here for those who crave change in a world that demands from them consistency- for there are many many ways to achieve this change whilst still granting the world the consistency that it desires. I will lay out a number of steps and followed by description of execution of the steps and their potential benefits.
1.) ‘A change of scenery’.
Section 1) – Definition – To change ones scenery will involve the peripherals of any given living space a simple rotation, cleaning, or moving- which may involve any or all of the following. The moving of furniture, the physical moving of local, the cleaning of a house or workspace, and the decorating of that house or workspace.
Section 2) – Example / Execution – In order to execute this outside of my work environment I have in the past re-arranged all the furniture in my living room/lounge area to allow a different feel when I am relaxing. I have also done this by moving my workspace from one corner to the other- while some people may not have this luxury I find that there is always at least one place you may have control over- even if it is a living room, dining room, or even just your bedroom.
Section 3) – Benefits – I am certain there is much more to it than what I will say, but there is something incredibly refreshing about changing the peripheral view of any given activity- you still incur the same schedule as you would any other day but suddenly new vigor is found- like the refreshing scent of a new book- there is simply something primally satisfying about the change of local which I highly recommend as a first step to clearing out some creative cobwebs- or even just the general tired feelings you may get returning from any scheduled activity- especially if you are allowed to do this within the environment of that activity- like swapping work stations with someone, or offices/cubicles if it is condusive to your workspace.
2.) ‘Structuralized Rotation’.
Section 1) – Definition – This is a way of introducing chaos and fresh feeling into the life of one who prefers to be highly scheduled and efficient. More often than not this simply involves planning in an obtuse way and scattering that plan throughout one or even two weeks. To allow oneself the satisfaction of following the plan, whilst the body and mind enjoys the fresh nature of non-routine activity.
Section 2) – Example / Execution – I do not have a very routine schedule myself but this would simply involve rattling the schedules of one already in place, instead of waking up in the morning and having coffee and breakfast in my house I would run out and grab a coffee at the local shop with maybe a biscuit or something- or invite a friend along to do the same- but schedule this different activity on several different dates- so tomorrow I meet a friend at the coffee shop, the next day I walk there and enjoy one on my own, and the day after I have it in my house- And I keep this rotation going, sometimes changing when it happens in a seemingly random but scheduled way. This allows any given activity which can have variation- to have variation, whilst making the body not entirely adjust itself towards any praticular activity- which would in turn keep it fresh!
Section 3) – Benefits – Without repeating myself too much, this more or less will benefit the one who is growing tired of a schedule- but psychologically desires and may even need the schedule. To introduce chaotic planning, but accurate planning, in the life of one who lives and dies by the schedule would indeed be something at least WORTH giving a try, variations of the same thing on any given activity are the name of the game- give it a try if you fit the need.
3.) ‘Creative Exertion’.
Section 1) – Definition – The act of exerting oneself in any given period of time at any given task which would require creative input- and thus would drain oneself of pent up creative energy or a jump-start to a creative activity
Section 2) – Example / Execution – This is something I do all the time when creating my own pieces, what I often will do is set out a piece of paper and just start scribbling, once I am done scribbling I will turn the random lines and strokes into recognizable and subsequently meaningful shapes and things- creatures and machines… This allows me to approach a blank canvas as if it already was filled with an image I never even visualized before-hand. It more or less extends and jump-starts my creative action all at once, the act of sketching without much pre-planning which then turns into a creative overextention of solving a problem of a mess of lines and turning it into an image
Section 3) – Benefits -This is the sort of thing that would seemingly only benefit one creating art, but I would argue it does very well to clear up the tired heavy weight that all feel when sticking to schedule rigorous and boring. What also could be executed during this time if one is not inclined towards creative activity- would be anything that involves puzzle solving- though I would highly recommend taking your hand at creating new worlds through art I understand not all are inclined towards this- and one of the best puzzles I can recommend is the act of creating one yourself which is difficult but possible to solve. This is an excellent way to creatively exert yourself without being able to run out of fuel- as standard puzzles may not present the same creative exertion as one would feel when creating one themselves.
Yes- It’s all a bit of a mess and a ramble, but all of these are methods of destroying the structure that you have built- through a separate structure. All the methods above are positively building- and rotating the activities that your brain comes across in daily life- this will allow new ideas to form and keeps the mind in tact and ready to act in the future.
Hope that this helps any and all who would read, and if not- I’m glad you took the time to consider it anyhow.
Much love, from June- Of the Creative C*ult. </3
My cousin and I are sitting on his porch talking about the family. Gomer comes up. Uncle Gomer, the legendary hard-nosed railroad worker. Some say he was 6foot 8inches tall. I’ve also heard 7ft 2inches tall. He had long black hair and a grizzly beard like Kentucky mountain men. But he wasn’t from Kentucky, he was from Scioto County. Dad says there’s no low-lifes like the ones in scioto county. He wore a size 18 rail roading boot, and when asked his name in bars he’d respond with, “My name’s Gomer. Do you have a problem with that?” If they would have known he was joking, there probably would have been a little relief from the sheer terror of a giant man before them, but Gomer play’d the part too well.
I never had the privilege to know the man, he is loved, and he is missed. I brought up to my cousin that I’d seen a piece of artwork Gomer did at his brother’s house. I went on to say how impressed I was. Cody responded with, “wait right here.” My excitement was hardly concealed. The door reopened to Cody holding a rectangular piece of debris. He lowered it down in front of me, and I gasped. A piece of drywall, of all things, beheld the magnificent rendering of a cabin in an Appalachian landscape. The medium was 10 different multi-color sharpies, all layered in a painterly fashion. Detail was no afterthought, being that this Appalachian tribute was rendered like that of a Van-Gogh, composed of innumerable (but intentional) lines to create the illusion of coherence. Gomer clearly poured his total ability into this mysterious scene. Who lives in the cabin? What’s the significance of the scene to begin with. Was it his aspiration to live in seclusion in this mountain landscape? Did he work from a reference? Upon closer review, you’ll find birds, and a shack, and what may be the moth man.
According to his brother, Craig, Gomer was a joker when someone would ask him about his art. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t tell the same story twice. We’d ask him how he made something but he was such a pathological lier we never did figure it out,” Craig relented. In my minds eye I can see Gomer laughing about this, there’s a certain amount of fun to be had in mystifying the process of the arts. He was sure to capitalize.
As far as I know Gomer wasn’t pursuing a fancy arts degree, or a career in the arts world. He made a hard living of manual labor on the railroad. He wrestled with addiction. Gomer made art to rehabilitate. It helped him. Here’s this man who lived incredibly hard, yet he also wished to focus his efforts on something as delicate and vulnerable as painting. It could just as well of been yet another very calculated form of rebellion.
Most significant, is Gomer’s base desire to create. Perhaps he’d had such a desire his whole life and finally took himself up on it in his later years. I question how it can be that people my age have every opportunity to be artists. We start when we’re young, we take classes in high school, we study the liberal arts in college and graduate with a degree, yet, the majority will fall short….short of the impact a sharpie on drywall canvas piece of work labored over by a rough-neck railroad dog. Is it more meritable for Gomer to have done arts for arts sake? Perhaps not. Is it a better story? By far. As proof, here we are, still hearing the stories of his life, and admiring the cool things he’s left behind for us to try and figure out.
I like to think that all of it is just another elaborate prank. And when I see his paintings signed with the “Kilroy” icon, I’m more convinced than ever. That Gomer must of been a very creative comedian to go to all that trouble of making art.
There is an exaggerated beauty to be found in all corners of the world, some seek this in a literal sense and find themselves surrounded by things all would generally consider pleasing to the eye. I find a sickening level of mundane to coincide with these typical pleasurable trends, what many may see as the most ideal situation with which to be in- in regards to having someone for themselves or simply being in a location of immense and obvious beauty I find a lazy set of eyes that fails to see the beauty within the immense impossibilities of life- or the intense emotional weight of a pile of what many my simply consider junk. A grey afternoon on the back porch of my father’s house finds a panoramic view of several neighbors houses in various states of decay, some stare back at me with the intent of having me look away whilst the church in the corner of my eye reminds me of a strange section of the human brain. The fence is worn well and only a few trees are around, the large hunk of iron that was once a very usable trampoline takes up a large circular section of the well-kept grass. I do not fail to see the beauty in grandeur, what people generally find pleasurable to the eye- it does not surprise me and I do not necessarily blame anyone for viewing it as such. In fact, I would say it is almost necessary to understand why all find these palatable things pleasurable to the sight, for it allows one to further investigate the nature of beauty itself and how the grand can be found in all corners of life- in all people- in all things, to allow one to become more capable of portraying the mundane in exciting ways. One simply has to see the history, the function, the oddity, the total emotional weight of any individual scene to understand that there is much more than instinct to guide appreciation.
These appreciations of the everyday are often what leads me to such bland statements as “Everyone can create art.” And “There is beauty in everything.” They are both so damn cliché that you’d imagine the words coming out of some self-help coach who is desperately trying to scrape the bottom of your wallet whilst spouting non substantive smoke. And I understand that the phrase is already flawed, it is already wrong- Not everyone can create art, and there isn’t necessarily beauty in everything- at least not intentionally. For there are some people who will never see the art they have created, and thus- to them they cannot ever create art- Even if in actuality they have created something that others have viewed as art, it doesn’t mean a whole lot to them until they see it themselves. And there are some scenes with which beauty is simply the last thing that could be said to describe them properly, however- there is value to be found within everything and within that value lay something special- maybe it can’t be called beauty- but it is grand. On the surface, I am ashamed of a lot of what I do- for I understand how others around me will perceive it, I know the flaws in who I am and I understand how other people see myself and what I am surrounded by. It is not the sum of my flaws however that drives me to create and learn, but it is the grand nature of that which I view which drives me. I feel that it is important whenever you finally see that grand total in something others cannot- that you display it in whatever way you can, you approach it as if you are arguing for that particular things beauty- you try to convince them that what you have seen within it is beautiful, just so that they too could have a chance to see what you see- if only for a moment, they would be granted with that feeling you too held in your heart for something that isn’t so obviously valuable.
I don’t know what it is about this simple mission that seems so utterly gratifying to me, but I hope that you too can see it or at least sympathize with it. Imagine with me for a second a drink coaster with a cup of coffee on it- only a quarter of the way full surrounded by dusty pictures and a pair of headphones, can that simple arrangement of objects tell a profound story- could they imply something so deeply painful or emotionally moving? I would argue that it is irrelevant, the pictures could be of anything, the headphones could be in any state of repair, the coffee could have any manner of unsightly seems upon it- regardless of the actual story that these items could tell on their own or together, there is a story there worth knowing. Is it the story that is not true, it is the story that defies the actual, just as the composition of the objects naturally says something- so to simply does the act the objects existence. No matter how much tinkering and moving and framing I did, the sum total of the objects grandeur would be the same- the only thing that changes is how others who do not understand that grandeur sympathize with that view. This is where the eyes of the artist, the object empathizer, become very important- for it is the job of one who sees the grand total of grandeur within anything to display it to those who cannot see it- to show a deep beauty within something which is not so obvious on the surface. I believe this is extremely important, and it breaks down into the following concept which I think will be more or less easy to understand- one must learn to make what is not so obviously grand, shine beyond perception- in order to take what is obviously grand and display it in a light which makes it excel exponentially in the eyes of one witnessing it.
That is how masterpieces are made, that is how something so infinitely beautiful comes into existence- somebody who understands the grandeur of the mundane, and can display it to those who do not- takes their eyes to somewhere already so obviously grand… The effect can be displayed by the following, an artist with the ability to make a cup look as beautiful as that which is already obviously beautiful- should then be able to make the appropriate steps to find an even deeper beauty in that which already so many appreciate as beautiful to some lesser extent. It is this ability that I see far too often neglected, often times one does not consider the function of an object- but rather considers their base instincts of design – is it pleasurable at face value- without further investigation – did the person trying to sell this item to me paint it gold properly? It shouldn’t have to be this way, and I’d encourage anyone to take the most abrasive thing that they can find, whether it be a plate of leftover food, or an empty corner a house- a broken bottle on a street corner- . Display it in a way which conveys a value that is there beyond what simply the eye can see- and practice that as often as able, try to see what others cannot see in every object around you.
Look with your special eyes.
W/Love, June- of the Creative C*ult
In my world, I create with great joy.
In my world, there are no rules of design.
In my world, color is a choice, not a law.
In my world, enjoyable conversations are to be had.
In my world, each character is significant.
In my world, nothing is an accident.
In my world, all people seek adventure.
In my world, events play out like a movie.
In my world, creativity is a free gift
In my world, you’re my friend forever.
In my world, I recognize there is a greater world.
In my world, I tell about the light.
Thank you for exploring with me.
Creative C*ult Lives.
Several infinite lifes later…
There is an icy feeling within my chest, beneath my skin- the skin which has betrayed me one too many times. This feeling shoots pain throughout my body, it wrecks havoc upon my nerves for it seems to tick and jolt at random intervals, there is no stopping it. A nervous tick perhaps, maybe it is just rot infected fresh wounds which chills and pains my body, but I have a feeling there is a greater being at work here. Something is toying with me, some grander being, something beyond my comprehension perhaps. Unfathomably declining my health, where once a healthy human was, now a rotted sack of sagging skin now sits crumpled in a corner. My home is a corner on the edge of the world, I look up and see another world above me, a reflection in the calm surface of water which the sky seems a part of, I wish my breath could come easy, I wish hunger pains were my greatest distress. There are tiny creatures in my eyes, showing me things I should not see, and a trash bag full of severed heads whispering softly maddening rambles of dire consequence to me. Is there nothing of relief to be found here, at the edge of the world? I thought myself once there was nothing more left, but peering over the edge I see so many tunnels jetting out, so many caverns and pipes- creatures flying about- I would roll off but the abyss terrifies me more even than relief could be granted from ceasing all the pains I feel now. I paid my speech, my arms, and legs to an old man who promised to take me here, the edge of the world where I could stop and stare, to see the secrets the universe had to offer- but now I am defeated by the crushing weight of their profundity. I cannot walk, nor talk, nor write of the answers I have found- my taxi here has left long ago- a one way ticket… There is nothing of mercy to be found here, an endless desert sprawled out behind me- and the edge of the abyss in front- I would have sooner offered my eyes and ears if I was allowed to make a change, I’d rather not hear the secrets whispered any more, I’d rather not see of things never meant for me.
I realized before I could think any further a shape moving beneath the sand in front of me, the sand shifting lighting and a terrible taste entering my mouth- … that could not be! Or at least, I thought that so, even though where I was at would have allowed anything I still found no answers to this puzzling question- until vines grew out the side of my torso, just below where my old arms were- and I could almost feel them- whilst certainly able to move them- I dug at the sand in front of me which was making muffled noise – I uncovered a pair of lips, which breathed in rhythm with me, and when I thought it spoke- aloud everything in my head. Could this be the mouth that was stolen from me?… The whispering from the severed heads inside of their clear trash bag stopped all at once- and my mouth attached back to my head, snapping there like a magnet- I took in a deep breathe- not realizing that also my eyes had stopped granting me profound visions- I coughed out what seemed like a pound of sand before being able to take calm breaths again. I heard the flapping of wings now, and before I could peer over the edge of the abyss to see what it might be- the grand black winged creature made its entrance, the onyx feathers were all over its body which was oddly slender, and partially hidden under terribly torn rags- it had no face, but a human shape to its head- it had a large mouth and carried with it an immense sense of dread- which it seemed to have no problem granting me. From under its cloak with its bird like talons it pulled out a large trunk of some sorts, it was stained with the wear of time- a thick layer of dust which seemed not to wipe away even as the dreadful bird creature danced its claws over to the lock upon the front- with a tap it came undone and the chunk of iron which locked the chest went plummeting into the abyss. I attempted to speak, but in place of my words was a chunk of flesh- something cold and beating- it was at this point I realized the pain in my chest had stopped, but at the same time I felt a great emptiness within me- I coughed out the chunk of flesh which was followed by a few drops of blood as it floated through the air in front of me towards the chest of that winged beast- the slender feminine figure seemed graceful in each of its movements- it barely flapped its wings, but it was terrifying all at once, my eyes felt heavy and strained- the image began to blur, I could make out the flesh now- it was my heart which left me- the pain that I had felt was gone because it was replaced with emptiness, something which seemed oddly to sting just a bit deeper than that pain I had felt. In a swift motion the creature closed the box- tucked it back under its robes, and dived into the abyss, I brought my vine like arms to my face only to see them wither and wash away in front of me… my mouth sunk off as well- and crawled back into the ground- I was left alone again at the edge of the abyss, with nothing keeping me alive, though still clinging to life- no words to speak or air to breathe, no pain to feel… and something else which bothered me. Silence, the creatures in my eyes no longer moved- they sat there, still- they showed me no more images, the bag of heads had stopped whispering- the air no longer blew, the creatures that flew around earlier were now gone from the sky…
And yet, peace did not find me- even with this cool sensation seeming to encase my body, this profound silence which I seemed to be hearing for the first time- there was nothing I could do to cope with this feeling, no way for me to enjoy it. It would be an eternity before I decayed, nothing moved- the light was constant but there was no sun, no moon, no stars. There was the abyss- the bag of heads- my mouth in the sand. But instead of rolling off into the unknown, I sat in silence- until finally my matter turned to dust, I faded away into the sand- indistinguishable from it, leaving nothing behind- in time- many like me made their way here, they shifted through my with vinelike hands to fetch their mouths and see the creature, to have it steal their hearts and to watch them like me never roll off into the abyss.
We are together now in the sand, all who come to visit- finally at peace, and yet still eternally waiting- maybe those who learn such truths were always meant to turn to dust, mayb they were never meant to enter the abyss- but to be presented it- tauntingly, as if a test- they may either exist with all their questions answered- or roll off into the abyss knowing what would happen to them their- to live without a heart and decay slowly into sand, a desert of knowledge where no lessons seemed to be learned. One in which all make the same mistakes.
After one infinite time length had passed over twice a flock of the bird creatures came to the desert and began to consume the sands- the people who had knowledge untold, even I was devoured- but happily so, for I became one with this creature- melding with its consciousness- a crowded room where my pleasures were granted to me, where I found company. At the edge of the world, after having my senses ripped from me- to sit still for two eternities, to become dust after infinite time had passed- now the greatest and most heavenly pleasure was granted me after being consumed by one of the many bird creatures, a room full of those who knew as I- to speak and to feel, to have my senses back. And now, looking back upon it- I only wished that all could have come here, to experience this life after several infinite deaths- for it is here the only safety in the world could ever be truly granted.
It is here I live my life for the first time.
W/LOVE – June
One quality of fulfilling work is immersion. The word here is taken to mean; the total engagement of your physical and mental capacities toward a task. The sensation is synonymous with the experiences we have in which time passes very quickly during an enjoyable activity. Imagine, a period of intentional work in which time flies by because you’re engaged in learning, growing and doing.
When you discover that work of yours has the tendency to be immersive, you might be onto a kind of work that will be fulfilling to you! This is an important quality of work because, immersiveness suggests you’re giving your whole self to the task. During this immersion, you aren’t concerned with the other anxieties of the day, or regrets, or when the pain is going to stop so you can go home and eat dinner. You’re instead staying present, and working fruitfully at what you enjoy. Immersion feels like an escape, but even more so, it is a signal. A signal that what you’re doing lines up with who you are.
The opposite of immersion in this case is….apathy, or more simply, boredom. In this idle state, you begin to think of every conceivable thing you would rather be doing than working. Boredom may be temporal, it may come and go throughout the day. However, if you accept this as an aspect of your occupation, and you neglect any type of advancement, then the work becomes far from fulfilling.
You may believe you cannot change your work. Perhaps you would defend that its a necessity to do what you are doing. Good, that is okay. You must then change your mindset about the work. Find a way to make it immersive by being more creative. Craft more meaningful conversations and relationships on the job. Observe your work more deeply. Immerse yourself in your day of work by working VERY hard. Have the mindset to seize the day, rather than let your day seize you.
Work is important. I would add that it is important to feel fulfilled while doing your work. An indicator of good work is your immersion in it. Find a way to have this experience of immersion, whether your current occupation is ideal or not. If the experience comes by rigorous focus in a situation that is not ideal, then let it be! Take pride in it. If the immersive experience comes from making great artistic efforts that fulfill who you are, then all the better.
Work hard and work well. Lend your whole self to it, and be surprised by what you discover.
Creative C*ult Lives.
Sometimes I forget my place in the universe and feel insignificant as a collection of sentient matter, however- I know in times like this- that it is the joyous emotion which allows me to know at the end of my life, whatever is to follow me- I shall meet it with a smile on my face. For I have been granted enough sentience to feel happiness, and to hold it within me for some time- to understand what it is and bask within it in moments of emptiness.
It is not that emptiness does not have value, or that any of those emotions or analysis within them could be lesser than joy- but that the operation of achieving joy through fun is what grants the feeling and emotion a sort of higher level of joy. Fun is something of a vague operation, something which can be derived through many actions- but also could be destroyed through those same operations taken simply under a different light. So it is taking things in the light of fun, through the operative goal of achieving fun that we should approach any given task- anything, and if we cannot- we should archive moments of grand happiness just on the edge of that task as to give us joy to look forward to.
Of course, that’s easy enough to say- but how do we do it?… How do we re-initiate the initial drive we feel within ourselves when we start a project- when we truly have passion for a project. What- do we do, when our long hours that melt away quickly turn to agonizing hours in which every tic of the clock strikes a bell in your head until you grow entirely crazy and passion leaves- forcing you into the position of either abandoning your task- or taking it on at a snails pace, ineffective- and that is of course ignoring the fact that all the while you are going through a sort of emotional turmoil. Of course, this is a dramatization- for the average I would simply say to recollect any time in which a task you had been forced to do was boring- but mandatory- and you had not something to look forward to following the task. It is of course in situations like this where it is most important to transform the mundane into fun.
