Pending pain, as reminded, from time to time, by physical and social break downs. Glorious imaginative projects, often centered around Videocasting, dance on a mind tortured by terror. What terror? you say...
Narcissistic Prima donna was an art performance I created in New York twenty odd years ago, exposed in preview, a life of self absorption. As an artist all I have ever known, or attempted to express, remains self-absorbed. And now the depth of decay lassoing my daily consciousness brings forth this same old theme. Yet guilt riddled anxiety, facing the trauma of exposing one last time, all the madness, all the tedious madness, of a man who has not changed toward artistic maturity but instead the deadening disease of regurgitated reflection.
I still write a journal after 30 years and my thoughts have never caught the wisp of a muse. Do it, you say. Manifest your freaking vision and let it die in the air of actualized feces, fertilizing the creative with negative example. No man or woman of mindfulness can justify a contemplative angst of non-action. Better to pour my proactive shlock and serve it to the digital mainstream, to be dissipated into the stratosphere of crystallized dribble of modern social media.
Do it? You say. And I wonder who the hell you are to ask. Haven't you been reading my posts for the last thirty years, and hasn't 'how I am' as a fumbling procrastinating blob, stuck yet? Do you really believe there is something to do that is both possible and worthwhile? And you answer, in a cynical but supportive tone... "why not do all you can, no one will be effected much, and there is always the outside chance something will come of all of this.