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I told Miki earlier via *Facebook Chat* (a bane, itself, to existence). And we have just now decided to instead use either Whatsapp or Viber or, confusingly, both simultaneously since *Facebook Chat* is a bane to anyone's existence. In fact, the existence of one who uses *Facebook Chat* is mottled with decay. These fraught souls wither before others. I, too, am afflicted, obviously, but am stronger in *hara* and *spirit* than social wallowing ilk.
Anyone reading even slightly closely has noticed that I used *told* intransitively in the previous paragraph. The shitstain pedants of the English tongue'd like to spike me to the wall of my grammatic insensitivity. Fuck um. I envision all pedants together as a family, twisted together in a pit, entwined. Their wails rise in unison. It is a perfect fourth between the sexes. My compatriots and I begin to pour the petrol. Michal is laughing as he sparks up a reefer.
Anyone reading even slightly closely has noticed that I used *told* untransitively in the previous paragraph. The lowly pedants are a shimmering conflagration now, and can no longer murmur hateful stupidities. I told Miki earlier via *Facebook Chat* (a tool used by the stricken of spirit) of his destiny as a **goat** farmer. It was a metaphor, actually, as I have been caught up lately in complexities of modern life and once again wish to walk away from them. How possible is it to lead a *simple* life, in contrast? What is a simple life? I've had numerous conversations with Mr Christián M Newman concerning this subject. Idealism usually pervades these conversations. I'm not sure if that is unfortunate, not, or somewhere suffering in the curl of the eleventh dimension.
A hovel in Andalucia? What complications come along with such a simple life?
Climate predictions do not fancy Andalucia doing well. The *location* is just an example. Such complications would have to be taken care of in **any**.
One conclusion that patters about my consciousness is just renting for the remainder of my days. Everything is, after all, transient. I don't have any reason to leave a *cottage* / *hovel* / *mansion* / *cave* / *milk carton* to any progeny. In fact, hasn't one of the primary philosophies of my life been to be rootless?
In contrast to more or less everyone else who is not either homeless, an urchin, a coddled child or dead, my ways are already unpunctured by stabbing societal complexity. What I really need is a finer filter to rid my daily motion of particulate matter - material fecal heaps that do not facilitate creativity. Sentiment has no place in the simple life. Remember that time and again.
A bookmark function for *Martenblog* is a future fruitful idea. As the point of *Martenblog* is to be reread in intervals to remind my brain dappled with decay of lessons I have learned and ideas I have spawned. I'll get on it.
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You pick up threads and clues, searching for a pattern that explains the whole, forgetting that a great deal of life (and art) depends on chance events.
I just purchased *Music for Silenced Voices* and perused the first few pages. Thus, the quote. My first thought regarding it is that *resultant art* is not necessarily dependent on chance events, but its impetus is. I sit down and deliberately work out a piece of music, or write in this blog, or strangle Chritián's infant spawn. These acts are just the resolution of ideas sparked in my day-to-day consciousness by exterior forces. Inspiration *always* comes from the outside. Flotsam from the possibly imaginary world's ocean around me washes up in a rocky inlet. Most is washed back out. I inspect others. I keep fewer. Sometimes I take those few, sit around with a guitar, keyboard, pen or garrotte and fashion them into tangibilities.
@flavigula@sonomu.club
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