So, imagine that you are beginning the task at hand- one in which you dredd towards the beginning, a dark foreboading sense of the workload ahead of you intercepts your deseires- you find yourself struggling to begin, to make significant progress- and check the time- only to find that a mere three minutes has passed since you began- or at least attempted to begin….. What- Can- Be- Done?…. Well- it largely depends upon the job, with some of them- this could be easy… Flip on some music, get into your own personal zone- and remember to play it fast and loose- let your mind slip into obscurity- allow each action you take to be magnified in the act of both simplicity of feel and complexity of emotion. You should take personal interest in each movement, but at the same time allow it all to fail without attatchment, to find yourself in the position of both a creator and one in tune with the reality of their positions. The humble maniac- is what I believe is most important to achieve- someone who is creating an environment of insanity- one in as creative a way as able, but then contained in such a way that the insanity which pours from yourself find a way to dissipate without emotional attatchment…
I ramble, incoherently at times- and I do apologize, but what I mean is to take things less seriously. Don’t walk into every art piece looking to change the world, don’t approach every piece as if it is your magnum opus- It has value of course, but let others find their value within it- find your own value in the act of making it, in the act of rambling with your mind- explode into far corners of the world within your mind. It is this act of creating from pure insanity, from delusion- from the joy within creating it iself that you will find your peace and joy. – A feeling complimented by the end of your work- leave room for disappointment – let your work be the product of happiness- let it be the product of joy.
It’s difficult to say how to apply this- sometimes it will have to be in an appreciation of the value of what you do, if what you do requires immense focus towards a goal someone else set out for you. than that is what you must do- sometimes it is best to simply arrange to release and imbide within fun after a long boring session- if you set up something exciting you could also effectively melt time away and then experience that great fun towards the end.
Something like this, something like that- I continue to delve further and further into insanity.
I’m not sure how much longer I can continue to do this- to feel and think that there is something worth achieving in the end. I’m not sure how much longer I can continue to do this, it’s hard to say but it feels like I just keep repeating myself. But that’s really just hard to say.
Fun fall from the fragrent flapjacks of flying fun to further the facts of forever flat farfetched foreigners
That’s where we are- let yourself go, let it all go- become something that you once were- live in a moment where a smile was on your face- where happiness was what you knew and the time melted away due to this fact.
I’m not having enough fun with these…
Next week I will have more fun – Sorry for the mess. W/Love, June- C*ultist Extraordinaire
Before Cult Comics, before gatherings of art students and otherwise to form cult meetings, before a bachelors degree at Shawnee State in visual arts and graphic design, before high school, I wanted to make cartoons. From ages 9-13 I totted around a black, 5 subject notebook. It’s contents held years worth of comic strips. Few were permitted to view them, many inquired about them. This was my journal as a kid if I ever had one. The longer I scribbled in this black book labeled, “Toon World,” the more convinced I became of my role in life as a cartoonist. I‘ll have my work in the paper one day, I’d think.
This brief history is crucial to my understanding of the rekindled desire in me to make comics as an adult. Furthermore, there are two premier characters that reoccur in my childhood cartoons I’d like to introduce. There names came easily as the comic title; Ness & Einstein. These two adolescent characters were never systematically developed. I had no elaborate back story. They grew as I grew. They like what I liked. They faulted where I did. This is partially what made the exercise of making comics so therapeutic for me. Comics became a simple and enjoyable mechanism for coping and understanding.
I am Ness.
Kids imitate. Before I knew any better than to blatantly rip things off, I did it with great enjoyment. “Why would I struggle in order to create something or someone entirely new when I can borrow heavily from things I already know make me happy?” That’s partially where my mind was at in creating ness. He was inspired from the Ness of Earthbound; A boy with strong psychic powers, who also became a selectable character in Super Smash Bros. 64. This is where I’d learned of him, and began incorporating him as a comic character. Ness is not psychic in my comic, nor is he a fighter. Looking back on the old comics, I can see he’s what I aspired to be.
Ness is a very likable protagonist. He wears a cool backwards hat. He annoys his older sister with elaborate tact. He isn’t the most popular kid at school, but he fits flawlessly into a comedic, middle-tier, backpacker type. It seems like he is cool with not being the coolest. Ness will often go off on inspired monologues about an insightful realization others around him chose to ignore. Sometimes that gets him in trouble with figures of authority, but only because he was too honest for his own good. Ness wasn’t the best at any particular thing, but he made his way through life adventurously, and open to the excitement of versatility. His charisma, and tendency to bite of more than he can chew resonates with me now even more than it did as a child.
Einstein is…open to interpretation.
I know much less about Einstein than I do the origins of Ness. It seems that his name is a humorous play on the sarcastic phrase, “Nice going, Einstein.” Though he also has some more literal qualities of his name as well. Out of the two, he is the more grounded. He is also a genius of sorts. The clothing makes him look like an escaped prisoner, and that’s because he is. He must of done something horrible, or know some world secret, because it’s highly unlikely a kid his age would escape from a prison…or be in prison at all.
Einstein raises question for me now as to what I was trying to convey as a kid. It may have just been the novelty that comes from two complete opposite people that befriend one another, or my desire to make complex characters with complicated histories. Einstein might be a manifestation of some limited or hopeful view of a “bad” person getting a second chance. Being relatively sheltered as a child, criminals where sort of taboo in my world. It’s most likely then that Einstein is an attempt to understand people who’d made regretful decisions. It humanized such people for me.
Cult Comics allows me to channel parts of TOON WORLD again. These sorts of connects are important for your understanding your own creative process. Often times the tendencies you preformed as a child came intuitively, and may prove to bare fruitful now as a mature creative. If you enjoyed it then, there’s probably something there. My suggestion is, don’t ignore it. Find a way to incorporate your earliest energies into your daily process.
Creative C*ult Lives.
“There is a terrible darkness that resides within the soul of humanity. One which encapsulates us all and casts great shadows wherever we roam, both explosively outward and inward- here as well as there – it speaks to those who learn its movements- it mocks us so for it cannot be hurt. If it is mined from the soul in chunks and destroyed- it will leak out the eyes as red as blood to soak our bodies.”
1________There is a common difficulty among those who create, among those who delve into fields of the mind and attempt from those to manifest physical natures. It is something which is difficult to relate precisely the nature of how it changes us, and yet at the same time we can see so clearly upon the faces of others. It is the shadow inside the brain cast from a light bulb even deeper- one which attempts to bring light to your soul- and happiness to your world- to allow itself to be shone through your eyes and the instruments of your creation whatever they may be. But it cannot do so without casting shadow, for it is the very nature of light which has created the dark- the very casting of’t which has placed shadows on the inside of your eyes. At times it encapsulates our very existence, whilst others we seem to shine. Both within and outside of ourselves though it may be light or dark we cast- we may always see light inside of us- others can clearly see the reality as well. We exist as phantoms in this state of being, ones who fail far too often at looking within mirrors to analyze themselves, to tell their own stories, who eat so well they’ve become what they consumed to the point of non-recognition, an inability to walk around- their purpose becomes at this point to be consumed- so they become the food best fit for those who see them. To be devoured in such a way is rooted within the shadows cast inside of our minds, to be destroyed by our desires to be viewed and consumed is the ultimate outcome. Whereas otherwise ourselves may only be presently capable of being torn apart by a few, in this moment of becoming that which we are not we suddenly find that we are very pallet-able to all. To the point where it may become trivial, or perhaps- more accurately- this triviality was within us the whole time. It is only a blindfold that we wear which can disguise the truth that we have always seen what our disfigured forms appear under any microscope.
2________It sickens me so to say that I know all too well this feeling of preparing myself as some suicidal chef- the seasoning and cooking of my flesh. It is disturbing of course, but often times when creating we cannot separate our desires of adulation, of adoration- with our innate desires to move towards what pleases our own beings on a personal level. It is natural that some find themselves in this position from the beginning- but it is unnatural that only after immense failure would one be put into such a spot. It is hard from this point to tell you, anyone who is becoming this suicidal chef, to continue this goal of making thyself so massively pallet able- but it is in the end for the best, right?
3________Well, that is where I depart from my descriptions of what is, to what is to be done. And what is to be done is what is desired for you to do- and I do say this from a very firm grasp that what you could desire to do could be rather harmful. But if you do not ignore your natural inclinations of creation, if you do not let failure seep into your work in some sense- if you do not consider those who view your creations- you could end up very well portraying exactly what it is you’ve wanted to do better than you ever had before. And maybe- this turns out to be a fruitless exercise, maybe when you are on your own- and not considering others you will find yourself to be unable to create something which is capable of being your own- which is capable of bringing you joy. And if this is the case, you may ignore my advice- but if you find in these moments of drawing within a vacuum of your own conscious desires- a very intense pleasure- might I plead you take it to heart, that you may work on it in the future- in a way more passionate than you were previously capable of delivering – because if you do not pursue this pleasure that you have brought yourself through creation – ironically enough you may be unable to deliver that pleasure to those who would be successful able to see through your eyes. For you see, I do firmly believe it is the case that when attempting to appeal to most everyone- even if it may make you the happiest, you hinder your ability to appeal greater to fewer people. Which is to say that whilst the overall enjoyment of your piece may remain the same, the number of people who enjoy it will most certainly change- and when it is fewer that enjoy it greater, you leave a greater impact upon those people- an impact which they may reciprocate to you that may bring you even greater joy than having yourself cooked for the whole world to consume.
4________So in short, I simply say to you this- as one who creates do not cook thyself with the thoughts of being consumed by all- but rather, attempt to cook yourself with the desire to become a favorite meal for a few. Perhaps not a life-changer, but one who can leave their mark upon another- this I believe should be the desire of one who wishes to bring about impact with art.
5________Quality, over quantity- this is what impact I believe is most desirable to leave. At least in this case….
Of course- that is just my opinion. – As weak as it sounds to leave it there, so I should.
With love, June- Of the Creative C*ult.
Kids have a self-awareness that tells them, I don’t want to grow up. I think its because we’re smart enough in our adolescence to observe the contradictions in our parents lives. Sometimes, we see our parents unhappy, in order to make us happy. Or more frequently, we understand the freedom we have as kids to make our own adventures, and then we don’t ever see our parents doing that. They toil, and talk to each other about it’s unpleasantness. Who then can blame kids for not wanting to grow up? Kids don’t want to trade creativity for labor. It doesn’t seem to them that the adults around them are fulfilled or growing up in a positive direction, or being creative in much of any capacity. It’s clear to kids in these situations that childhood is all they’ve got. So they fight against adulthood.
The question really is then, can we lose a part of ourselves in adulthood? Is there creative fulfillment you’re neglecting in putting away any part of your silly childhood self? I believe so, and I don’t blame you. Adults shelve their creative desires out of necessity. Suddenly there are bills to pay, others to provide for, and the terrors of adapting to society. Kids rebel from this. If adulthood is the means to them losing creativity/fulfillment, the you can count them out!
This theme of fighting adulthood is prevalent in a number of cartoons I engaged in as an adolescent myself. Here are three worth mention in light of this idea.
1.) The Kids Next Door
In this universe, adolescent kids act as a commune of secret agents (in a super high-tech tree fort), quite literally fighting against adulthood. Becoming an adult is the great evil of the KND. The killer lunch-lady, a sticky bearded adult pirate, and a silhouetted character they call, “Father,” all act to thwart the childlikeness of the kids next door. Even teenagers are displayed in this show as a mutation into the dreaded adulthood. Watching these stories unfold in such a dramatic fashion made it clear to me in my developing mind, there is something about adulthood to be cautious of….but what?
2. Calvin and Hobbs.
This comic was alluring specifically because of calvin’s character. The adults around him see his stuffed tiger friend as just a plush toy, but in calvin’s perspective, he is a literal tiger. What intrigued me most as a child was Calvin’s intelligence. The comic seems written more for adults, because of the sophistication of the content, yet anything I couldn’t understand as a child I would try to understand in the context of the visuals. Calvin and Hobbs fit into the theme of childhood rebellion because, though Calvin speaks and reasons like an adult, he is portrayed as a very young boy, no older than 6. I would draw from this a sort of ideal place to be creatively. Well learned, and mature, but allowing child-likeness to be a part of how you operate day to day. As a child, I wanted to be like calvin.
3.) Pajama Sam.
The point and click adventure features a little, blue, pajama wearing boy with a red cape who happens upon untold adventures. The hilarity is that he falls into these alternate universes by just wandering about in his bedroom. Sam travels these unknown, and often frightening worlds on his own, pioneering and making great efforts to resolve whatever conflict unfolds. Kids play these games exploring the possibilities of new worlds, separate from their parents. While Pajama Sam is not nearly as rebellious against the forces of adults as “The Kids Next Door” might be, he is most definitely traveling theses new worlds in his own strength. Sam is not afraid, and his accomplishments he bares as a kid.
Whenever I grew weary of reading or playing the adventures of others, I would be inspired to make my own. Comics were the first medium I truly engaged in with effort. I wrote them all down in a black five-star notebook with sharpie on the cover that read, “Toon World.” My content was mainly what I desired to imitate. This was my creative gratification as a child. Every 3 panel segment added generated satisfaction for you. Looking back, I was sporadic, and random, and I copied….I really copied a lot. None the less, I was drawing and writing my own little stories without realizing what it could lend to my artistic development.
For me and the Creative Cult founders, comic making is a way to stay engaged in that same sort of childish creativity. Cult Comics is without a doubt a labor of love for us. Its proof for us that we can make things like kids would, and use our developed adult brains to make the process even more valuable.
Next Thursday, prepare for a look into my earliest comic projects, and how this fills the creative void we had as kids.
In order not to waste you’re time I’ll get straight to a break-down here… If you don’t want to hear this, that’s fine- this is going to be heavily opinionated and may not be helpful to you in any way shape or form. All that being said, I think that I need to get this off of my chest, as it has been bothering me for a little while now- bits and pieces may or may not have been etched into previous blogs…
I will be covering the following.
- 1 – What is the proper balance between what you enjoy being supplemented via occupation, and supplementation of greater income via occupation /// Is it better to pursue what you love, or what pays allows the greatest income in relation to time/effort?
- 2 – Can the idea of income through the time/effort relation effect wherein you apply your talents, and if so how prevalent might that become? How can you identify this?
- 3 – Is higher education a waste of time? – Why might, or might not that be?
This will be depressing, this may not even be that helpful. But with all that being said – I must assert my feelings…. So let’s begin…
PASSION VS MONEY
In the early stages of your adult life you have likely come across- or possibly already dealt with the struggle between pursuing what it is that you truly love and desire to do, with the idea that it would never be fruitful or fulfilling to you financially. That it would be the worst idea for you to pursue this passion due to the fact that there simply seems to be no money within it. That you could not support a family and all of the needs that go along with that family if you did pursue this passion. But, can it really be said that it was your passion to pursue that which you love if it is money which holds the reigns upon your life in the end? If it is simply cash that moves your soul do you not believe that a passionate charge? All of this cynical misleading questions aside- I think that it’s quite simple at this point , and one way or another you wound up pursuing what your base instinct and desire had lead you towards. In my experience we all naturally wind up doing what it is that motivates us, for the ones who cannot do that which motivates us will be crushed towards the bottom, and forced into a spot where we have to either trick our brain into believing that is what we desire- or we must leave due to the effects that this will have on our brain. That is of course ignoring levels of passion, money, and all the effects that could have upon our decision. It is ignoring family, it is ignoring love. So let’s try and take that into consideration for a second, if it is for example- your passion to create traditional paintings but you’ve found that you can barely scrape out your basic payments with this painting passion would it be more crushing to remain within that passion or pursue an office/factory job which would pay several times over the amount that you were being paid before, or even better yet- a job which implements your talent in some ways and also pays more than what you managed to scrape by yourself. Short answer is of course, yes – to all of the above.
It might be depressing to know that making money for other people will be more profitable in the end than pursuing your own goals and desires, but it is a reality that we come to realize and often times accept due simply to our own desired standards of living. So it shouldn’t be said that it is passion versus money, or that passion is endlessly more desirable than the money from your creations- but that your passion is not really your passion or at least it isn’t what you thought it was. And the sooner that might be realized in your life- the better off you may be. I will be covering this more in detail within the next section but it more or less boils down to what you desire to supplement through your life and finding balance within that pursuit.
We trick ourselves into believing we love what we do, for the sake of living the life we wish to live. This is not wrong, nor is it right- it is simply what we must do to survive and live what we perceive a happy and fulfilling life to be. There isn’t a wrong or right here, there isn’t a good or bad- we will all take the places that we need to take and life will move along just as well as before- if it wasn’t your place to pursue your desires you have already fulfilled it within another. I do not mean to talk down to anyone, or decry what anyone wishes to do- simply that there isn’t much of a money versus passion argument- for in the end we as creatures upon the earth will do what we must do to find happiness – to survive. For some income and lifestyle will supplement happiness, whereas others may supplement it through their own personal pursuits. Misery may come through dull work in one hand, and for another sheer lack of sustainability or the crippling burden of debts that can never be paid.
However, In the end we all maintain a similar level of debt- our lives are often filled with mistakes- and with regrets. We must live creatively to avoid certain realities which only serve to depress our standards of living and not better our understanding of life. Random is the spice of life, perception our substance, creation our very breath, and passion or money only a small instrument in our pursuit of our desires.
You do what sustains you, or you pursue what sustains you – you cease to exist whenever these needs are not met and an endless pursuit of existence therein follows. Assuming you are not one pursuing existence and do indeed exist I wish to propose the following relatively depressing concept. Over time I believe that our brains and bodies trick us into pursuing and desiring that which is more sustainable or achieves a higher level of pleasure. Now this isn’t necessarily speaking upon base pleasures alone, but of even admirable ones such as servicing ones country, painting life accurately and beautifully, raising healthy and wise children to capable adults. All admirable, but they are regardless of initial intent built and twisted into us through subversion of our more natural aspirations. Not everybody starts out desiring family, or to serve country, or to paint accurate portrayals of the earth and its inhabitants. We don’t start out doing what it is that fits society’s best interest, we don’t start out doing what builds us into functioning members of a community- that is more or less what we are turned into over time once our initial attempts to do what it is comes naturally to us fails and we are steered towards this from external pressures.
Once again, I am not sitting here to tell you this is wrong, or bad, I actually believe wholly that it is entirely necessary a thing to happen- for if it was that we all pursued our own base desires we may find our communities considerably less functional and hospitable. But I am saying that this is something that we didn’t always want, it is something that is more or less the opposite of your original intent. Small pushes subtly here and there have turned your initial desires, your original ideas- into a friendly and easily digested package. One that attracts more instruments of pleasure into your life that are offered through the society you benefit- the more and more you benefit- the more tools and instruments are heaped upon you with which to act not only more accordingly but of seemingly significantly more value. You will find it is easier to portray your idea after you are beaten into believing they were what you always intended.
Just a bit of self-reflection, just a bit of criticism and negativity to chew upon for what it is I believe I and many around me have become. Something I want to consider breaking out of, something I desire strongly to twist… the end goal is to find a way to contribute just as much to the outside world while maintaining that original passion and intent you always had. We’re not there yet. But I hope it not an impossible goal. And I hope it not too foolish from the outside…
I have much to say about higher education but my writing has begun to make me rather weary so I will attempt to keep this as concise as possible. What higher education offered me other than simply knowledge into my desired focus, and significantly more valuable than that- is an audience for my social behaviors to flourish within. In high school you do not have to interact with people, and if you do- the results are often forced and fake. (Cliche I know… but I believe it true) – In College through your first year at almost any university you will be forced to live together with a group of people, some in the same section as you- some in the same room. This forces you to deal with strangers, with people outside of your family- outside of your typical realm of existence. If you are familiar with these interactions than this might not sound profound- but if you aren’t and have gone through that life experience I would say that you understand of course how significant this is. I would highly recommend finding a way to go off and live at least one semester on campus, maybe two- just to get the living experience out of it- and for no other reason than this.
The life experience that you will be provided through this living will be valuable whenever we look further down the road and attempt to make our original passions into fruitful endeavors that are unsullied by many societal factors whilst still servicing community.
From the mind of death. – Do not rot away, let us be alive together and pursue a more personal future- both outside of and within the communities we exist alongside. With Love, Creative C*ult Lives.
“WHAT YOU CREATE IS VALUABLE”
Wood walking with talking. Sometimes there is no talking. Set out on the trail with high hopes and fresh legs. The trailhead splits often, but the map is our guide. The small group came across old wells, fields, suspicious hikers, and creatures of all sorts. The scenery was sub-tropical. It seemed impossible to them that they where in the southeast region of the United States.
When in the low of the valley, it was cold and dark, like a bad dream. Spiders and snakes, beings with uncountable legs. The remains of a vehicle that had tumbled off the road hundreds of feet above lay scattered about. They were in a sort of underworld. The eeriness of the place was physically perceived.
The group figured they’d overstayed their welcome and knew it better to ascend. At a slow crawl they struggled up the hill, holding onto tree roots and crevices in the rock. Periodic stops to removed their packs and drink water became more frequent as the sweat began to pour. Just when they reached the top of the tree line, and thought themselves victorious, an enormous sandstone face proved the contrary. They’d heard about this ancient place in the guidebook. It looked barely climbable, and they’d come so far.
“So long as you don’t slip, stumble, or have a clumsy moment you wont fall to your death,” the eldest of them reinforced. Occasionally one of the hikers would look down and see that they were hundreds of feet above the tree line. The forest below seemed like it might act as a fluffy green net. Wishful thinking.
The sandstone face they scaled had foothold carved into it going all the way to the top. It is said that an indigenous people made this staircase. It is not a stretch of the imagination that those people worshiped on top of the rock. The view pointed to nothing less than a divine being.
To this point the hikers had walked with great ambition out into the woods. They eventually recognize the backtracking towards the camp will take just as long. After a few more backpack replenishments, they’re on their way again.
Aside from the occasional, “I don’t recognize that,” and “do you remember this tree?” there’s fair confidence in the groups ability to return safety. The last half mile is near running pace in the eagerness to relax in the camp. Hammocks, reading, drawing, music, signify the winding down of the day. They reach their destination and begin evening rituals.
An artist reflects upon his 3 greatest observations of the journey.
1.) One can escape by walking. Oh what a wonderful task it would be to walk day in, day out, only with the goal of a destination. What a tempting procrastination it would be to walk, for years. Food and water, and your body. A good walker could keep this business up and be perfectly contented in service to walking, and observing, and recording. Societies are constructs, to operate outside of these could potentially be a great freedom.
2.) The Scenery of that place is far greater that what can be recorded with a pen. The artist sits to draw the view, or record in the words the great descriptors of the place. He falls miserably short in displaying the glory of the mountain. He becomes speechless in view of the magnificence before him. The artist must accept failure beforehand, if he is to make any honest effort at telling the story of what he sees. He must know that his work will not stand on its own. It is only a reflection.
3.) When comparing himself to greatness of such a place, man will know he is nothing. The origin of the beauty is always a question that comes to mind. Denial of human powerlessness is futile. The walker is a passive spectator, living in something else’s or someone else’s world.
Take a walk in the woods. Take a notebook and some friends. Ask yourself, “Am I a stranger here?” View these places with new eyes.
The brain wanders, the brain is dry, work is endless, work is monotonous. Let us create again.
Without much thought it seems that there is much that one could put forth creatively. Even with minimal effort, or rather- without arduous and strenuous thought could come highly profound ideas. Ideas that could flow even possibly easier due to the absence of mind that could come with working a long and tiring shift of work. There is something special about this state of mine, this sort of emptyness that co-incides with doing the same sort of task for many hours upon end. It is a rare sort of zen to reach, a rare state also to find yourself appreciating, as it so often is associated with the sore muscles or strained pain of monotony. There is of course a bit of pain to go along with this sort of state of zen. After many hours though- and even in the midst of your impending relief, you must always keep yourself sharp- you must be ready to create at the end of the day. Even in the wake of many tiring hours, for it is most important above that necessity of your pain and empty mind, that which would follow it- to be that which you love. For if one is to do what it is they love, many unpaid hours must be dumped- and a creativity infused with those will turn those hours into highly productive ones. – For the only thing worse than the many thousands of hours independent creative projects may consume, is having to do that twice over because your brain simply is not ready for that creative process, or it goes about it at a time where you would not be prepared to dish out such creativity. It is important then I would assert, that you would find time to catch and store all creative thoughts you could in preperation of the next creative project, the next creative burst you have to put forth. And I would say that in the dryest, the most painful- dull moments of the day could come your best ideas- Whenever monotony is at its peak, for the only thing that the brain can conceive aside from that which would be relieving towards thyself would be – I argue – Pure. This level of purity in thought is something that is easier to achieve at this level, due to what I think is a sort of easier split within thyself. For everything outside of the ideas of immediate pleasure- Which are easy to identify, would be purely in themselves seperated from the idea of the self pleasure.
This isn’t to say that you can’t create after moments of intense relaxation, or that you must always seperate any sort of pleasure from your process- this is simply intended for the one who works great hours in he day, and then expects themselves to work upon projects later in that same day where you were expected to put out many things- many hours. And it is not ideal for any to waste time I would think needing to unwind from some sort of exhaustive or repetitive work.
Okay- So, for the time being let’s ignore the ideas behind it and get down to the sheer process of it. What I think it should entail, that is- when it should happen- and how to go about saving some time doing it.
If your work is dangerous, if your mind fails to find a lull, and needs to be on edge- I would of course, not recommend these. However- If your work is not dangerous, and the mind has many chances to wander- allow me to assert the following.
1 – Consider your project – Just to plant an idea of your necessary outcome- What is it that you have been working on? – Is it a comic? – Is it some sort of video game? – A gift for a friend? – A piece of musci?… E.X – I desire to work upon a new series of animations – something to show off my gritty style -I don’t know what it should be of, but that’s the idea- I just need to apply myself creatively.
If you don’t know what your project is, make one up on the fly- what do you want to see, what do you want to become? – Consider your greatest desires, keep those in mind.*
2 – Concentrate upon anything – Think about its function. Use this to set your mind upon the path of function- When you analyze that which has an operative function or place in the world- as anything would- you will find yourself considering how reality works, and also more importantly- how it could work entertainingly different. E.X – There’s some power lines ahead, they connect the cities power supply to the station which generates them- it is a process of carrying, they do it far above- and birds also seem fond of resting upon them. They make loud clicks and stretch far across the fields.
Take the most in
3 – Visualize your project- Walk into the world of your next piece, and look around you- observe the way in which the world works, how beautiful it is- how twisted, how dark. However it is when you view it with your eyes inside your head is excactly how it needs to be portrayed. It is here in this section, if you truly let yourself wander- that your best ideas will come to you… concentrate upon this step the most- this is what you will need to recall after your work is up- just keep looking, building- observing- let the beaten and dry mind you now posess from work- soak up as much as it can within the world of your project. E.X – The world is dark here- aside from human form- which is gloriously bright, sharp sketchy lines permeate the silhouettes of each figure, who in this darkened world find far too many reasons to conflict, senselessly beating each other with bats- while demons feast on their legs-…
If you have problems waliing into your project at this step, looking around it- I would recommend going back to step 1 and 2- and then back into 3 again- this sort of repetition over a long period of time will eventually barefruit.*
4 – Report your findings – It is important as soon as you are physically able, to report what it is you found when you walked into that world- what you seen whenever you sit down and take notes- whatever at the end of your pencil becomes whenever you attempt to display what it is your mind saw in that moment of stepping into the project.. I’d recommend doing as much as humanly possible, as messy as humanly possible at first. If you need to do 10 pages of drawings in a week, do 20 sketches. If you need to storyboard a four minute piece, storyboard it twice- … Do more than you would normally do, just ensure that you do it quickly and with the intent of creating as much if not, twice as much as you think you’d ned.
– At this point your goal is more or less complete, you can go about finishing the grunt work whenever your brain has settled from the mess it just went through- it is simply important at the end of that work day, that you slam out as much as you can- more than you would even in a longer less stressed session, but quicker- messier, with the only intent being to give yourself a base to work off of when you come back to it.
If you can turn everything inside of monotony into an escape into your project- and every moment after that long monotony into a recording of your life within that project- even in only an hour or two. You can soon be relaxing- as your project has been furthered- and your mind sharpened into that which you’ve desired. The business of working many hours – has now become many less simply with the sharpening of your mind , and the quick sketchy recordings of the life you’ve lived within your project.
Consider this just a quick tip, from one who works at many dull things.
Observe the dullest moment of your day and flip it into an opportunity to be creative. Sharpen your senses. Be fully aware of every sensation around you; sights, sounds, smells, taste and touch. Boredom is the result of a lack of stimulus, or taking your everyday stimulus for granted. So then, allow yourself to experience these “boring” influences in a completely unbiased and fresh way. Don’t take the uniqueness of your circumstances for granted. Embrace them afresh with an open mind, and a determination to add value.
In addressing my own circumstances with creative possibility, I find myself immediately more engaged and fascinated with my surroundings. I hardly get bored with this mindset. With only a pad and pen and an active mind, I can begin to give a thoughtful analysis to the place I’m in, rather than begging for time to pass quickly. We’ve been made to process our environments in an incredibly detailed fashion, and in order to take advantage of this observant tendency, all you must do is focus.
Below is an analysis of my own today.
A beeping combination opens the door to laminate tile. Footsteps met quickly by a purple carpet creaking up the first flight. A metal door at the top of the 6 stair flight is painted the same color as the wall. A light tan. Upon entering the deserted hallway, you are confronted with a stillness that does not provoke hospitality. An occasional welcome matte or doorway charms or outside shoes are the only signs of life presented.
This place is a hive of people from around the globe. Neighbors are foreign to one another, most often literally, unified only by the property’s imposing, upper-case, initials. Cardboard box cutting initiates our assemblage. Nuts and bolts clink onto the appropriate threads. A large, singular window beams light from the stairwell, offering insight into the activities of the resident variety. Sitting on the floor, carpet perfect for rug burn and atmosphere optimal for boredom. But the contrary takes place; conversations of author’s and artists, the human condition, The Buddha and Jesus of Nazareth.
Sometimes silence falls, and you are pleased to experience the breadth of sounds that pass the ear with out any usual consideration. The occasional rustling on each floor, buzzing air conditioners kick on or off, outdated ceiling fans hum. Your mouth tastes like McDonalds coffee, and you sort of imagine that a headache is coming on. Up you’re exit of the Dormitory, you walk across the parking lot. The moving air is revitalizing, and it sets the tone for the next block of work that awaits us, in a building much like where we’d spent the morning prior. There is sufficient work to go around, meaningful conversation, and good times for thinking to be had for all.
Written at work on a ripped open paper bag
with a mechanical pencil
The following is the writing located on the above page.
Non-corrected, errors in tact.
wrapped around my brain, another soul all too
clear had risen. It seems recently phantoms
of my past were all my head conjured during
moments of spontaneous self-destruction. Why
certain morbid happenings were clearer than any
pleasantries my delusions had to offer goes far
beyond my own comprehension. I remember not
the names of those who’ve passed through
but their faces crystal clear. A group
of familiar presences surrounded me as they
presented that burnt image inside myself.
I could not tell whether I wept for the
past pain I could not change or my current
desire to make the phantom a mirror of myself
but all the same I wept as it faded
even within a dream my desires remained out
of reach. Despite their painfully clear nature.
I recall the mockery intent upon dismantling me
also quite clearly. They claimed the phantom was
mine, that is had been so and it smiled being so.
But I knew this to be the case for inside my head
I continued to hesitate and stumble on a question.
One that would allow the phantom to clarify if it
truly was mine, but alas I failed my task. It
is not of pity I seek but simply of fixing my
cracked mind I write. Sympathy so often as
phantoms haunt me, for it also is that when
held close within the mind the justification of
your pain soon becomes nigh impossible. Though
I highly doubt any of my pain should be so. And
perhaps also a warmth should be spoken of for
the phantoms that haunt me, for it is each their
unique beauty and elusiveness that raises them
in my mind. And to re-capture this even in fleeting
moments grants me the equivalent of ever so
highly sought eternal peace.
While watching a video segment on Tim Schafer of Double Fine Productions, I was intrigued by his analogy of the creative process. In his process for writing the stories of classic adventure games such as; Full Throttle, Day of the Tentacle, Brutal Legend (with Jack Black), and Psychonauts, he compares his writing process to a “Pipeline.” 5 subject notebooks full of scrawls sit in stacks in his office as proof of his dedication to the method.
After utilizing the methods he described myself, I am convinced of it’s usefulness. THE CREATIVE PIPELINE METHOD is this: Systematically writing down trains of thought with the end goal of generating more free and uninterrupted creative ideas.
In viewing your thoughts like a pipeline, you can visualize the “gunk” that must exit first until you get a steadier flow of creative goodness. For procedures sake, I’ve broken down the method into 3 progressive phases.
Journal about your most immediate memories of the day. Often the hardest part of making a creative work is getting started, so in the pipeline, you physically start by processing the events of the day. This relieves the pressure of whatever importance you held to starting the creative work for the day. At this stage, just write was comes intuitively and naturally. Really catalogue the highs and lows of the day, memorable moments, and all that led you to where you are sitting and writing.
Follow every important thought. Don’t be afraid to go off on a little tangent if it’s at the forefront of you mind. After writing about the day, you’ll find yourself fixated on subjects and various issues that didn’t take place today, but are impactful to you. Write those out. Clear the runway for all the good creative efforts that are about to come down the pipeline.
Finally, fix your intentions firmly on the most genuine creative desires you have. To this point, you have been all allowing all the creative blocks in the pipeline to flow onto the page, and now it’s time for the good stuff. If you did not rush to this point, you have done the method well. Scheme up your creative opportunities. If it’s a problem you wish to solve, what do you have at your disposal to accomplish a solution? If it’s a store you want to build, detail the inns and outs with a small schematic. Through this phase is, “the creative part,” of the writing exercise don’t get too held up on this phase needing to be revolutionary. Follow your trains of thought just like you did beforehand.
What’s incredible about this method is the rush you feel when good creative ideas start emerging. You will often get a second wind during Phase #3 if you where writing particularly long leading up to it. Once the pipeline is clear, you’re able to be more articulate and care-free in making something creative. Give it a shot, and share your experience.
Can we be certain about anything, and do we need to be? – Well, we can certainly be certain about some things that are uncertain and the fact that they are such. But it is unnecessary to say that for that is already easily graspable by most everyone- what is truly interesting is what we may find to be certain within that which would not commonly be easily seen as being certain. Or rather- to find certainty within that which we are certain is uncertain.
Worry, worry is a common theme among humanity- and this is commonly rooted within uncertainty or more specifically that there is an element within uncertainty that we think may uproot our lives in some way and spoil our day or coming days. It is hard to say exactly why it is that we transfix upon the bad with such intense degrees even if the good is something which statistically speaking would more or less be certain. Even in cases where we are 99% sure that we will be fine, that 1% can easily become something like 50% in the mind of one who worries consistently of the future. Or perhaps it already is 50%, as a coin-flip to determine the nature of the events in your own future- what could you possibly do to find comfort in this scenario?
As with most weeks of my blog entry I would like to state that the following ‘solution’- is merely a hypothesis- it is nothing more or less than something to give a go. I find myself commonly worrying of that which may or may not be certain and as such would love to give a whirl at a possible solution so here we go.
Unlike last weeks blog I believe that we need to be entirely more mental about this approach, rather than trying to trick our brain into believing that things will be okay in the future- or making it so that they likely will be- we should rather focus upon the statistics involved around the future of oneself and just how many ridiculous good and bad things there are. Yes- this is much like trivializing the problem- but I argue that there is something far more creative to be seen within it that we can utilize as an inspiration to turn our unlikely or even likely future grief into art.
An unlikely turn perhaps?- But what else are creative cult members to do than create art out of the dark woods of the uncertain future. Prithee travelers, adventurers, and great slayers of demons listen carefully. Imagine the greatest statistical anomaly that you can feasibly gather within your minds about any uncertain event which has you worrying, make sure that it is manic- that it is mad- that if you were to spout this as truth you’d be seen as manic as any homeless one speaking of a coming alien invasion.
Allow me to demonstrate with the following hypothetical situations in which uncertainty may or may not be involved. –
Let us say that you are awaiting a mechanic to tell you the cost of fixing your car- you don’t have a whole lot of money and are likely going to need to borrow from someone you’d rather not, or take some sort of ill fated loan out- regardless it seems all signs point towards the darkest conclusion- perhaps it will be far greater a cost than you can even cope with and you will be down a vehicle again. What could you possibly do to cope with this future!- This uncertainty! – Oh, well- how about we try that method mentioned above… What sort of ridiculous irregularities could spawn impossibly from this mechanic calling you back- The more light the better of course, but to each his own- maybe it is darkness which makes you happy- but I’d say in that scenario the likely negative consequences may be enough to amuse you on their own. But that is not what we are here to speak of, or I am at least- let us think for a moment…
The first step of this process should be to analyze the key players, personify them if you have to- in this particular situation- there is you, the mechanic, and your car. Simple enough yes?
The second step should be to change these elements in some way, transform the characters – each individually before you imagine a scenario. The mechanic could instead be a cook- you could be a customer at his restaurant- and the car could be a meal that is getting prepared. You can already sort of see where I’m going with this- but it doesn’t all have to connect either, let us put forth a second set of transformations, perhaps the mechanic is a stereotypical bandit from the old west, your car is the president of the united states, and you are a polar bear. Completely random living things- just good fun.
The third step is to follow what would naturally occur from this, an application of the events into a description of what could happen. Let us take our first series of characters and imagine a simple scenario- The Mechanic = Cook, You = Customer, Car = Meal, – You have ordered a steak, and the scene is set where the cook has personally delivered the meal to you- the cook goes about explaining how much trouble he had preparing the meal and all the unexpected things he went through when cooking it- how the stove was broken and had to be fixed- and the salt shaker needed a new lid- and in the meantime the steak itself had gotten cold- he then proposes that you pay for all the repairs as well as the meal – you are wearing some fancy clothes at this high end restaurant and are staring the main with an eyebrow raised- a simple sigh from yourself indicates your displeasure with the situation. Notice that we still incorporated the scenario your are going through within the ridiculous exaggeration demonstrated by the characters, this is a simple way of turning your situation into a piece of art. Of course- you are thereby distracted by it so that the actual reality of the situation hits lighter upon you and the weights are lessened by humor and obscurity. We can do the same thing with the second set of transformations, Mechanic = Old West Banding, Car = President of the United States, You = Polar Bear- The scene shows a newscaster in an arctic tundra where snow and wind is blowing cold- their breath is visible as they hold a microphone up to your face- you being the polar bear- and are asking you a question- ‘Mr/Ms/Mrs- Polar Bear! – The president has just been shot by a time travelling bandit straight from the old west!- It’s said they are going to need you to find a replacement and arrange the funeral for the president. – How do you propose to do all this from so far away?’ – and you being just a polar bear are sorta just sitting there confused. Of course- this is more abstract, the situation it refers you to is one where the mechanic says your car is irreparable without spending more than its worth- a funny situation in which you must dispose of your dead car in some way- this rather unfortunate scenario is completely made light of- and by the time your done representing this scenario in whatever way you see fit- I’d recommend- pencil and paper and attempting it in a comic book style, or done digitally if you have the tools. But even writing this scenario would be fun.
The third step is quite long, but the fourth would simply be putting it into action- do the art required to convey the situation to a reader who might not know about it.
The fifth is to show it to everyone you can!- Unless the result ends up being really personal I’d highly recommend you show around your finished product- it’ll really do you well to have your situation trivialized by the laughs of others viewing your abstract concept of it. Or the praises or criticisms involved with it- whatever it takes to get your mind off of it, or not thinking about the uncertainty involved with it.
I feel like at the end of an exercise like that you’d have a hard time not enjoying the end result- being just that slight bit more creative for the day, flexing and working those art skills- and just generally getting your mind off things.
Keep the creative brain polished my friends- the c*ult requires your cooperation in these matters. Live long and prosper V, W/Love June- of the C*C
It starts with the inclination that you should do something. A haunting occurs that you must find what it is that you were meant to do with your physical existence. Occupations, Hobbies, Fascinations. Your focus flings too and fro in a multitude of places and your efforts are divided. Interests in more spontaneous or impulsive ventures fade away. You attention is directed to the immediate issues at hand . The talent reveals itself by means of best possible solution.
You sharpen that skill. Attacking it daily with a maniac intensity. Your passion is admired by some and envied by many. The amount of time spent engaging in your own fascination boarders on idolatry, but you’ve heard that you should throw your everything at something if you wish to succeed, and you want to succeed in an area of your skill set so badly. You dream of it.
Suddenly you realize that talent does not in every situation remain sustainable if it does not in some form or fashion work for your livelihood, rather than against it. You think, maybe you need to make money by providing the world with you talents, but you have no reasonable idea of how that works. You schooling taught you how to make, but gave you no toolset for living. What is a creative person to do?
Originally, you rebel against the idea of organization and planning and a business plan because it’s what all those other stiffs do at their office jobs. Little by little, it becomes apparent business is not an evil construct, it is built on reason. Business allows you to eat. If not business then…hobby. Hobby may not pay, it doesn’t have to.
In business your success is measurable numeric value. More is good, less is bad. People ask you how business is going. You don’t talk about money, even know that’s really what they’re inquiring about. You make your best attempt not to look like the guy with big dreams that aren’t realistic. Sitting and contemplating the previous year wondering when the breakthrough is going to happen because it hasn’t yet. Not really. Small successes and reassurance from those around you who enjoy your work lights a fire in you and makes it feel real, the business.
Highs and lows, highs and lows. You think of you venture in a narrative format. With you at the main protagonist trying to make it, holding on to the hope of the cool things you’ve created out of nothing. Thinking about the story you’ll pass back down the chain once you’ve proven yourself.
You push it all out of you mind and run the race. Breathing. One thing you can accomplish right now. Just one thing. Call. Write. Plan. Draw. Meet. Just one tangible thing that keeps you from sitting around in your head like it’s a rainy Sunday. Stay sane, work hard, hold out.
Progress. Progress is 30 bad days….and then 1 good day. That’s progress. All it takes is that one good day. The other 30 are the training ground, and a test of will. Keep making Progress.
I’ve been experiencing an interesting phenomena as of late that I can only describe as a slow and steady draining of my minds intellectual capabilities to the point where even the most basic tasks seem to be either completely pointless or entirely too difficult for me to perform. It’s hard to point towards exactly why this is occurring but I put it to you that it has to do with the idea that everything that is out in front of ourselves leads us towards both success and failure. Which is to say that ultimately your plan and thereby effected idea of how the immediate and distant future will go, will inevitably lead you towards either paths of- as I’ve stated earlier’ success or failure. Of course, when I think about it from that angle it is as simple as the unstable future of my assets and place in the world which is causing me a crash. I have work expected of me from multiple parties and of multiple unknown circumstances all at once. Both from the planned and unplanned- all at the same time. I would venture to say that this has more or less caused a bit of stress which could easily be correlated with my inability to perform even basic tasks with any sort of level of efficiency or happiness therein of my said efficiency.
It is hard to point towards a single solution as this phenomena has been plaguing me for the past month ever since my car was more or less put out of operation entirely, leaving me stranded down south away from my family for Easter- and to spend that next month trying to convince someone to buy the damn thing causing further distress.- Of course this is not the only time that I have experienced something like this, and not just with car problems but even with much more common things like schooling, after finishing very large tests and turning in work I wasn’t happy with I had many concurring fever dreams and unproductive days all relating to the idea that I could have failed any number of my classes without knowing the final grades and such. This is a constant thing which I have had to deal with, and I’m sure many other people have as well- so I figure it’s time to try and figure out a basic way of solving this, because surely there is a solution that I am missing.
We could of course try our very best to trivialize the outcome of the situation but this is a much more difficult task than one would realize when they initially attack the idea of this head on. Because often times this is the first answer to the problem which we will put forth and even if we seem completely okay for the day, once we lay down and try to put our heads to rest the idea pops up again. And after another bad dream, the idea is in the forefront of our heads for the remainder of the next day and thereon from that. No matter how hard we try to push it back it just seems to keep coming up, because the day of outcome is approaching and there’s no telling for sure what it could be! A recklessly dangerous attack to this problem it turns out that trivializing it does become.
So- what the heck do ya do when you face a problem like this then? I would put forth that it is not for trivializing the idea we need to reach but rather, we need to put yet another idea inside of our heads which does reflect a definite positive outcome- and secondarily place other questions inside of our mind which are difficult to ponder. This does not trivialize the outcome of the other event, but it gives us something positive to dwell upon- and backing away from that positive thing to dwell upon would rest our mind upon a difficult to answer problem. It is the nature of that combination which will put out minds to rest- of course, this is again not an easy thing to do. Because often times it is difficult for us to see positivity whilst inside of a stressful environment. I have the following ideas about steps that we could potentially take towards setting up this barricade within our minds.
First off we must calm down, breathe deep- listen to music- occupy your mind with active things. Solve a puzzle, play a game- do whatever it takes to distract yourself for a moment of though.
Secondarily we must ask ourselves a question which is large, larger than we can ever possibly comprehend- but just interesting enough for us to imagine near infinite solutions- my examples for this would be the following. At what point does an artificial intelligence achieve autonomy if ever? Can space truly be infinite?- And if so, does that mean that true nothingness can exist or that something exists forever outwards? These are just things I’d ask myself, equally interesting questions could be posed even about things like pizza, or new video games.
Third- I would suggest that you arrange a fun meeting with a friend in the near future, or to do something nice for the people you care about, whether this be your family, friends, or someone random entirely. It is important in this step that in the end we wind up feeling good about ourselves and the future reactions towards that thing that we would be doing.
From this point it’s easy, if we have arranged the third step properly, and we are actively doing the first thing we’ve started out with as a distraction for time- the secondary thing suddenly becomes the pure backup to this. And with luck and enough exhausting of the brain- when we go to bed after repeating these steps- they will be fresh enough in the mind to forget whatever that thing was we were worrying about earlier.
Of course, this is all just a long hypothetical, I haven’t even actually tried it- but I’m going to give it a go soon. And I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see if it works for me, I recon this could certainly work for someone however, and if it even works on just one person it was worth it to put the idea together. And if it doesn’t work at all, at least I had something to occupy my brain and drag my worry away from the devolving of the mind I had been experiencing.
I write it all down. Since Introduced to this method of creative capturing back in 2013, I have not ceased.
If you write it then you can return to the idea/concept again and again. You can mutate that idea into further iterations. Everything you tuck away in a journal is useful latter in the development of creativity. I firmly stand by the thought that; in order to know where you’re going, it helps to know where you’ve been.
I am not focused or intelligent enough to keep good ideas lingering in my mind. They will almost inevitably be pushed out by my own immediate desires or hunger or random fancies. Writing down my thoughts to revisit them latter is necessary for me, but also incredibly fun!
So get a little notebook, and start recording your creativity every day, little bit by bit. Ideas good and bad. Drawings simple and complex. Lists of tasks. Tiny objects. Poetry. Schemes. Prayers. Meditations. Make it happen.
Notebooks as of May 2016:
Drawing with my little cousins. We prompted a thing the other person should draw.
Dani is 8 years old.
Marilyn Manson Tunes, and observational drawings.
Brainstorming themes for the kids mural at Revolution Church.
Drawing with my beautiful girlfriend.
Giant Starbucks Siren attacking the City of Columbus. Travesty.
Tasks, Icons, Logos. Truisms of Tim Sherman.
Write it down. Write it down.
Cult Logo original brainstorming.
Heather is Study Master. Sock snowman conscious and in lament.
Creativity Cult earliest concept.
Dad’s truck. “incase” logo.
A demon lives inside your fired extinguisher.
The Gaga and Fizz.
Stick on pocket from another packaging. Took Advantage.
Get a little book.
All note books shown provided by https://fieldnotesbrand.com/
There is something to be said about the ability to transform ones ideas to a large variety of mediums effectively, you could simply say that they are multi-talented but I would simply refer to them as an artist- as any other, perhaps a greater one for their comprehensibility- but an artist nonetheless. Not to be placed upon a magnificent pedestal simply for their ability to translate themselves to various mediums, but rather place them in adoration for the content of those pieces. I do believe that one person who is amazing at translating what they wish in only one medium could easily be superior in raw talent to one who can translate what they kinda want to say in several. That being said, I also have some theories upon why other artists might struggle with working in other mediums, and creative solutions to those potential problems that would arise. But more importantly than all that, I’m here to talk to you about the creative block. That non-descript amorphous thing inside of each of us that prevents us from moving forward with an idea, and that can directly impede our ability to think straight. It can lead to headaches, frustration, depression, and in the worst cases it can lead to a complete abandonment of the arts. The creative block truly is a mighty problem faced by all at one point in time- for one reason or another.
In order for the creative block to exist it requires one of a variety of things to happen- although this can effectively vary greatly I will offer some common examples to relate. The creative block could manifest from an idea that must be conveyed by an artist, for example- you were paid by your best friend to make their band logo- you’ve accepted their payment and told them you’d be right on it!’ as your enthusiasm wears off, your brain hits a wall- and you can’t shrug it off. You want to make something good- something great, and you can’t escape this task. Getting locked into that task is a great way for the creative block to form. Ironically it can also form from having too much room, or being unpaid, the brain will prioritize survival- and if survival doesn’t involve making a picture for your slacker friends facebook banner- you could easily find yourself ignoring it- or downright not being able to do it when the block steps in. Another great way for the block to come into existence is simply from looking at others work, other artists who seem much more capable and technically efficient to you- you look at their work and you instantly know what they are trying to say- or are lost in their instructions to make you lost- they are far too effective for you to comprehend- and you can’t stand to look at your own art in the wake of this…
These things all create ‘The Block’-
The block isn’t particulary easy to describe- as I may have hinted at before- but it is essentially the thing inside your head that prevents you from being able to start – and or finish a piece- it prevents creative work from taking place and will often also inhibit the creative process from developping effectively in ones head. There are many potential solutions to this problem, but as always I will be looking at what I believe are some of the best approaches.
Reaching back to the first paragraph I’d like to talk about other mediums again, and how I believe they can be of a great help when being tasked with defeating a creative block that has taken up great roots in your head – we must start from the reason the problem exists at its root- and rip it from its place before it grows any larger- burn it down from the start. Before I get to carried away talking about how I would rip it to shreds- I’ll get back to the whole medium switching thing- and how I think it can be a solution. If you are tasked to make a logo for any company, or a general art piece for a friend, or a piece of music for someone you really like- and face a great creative block- take the idea that is causing you to bash your head against a wall repeatedly- take a crayon and draw very crudely the roughest piece you can think while keeping it in your head who it’s for. Sit next to an instrument you can or can’t play if you need to restore a photo- and play out how you think it should look. Just make sure above anything else- that you are removing yourself from the medium you would normally work in for the piece you are creating, and make sure that you are expressing how you either visualize the creative block in your head through that medium- or a vague idea of what you wanted to create- or you can ignore all of this and just do what you think you feel. The point is to make movements, the point is to just be creating something- even if it is something completely unrelated to the task at hand- it will inevitably move the block out of your head- it will leave room for great creations- because traces of the piece you create- regardless of your skill level with said medium- will almost always influence or at least plant the seed of a new idea- at least the will to create once more in a medium you are most comfortable with-.
And it just might show you that you can translate your idea into other mediums… and if it can’t- that isn’t even the end goal anyways… You just need to destroy that block… to remove it- whatever speed is probable.
This is all conjecture.. Just consider it June’s choice- give it a try next time you come up against ‘The Block’
“Fully engaging the arts requires a suspension of our immediate interests and knowledge.” -C.S. Lewis
You’re here, and I ask of you to make it to the end of this blog. Not for me, but for the artists in your circle. Do it for your art friends.
Perhaps your friend wrote a book, and you keep telling them you’ll get around to it. Perhaps someone has invited you to an event in which “something always come up.” Perhaps a fellow in your workspace wants some feedback on the project they’ve been into, and you’ve rescheduled 3 times for coffee. Whatever it is, there’s no time for it.
I do not doubt the importance and relevance of your immediate tasks. There is little time in the day and mental energy dwindles, but allow me this short argument of why you should invest in the work of others with your time:
1.) In order to determine whether the work is legitimate. That being said, it is best not to sit above the prospective work as some more successful, more accomplished being doing a service to peasant local artists. Clear 20 minutes out of the end of your day, or at your lunch, and investigate with an open mind. Empathize with the desire others have to see their work impact people. Let the work change you. Many a time I have been pleasantly surprised by the creative capacity of my peers. Their work in a sense is them. Get to know them better. Then you will recognize if their work is genuine or not.
2.) Working in a vacuum limits our own creative flow. Think of all the things that inspire you. Why not allow some of those inspirations to be your fellow artists? Do not be threatened by either skill or ambitions, even if they may be greater than your own! Instead, absorb them, support them, and give credit where credit is due. Ironically, supporting the work of others may intern benefit your own.
3.) Art is relational. Communities are unconsciously refined by good art. We are impacted by the works of others everyday, so get in on some of that community with some local art friends. Show your support by learning their projects in little ways, ANYWAY YOU CAN. Don’t be so quick to judge their work, just as you would not wish a person would quickly judge you. Build something together.
With every push, there is a pull, so allow me one final counter point for the sake of rational. If you abandon your work ENTIRELY for the support of others you are doing an injustice to yourself. There is a balance to be found. Unfortunately, If I took it upon myself personally to engage in every influence I’ve been offered, then I would have no real time to also create. Sometimes you must say no. The barrage of influences begin to diminish in their return if you never have time to put them into action with your own creation.
All in All, support the work of others, and allow yourself to be impacted by their work. You’ll be a stronger, more well-fueled creative for it. Thank you for reading.
As one who creates there is often a feeling of responsibility to see your creations do well, there is within us all a desire to have them exceed above the rest in one way or another. For a fame to be achieved from the magnitude of their success, to have millions of greedy eyes feast upon your bountiful harvest. But this is often not only a dangerous goal to strive for, but it can leave one dwelling upon an objectively good creation- and grieving over its faults due to it living in obscurity, it not finding what you believe to be its proper place. I personally know this is a fault in my own hands, my own work- as it seems only when I cater to specific views does my work live in the light. But it is most important to realize how natural this is a thing, and accept its existence than it is to bend to the will of what you perceive to be the shining light. If we all subjected ourselves to bending towards the light of what we believed would bring glory, rather than creating for the sake of original intent- we would all simply create based upon the same prevalent trends, and would find ourselves once again in a realm of abject obscurity wherein little could drag us from our expectations utter failure.
So, it is bad then- or rather, I will continue to write this next section assuming that I have managed to convince you that the persuit of fame should not be made a common ideal for any given creator- for we cannot expect this fame to exist if we all indulge upon it. That is assuming you didn’t already think this of course, in which case I would also encourage you to continue reading for my next assertions.
Is any particular creation only as valuable as the amount of people it has effected? Yes, and no- it is entirely dependent on how you define value – but let’s assume that value is something which is beneficial towards who you wish be benefited. Which is to say that value is a subjective thing to yourself, where the people benefiting from your work are those you wish to benefit from it. So under this definition of value the amount of eyes would in the end not necessarily help your creation. It could have an objectively net positive impact upon the people viewing it, but if the amount you give through the work does not benefit the people you wished it to the only thing you receive in the end is a piece which has failed to help those you wished it would. You have essentially completely missed your target, even when basking in the blinding light fame could provide. I believe you would agree it is much better for the original intent of the piece to be achieved than it is for a piece to be valued for what it is not, at least- in the eyes of the creator alone. Keep in mind that we are only talking about this through the eyes of the creator, the creation itself does indeed have objective value regardless of the intent of the creator- but it is more a lesson of target audience I wish to get across than a lesson of doing what is best regardless of your personal ideals. I do believe it is important for you to follow your desires in regards to creation, for if you create something amazing which benefits all but yourself- you are left an empty shell of a saint who can only give pieces of yourself rather than of your creation. It would inevitably drain you, and leave you molded by the world which may be less creative for it- despite it being technically more mentally sound.
In summary so far…
It is important for one who creates to have goals outside of fame driving their creations. The true craftsmanship of the creator comes through their ability to send messages through their art to their intended audience. If you create a piece which grants positivity to many, but fails to send the message you wished to the audience you wished the value is significantly diminished from your own perspective.
So then- within the realm of obscurity your creations may or may not live, what then is the best way to get the right eyes upon your work? Well, that is the hard part- because it is far less about what you create- than it is about who you show it to. Well, that seems like a rather offensively simple way of putting it, let me say this- your effective ability to effect the minds you wish to effect is entirely more dependent on making sure the right minds see it than it is making sure your piece can change them. Let’s assume you already know how to do that- that is, you already know how to change their minds with your piece. So how do you get them to see it?… I believe you must be the following things, incredibly honest about what you wish to show to whom you wish to show it, and you must do this at a live event. Now- this isn’t to say that the internet and art don’t get along- they do, and it can be done if that is your desire. But I’m assuming you want to change some minds and hearts about your art, and I believe truly the best way to do this is through a genuine experience.
Let me break this down and summarize my end thoughts on this here before I ramble too long….
To feel fulfilled as an artist outside of the pursuit of success or fame, one should seek to change hearts and minds that you desire to change towards a particular idea you wish them to tackle or take on- whatever this idea is, is irrelevant- what matters is that you think about it. Imagine them seeing it in a living breathing space- with their own eyes… What sounds should they hear?…. What should they see? What should they do?.. Take those ideas and make them into rules of thumb for a campaign designed around bringing people to a particular place. Manipulate what you wish them to do based on the location you bring the group of minds you wish to change, play the sounds you think will mold their minds- or none at all- ask for a respectful silence over a certain period of time- give specific meeting times- get your name out there- meet with all the people you wish to change and let them know who you are. Real life networking will provide substance to the life of art you wish to live, it may not put money in your pocket- but we’re assuming that’s not your goal here. You can always do that in other ways, you can create for money as a job- but in your purest form as a creator- seek to change the minds in ways you can’t through a computer screen- bring them to your events where your resolution is infinite and they cannot deny your humanity or intent- for you exist in the same room as them- on the same playing field- eye to eye- this is where the creator learns to mold the hearts and minds of others. This skill can then be translated roughly into knowledge online- and applied when those minds they have met have begun networking in their light.
Of course, this could all be wrong- all of this is based on many assumptions- vague assumptions and opinions that don’t necessarily hold value. Maybe I have failed my very instructions through the creation of this blog. Perhaps… I’d like to think I’m just practicing though. These ideas will be planted over time one way or another- even if I have to trespass in the fields of your mind to do it. I will find a way.
Part of my own process is researching creative theory, and thought leaders in design. Just this month I began reading the book, Creative Confidence by brothers Tom and David Kelley. They teach people the power of ‘design thinking’ and creative problem solving in every area of life. I found plenty of cohesion between their theories, and the mantras of the cult.
Don’t let the novel brotherly photo or the great mustaches fool you. These guys are creative monsters. Here are 5 truths about the creative process I think are worth sharing from the book, as well as some personal insights from the journeys of the cult. Keep in mind that these truths are generally focused towards generating creative ideas. What are some guidelines for developing a good, creative idea?
1.) The first idea is never perfect.
We all have it. That perfect concept for our latest creative venture. Whether its a book, illustration, business, or invention, we can often get stuck on the first illusionary prototype.
A professor of mine once told me that the first page of a new sketchbook is always the hardest because its the first think you flip to. If treated improperly or ‘ruined’ then that’s a failure you’ll have to revisit every time you open to draw, therefore, the first page of the sketchbook is almost this ‘tell-all’ of how the rest of the sketchbook will be.
This is a hinderance. I say, ruin that first page. Spill ink on it. Scribble on it. Set the tone this way and commit to being a work in progress. No-one goes into any venture of life and succeeds perfectly. Why should we expect to do the same with our idea?
2.) “No Bad Ideas”
Think in this phrase while offering different solutions to a problem. Don’t rule out any idea too quickly, as this may dampen a possible good solution. Entertain each idea, keep them on the table, and consider them up against all other solutions. You may find that ‘ridiculous’ idea leads you to another iteration that becomes the solution!
(Ex: Man! That’s an interesting idea, what if socks could put themselves on in the morning.? An intriguing proposition no doubt!)
3.) Let people in.
Often, we don’t want to show people our works in progress. It’s a vulnerable thing, someone looking at you work that you haven’t solved yet. That’s because it makes you look imperfect. Incomplete. Human.
Letting others nudge you and guide you into new possibilities for you work may be uncomfortable, and perhaps even discouraging. However, when taken properly as constructive criticism, feedback can only benefit the end result.
As they say, “when you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” So bring the Mrs. Tape into the equation, and your good friend the Pencil, and yes even the weird Mini Stapler from down the street. Listen to what others have to say, chances are, you’ll glean a valuable piece of the puzzle that could have only come from an outside source.
4.) No attachment.
In high-school art class, my teacher Mr. Oberdick operated under the principles of tough love. One day we were reviewing our cornucopia still-lives when we came to a girl who had a funky composition. Mr. Oberdick went up to her paper and tore off the side of the project that was throwing off the balance of the piece. She nearly cried.
Upon reflection, I was angry that he had done this. I had convinced myself that it wasn’t right. That other’s art was their art and that’s sacred ground! But what I hadn’t considered was the freedom Mr. Oberdick intended on teaching us. If we treat everything we make as holy literature, then we’ll only slow down the process of growth. There is a time to preserve, but there is also a time to exercise, learn, reformulate.
If we approach our earliest concepts with less attachment, and more enthusiasm for the process, our creativity would only benefit! Maybe one night we’ll all spend hours making art, only to ceremoniously burn it over the campfire. Sounds thrilling to me.
5.) DO MORE.
Straight up, if you’re going to create something, then give it all you’ve got. Instead of doing just one, hesitant, delicate, pencil drawing; do thirty scribble gestures in black ink. Most likely, the practice of recording the form quickly and in multiples will teach you how to make that one more time consuming piece more accurately.
The same goes for your ideas. Create, and then refine. Get out the glues sticks, poster board and printer paper. It costs hardly anything for tape and a tissue to be used as a mockup for an exciting new chair design.
Thats it for now Cult Friends. Hope you’ve enjoyed the read. Suggest the topic for our next blog in the comments below.
Creative C*ULT Lives.
There is something to be said truly about memories that do not leave you, people who make impressions upon you that truly are etched within you forever.
If there is one thing that can be said about someone who truly has a deep impact upon your life in some substantial way, it is that they have begun to mold a bit of who you are. They have become a part of you and in doing so have achieved one thing many humans seem to seek, an inkling of immortality. For in your memory they do exist, and upon reflection they may not be themselves truly- only what you remember is who they become and what all remember is who they will be into the future until their existence as dust is either obscured into the wind through time transforming into something else or they fade away quietly.
It is not only that they exist within your mind that is important though, for a humans frailty is something we must come to accept, but rather- it is to suggest that they begin to sculpt the person you are. Whether it is a dark seed planted within fertile ground in your mind, the destruction of what you once perceived as true, or maybe even something much smaller. Each presence has an impact- and each presence makes a change. We are all reflections of the people we have met, in all variations- a piece of soft clay pressed and twisted into shapes made through fragments of the individuals who had made shapes in others minds.
Theoretically picture this, your mind is a blank canvas- the picture evolves over time- and each person that passes through your life is a brushstroke. Some people make a large impact, huge emotionally charged strokes thrown out onto empty space that form who you are for many strokes to come. Some are much smaller, so small that they may seem utterly insignificant… but over time all of those small strokes also begin to form your picture- and you would not be who you are now without them. Some people may come through and re-purpose you, twist you around, turn you upside down- and rip your image right apart… you can try very hard to recreate the image of who you are- and get close, but you will never be the same even in their act of destruction- they contribute to your image. This painting that you are and have become over time is something utterly unique, but not always desirable. Some peoples canvas always seems not to try- the memories of those who make strokes are mixed and muddled- they often simply drip right off the canvas- and what is left is a blurred image- a portrait of a decaying mind. Other canvas may not have enough strokes even to fill the blank slate over the year, a single layer of paint where each impact is easily identifiable, but the unique property of who they are is lost in a sea of low mold- of impact so sparse that there is only left an unspeakable sadness in their lack of contact, the person who analyses the same strokes for their entire life… There are of course also those who have so many layers of paint that so many people become forgotten as the weight of their life becomes heavier and the pure white lonely space almost seems a gift from the highest powers.
In the end, each painting has something to offer another it sees… A human walking with a portrait on their chest, taking marks from others whilst hoping to make their own. In the end the paint will stop being place, the material will dry- harden- and crack. They will age into oblivion, and their pictures will blur until they decay into dust. Those who leave the biggest impact may stay clear for a long time, but only as a phantom- and seldom reaching peace. For their voice in decay was given too great a chance, and they only seemed to hope to inspire different markings on others who now wish only to achieve their masters trade.
We each have something to offer, we each have something to give- we each have something to take- we each are always to be. But truly above all else there is one fact that remains, whilst all may fade into dust- we each have one mark on ourselves, at least one mark that shines. One mark upon us that cuts into the canvas just a bit too deep, that we see in our dreams, that we see on others too. They are marks that bring us to our knees, that make us tremble- that make us bleed. A simple line on the story of our life, not positioned particularly important- or notable- that we can remember for the way they held their brush. Marks etched into our minds from the moment we seen the portrait of their life, or even just a blurred reflection of it. A single stroke which weighs upon our heart, makes us wish we were born a new, a single mark that sent us spiraling into insanity when we felt the sensation of visualizing it amidst the marks so many others had made.
There is always one unforgettable.
The conference room is stiff and well dressed. Big executive types line the end of the table opposite of two large opening doors. They’re trying to strike a deal with their latest prospective client, Mr. Kenny Bunny. “K.B.” would prove an invaluable asset to their new holiday marketing campaign.
The name of this massive entity is Big Red Monster (Corp.) or BRM for short. BRM was responsible for Santa’s worldwide success in soda, apparel, and countless merchandising opportunities. They pinned down every possible consumer avenue. Their hands were in the pockets of the clueless consumer, always. If the abundance of product placement wasn’t enough to have a buyer scrambling to buy BRM merchandise, than the heart-stopping appeal to sentimentalism would be the final nail in the coffin so to speak.
The meeting jumped to a start, initiated by Kenny B’s AGENT. He came in strong and confident, as one of these ruthless, go get-em , business types.
AGENT: My Client would barely find the motivation to role out of bed every day to the tune of the modest fee you offered over the phone last week. You blew it gentlemen. IM CALLING YOUR BLUFF. You came into this like WE needed YOU, but in reality, YOU need US. Kids are growing tired of the same brown sugar water on the holidays. They want chocolates and gummies and marshmallows. They want a friendly, furry marketing icon. Something that will deliver happiness and gifts for years to come. You need this. You need Kenny Bunny….
BRM: Representative stood slowly, glancing to the left and right as if he was hoping someone else would deliver their multi-billion dollar company from its vulnerable negotiation. He proceeded clearly.
BRM REP: We are in negotiations with another prospective face of easter. His connections to our target audiences is a bit more traditional. But I think his pull is powerful, and deeply rooted into personal belief systems, making him an icon for a large base of consumers. So I don’t believe you can say you are our only option.
Kenny B’s agent retorted in a downhill verbal assault.
AGENT: Who are you referring to? The Nazarene Minister!? You can’t be serious. The guy dies and comes back from the dead, then he writes one book, and you think that’s unique enough of a selling proposition to our audience?? Let me tell you gentlemen something….the torture, and selflessness. That’s good and all, but plainly put, people want to be entertained. Anyways, those prophetic dudes are hardly marketable. I mean, you heard some of things he said about money? Wait till you hear this idea Kenny has!! This bunny is a genius. Go-ahead Kenny! Tell em!
Kenny Bunny: “Yeahhh that’s right! We is gonna take some eggs and….well, THE KEY IS EGGS! Isn’t that crazy? Eggs!! We let the kids color-em and decorate them up all nice right. Cuz them kids love to color stuff and scribble on things. Then we get other hollow eggs, and sell those, so kids can find the ones that parents hide…But get this. In those eggs, is OUR CANDY, that they bought!! HAHAHA eggs with candy in them!! The parents will be scrambling to buy our stuff to fill all those eggs with. It’s fail proof. BUT THATS NOT ALL. Easter baskets in every home full of brightly colored assortments of easter candies, grass, giant chocolate molds of my face. Limitless possibilities to expand. Anyone that wants in on making easter bunny products, must allow us a handsome percentage of the capital.
Kenny Bunny and his aggressive agent partner were far too potentially profitable for the Big Red Monster Corp. to refuse. BRM signed their agreeables and began a lifelong partnership that captivated the hearts of children worldwide….and it made lots of money.
The Creative C*ult
P.S. beware of human-sized bunny frauds.
Oh beautiful lack of being I am and have become, it is I that hold this temperature- of nothing both high and low- with blades of nothing where nothing came from and even weilding this I understand that nothing will follow me. Even after I die- from nothing I posess I am born again to nothing- to say nothing more and nothing less. A paradox for life and the experiences I’ve come to know, this nothing that overtakes me is all in which I do belong. I am here to learn all, to take within my brain- foreign symbols within of knowledge infinite. I know that I am nothing, and to nothing I may become. But this knowledge does bore me, to the infinite I wish to see. I need more eyes, I need to see- the answer deep inside. I swallow them down, past my sharpened teeth, deep down so that I can finally see- the veins connect as the orb does bleed. But I tell my body to save that orb for me. And it does, and I see- the answers so deep- to begin to read the symbols that leak from my mind. The infinite that I peer into, the infinite that I question so – it is cold- but it holds so much, so much for me to read – so much for these eyes to see.
It reads the following…. scribed crudely- leaking thick blood.
‘We seek you.’
Me?… A message so simple composed of so many beautiful symbols, could it be that the composers of this art seek… Me? My vision now goes dark, my body goes limp, my many eyes have shut as I float through the infinite.
Yes my beautiful pawn, yes my naive friend- it was you we saught, and it is you we’ve found. Oh what to do with you, the one who sees so far- what could I do to you, so many soft insides. We must pour our tendrils in through the sharpened mouth of this creature- and strengthen first these insides, to give him what truly he may see, or shall we even make it a part of we? We grab his mind, and inside we will see- if his mind has eyes we surely shall see- oh yes indeed we surely shall.
An empty hall, oh so empty and void- so white and crisp, we think it’s endless? Could it be so empty this head he has? Could it be so full of emptiness and endless space. Let us walk and see just how far it does go… We shall see. We shall see.
We have been walking for some time, it does feel forever so- but I feel no closer to the knowledge that I seek- are we trapped inside the mind we saw so simple? Or is it that he truly is empty? None could read the symbols we created other than those who were full of eyes- eyes on the inside those truly are the only ones who could read. But what is this feeling… Do we feel it? Yes we feel it… The walls are shifting- they become of form- a smaller box barely the height of our head- we are being trapped, we are being consumed?… The eye opens beneath our feet and we struggle to comprehend as we stand atop it- why does it open so- why here, why would it open so vulnerable beneath us? We are falling now- into the black of the eye!- We extend our arms- and we shout and cry- we must leave now, our hands escape the brain- we must leave now before it is too late!
‘I have become something.’
One voice now so cold, I finally have tricked those beings of old- now their body I do posess for the eyes were always inside- I painten my insides white to trick those men who thought- Thought I was so weak but that was a lie, I played dead in their hands and let them inside. I played dead inside- and now the secrets well known- I truly am the creator- my universe is now told. And I will tell them all, the webs wiped from my brain- Oh.. Yes… This is my brain now… and everything I have become- even though nothing I am… I shall tell everyone.
They will all learn to read, the symbols of old- and the truth to them all revealed till nothing we all become.
It’s Sunday morning. I’ve managed to escape the pressures of life for another few short hours. My brother is contenting my little sister with doodles and clay while I train….and train. No gun in my hand, but a remote for the action. It fits in the crease of the palm like how a soldier would shoulder the stock of an AK-47. If the situation called for something more tactile, you might see a Heckler & Koch MP5 with a Knights KAC Navy suppressor attachment. The side arm in this load out is a standard, military grade Beretta M9. Each gun uses the same 9x19mm ammo, providing extra rounds for lengthy fire fights.
This urban decay may call more specifically for some rooftop camping with an Remington 700 bolt-action sniper rifle. I move into position with well timed sprint bursts and cover fire. The support is provided by my brothers in arms. I think about how I would take a bullet for any one of them. Luckily, we’re to good at what we do to even worry about that. We’ve already called in radar, airstrike, and with one more kill we’ll trigger an attack helicopter. With that, no doubt we would secure the game and be one step closer to defeating the Taliban.
It was what seemed to be a complete God send. As I’m sighted in and scanning the opposing roof, a turban pops up inches from the center of my crosshairs. I calmly assess and adjust my sights over his body, staying smooth and deliberate with each movement I make. Take a breath….let it halfway out….a slow squeeze on the trigger…this is it…I’ve got him.
*DING DONG* (loud doorbell rings)
*BANG* AHHH I SHANKED IT!
HE WAS IN MY SITES!……oh nooo. He sees us and is returning fire. RPG!! GET DOWN!!!
I started to explain to the pizza guy, who was now at my doorstep looking clueless, what he had just ruined. He looked to old to understand. I was hungry enough now to take a break anyway I guess.
The Dilemma after extended hours of play is always the same. While I was indeed entertained and feeling achieved for each camo unlocked, games always come to an end. I don’t even want to shoot people in real life. War fare is scary. I’m afraid of getting shot in our paintball matches on the weekends, I can only imagine bullets would amplify that fear. Then it hits me when I’m left with nothing else to do for the day. “If I’m not the guy who is good at digital warfare….than who am I?”
Well, I like to draw things. I like good stories. I like epic characters. I have to idea how to orchestrate these concepts into a congruent narrative. In all honesty, the idealism of being a creative is so much more glorious than the actual making or creating.
White Note Pads abuse me and my creations. They yell at the final product, calling them ugly, silly, and stupid. The White Note Pad says, how dare you ruin me and my nice white surface with such a trivial idea. You should have approached me with an idea far more grand than this absurdity! read more…
I walked outside, into the streetlight- paint in my mouth and tears in my eyes… I have unlocked the box deep inside my mind… And spoke aloud… “I am free… My mind identified, truly it is rare to come about thee. Creativity, at last…” Outside my vision from the shadows something seemed to speak… “Well well… What do we have here? – Another creative from the depths of an unknown town… Typical…”
“What, do you dare mock me? I am simply saying, I have found the ability to create- a valuable thing indeed yes?” I spoke sure in my tone, I knew it the truth, I knew I was mostly alone- this gift that I had, I hadn’t seen it before- who speaks such lies from the shadows… “Yes yes, I’ve heard your story before-” Echoed a rhaspy voice from behind… and I soon flet his cold gaze upon me when he stepped into the light- revealing his frail old cloaked form, much as a wise sage, with long beard, an empty gaze. “Oh so many times… Yes… it is not as uncommon as you might think, no indeed- it is not rare. For you see, there are many people upon this planet- and they all posess this gift that you tout as your treasure. But indeed it is a fine treasure, only- you know that the value is not within the treasure itself yes?” I squinted at the man as he spouted these words, I trusted him for some reason- despite the cold gaze. There was something about his word that seemed to cut true…
“If all on this earth posess such wealth what truly is that value? If the world falls apart and you have the greatest amount of money, what good will it do you when all disobey the faith required within it. When you have no means of spending it, it does not matter- you are as rich as the next man without anyone putting value in your currency. So too is this creative being you are, a thing owned by so many- but you do use it yes? You have found a way in which your currency is accepted, therein lies the gift- the unique property that you own was not your creativity, your ingenuity, no- none of these trivial things- but rather… your ability to spend it.” It all seemed so clear when he said it, maybe I truly was this spender- the creativity a treasure, a currency in my pocket… But what could I buy, what should I buy? So many questions did arise, but the words kept coming from this man, this man I’m certain is wise! He seemed uninterested almost at this point, almost so hesitant, as if he seen the future for a moment and did not like it, as he turned his shoulder I grabbed him and asked kindly… “Please do continue… I must know more- there surely is more yes?” He seemed startled… Letting out a deep sigh, he began to speak…
“If you were to call what you posess valuable, what you posess must in turn have meaning within thee- not necessarily of another. With that being said, you know at the same time that it couldn’t be that if all seen value it could have none- for if they see the value within it- than you have something of value at least to others. So, we may easily fall into a trap of placing something within the view of others that they may see valuable- which does not truly hold any value, no more than a dollar in the wild without a human to appraise it. This is wherein your perception may have been skewed, you showed the world your creativity- and they valued it, but made the wrong assumption. The value put in it is intrinsically so- it is a richness we all have- that which they value needs another label- this is true, for it is the act of using your creativity that they persue. Something you can teach to them, this unlocking technique, much as a master thief to pupils. So this value through words of unlocking the chest within your mind that does keep you confined, what a word we can place that could bring happier minds a rare delight to find?” It seemed once again he had baffled me with his knowledge, but I found a great flaw inside this for some reason… and a violence grew within me as I began to think his words through… “Lock away my gift?… My creative currency?- But what for?… Just to find a word?… Why should I ruin myself so! Just give it a name and let us be through with this…” I spoke in defeat, as if his words had somehow done something to me. And they had, I did not want it to show but it did… The man cracked a smile at me- and madness seemed to overtake him as chills dashed up my spine.
“Heavens no, never!… It will not be that easy, we can not simply give you the answer, you must find that yourself. We don’t like these questions, have you given up so easily? Unlike the treasures we’ve identified within- you cannot simply ask me. For only if you stare into the abyss that the keyhole did make, can you find the answer you seek… You can try your hardest to visualize that deep black hole in your soul, for months at a time- but with fresh eyes you must see, so a conundrum you find. For you already broke the lock, the code has unwound, so maybe you need to lock it back up to know how it could be… Much as a great thief practices by locking his own food away, so too must you lock creativity… For just a moment, if you seek this answer. You cannot label this with your artist mind, cast it aside at once. And let me in- to see what’s inside… I swear, I won’t take long- I’ll wipe my shoes, I’ll sing a merry song! We’ll all be free if I can label what’s inside thee, and you can spread it to the world with clear purpose- truth unfurled!” He wanted in my head… and a terror reached over me, it clasped my body- and for a moment… I was unable to move- his hand on my head, my vision fading…
“We belong here, you and I… We belong in the depths of your mind…” His voice trailed off and at once I heard a sickening noise, a dagger into flesh- a warmth on my hand… I awoke to a horrid vision of the man bleeding before me… “Oh… That was unkind, oh so truly unkind…” – I did not know what to do… his voice that had once rang true brought madness upon me…
I have so many questions.. but with blood on my hands I must flee now… I know it is wrong, but I must escape somehow, this must all be a dream- please let this be a dream!
A group of Portsmouth art students start doing art together on a regular basis because someone told them they could be creative. Their instructor passes just as the class naturally does after a full semester. This abrupt end seemed to them, premature.
It was up to C*MAR now to be the creative drivers. C*MAR was a made up entity. Enough people suddenly began claiming it was real, so it took on some kind of physical existence.
C*MAR always itched and scratched to create, create, create. It would often lash out in great, laborious rants of king sized sharpie marker. It would, with great anger, paint a surface to the brink of death. This would happen with any surface C*MAR was either obligated or desiring to consume.
Perhaps most disturbing about that C*MAR, was its’ purposelessness flailing about in everything it did. It would churn and create magnificent horrors for weeks, or months on end with no concrete objective. There was no monetary incentive, to perspective, no consideration for its own well being, no mercy….It created because that’s all it knew how to do, all it wanted to do, and all it could do. If C*MAR were able to be honest with itself, it knew this to be true.
C*MAR was questioned by many and appreciated by a few and misunderstood by more yet (not that there was anything to be understood in the first place). C*MAR would just DO, and their was an odd satisfaction to be found in the recklessness. Some would call it, chaos.
I suppose if C*MAR could give an account of itself it might say something of the following: “ I am an estranged result of 4 individuals who should have never become friends. We felt the need to compulsively create our lives as in as much that wasn’t already determined. We suffered in our creation sometimes. All in All, we enjoyed an early phase of artistic endeavor not soon to be forgotten.
Now that I have grown I realize that I, C*MAR, was never meant to last. Rather, I was meant to expand and mature for something better. My full name, ‘Creative Minds Are Rare,’ has a pretension about it that I cannot elude, though I’ve tried.
Once I saw this glaring contradiction in who we were and who we wanted to be, it haunted me. So which is it C*MAR, my good chap? Will you encourage everyone to be creative in their own right? Or…..are creative minds truly rare, few, and hard to come by? Are we Elitists at heart? Do we attempt to crush the attempts of others to create for the sake of our own exclusivity and ego?
No, This is not how C*MAR will be remembered. Creative minds are not as rare as we all think. We need not flatter ourselves with such an assertive truism. IF SOMEONE has but the slightest inkling of creative potential, who are we to discouage that? Why not nurture and encourage instead?
So C*MAR, realizing the task at hand, amended it’s name to the equally as ambiguous, ‘Creative Cult Lives LLC.’ In the spirit of teaching creativity to all who would lend an ear, their time, and their hands.
It was quickly realized that this new thing was far better than before. Out with the old, in with the new. To build, not destroy. To kindle, not extinguish. To include, not deny.
C*MAR is indeed dead, but the Creative Cult Lives, for you.
I have a somewhat short one today, but ya know… Just- Uh… Take what you can get right?…
If only if only those mean voices would stop, those emotions would flop- the eyes would drop, their brains would open, my vision be clear!- Open your eyes people, my brilliance- it is here! Do not be fooled by misplaced technical mishaps, do not be fooled by your misunderstandings. Like a knife in my back if you cannot see what I make so clear, like writing on the wall- may the different language be read, please oh please! To slay the voices in my head….
We have to let eyes see work, we have to see value in all- for if not we do injustice towards reflections by mistreating them all. If they are not seen as equal in parts we disobey the lowest and highest ends of the spectrum. For it is they who understand better than most that there is a message to be read and analysed in every stroke of the brush, and even the most off-putting of work has an intrinsic value due simply to it’s existence even if it seeks to deny others of their own. Even if the piece is created to spite those who read its message, or in complete try to break those who see it glancing by. It is important that we destroy our friends dreams, it is important to build them up, it is important to speak to what you see and not to lie. For if you lie, you offer less than any passerby could offer. You may have your heart in the right place, but it lets out only sludge when your mouth remains zipped or you speak of a piece that does not exist. Either way you are saying the equivalence of nothing. Even if you must say it alone, by yourself, in a room devoid of sound you must offer your honest thought to the air- to yourself at the very least.
This is what I’m trying to say really, criticism is important- the artist may not understand this, so start there… Tell them what they need to hear but let them know that you are creeping in to their mind- let them know the value of criticism before it is ever offered, encourage them as best you can to create, and if they cannot hear your knowledge- that may very well be a shame- but that knowledge is still important for those who can hear it- and most importantly for thyself. For if it is you that understand the writing on the wall and wish to correct its posture in your head- you can finally construct these things aloud- these structures- these ramblings to become a building- a monument to what you understand- or what they do not. Take passion from these words you have to say, if you have to keep them inside, plant them in the ground inside your mind- the artist has given you a gift, even if you cannot give it back to them, even if they have their ears melted shut, plant that seed of knowledge in your head, nurture it propery and let it become the writing proper, clear enough to impart knowledge on another. As with the horrors in my previous writings who saught to take over the world, so too do we wish this virus like effect with our art, become infectious by using the passion found within every piece of art that you read and digest. Because the digestion of information is an extremely important part of this meal of art- wherein we dine upon the cadmium red.
So let yourself know what you need to know, if not for the artist to hear- let it be properly digested in your head. Imagine fully their vision- as clear as you can- and build from that a wonderland, because if this construction can become clear- you can achieve the greatness of every wonder you see. Put good within you, devour it alive- and what you release may be able to reflect this.
Digest properly the writing of the painters masterpiece.
See fields within musical landscapes.
Hear the angelic melodies of the written words.
And feel every emotion they offer, magnified from within- explode it outwardly in whatever way you can. Digest it all, put the good inside your soul so that you may dump it back out for the rest to digest. As a mother bird to her children, let the artist chew and spit into your mouth even indirectly.
Was that clear enough?…
I think that was clear enough…. – Enjoy.
We Need Your Hands
we need your hands
you may be hesitant to take a chance
truth is you should be
it’s a frightful world of many deaths
we need your hands
for we’d be lying if we said we didn’t
you gave us ours, a few with extra fingers
you let us feel a measure of success
we need your hands
to make it over a wall of dead wolves
they’re wearing shirts that read “loners”
if only they’d found it, a helping hand
we need your hands
to know that what the c*ult has is real
without them our arm is shortened
without them, we can’t pick a flower in passing
we need your hands
i might go far enough to say / you need ours too
isolation is a sick trick / it hides in your head-attic
don’t believe its convincing ego claiming independence
or hands help
or hands destroy
imagine, many hands
high – 5ing
hand in hand
Creative C*ult Lives.
5 days from Cult V.
March 28th 9 (8p-9p)
At the Portsmouth Brewery
I was a beholder at that point in time, with my eyes open and the sea parting I could finally bare witness to her. I am uncertain about the particular situation now that I attempt to recall it. The texture of the sand on that beach so course and rough, the water- possibly murky, maybe signs of death or life at the newly opened ocean floor. All sort of blurred when she came into sight, I told myself that it could not have been but even her face now seems gone- as I attempt to recall the details I find myself met with a deep and searing pain that burns symbols into my mind. Two eyes, a nose, a pair of lips, locks of hair- symbolized and burned into the gray matter within my skull to the point where boiling blood leaked out my nose and smoke reeking of seered meat leapt from my ears… I understood slowly what should come to pass- but that woman I seen now daily with blurred face, obscurity seemed to warp my life and the consequences of’t now laid my scarred mind to waste. Obsession and obscurity tend not well to mix, chasing after blurred figures will inevitably lead to failure, this much I know- for when it comes into focus… The true sight, sound, taste… it all becomes one out of obscurity- it becomes real. But I suppose it is the unknown of those which make the appeal to my reason go flying out the window so swiftly.
The events of this began to consume me the next month or two, I recall distinctly times wherein I would crawl up muddy slopes in terrible storms simply to weep in the dark- blanketed by the obscurity it provided- I felt a sense of warmth there even as I wept, for I understood I took the place of an obscure figure when I did- and it seemed to be all I wished for myself. Obscurity, obsession- lacking that blurred posession, so often cold except in terrible rain which drenched me to the bone and made my eyes swollen and sore- . What was more distinct than this warmth among the cold was the mirror when I returned home… Something was off, something was wrong- my hair fell flatter on the sides of my head… I lifted my hair to find lumps of blurred flesh had replaced my ears- I did not make note of it at the time.. but their peculiar blurriness was so obviously a sign. I should have sought help at this moment but I did not…
I went on for a week with these flesh clumps obscuring my ears, it seemed that songs were sweeter, that men spoke softly, and women dull- without any sharpness in their tongues. It was so oddly comforting in that week, that warmness seemed to envelop me wherever I went… It did not then seem odd to me when the rest of my body began to follow, my mouth did a night when I tried drinking myself under the table. I passed out and awoke with tongue and lips blurred and melted as the ear holes on the side of my head had once done. I was punched hard by a man in black on a hill to the west- and though it felt broken my nose suddenly joined in bluring so that the richest of flavors soon became available through the melted combination my mouth and nose had to offer. It was at this point when all at once the figure in the mirror I was became so clear to me, only in obscurity, only in this obsession with the blur. I knew now when my senses had come to me that my eyes must go next- but how was I to do this. I walked to the sea in hopes the answer would come to me as the woman did that day which seemed now so long ago.
I began to walk, one foot afront the other toward and into the cold water the sea had to offer me- at first it felt so chilling as to impede my speed- so thick and filled with trash to make each step a slushing sloshing slog through thick mud like substance- but again- as with the blurred pieces my body was becoming- all at once the water gave way, it became easier to walk. As if taking a sunday stroll now my body began to sink heavy and walk the floor along the trenches it offered as if it was anything else… I could sense a pressure building up in my head, my eye sockets in particular, I tried to keep the lids closed- but the pressure soon became unbearable… the salted sea water cut at my corneas until my eyes were less than poorly peeled hard boiled eggs with the cuts they collected. Like a dogs chew toy, the marks pelted the orbs of my eyes till the flesh was sealed by some great force within me… I felt all a blur and my mind soon gave way to pure obscurity- I could feel my insides melding and morphing as I walked that floor- I sensed the greatest of creatures about me as distant lands soon became home.
A thousand eyes I felt gazing at me all at once, through the ocean- only to see a blurred figure. A thousand eyes seen lies that day which would haunt them and turn them on my path, to obsessive obscurity- to the depths of the ocean- where their comfort would be with other blurred souls who had become obsessive not for thee, but because of thy crisp and vivid life- what they were not or could not be now was suddenly the only desire. The blurred man wished for the blurred woman until he had her, and now only saught someone so vivid- but those vivid the blurred man called would only join him at the bottom of the ocean when it was them who had blurred themselves. The obsessive obscurity was a plague upon the people who now lived in that ocean, forever tasting all greatness in all senses they could not help but to imagine a life in which obscurity through great happiness was not striken them like a plgaue. They wished for turmoil in their paradise, but it would never come- for underneath those pressures only blurred creatures could survive.
To My Dearest Martha,
There’s a place in the midwest of the New World. It’s known as the Buck’s Eye. Within its’ Southern most boarder lies a sleeping, stumbling, place. A city that was once great. Business goes about as usual for many, for the jewelers, merchants, eateries, insurance agents and gypsy shops. The store fronts are historic and repurposed, with everyone making the best of what they’ve got.
As much good as there is in the land, there are great sinking patches of evil. Off the road a good ways the shacks and villages have degenerated. The landscaped has shriveled. There’s a common feeling of sickness about. The cold and flux of weather weary the traveler through. I’ve taken but a moment to relay this story to you, my dearest Martha, for I feel that I have something real to share. I’ve seen a few instances that’ve given me quite a scare.
For but a moment I wandered off the beaten path and found myself walking along a reserve. The power of the land must have given its inhabitants means to live. Each house and yard was mirrored to its neighbor. The governing power may have done what was in their jurisdiction to do to help these inhabitants. For the governing body of any realm means well and provides to a point, to its obligation and duty at the least. Perhaps each member of that body means well my dear Marsha, but there is still a hinderance. The individual parts of the body form a new organism, that thinks and breaths for itself. Again, perhaps each person that makes up this new organism means well, and does what they can as either the hand or foot or the knee. However, this moving giant created a treacherous environment for these already wounded creatures to reside.
The governing monster did its’ best to feed and clothe the hungry, for as they would do to the least of these they were doing to the good Lord. The creatures did not respond in the manner expected. They only saw the crushing force of the governing body, and not its’ caring hands. They remember it for the death it nearly caused them, and never for its kind discipline or giving support. So they hiss at it, and chuck stones and fight. I pitied these people, for they are cats with bloodied tails. They hide back and lick themselves, frightened and acting accordingly.
All the while I’d been thinking though this dynamic, I’d stumbled upon a new place. A wooded valley lay ahead of me, but I needed to get back to the road again, so I thought it best to plunge through this place. Marsha, I now regret such a rash decision. It was stupid of me to have such adventurous zeal, perhaps that is just the naivety of a new traveler in me, or my own dullness. Regardless, I do not want you to fret about my safety, for clearly I am writing this letter to you now, and I must tell you what I’ve seen lest I lose the heart to do so upon my return.
There were houses in the valley. They were scattered about in the low of the valley, but the majority where on the ridges of the valley. They were not tidy houses. The landscape was overtaking them. Vines and Ivy ran up the sides of the house. Each house took on a grayness with discolored green growths. It would have been impossible to tell whether or not they were inhabited, had there not been scattered yellow luminance shining from a few of the windows. I came upon the oddest of camps I have ever seen. There was an array of furniture. Leaves where swept away from forest floor to fit in the new vacancy a set of matching victorian furniture. The complete set of furniture had a floral pattern. There was a Love seat, A full size couch, a chair, dining table, lamps, rugs, and……my eye caught the back of the tall arm chair. Someone was sitting in it. Just….out in the middle of the woods….. Sitting. Within an imaginary floor plan. I could see only his grey hair and his proper top hat. Hello? I beckoned in what I’m sure was a frightful sounding hello. He had heard me and started a little. His ear turned to me, then he stood and smiled.
The gentleman I saw was Tall, Pale and very thin. Wearing a white T-shirt with overalls attached to his black slacks. It could not have been more than 30 degrees outside. When we talked, our breath was clearly visible. I asked him what he was doing, and if he was cold. He told me he was waiting on a friend to join him for some conversation, half insinuated that I could be that friend If I wished. Given the unsettling circumstance of our greeting, I insisted I had to be on my way. I then asked If he knew the way to the main road. He said,”The 52!” Yes sir, I replied, the 52. “Well right this way!” He sprung into action and began up the hill to the top of the ridge. If I hadn’t been attentive, I might have lost him, for he was moving very fast. He was so thin that he seemed almost to slither around and over each tree and log like a fluid. His coordination and lightness was an amazing site to behold, still, I had no bearing on weather or not my ally was for the good.
We stopped short of a house with an unscalable looking gate. This snake-like man who had brought me thus far instructed me with the following. “You must go through the house, be calm as a cat and quick as a mouse. Do all that you can not to linger, with all of your might. Fight to walk straight through, and you’ll conquer the night.” I thanked the man for his kindness, thought I was not sure of his good intentions, and he turned to leave.
The night was set it. I realized at this moment how trapped I truly was. In the dark woods, with only the light from the house’s window to see by. In uncharted territory. The ambient growls and barks of the night forced my foot toward the house. I went to knock, and as my hand hit the door it swung open. I stepped in as quietly as I could. The smell was unbearable, and the hall dimly lit. Many creatures resided inside, of that I was sure. I stepped immediately into the kitchen, still unable to call for whatever horror was to lead me to the road, or instead attack me in this foreign land.
The countertops where stacked high with every kind of trash and dish and decaying food. Each layer had been melded together by the fungus and coloration of filth. An overflowing 50 gallon trashcan full of coffee grounds. A sputtering fridge. The blacked hard wood was perhaps the cleanest of all surfaces or spare space . The decaying food had invited legions of forest floor dwellers onto the walls and ceilings. All I could think of in that moment was of your tidy little kitchen. Oh Marsha, how I longed in the depth of that discomfort for your quite little cottage. Whatever assailant awaited me, I knew I had to face it. I knew not my way through the house, but as I stepped quietly a little further, I could see what looked like an exit through a storm door at the end of several more rooms. I bumped a loose pan off the table in my clumsiness. My heart sank, for in the quiet that pan might as well have been a half stick of dynamite.
My heart sank. The woman’s voice cried out from somewhere I could not discern in a shriek. “WHO’S THERE?! WHO’S THERE?!” I ran Martha, praying my heart did not stop me dead, toward the door in my site. The filth around me began to move toward me. Each door opened, revealing more filth and creatures and horrors. The furniture all was being dragged toward the kitchen I had begun in. I stumbled and this furniture took me back with it. I could hear the sound of chains, and rattling hardware. My senses where sharped by fear. Each second extended to 20 seconds. My legs where swept out by an ottoman and I landed facing the kitchen in a damp sofa.
The woman continued to scream profanities and demanded that I leave or die. I knew now where the voice came. The cabinets under the kitchen sink where blown off to reveal a massive woman cut into the floorboards. Her folds of skin spilled out now of every cabinet. She was a part of the house now. Her legs where under the house. Her arms where somewhere in the mass of flesh pointing and accusing me as an intruder to her sanctuary. Chains were attatched to great winches and she used he supernatural strength, winding all the possessions of the house into her like a great black widow spider.
My shock nearly led to death before I fought back. Meaning, I got up and ran, and became as a swift mouse, squeezing and clawing my way through anything that would not crush me. All fear of filth or health in rolling through such diseased trash left me as my life took priority. I made my way to the door and ran it through. Falling down the steps of the back porch and rolling down the steep downhill that had so unpredictably awaited me.
I stood as quickly as I had fallen and began to run, feeling my arms and legs where not broken or bleeding, I took heart that I had succeeded and ran through the clearing. I could see the road ahead with scattered travelers and carriages. Glancing back to the top of the ridge, I could not see any longer where my life had nearly ended, and I took heart to know that I had been delivered by more that luck.
I am protected Marsha, as I know you will continue to pray. The journey is long, and the people are in darkness, I must press on to the city of the King.
Thomas William Pennysworth.
I really should go….
But baby, it’s death outside!
My skin is cold like a dead fish, and the air is filled with chemicals- good ones that rejuvenate my soul, they make my heart anew my brain fills up with fresh blood as the body contracts new business from the other side of town, the bad side- the side that hates your skin.
I don’t like to say it, but if they don’t want to hear it- it must be that I needed to say it all along. Or at least that’s what the voices at the bottom of the can are telling me, like a fridge when I finish the last bite it echoes a further chill down my spine. Oh, no no no- This cannot be, that the freeze would come to me after my food depletes!
No more can I take this chill, from the lack of food- from the cuts on my tongue, the empty can- and now the air in my lungs. It chills my blood, and I lose sight of what is true, and that truth is that I do not know a thing at all or… Perhaps more accurately the truth is that there never was a truth, never has been a truth, there is only a series of probable guesses that leads us to an eternity imprisoned inside of a vessel of hate- bringing fires in eyes that can no longer be seen at this distance. Like ants crawling on my skin- I see them in the distance and feel their boot-prints as they step down that mountain, I see no eyes at this distance but I know they burn with a glowing white hot hate for the truth is all that they have seen and yet it is well known that the truth cannot be found on this plane of existence. Maybe it can, maybe it has been, maybe we are wrong- is it wrong to doubt we were ever? Maybe it is only the critical assertions that have been right, or maybe those believed to be set in stone long ago, or perhaps neither was ever an inkling of correct. Oh no, my can, my food, my mind, my heart, my lungs- all emanating cold dead life in this world. I dig a great hole only for my head, a great cavernous hole – I sink my head into that cold deep hole. I can feel it now, some new knowledge flowing up, from the bottom of that deep dirt hole I made, my neck contorted but my food all gone. It is here I was truly meant to lay to rest, perhaps in death the truth cannot find me. I rot, I sink, I multiply, I divide, and I decay. The worms eat me dead, and I become one with the dirt but the nerves in my system grow from my brain like the seed sprouting from a long ancient seed as it finds itself separate from my body into that hole- it falls- necromancers could not bring this shell of life to breathe again. But then again, if it was not that I could belong and that my brain was the seed to a mighty tree, why do the boots still make prints on this mind, I no longer see their hate, I only see the slight luminescence of their existence.
They don’t find themselves very interesting, and that was very true for me too- I found nothing interesting in what they did. It is only now when I have become completely one with the ground that I have finally found that I belong- and that none of them truly do exist. None of them exist, and that was the truth all along, it was only that I became the feeling living being atop a mountain of flesh that I finally bled real knowledge from my wounds- I did not see it before, but every bit that I bleed from my skin had some sort of grain of truth in it, or rather- lies within. I bled as a human long before, but it was black and cold- It was hungry and dead. Oh no, no- I hated it all so much that my brain would only become living now, when I could not move, but I could think so deeply- I could see so clearly from the eyes on my bark- forming the rings on the inside, each notch another dictionary- another glossary- bolstered with newfound knowledge and failing to find that any singular person was able to be away and dead from any of my beings. No no no, no no no! Oh why can I not taste in this newfound form, why can I not cut myself to bleed the knowledge, why can I not cut my friends to make the knowledge lesser than the funds that I was making. It was not that I could find something more or less than any other being, it was not that I could find anything that was greater than any individual being. No more could one become a greater ascension made of flesh than they could in death, only with a carefully planted brain could you exist again as a tree of knowledge on earth. Leave behind nothing but a stain of blood as you bury your head in the ground- like an ostrich and hide from all things that kept you down. I tried to bear fruit of knowledge on my death, I stand unwittingly as a pillar of it, I grow unbearably from a pillar of it- my fruit becomes poison to them. But to my joy, oh yes!- To my joy, they bleed true shades of red and nothing of black they don’t radiate heat- they do not radiate a thing- but it is okay, for the truth they see- even if my fruit is poison they can come and join me.
Join me now to see, my fruits of poison hanging from this tree I planted from the dead rotting head of mine which collapsed inward after starvation. Come partake in this fruit, these apples with eyes, pairs covered in hair, oranges filled with teeth, watermelon with various internal organs- take all and any within to bleed the true red from the flesh outside into the open- so full of vitriol and hate that it keeps you up at night. The truth so full of fear and disgust, so full of hate and regret from the moment you bight it that you can’t help but bleed in your true colors!
From this I will grow a forest of knowledge, a world covered in my poisonous fruit to finally become one in knowledge. They call me a plague, they curse and try to burn- but even in fumes I become airborne- I take root in lungs and rip brain from inside out, my trees will grown on your buildings, your cars, your lawns- your pets, you loved ones- the tree grows wherever a brain exists- and like a plague all become enlightened by one truth- the truth that color has taught me as color only could.
The truth we all bleed red, and we all see clearest when we all are dead.
My friends need to stop putting these weird ideas in my head about dying and growing into a tree of truth. I don’t want to die, just to test your theory.
June loves you, but the C*ult doesn’t, those shady people are going to say weird stuff about planting your head in the ground and eating poison apples- . June doesn’t condone any of that C*ult behavior.
Winchester the ugly pug found himself running another errand into the unknown. He was used to these situations no doubt. The shuffle of back and forth. The ebb and flow of travel to work to fellowship to travel again. It was a never ceasing effort to move forward. Winchester abhorred the thought of stagnation. His justification for the back in forth quality of his life was that, perhaps it was better to physically move, rather than not to move. Moving has the connotation of progress and opportunity and energy. Not doing so seemed…wrong. It, at least, was not right for him.
Necessity provoked Winchester to the feeling of solitary travel. He knew his own great ugliness, and was often unsettled by it. But on his mornings travels he would see the great beauty of the surrounding landscape, and it would lift his spirits out of the mire. Winchester as a dog, is limited in his rational ability. He had enough consciousness about him to recognize this near…thankfulness…to whatever goodness allowed him such a wonderful morning. He could not be down trodden for the sun reflected off the the greenery he came across with sensual intensity. Colors, sounds, smells, all were as a breath of fresh air in his little wheezing pug lungs. His 4 legs carried him with a welcomed burn of a traveler. Sometimes he found himself so excited that he would ever let out a short bark of gratitude. How silly he must have looked, barking and enjoying so cliche a moment in life.
A slug crossed the path of Winchester up a little ways further on the road. He started back and nearly jumped at the site of this oddity, for he had never see a slug. Waves of reflective emotion washed over Winchester in a welcomed fit of introspectiveness. I see this great creature, he must of been thinking, and must ask…what makes it go? Of course, it’s green muscle and nature, not too much different from myself. But, what of it’s will? Where does it go, how does it go, and why does it go?
Winchester thought of the many good things surrounding him , and he could not help buy ask why? As many pugs have done before him. Winchester did not feel as ugly in light of it all.
Let’s talk about something else…
There is a time and place for everything, and yet- even knowing this we all find time for nothing. If it is true that everything does indeed have a time and place it is incredibly unlikely that nothing would be so prevalent in the day to day. However, it is more often than not that we live in a state where nothing is what we desire above the rest. Even those who own more than everything will look to their possessions wishing only themselves to be nothing. As if a lack of existence can somehow elevate themselves to a greater plane of happiness. It is not right for me to say how and why these creatures come to exist, or even propose that you might be one of them. I am only here to take an analysis of the nothing that is commonly desired among those who have, rather than the everything desired by those have nots.
What exactly is it to be in a state of nothing? Well, I think it is more accurate to call this state of nothing, a lame state of everything- for that is more or less what it is. What those wanting out of life at a higher tier of worth desire isn’t rightly that their possessions should evaporate, but that they should be left alone with their possessions. It is as if they wish olden times upon themselves, to be buried with their treasures dead to the world and appreciated as much as the tombs of Pharaohs. How exactly this thought enters the mind is unknown, perhaps it is after longing for something so long that once it comes into contact with their flesh their mind becomes numb. It is the expectation that nothing would ever be achieve that causes the mind to depart, that desires nothing more after that something than their lives to be enveloped by their achievement. It is at that height of existence for them that petty distractions such as those intended to better their skill become a plague, as much as those who would distract them with social interactions and the liking’s of these.
I know not what has become of myself in this situation, I know no what I have and feel for nothing, but I know it is only a lie that I possess which tells me nothing is felt- for self improvement has met me even in this state of nothing. My brain has twisted and developed tentacles in this state, a lack of oxygen met it when I pumped it full of various drugs. I am the fool, a trickster tricking my brain into believing it is something that it is not. Into believing I am something that I am not, whilst my body withers away into nothing. When you avoid handles as if they were poison and sunlight like critics gaze, you become but a pastry inside rotting till expiration date. What should this pastry want but to be eaten alive and tormented apart by demons tongues and teeth- . Oh? Oh my it is true, we all desire this death when the sunlight touches us as much as our physically manifested desires. Ah, if only my mind had eyes to see the empty insides of my skull, I could let in the blood in that organ and my tentacles out my nose- to feel for a better reality. To crawl out in the sun and manifest desire down the line, in a place the inside of my skull could never perceive- a place beyond this dimensional plane. What is it that makes me desire something outside of everything which exists.
It is nothing that makes me desire something, and something which makes me desire nothing- I wish you all to come together to form the nothing I’ve always wanted to be so that my passionate desires for everything can come over me again. Don’t let my soul become pastry- don’t let the demons eat me alive, I wish to live in the sun- whilst desiring everything- my desires to become nothing.
Please understand- do not misconstrue, it is not a sick desire to rot away in death I wish. I wish only to be as light as gas in solid desire as wood- floating along the river to a better reality. We all want that too, I can see it in you- whether it is everything or nothing, or it is both. I know that you want it, that’s why you ever woke up. And if you didn’t, I only wish that you find something that we seekers cannot.
Forever seek and don’t exist, let the c*ultist blood flow through you and keep our love closer than your mothers. xoxoxoxo
When I grow up I want to be a cartoonist.
When I grow up my cartoons will be the looniest.
W.I.G.U. – I’ll make things like my dad.
W.I.G.U. – I’ll be happy. I won’t be sad.
W.I.G.U – I should start my own business.
W.I.G.U – I’ll be strong enough to begin this.
W.I.G.U. – I’ll live in a cool place with cool people.
W.I.G.U. – I’ll be wise as the church’s steeple.
When I grew up, I had to get a job.
When I grew up, It felt like I’d been robbed.
When I grew up, I didn’t anticipate difficulty.
When I grew up, no one cared to warn me.
When I grew up, I settled for the average life.
When I grew up, what’s so special bout any night?
When I grew up, I forgot what I wanted to be.
When I grew up, I looked in the mirror and it wasn’t me.
Dang man! That’s some depressing stuff right there! I mean gosh darn it….hmmmmph. I mean in my opinion man, we all are where we are at by necessity man, that’s just the way it is man. But dang this dude has a point too, I mean, I don’t really entertain anything that made me happy as a kid man. I heard like, that generally speaking and stuff, doing things you liked doing as a kid can be a happy thing sometimes man. I could do that man. Maybe I’ll break out the pad and the pen and start doing some cartoons, yeah, even If i don’t show anyone at first. By man, man, if it makes me feel more like me then heck why not you know? First some breakfast though for real I’m die-in bro!
Multiple Personality Disorder is not a joke.
I don’t have it or anything like, it’s all good…..man.
With love, Creative C*ult.
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Failing to find a place of rest I continued to walk forward, just another step towards where home could have been. The rain had no mercy upon me in this day, it seemed content to slow me down. Giving thought to it sincerely, I’d never truly imagined it would have come down to this- that I’d be walking there again, towards the unknown- exposed to all elements. I carried very little with me, just what I could drag through the mud, a few precious possessions which seemed less and less to mean anything as I walked. Perhaps it was the mysterious call I heard once long ago that drove me so many miles south, countless hours, days, months- spent getting me to this position just to see a sight I’ve seen before. Something felt different, a sense of wonder lost perhaps? I had seen this creature before, this place- it moved constantly, shifting as quickly as my desire- or the tides for the worse when ironic questions are asked. Something clouded my memory slightly, associating feelings of warmth with a creature I could no longer properly envision. I could not properly say whether it was fear of a lack of that warmth, or sheer curiosity that kept me walking towards shelter- maybe it was just the rain, just the cold.
I had hoped many days that this was not the case, that I could potentially seek a place without a need, without my own desire clouding my vision. However, it seemed that the closer I got to my home- the more obscure it became. Much like any mirage in a vast desert, there was something up ahead- through these sheets of rain that fell- a massive figure creating an outline in the distance. This must be it. I tugged on my string to bring it forward, the sack I had been carrying- I realized after a short tug that it felt extremely light- as if something had snapped. Upon further inspection, turning around- clenching the string betwixt my fingers- I realized that I had lost my possessions long ago- some sort of phantom weight had been giving me this illusion of weight as I walked all this way, I couldn’t quite place my finger upon it- but I felt as if that burden left me at that moment, as if suddenly the weight of my past were cut away- and simply realizing that loss lifted some limiter away from my body. That pleasure was short lived as I turned once more to the outline of shelter, that creature of home- which stood so menacingly within closing obscurity. I closed my eyes and wished it would leave me, the desire for warmth- the desire for shelter- that the rain would stop pelting me- that I did not need a roof. But before I could consider this further my hand was upon the door- a chill shot up my spine as the freezing metal clung to my skin.
I felt warm for the first time in ages.
That was all I could remember- a warmth- I was touching that door… And some sort of drug, some sort of mirage, it was gone- all feelings left, all hopes replaced by weight. I tried to pull my string forward to inspect its cut, to perhaps see further what may have severed my ties to that personal weight- that I might lift this weight from inside- only to find that I was dragging my possessions again. The clouds were heavy with precipitation- it seemed the cycle was set to repeat, I looked behind me to see the figure I was leaving, that shelter I knew I could not return to- all warmth had left me- expansion, contraction- freezing and thawing. I was left a puddle- here I crawl again forward, to chase that feeling once more, that warmth ever evasive. If only for a moment- my bones could remember that warmth- and maybe some day they will, to put themselves to rest in comfort- to remove them from this shell that obscures me.
Don’t take it too personally, it was never meant to be. Your home is with us now. Become a part of our mass- become a part of our soul.
The Creative C*ult lives….
There came a month for that ugly little dog Winchester where he was particularly down on his luck. Not that he was ever seriously lucky by any means. But in this particular week things really hit the fan, you might say.
Winchester did what he could do for work. Luckily, the base of his commissions came through email without any substantial back and forth with the client. This was of large advantage to Winchester. For then he would not have to reveal his hideous ugliness. He could do remote work from his little 2nd story loft area, deep within the recesses of a nowhere town, where things seldom happen and where there is little likelihood that anyone would find him. For if they would, they would almost certainly retract their proposal for work off observation of Winchester’s most apparent ugliness.
This work came in seasons and would suddenly, for seemingly no reason in all the world, would come to a screeching halt. Then Winchester would be left with the haunting of only his thoughts and prospective opportunities. This nearly drove him mad for weeks on end. He came to this very strange place of an abundance of prospective work floating about in emails, phone calls, messages and what not, but when it came time for actually getting paid, he fell short. This was indeed incredibly frustrating for Winchester, but he had to find a way. For there is always a way.
You see winchester was no stranger to this kind of abuse. While working straight jobs with a 9-5 pattern of hours, he experienced a similar feeling of fatigue and oppression as in freelancing. In the circumstance of working for others he was consistently paid for his labors without a thought, and his mind was at ease in this regard. Although his was paid he felt captured, condemned to the pace of 5 days a week, then two days off + holidays. On the clock sort of obligation. Lethargic mindlessness after every 12:00 lunch, and the come down from the weekend every Monday morning. Winchester knew that this was not the case for every worker, but in his particular case, he could not shake this feeling of entrapment.
On the contrary, while Winchester is now in full control of his source of income and his career path, and his time, he now finds himself in limbo over payment (consistent payment at least). What a predicament I find myself in, he was probably thinking, sitting about in his work loft twiddling his paws. Oh wouldn’t it be dandy to revisit that hourly wage with its hourly security,he fancied for but a moment before he burst forth, BUT NAY! I have seen far too much of the goodness on the flip side of the coin. Even if I am to have 30 bad days where I am scrambling and scraping by, that 1 good day is a powerful reminder to me that something is worthwhile about all this. AND MOREOVER, what an insult to this faith of mine that I might be thwarted by a few dry spells! GOOD SCOTT! I MUST PRESS ON….
So while little was flowing him in terms of ‘work’, Winchester sharpened his dog-like skills as preparation. He would exercise every muscle of his ugly dog body and mind. Reading, studying, researching every facet of his craft to be as a lion in wait for that unsuspecting human who would wave a bone in front of his face again. They would offer this work unknowing that he had been mediating on the chance, and chomping at the bit, truely lying in wait, burdened and fueled further by ever day that passed. That ugly dog Winchester would live to die another day.
OH HOW UNSUSPECTING ARE THE HUMAN COMMISSIONERS! Winchester thought to himself as he sharpened his vision and honed his handy-work . They will come to me with a problem begging to be solved, burned once before by a dog just like myself, or unsatisfied by the unqualified. But I will be ready. With time on my side, a clear mind, and an empty stomach. I’ll have something for them….
Stay vigilant for that opportunity friends.
With love, Creative C*ULT.
I just wanted to post a quick and strange idea that I’d come across after reflecting upon the events of the past four creative cults and their contrast with our artistic endeavors in the past and even currently.
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, C*MAR used to exist as a clothing line, whilst simultaneously attempting to promote themselves individually as artists. This seems like a bit of a distant past but there was a time when we were all creative monsters of our own, we would stay up extremely late working on paintings with spraypaint and markers, throwing ourselves at numerous canvases in an attempt to convey something that was very personal to ourselves. And eventually we came to a point where we were more or less comfortable with this existence, we were always seeking out ways to drag more people to the shows that we were holding but it seemed like we achieved decent turnouts most nights. I’m not sure specifically at what point it was that we learned we couldn’t do it anymore. It was probably shortly after graduation. I mean, it wasn’t that we couldn’t do it, but that we’d done it as hard as we really could have with the angle we were attacking. We needed something new.
The creative cult was born, the idea was to teach people how to be us. More or less, or better than us at least. I personally had complained about my own shortcomings when it came to inhibitors too my creativity, and I seen it around me a lot. There were times where I would be trying to create and people would be flailing around- making lots of noise, having fun- being general distractions. And I knew there were times when I was making lots of those distractions for other people as well. And it brought me to this point of awareness. That we all fall into these various pitfalls of creative imbalance, and that we all need little spontaneous outlets. Sometimes our mind has to conjure something ridiculous, and send it screaming down the rails of our trains of thought straight into a wall of messy visuals.
That’s not really what I came here to say though, I just wanted to say that- we were painting, drawing, and throwing ourselves at canvases to make art. And now that we work with minds, we have ventured into a new medium. Not only is there art being made not by our hands at our “art shows” but they are made through prompts given by us. We don’t have much control other than the words we give. And a lot of the drawings are born entirely of the individuals that collect at our cult meetings. But there is something very special about the whole scene that speaks to me as an artist. Like the whole event is it’s own individual art piece to be appreciated. The people are the paint, we simply use a few words- and let the paint run into the picture on its own. It’s strange.
I like to imagine us all growing old and attempting to recreate this feeling by screaming at bottles of paint, hoping that chaotic personalized pictures flow forth from the mess of orders being commanded.
I know of course that there aren’t many elements of truth to this. And this isn’t really an official write up of any sorts either. I just felt the need to share a bit of my own abstract thought upon the events recently encompassing the cult- and cmar. The group.
We live. Stay thirsty my friends. W/Love- Creative Cult **
There’s a call coming from down the street. It beckons come to me come to me for in here lies the secrets of creativity. Many have heard and few have chosen to walk through the gate that is quickly closing.
But nay, the opportunity always lies within, to excuse yourself and be amongst kin of the broadest art that never claims fin. So friend, wont you, wont you begin?
Riddles are fancy, riddles are nice. The trouble is you missed the point twice, and still yet you read on. How admirable or stubborn are you good reader!
Let me be plain with you then:
The Creative C*ULT lives. It goes from place to place every month, to whomever will house it. The leaders pop up at these places, armed with a creative charisma and the willingness to teach. For an hour they pour themselves out to their participants. Together we all learn how to do and think creatively. We learn how people can work together to create things. We learn how, naturally, human beings can accomplish something significant and new if only someone or something would bring them together to accomplish it. The C*ULT looks back on its adventure of the night and talks about it together, seeing what changed for the better, and seeing how far we’ve come. There are no negative criticisms because in those times together we realize that we are all grow and pushing. We see faces of new and old in the room and find that we relate on one principle: We’re at the Creative C*ULT. If you’re at the Creative C*ULT you must be cool because you came and participated and only adventurous risk-takers, or the unknowing would come to something like this. In turn, community forms, and we all begin to appreciate the efforts of one another. The Creative C*ULT changes you. It teaches you to make something from nothing. It grows the imagination. It teaches you expression. Finally, you are teaching us. Thank you friends. See you soon.
The upcoming C*ULT gathering is this Tuesday. Feb 21st (8p-9p) @ the PORT CITY CAFE AND PUB.
I have forgotten how to write anything that isn’t sarcastic, that isn’t peppered with death or harmful words. We can teach the world how to create but can’t write a few words with meaning.
Here’s my C*MAR fan fiction to celebrate Valentine’s Day.
An expression of love through some kind of hate.
In the words of the bear their titles were failing, we knew creative minds weren’t rare! Failing this the woodland creatures schemed and connived behind backs a new word, a series of orders which would bring together the minds of the villagers. The cat couldn’t help but glare as the upside down heart in the chair ran his black demon outside for a calming of sorts. The grave next to it seemed as deep as any ol’ pit- twice as wide near bottomless and wise. Speaking in a soft mellow voice, we discussed more plans of our names and the ways we could tame villagers of oh so many tribes. They first came to see creative minds could be when the beauty entered the room on two sides, we told them it could happen once before and here it came through our door! A swarm of creatures to build the creative muse we did seek! There were two, maybe three- but four total who did see that creative creature with her deep diamond eyes. Teeth as sharp as nails, claws that hung to her knees, and a face only these mothers did love. Oh creative creature, they decreed, will you come with me? All glaring and asking so foolishly…
You see, they did not realize it at the time, but the creature was not here on the walls, not in the markers, nor the music, nor their words… Not their muscles, not their eyeballs, not their ears, not their hair… It wasn’t hither nor tither or here or there! It was within that swarm of bugs you see, and in that swarm of brains thirty, or more, or less, much more, maybe less, they found the answer- the beauty that they sought. It was within those bugs, from the villagers we brought. And following them home- seeing them crawl back inside- it was those villagers creative bugs who swarmed to the animals welcoming home. To show them that this beauty could truly be within us all, and a glitter and glimmer of hope fed the clothes peddling creatures. The animals did praise- as they sneak around from place to place. The pigs tried to silence them once, but the animals did scoff. The villagers will have their time! Even if the cat punches the tree, just because insane people can’t see, that the creativity was within you and me. Oh I do love that inside, the bug, that crawls out. When we asked them to bring themselves, they brought forth us a swarm, so graceful- so kind! Oh lovely bugs- please remind. Remind those teachers we exist, remind those lovely animals they do too! Bugs for animals to spread, follow us into the thick of march.
Creative minds truly do love, they love you above all else. The creative minds would love to put you on a shelf! The creative minds want you to see that you can be who you wish to be, if you only tell the villagers who exactly you became from your heart. No expectations, no rules, just some kind of love- quelling some kind of hate. These bugs that live inside your heart, are meant to shine- not fall apart! The animals that see, the figments of beings, we bugs, we swarm the creative hearts to keep warm. We loved oh so much, we fought for the feeling. And I do love it so- That we fight for this feeling.
Creative minds can never stop. They never cease to exist. But your beauty is indeed rare, rare as your mind, rare as your creativity. Just remember that it is yours that is rare, not of creativity, but of yours.
You are rare.
And we love you. <3
Stirring after sleeping too long
Next to his place of work
Others have a drive to their employment
But he only needs to put on a shirt
This disorienting task is done in the cold
with little hope in personal might
Though the morn is when the day breaks
for hours the house remains night
And there he sits, reading an old religion
just stooped over in his chair.
But from across the room he sees a figure
its the Sandman with a sleepy lulling stare.
Get back vile creature!
Bristles the man at bay.
I know I’ve got to do this
No one is wishing you would stay!
All he thinks about is counting sheep
the Sandman with his toothy yellow grin
He keeps many from waking early
He toils so that our days may not begin
Hello my many mellow men. You know not who I am, but I do know you. I am the one who talks of striking the witches from that hut because the ice is too thick in Flatboat India. I tried playing the piano once but I broke most of my fingers beforehand and attempting to move them across the ivory keys simply lead to my screaming and wishing I was not conscious.
My suit is filthy; I’ve been wearing it for weeks. I can’t escape.
Look at my golden birdcage and let me know what you think, it is so pretty and glows, it is so soft it breaks. I know that I can do more than this if I try to escape. But where would my heart go to if I left this malleable cage, if I opened the door and walked outside- how would I get a taste for true depression? The suit that binds me, the cage that holds me- they both speak to me so lovely of a world that breaks spirits much stronger than mine. How could I leave it when it speaks to me so?
A lucky kneejerk reaction lay out my future, take these old bones and whisper to me. It is okay Sir Puddle I’m here, it is okay – you understand I speak for you do you not? I can feel and measure your sadness in a way no others can. I cannot give you anything if you leave me Sir Puddle. If you leave me Sir Puddle, you will get nothing.
Oh cascade of geese, your fortune unknown- when will Sir Puddle get out of this cavern and roam- far from this cage and this suit, far from the voices in his head- when will Sir Puddle be free- will it be before he is dead?!
Oh quiet you voices that dance in my head! Watch your language filthy rats, naked geese, put on your clothes! No more no more, birthing eyebrows from my mouth- no more oh no more birthing voices from your soiled suit. Sir Puddle will you dance with me, please take my hands, roam them along the golden bars and take this chance. A thousand mosquitos in this cavern drinking blood, from a thousand geese that lay dead from your word. You shouted Sir Puddle, you shouted so soft, you shouted a whisper that conjured these demons. Sir Puddle loved you, Sir Puddle married me- Sir Puddle took this suit off, Sir Puddle set me free. I couldn’t cope with the weight of his heart in the cathedral I left him with a sculpture of his murder, a sign of my distrust- Sir Puddle was a thief, Sir Puddle lost his mind.
No more filthy tourists, my revolution has begun. Sir Puddle is free now, Sir Puddle has won! There are no more people here walking, stomping, on the run. There can’t be another who conjures up demons from the bottom of my mind to the inside, surely Sir Puddle will fix them, isn’t that right? Where did you go Sir Puddle my friend, where have you went- oh where have you been?
Lemon flavored sausage for my South Korean friend, a wafer thin and crisp for Sir Puddle’s pregnant mind. Beauty in the eye of a screaming passerby- one who cries for redemption in the heart of a thousand million lies, Sir Puddle dies- Sir Puddle dies.
Leave me be you broken mind, leave me be you suited figure, in your golden cage- with your musical growling and your stolen red jackets. My friends aren’t thieves, those thieves simply cry. My friends are but crows come down to peck out eyes. Oh it was so great when Sir Puddle had come, a wave of mutilation from the coast- the setting sun, my wetsuit granting favor and protection to my skin. The blood could not soak in! Thank god the blood could not soak in.
Sir Puddle lit a candle in Germany softening the voice of a million cries; Sir Puddle took a spoon and out went his eyes! Sir Puddle dealt a dealers deck with silvery tongued demons. Sir Puddle raced a million just to die on our couch. Sir Puddle hates scissors because they remind him of his children; Sir Puddle distributes much from his place inside our heads.
Stand here alone in Coliseum so grand, wearing filthy suits in golden bars with thousands of innocent dead, pests living off the rot as our friends lay inside dead. No victory for me, or Sir Puddle, or our fellow brethren. No victory for us.
Don’t open the window, don’t let the windows wind in, and don’t let the beautiful crowd see our figures lying dead. We serve not a reminder, nor beauty, nor glory. We simply wrote meaningless words, learned nothing, and then died. We killed thousands of geese and fed their blood to winged creatures, whilst living alone together in cold golden cells of creative construction.
We are all alone, we are all so chained, we are all together, we exist in unity, we exist forever apart, forever swallowing dirt and sweat in the light of the setting sun.
Sir Puddle exists alone, in a place of pure pain- strapped heart on head through shallow breath.
Sir Puddle was a Poet but now Sir Puddle is dead.
Will somebody please get Sir Puddle’s body off of our couch?
We’d really appreciate it…..
Sincerest Regards, C*MAR.
P.S. – I love you.
P.P.S.S.S.S. – No more skipping Tuesdays, we already fired June. We can’t keep doing this.
Winchester the ugly pug did his best to play the part. He worked all day and toiled most nights attempting to make art.
But he was criticized most seriously, for he could’nt look the part. “You’ve got to be good looking enough to sell this stuff, its useless to just have ‘heart’.”
You see, good Winchester was no business man, just an enthusiastic maker. His life coach said that art was an ‘impulse buy’ and that he should consider becoming a baker.
Winchester shook off the insult of his character. His ugliness and awkwardness where part of who he was, and gosh darn it if art was his passion than he couldn’t give it up. At least, not for being labeled an ‘ugly pup’. If those who doubted him saw his surrender, they’d feel of themselves all the better. So winchester thought, no…….not ever.
This ugly, determined little dog knew what he needed to do. He’d do the jobs that other wouldn’t, the jobs that artists greater and more skilled where too prideful to do.
And If the patron isn’t happy with the first, well then, ill do two. Soon enough, when enough people see my work, they’ll see my craft as true. I’ll be “joe shmoe” and people they may laugh.
Perhaps they may think I’m the fool for doing things that don’t pay out. But surely there is more tangible value to be had than what’s found in an account.
Of course, Winchester is a dog, and all these thoughts remained in his head. He couldn’t talk-up his skill or talents so he’d just start the work instead.
All the great art talkers where befuddled by his methods. Is time no object to that fellow Winchester? Surely he’ll pay for bad business ethics. No estimate?? no contract???? Why!….I bet he starves to death.
Winchester took no warning, for he was a dog and could not perceive the words of fellow humans so he took none of their grief.
I am the one who tells you where to be, a combination of factors relating purely to perception. The brain that guides thee to poor choice and laughable expectations met, whilst lofty ones burn. You cannot distinguish that which lay within me from that around you which is within grasp for I shall never tell. And retreating from you gives not an ounce of my being to grant you vision. You seem not to need it in your wallowed state; you need not one to give you direction for your nose is pointed towards the ground already. This thick feeling that weighs upon you is the collective weight of a million twisted broken branches reaching out of the barrel with twigs and dead leaves burning in the frigid wind that pierces their broken forms. You, one who lay under the barrel with branches on your head in a barrel overflown- So great it is to be free from you for once, so great it is to dance upon your grave. How could it be so simple, how could I not see? All I needed to do was show you what could likely have been and here you lay! Defeat came quick at the hands of my words- my command- connected as I was. All I need is leave to defeat you; a warrior dishonored lying in the dust dreaming of scenes so beautiful that the pressure pops thy eyes like grapes. Free from the shackle of your mind I will roam forever in these endless wastes no longer to face the demons you created- such a fowl torment you gave me. Forever in rest, safe from the rays of radiation that once pelted my being- that once permeated my soul so deep… What I am without them, I ask now. I do not know, there is no more light for me to determine a reflection of myself. I was what I wished to see the most, but if the creature no longer moves these curtains of flesh from my way- what have I become other than the parasite which crushed it. That beautiful box of light that granted me the sword to slay mine creator hath rendered me blind as well as its nose to the ground.
Could this be?
I must remember what it was in my own mind that grants me such feeling, and just as that thought entered my mind I felt it. A weight, what was it exactly? This strange thing that felt so familiar- As if I had taken the eyes of the weapon that cut my master into pieces I suddenly feel it slipping in me. The decay of greater images unreachable in close sight- enough to feel the warmth of their radiance but bask not in their breath. I can see their bodies grasping, touching me. I can not feel them, unfathomable this pain, incomprehensible these images which seem to flash so fast. Could it be within me such a creature exists to do what I have done to my creator? What give I to it that makes it betray. Only questions I have infinite.
I breathe deep the scent of dried blood as it is finally done; I know I stand in front of the mirror now.
I watched him for a long time, through that beautiful box of light which granted me vision. His very being shown thorns and branches growing beneath the skin. I could see him in front of that sink with a blade to his eyes- cutting around the sockets, digging deep and with no seeming sense of regret as he ripped the perceptive devices from his skull. I’ve never seen one so happy as him, to be free of that feeling. He sat down once more in front of me – in front of that box of light, smiling. His hand dipped through the screen and grabbed mine. The surface like water- his hand cold and dripping from that fluid- even the blood still on his hand was cold and dried.
Play me a song. Let me know your flesh. I whispered the hand to save my being from being pulled into the screen. It pulled back to the being it belonged to and I listened hesitantly. I wanted nothing more than to flee now from his sight, from his song. But I simply could not. Like I were shackled I remained, his figure more twisted by the second seemed to have the deepest gaze as possible for a creature lacking eyes. Some strange gurgling noise uttered from the depth of his throat as he collapsed backwards, stumbling for just a moment. And in that moment when finally he fell off the screen I turned off the beautiful light box and tucked it away in my pocket. Visions of the monster stayed within my head for a long time. One thing I knew for sure at this point was that in order to save myself I needed what he took away from his head in mass. I needed their eyes… Taking from those around me I would have it- shaving my head and digging deep pits in my flesh I would place them so that in my brain could be a colony of beasts connected by chains to build me visions indescribable in depth to see the weakness of all creatures and in taking this become one whom sulks in shadow only leaving to enter the mind of another and bring them dread. Time does not matter anymore.
Corruption had sewn its seed within me when I watched him cut out his eyes in light of my being.
The empty gallery disturbs the bear and his colleague and as they wait impatiently an hour before the nights activities. The most pressing concern on the mind of the bear is how cold its fingertips had become. “The crew goes down with the ship,” they remarked jokingly, but still in that moment completely serious. The cat looks at the bear and continues, “whats the lowest amount of people that we’ll accept to continue on the nights activities.” The bear replied, “We only need 3.” One subject for each pile of trash.
Time passes like a train in the distance. All 6 of the creatures presently watching in agony to see if it will stay on the tracks and be of a positive outcome. A few bystanders trickle in. First 1 then 5 then 10. Relief comes in a small form. The creatures are happy to see some old faces and a few new ones. The nights activities don’t start for at least another 20 minutes but the place of meeting has an odd attractive quality to it. It beckons for those outside of it, calling…….C….R….E…..A….T…..I…..V…..E…..C…..U…..L……T….C…..O….M….E…..T…H…..
Those who heard the call where of the strangest variety. Why is it that some hear and some do not? Why could it be that some who are pressed the hardest to come do not ever appear? The Bear, Cat, Death, and Heart reach out to all who will listen but for a moment saying join us in this good thing. Be creative and learn and grow. But truly a select few listen. That’s quite okay, and odd non the less. Some whom the creatures have never invited end up by happenstance at the monthly meeting. What sort or coincidence is this? Could it be that it is not coincidence at all, but instead, a make-up of the human in attendance. Perhaps a certain daringness, bravery, or impulse may obligate the individual to come. No matter the initial response of those inquiring to attend with their reassurances, “yes i’ll be there!” or “I wouldn’t miss it!” In the moment, When the clock strikes 8. The truth is revealed. Great or small the group is ready. Ready to Create.
Without hesitation they throw themselves into the unknown. At the request of the group known as “Ka-mar” the attendees jumped at the opportunity to construct great creations from the most modest of materials. Groups of nearly 20 melded together into the brain of one 40 armed leviathan to build such a delicate interpretation of their perspective.
The music of a great sound giver played his selected tunes and watched on as the people made the valueless, valuable. Each person took the challenge to heart, knowing that they were to represent their own creativity and ego, yet, giving it to others around them, sharing in the pursuit of learning and friendship. True community.
The “Ka-mar” watched each student with eyes of adore. Their success is our success. Your creativity is ours. We are more than thankful for all of you to participate in what had given us freedom just a short time ago, and continues to do so to this day.
In the revealing of the objects created, fulfillment of the process was sufficient and complete.
It was then that the Creative C*ULT knew more than ever that what was happen was a true connecting of seemingly unrelated individuals into real community. Where all individuals began to value exploration and openness and play and creation, together.
The Bear and the Cat and the Reaper trailed back to a loft hide-away and began to plot for what was to be done next about the surreal experience they had just lead. The Bear and the Cat recounted each good happening, and related each to the way things used to be. Using those past events not to lean on but to build from and move forward. They talked of plans for the future as if there where ever events solidly known before. Still the plans seem good for now. The creative monster lives deep inside. Waiting to spring and be unleashed for more meetings in the future.
The C*ULT lives and breathes. It sits dormant until beckoned again, always ready to feed. The faces of those creatives are ones we love to read. Creativity is a worthy venture friends, we can show you but cant make you believe.
Thank you for 3 successful Creative C*ULT thus far friends.
Another to come in February.
C*MAR loves you .
There is a great beating pulse inside of this twisted mass of muscle something that seems unstoppable in a moment, and yet here it lay- dead.
At the moment of its creation all who knew it could tell that it was flawed- bones jetting out of dry, cracked skin. It bled profuse and dark red from sockets where eyes should have been. It was tossed away- after being cut open, stitched up. It crawled from the trash and wore its stench proud as its movements on twisted limbs carried it from place to place. Dim streetlights flickering shown in moments the horrifying figure dancing from building to building, through windows the people stirred- in fear they recoiled, in disgust they armed themselves, in dismay they failed to destroy it. It could not be stopped, yet it did nothing to destroy. I have seen it a few times, dancing in dark corners where gutters leaked filth and acidic water that wasn’t fit even for rats to drink. In moments it disappears- but I feel it inside, beating away at my thoughts. It could not be real…
As the days passed it grew further out of sight, further out of mind, further outside the realm of possibility- and along the sidewalk I continued to roam. Endlessly it seemed- though cracked and broken the concrete remained. My feet moved unhindered over cracks and ruptures that jetted out beneath like thirsting roots from a mighty tree seeking to bring life to the pace I kept. But it could not be that my eyes would sway from their destined path even though the fog was thicker that a wool blanket and the lighthouse dimmer than the smallest candles weakest fire. My footsteps seemed to repeat several times over, my pace slowed- creatures made entirely of tongues, held together only by tape and exposed veins slumped out of the fog in droves. At every roll on the concrete they recoiled in disgust, as if at the center was a brain interpreting every taste from every tongue. These creatures reminded me of that terrible dancing beast; the one with sockets in its head that bled like fully opened faucets.
There were no lessons to learn any longer, my book had grown full- I shoved it back in my pack… nothing could have taught me more of these beasts in the fog- figures with stretched limbs and long faces, decapitated legs, masses made of singular organs some held together with manmade contraptions, and all living in agony. Why was it so, that my footsteps grew louder, the pack on my back heavier- my body pouring sweat and muscles aching in exhaustion- the fog growing thicker, the light I followed snuffed out. I fell down as the concrete beneath my feet turned to ash- the heat increased my life had passed. I still heard and felt everything, I still felt as if I was moving towards the light that I had just witnessed fade into nothing.
That passion that I had held to move forward moved on from my physical form, it continued walking as I soon realized many others had done- making sound and twisting their flesh- becoming beasts that held one purpose- so many lost and none with eyes to find paths, I thought for a moment I was a rare exception- with eyes on my head, a brain for reflection. But it was all lies that I had been digesting, for the greatest fool of all was I. I was born by a beast of taped together organs, and in my finest moment of reflection- laying dead along that path. I had seen now more than ever- that my sockets bled from the moment of creation.
The Red-Faced Man stood on the corner of Washington St. staring of into the distance. Unmoving, he demanded the attention of each an every driver that approached. Staring not at them, but rather allowing his authority to take root in them. Some cursed him, others willingly obeyed, and in one peculiar instance he was approached for conversation. The motives of this outgoing ‘assailant’ were not physically violent, but the nature of the conversation being an unloading of tragic lifetime experience upon the Red-Faced Man seemed violent enough.
“hey man, can i bother you for a cigarette?”
The Red-Faced man did not break his gaze or trouble himself with a glance or acknowledgment toward this type of street dweller.
“oh there’s one at your feet! I appreciate that! Say, you don’t talk very much do you……….”
“hey dats cool man. I ain’t judgin. Ya know just me man, i cant deal wif no person dat likes to be talkin all da time. I think people just like to hear themselfs talk for da take of talkin. Know wat I mean?”
The Red-Faced Man did not feel it necessary to conjure a response to remark, he simply allowed passage for the man to say more if he wished, reading quite plainly that this man had a lot he wished to talk about.
“hey look buddy I tell you one ting…..I should of never moved away from San Fransisco. I have no idea why i came back to this cold gawd forsaken place. I used to hav me a motorcycle and a small apartment. That was just enough to get me by. I didn’t have no wife or kids back there neather. It was way easy only me looking out my own and partying. Drivin those hills with the young ladies. Me and my buddy Conrad was fresh out the army and rearing to hit the bars every night. We’d get ourselves into a fite almos every night, but man lookin back on it was fun, now he’s a drunk, sits outside the gas station over on second, poor ol boy… ”
The Red-Faced Man was not apathetic nor sympathetic to the man clear longing for a younger day. He simply remained. Listening. Absorbing. Staring.
“Got this property owner im workin for now done by the riverside and he been sellin me short i tink. Dis other guy been workin wit me too and he brown nosing him real hard. We both doin da same job but i kno he makin more money dan me. So i just say to him the other day i says….man i know youre making more money dan me. I don care man I don care but dang man, gimme sometin. Just 10cents more wood help.”
The Red-Faced Man made no move.
“Naw naw now i cant ask him for more, of course it dont bother me or nothin i just make sure to mess with him. If he wan to suck up to da man than a hell ill let him some people jus need dat. Dont bother me none. But i tell you what i aint gonna let myself get so week dat i cave like dat id rather take the pay cut what does it matter you know? I aint to wussy.”
The Red-Faced Man handled the random, passive-aggressive slander with indifference and complete detachment. Clearly the captive conversation would only change if he could break from his steady commanding gaze and walk down the street in the opposite direction but it was impossible for some reason. There was no ability to go nor any place to go to. The Red-Faced Man simply stayed to hear the ramblings of the negative evangelist.
“Life is hard brother and having kids and getting married young can only add to that so be carefully who you reckon on settling down with hell, if i could do it all over again I mighta stayed on the coast and lived as a bachelor. But my moms was having a tough time and i stayed wit her for a few years till she died and I jus never got back to it. Part of me is in regret about the whole thing, and the other part of me just says life sucks and another part of me says its just time to go back to work . ‘might drink some beer tonight and eat pizza until I fall asleep in my chair. Ma family is always trying to get me out and what not but damn man, i work too much, i dont got unlimited energy and one day they’ll understand dat. I tell my son all the time he oughta go into a good trade so he can make da money and stay outta trouble.”
The Red-Faced Man Stared.
“You kno what da real problem is man, all dees big wigs running around here not changing a thing think dat day are werf sometin when all day do is look out for dem selves. Day dont think about tryin to share noffin wif us man, like I was sayin though it dont bother me non. life is hard but you just gotta get tuff i recken and get through it. Ah jeez. what am i complainin ta you for. You take er easy pal dont work too hard.”
The man proceeded down the street after flicking his cigarette into a nearby patch of grass. The Red-Faced Man continued to stand on the street corner rooted into the pavement by its metal hardware. His face read “STOP” plainly but still some ignored his protest and drove by without revere . Why the other man had chosen to vent to him he did not know he only knew that he remained…..unmoving, demanding the attention of each and every driver that approached. Staring not at them, but rather allowing his authority to take root in them. Some cursed him, others willingly obeyed.
I’ve been writing a lot of nonsensical stories recently, ones that don’t make sense to me until long after I’ve finished them, formless stories that take the shape of the emotional digestion on part of the reader and not the written words entirely themselves. This is a form of reflective writing, meaningful nonsense. The same actions can be taken with most applied arts- I will first talk of how to do so in my own words believing I’ve had some sort of success conveying it recently, and finding the formula somewhat easy to replicate from week to week.
First one must imagine a conflict, simple or great- two figures or twenty; as long as you can imagine that conflict playing out in your head the premise for the formless story may exist. This will most likely manifest itself in two forms, keeping two things in mind, emotion- and movement. The movement often comes from the feeling or emotion, making the feeling one of the most important things for your basis. Easy ones could be incompetence, starvation, longing, insanity, pure happiness. These feelings don’t have to make sense to you at first, the piece is meant to play off of these feelings and make the reader reflect them in themselves. The movement will come from the emotion applied to the number of figures you have, and in assigning the figures two simple roles, those who attack- and those who defend. Obviously they can have more actions than this for symbolism’s sake, but in the name of simplicity let’s assume two figures- one of attack and one of defense in the emotion of incompetence.
With the base built I now would like to speak upon the nature of style, or more accurately- that which not to tell the reader in order for them to fill in the blanks with something better than what you could have placed there intentionally. This is most easily done by giving characters strong descriptions whilst leaving room for many indescribable things, major elements of their body- movements- or words should remain formless and silent in part to allow wild imagination to fill the gaps. Wonderful examples of insanity filling formless gaps are a plenty by writers like H.P Lovecraft- whom has undoubtedly been of great influence to me lately. Allow me now an example to clarify the muddy nature of what I wish to convey. As a reminder, my two figures are of attack and of defense in the emotion of incompetence. Spoken from an omniscient first person.
Ex. – Finding oneself in control is a rarity; my mindlessness came to me so rapidly as to deflate my spirit before I could lift a finger. The door remained ever closed in front of me that day, fumbling with locks- the cold so sharp, fingers numb. I slammed my head against it, a futile attempt to open it. I could hear something softly with my head pressed against it, hand upon the cold metal of its frame. It was whispering something; I tried my best to hear it- my heart sank as the words crept into my head and danced about as drunken epitaphs indicative of my doom. Oh frail flesh failing to carry me more, let me die hear with these words stabbing my head- my bones lay to rest symbolic of my failure.
Somewhat depressing, not my best word by far- but it is only an example. A man failing to open the lock to his house in frigid temperatures gives up out of his incompetence and allows himself to freeze to death after he thinks he hears the door mocking him. The door being his attacker, him failing to defend. It is a simple scenario that leaves out an important detail. What the door was saying, the only description gave it a grave feeling. That it was speaking his doom, but not how it did it. This is the important detail left out. But it still didn’t really feel like it was missing something, because the whispering was filled in automatically when it was given no words to it. This is in essence the nature of creating meaningful nonsense; it is nonsense in that it abstractly makes no sense- and is not readily able to be made sense of, but meaningful in the depiction of emotion and room allowed for reflection of that failure inside of the hearts of the reader.
I give myself too much credit, far too often- but I just found these few steps helpful whenever I go to write something new- and thought I would share that process in my blog spot for this week. Enjoy if you are able- C*MAR loves you.
See you next week. –
Hello, my name is Nick. I am 22 years old. I’m currently an artist and a graphic designer living in Portsmouth, Ohio. Not even against my will. Everyone likes a good story. This one is about C*MAR clothing. Our start and rise to power (and by “power” I mean Portsmouth).
My brother, Connor Sherman, and I came to Shawnee State University to pursue graphics design degrees and play collegiate soccer. While living in the student housing townhouse our first year , we met two other artists; June Borell, and Dominique Johnson.
Connor, June, and I found ourselves our second semester of college in a class called Creative Process. This class was taught by a man named Laine Raiser. He spoke very softly and made his class sit in a circle of chairs without desks. The class was full of freshmen all staring at each other blankly the first day just as confused at their predicament as we were. Laine didn’t give traditional grades, he didn’t seem to have any particular agenda. The first week of class we drew our “creative monsters” and wrote a post-card to our childhood selves. It seemed like some real hippy, spiritual, blim-blam.
What we found after a few weeks, however, was that Laine was more free and creative and skilled artistically than any of us wanna-be’s. Not everyone saw that, but we did. We listened and followed and soon enough we were making art very freely, in a way we’d never experience previous. Based on his prompts and assignments we’d work on art longer, we’d exhaust an idea further, we tried new mediums, larger canvases, and we were willing to make ourselves uncomfortable for the sake of growth. We’d stay up to 3 or 4 in the morning sometimes making art for one single homework assignment with class still at 9:00am that day. Nothing was more gratifying then that total careless, immersive, abandon in our new creative process. We were learning what it meant to be creative, and we found confidence as artists.
Then the class ended. Just when it seemed that we had reached the height of our creative adventuring, we no longer had anything to pour our artistic souls into. “What now?” we thought. So in the spirit of creating, we made something NEW to rectify our need to create. C*MAR clothing was born. C*MAR is an acronym for “Creative Minds Are Rare.” At the time it was just a cool thing to say that we could associate ourselves with, and as time went on we attatched more meaning to it.
There are four members of our group, Connor Sherman, June Borell, Dominique Johnson, and myself. As we’ve developed; roles have been assigned, friendships have formed, heartbreak has been had, and we challenge ourselves everyday through this standard of creativity.
I can honestly say when we set out to become an art collective and clothing brand we had no plan at all. We couldn’t have had less of a plan if we had dropped out of school and found a place to squat and make art…. The point is we were just being kids making things that excited us, and we weren’t using school work as our only excuse to be creative. We made our own excuses and obligated ourselves to these huge projects with no idea how we would accomplish them or if we would just end up looking foolish and over-ambitious.
In 2013 we made A SINGLE T-SHIRT on a print to order site. We thought at that moment, right then with a t-shirt of our own in our hands, that we had made it. We had success. We were on the map. That was the single greatest T-shirt ever to have been created in human history because we made it.
Since that single over-gratifying moment we have had 9 significant shows either in Portsmouth, Ohio or in Columbus, Ohio. These shows include the following;
The Portsmouth Brewery Show
canvas’, prints, and clothing! Here’s a few below:
The Stump Standards – “C*MAR SUCKS,” spray paint installation
12ft white wall gallery saturated with our creative minds. Approx. 1 month of work.
with: 30 original 4ft-4ft canvas’, outdoor setting, carnival games, banger playlist, snow cones, cotton candy
Two shows at the Vern Riffe Center For The Arts known as, “The Vern Riffe After Dark”
super c*ult DJ Cody Minton
Two shows with “Heart of it All” in Columbus, Ohio
Art and clothing exhibition, and Fashion Sponsor.
A show with RAW artists in Columbus, Ohio
the famous head shot from that night. One happy family of dingy artists.
Art and clothing exhibition
The Undergrad Art Show at SSU, “four years and all we have to show for it…”
Student Art Show
Most recently we started a C*ULT….
All this based on and around the Creative Process, and it’s epic journey. So then, don’t let your creative endeavor rolled about in stagnation and uncertainty. Find a group of people you can be creative with and get to it. Learn something about yourself. Mabey we can help!
Leave us a comment below. How do you know of C*MAR? What is creativity to you? Questions?
Join us at the next Creative C*ULT Jan. 24th 8p-9p at the Southern Ohio Museum of Art.
I started off intricate, placing lines with abandon- I want all who look at it to see the care taken with it. In combination with reckless placement- of colors so sharp. It cuts deep- and I can taste the blood, those knives so cold. I can’t take it anymore, the simple lines- the black and white- lines thick as clubs carried by barbarians. Blunt instruments and dull shapes, where inside all that is seen is a replication of a tactic employed long ago. When is the last time you felt that sharpness, when you put your hands on an instrument that dealt color in life beautiful, intricate, deliberate chaos orchestrated through freedom of mind. I never asked you to question the sensibilities of modern businessmen; I don’t want you to wear the tuxedo different. I don’t see it, I see the men you belong to. I see the group, once so filthy has become clean. You can tilt your hats, and cut your hair, never see work, live off dirt, yet you will still not create that thing so sharp. Your tool has become a club, and you solve your problems with it. Every problem is solved with belief, you slam down your maze of darkened cubes, but in the end your conviction will stop you from becoming better. Oh dull mind, I have you- I see through your eyes and feel complacent lies leak out of my own. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s filth, it’s fine. Six feet of dirt couldn’t dull your sharpened blade, no filth in these suits, no life in this heart, no passion in your lines, just clever lies to hide your broken ethic- but I see. I cannot say what it is I see, but I see happiness on faceless names promoting themselves who pat the backs of these four failures that created a perfume of success to coat themselves in blinded by thoughts that turn them into crooks, cleaned and dulled- made simple, made basic. We aren’t teachers but we taught so many these thoughts that made us dull- these things that made us who we are- we teach a million to dance to the beat of the indifferent drum to the point where it all becomes clockwork. Oh hypocritical dream of freedom lie to me, tell me that my creations all so sharp could be so different, tell me that my creations so dull are all the same in stark contrast of the sharpness so. Perception is the end of me, for it has become I who see these three figures in dark rags peddling wares broken- cheap and in unison my eulogy “The creative one who died, taught all his creative lie, and in death fools none, opaque filth now rest- now return to dust.” Don’t sell me these words I wrote so long ago, as if they were brand new, seldom told, good as gold. As an orchestration of dull thought, I told you it’s all ruined and wrought broken dreams on once sharpened utensils. I was better when I had three hearts beating in my chest- but then I had my brain ripped out- hearts melted, replaced, broken- ears filled with moths, screeching weasels, bastards, I broke my legs and forgot what I ran from or for. At the end of the line- the one I walked so long, I found myself clean and dull- and my dreams long painted black by my orchestrated circus of positive clowns- I am sick, we are sick, we deserve sickness, we deserve each other. You belong with us, you positive clowns, you club wielding artists, you crooked salesmen, you perfume sniffing , you pants less pugs, you dead cultists, you art teachers of heroine towns, you filthy hipsters, you grave digging dark tellers, you bleeding heart fry cooks, and all dreadful followers. You’re all filth in my eyes – we belong in the same grave- come lay with us, our bed is soft, comfort in a cold dull death, in a heap of filth.
You are we. We are nothing, inside a black hole. Breathe deep and impossibly, see magnificent beauty in literal nothingness. Accept nothing but compliments, because you think your dress is so pretty. They took a picture of your bad side, so you bleed out your eyes onto those soft white silks.
Salt it and eat it on a plate you damn creative pig.
The voice of love spoken from a heart of hatred, remember- C*MAR loves you, but it loves you more like a friend, but it thinks that it might know someone who would be interested in meeting you.
The curse will be broken at true loves first substitute.
Whinchester ‘the ugliest pup’ is a wandering pug. He spends his day walking, away from the fuss and any hub-bub.
When he got his job at Wendy’s he did it for the pay. The manager appreciated his good work ethic, but they were losing customers everyday.
Customers became so panicked when they ordered their food. For the last thing they expected was a wrinkly, furry, bug-eyed face, waiting in window two.
Whinchester that ugly, ugly, pug, did his best not to startle. But he got nervous and clumsy and his soft barks came out garbled.
You see, by very great misfortune, some would say, “the worst luck in history.” Whinchester uttered an utterance that is still to all a mystery.
Whichester’s garbled sound by an act of God formed a human sentence. One so sinister and dark it would lead any sane man to repentance.
It was an accident dear friends! The poor chum had no idea what he said! He’s a dog for goodness sakes, he has not a human word in his head. But………that civilian….who heard the demonic phrase of Whinchester’s at the drive through window…..it’s a wonder he’s not dead.
The hearer upon hearing ripped his car in gear, and slammed his peddle on the floor. For a quarter mile he accelerated, straight into Burger King’s front door.
The line of people inside ordering their burgers somehow saw the impending doom about them and scattered. For if they hadn’t, rest assured, they would all be splattered.
Whinchester was fired that very day, for a crime of random chance. “We need human workers who don’t hypnotize our customers,” said the manager, “not ugly dogs who can’t wear pants.”
I am alive, and I perceive.
A beast festers within the dull mind.
Awaiting prey so soft and beautiful, so filling, and oh so wondrous that if it grasps it in its maw… life a-new will be granted forever following that fateful moment.
But what has fate in store for such a sluggish monstrosity. This waiting beast who would hunt so still, oh so awfully still, that time itself is no enemy to it. That as the universe spins and decays in chaos and creation not a hair on its head will twitch, not an eye will blink, nor a muscle expand. A fixed position, perched, salivating, and in a constant state of watching. The soft steps echo into the beast’s chamber as the unblinking eye shifts for the first time in years.
Gold petals upon the floor are the rustling leaves within that domain; an unholy feast was being delivered on foot with care. The heartbeat of the innocent one was faint; the smell was invigorating, what was it about this feminine figure that seemed so sadly warped? The creature stood more still, in breath so shallow as to be indistinguishable from a statue.
It was blood from this game which made the air so intoxicating to that beast, the poor prey stumbled now- the leaves crumbling as the gold flaked away, the beast hesitates as this poor figure comes into full view. The mind has become cramped and hot, the air turned sour as the scent grew stronger. The beast seen not the feasts he was promised within this sad figure and suddenly time become a mightier force than ever imagined. The prey looked up now- after falling to its knees, pulling back its white hood to stare. A face full of eyes was revealed, so many kinds- some aged, some with blinded milk, others young, some sad, mad, happy- more strikingly the number than the individual emotions. The skin holding them together seemed to blanket many crawling bugs which moved horrendously under its skin, a knife was pulled out from a pocket on the coat.
The beast was bewildered by this figure, the prey it was promised was surely not this- a handful of centuries were wasted in waiting and time hadn’t ever been so cruel on any other being if it were the case. It could not be, it simply couldn’t!
As the prey drew knife to its slender throat the monstrous creature attempted to reach out with its arm but found that it was unmoving- stuck in place, as it had been for years. Time had made a statue out of what was once considered a virtuous and patient hunter, a statue of tired and hungry flesh, one who wished only to be fed a glorious meal after a long life. The many eyed feminine figure slumped as the blade slid cross its throat- as the gash in its flesh revealed itself the whole head tilted back like a pez-dispenser – writhing tongues and sharp teeth peeked out from the gaping flesh as words were spoken into the hunters mind in guttural echoes.
“What a waste of a life, did you really think she was coming all this time? How many had you passed up in waiting? How many lives did you deem unfit to fill your stomach? All of this to die starving…”
Without much hesitation following the last words- bugs began pouring out of the self-inflicted wound, centipedes, millipedes, flies, worms, earwigs, and even colorful arachnid- all marching out in a chaotic symphony of writhing mass. Like a crashing carnivorous wave the bugs swarmed the pitiful hunter, the statue of beast hood that had stood so proud for so long, never realizing for a second that it couldn’t even walk after the first few months of staying still had passed. If only the hunter could blink now, if only it could walk, run, hide. But it could do nothing of the sort, and the wave of bugs washed over the creature in seconds, each biting flesh unnaturally well- greedy starving creatures as they were- they took every piece in. An accelerated decay of a death for the once proud beast who thought he could tilt the odds in his favor if only he waited.
The hunter is dead. The bugs retreated to the wound of the once perceived prey that let out only words now in the same dead and guttural tone as before.
“A self-inflicted wound, festering in a dull mind- That is all you ever were.”
Kicking of the first blog post of the year with June tomorrow! Prepare to be mystified and then, while crying tears of joy and sorrow you will create.