the possibility of disinterest

really, it is impossible (at least for me). this business with the possibility of being disinterested. well dickie had an issue with it. i, myself, cannot fathom the probability of being disinterested. i have tried several times for mere aesthetic purposes but to no avail.

to be enganged in a subject aesthetically (especially that which requires disinterest) is frustrating. maybe it is a fault in personality on my part. but still if you are to engage in pure aesthetic experience, if that is even possible, then it means that you have to have a distant attachment to the subject. and i have a theory that a certain human faculty will not allow disinterest. and maybe it is the human affectivity.

for instance, if i were to engage in a purely aesthetic relationship with a person, it will never be possible for an aesthetic relationship, or any form of relationship in that matter, to occur if i were disinterested. relationships are offsprings of attachement and attachment always requires emotional investment. with disinterest, there will never be attachment.

so it is really more of an ideal to be disinterest. maybe it has something to do with one's personality. or maybe the only effect of the personality is to delay the occurance of attachment.

pucha talo nanaman ata ako sa laro. BS.

I think I have ESP(N)

Haha, i'm not being funny or anything... I just wrote something about art being emotional and absolutely, globally, encompassingly beautiful. It was an entry here before about art not being esoteric. I was just so taken aback reading Kant's theory on aesthetics (which I read just last week). And it was everything I wrote about, only minus the technically. I guess some part of my brain foresaw what I was about to read... or my egotistic self just wants to claim that me and Mr. Kant do thing alike. Haha, whatever.

I Took a Date-Rape Drug for my Birthday

Seroquel.

Got me knocked out for more than half the day on my birthday. I almost missed it because i can't seem to bring myself to not miss it. It was the heaviest feeling in the world, although i'm not quite sure where to account it (the drug or it being my birthday, really).

Ever watched click? You can actually fastforward events in your life and skip to the good part. And it is by sleeping, self-induced or not. There would always be the regret of missing something once in a while... but you'd be too stoned to realize what you've missed anyway.

I suggest, unlike me, if ever you are to be a guinea pig to drug experiments, try to get something out of it. Try to get paid for it or something. Psychopharmacology being a recent discovery is a pitfall. Sure diagnosis of being crazy is to even try it.

A Fine Day for Tragedy

I Know it's Over
The Smiths

Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
And as I climb into an empty bed
Oh well
Enough said
I know it's over - still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Oh ...Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head
See, the sea wants to take me
The knife wants to slit me
Do you think you can help me?
Sad veiled bride, please be happy
Handsome groom, give her room
Loud, loutish lover, treat her kindly
(Though she needs you
More than she loves you)
And I know it's over - still I cling
I don't know where else I can go
Over and over and over and over
Over and over
I know it's over
And it never really began
But in my heart it was so real
And you even spoke to me, and said :
"If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight?
I know ...
'Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes strength to be gentle and kind
Over, over, over, over
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes guts to be gentle and kind
Over, over
Love is natural and real
But not for you, my love
Not tonight, my love
Love is natural and real
But not for such as you and I, my love
Oh Mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head

Avant Garde

How can music, universal as it is, (in the form aforemention) be so contradictingly esoteric?

*Sigh*

Truth be told, everything can be so misleading. The way I see it, even the essence of the truth can be so misleading. Truth is more of an emotion than it is a state of things. That's why it's so subjective. Because truth is an emotion the way sadness is. An individual has his own sense of truth. What is true is true as what is sad is sad. And nothing can be universally sad, in the same magnitude felt exactly the same way by two individuals. So nothing can be universally true.

If everything can be so misleading, what spares something like music? Apparently, nothing. Not even its truthfulness. Its being absolute is a lie. Everything can be absolute in itself. There is no such thing as music being so absolute it belittles all else. A color is a color. A word is a word. And in the hands of a poet, words can be absolute. It can evoke emotions that makes it mere amalgamations of visual representations of the basic units of sound. But the emotion is there. And a word to word it again does not even make sense.

Then where is this universality? It is in the art being absolute without isolating itself. It is in the art being art, being eternally true, eternally beautiful as an emotion. It is in the art accepted beyond understanding. And the acceptance of art is not in a sense of it being esoteric. There is no universality in that. Only a few can understand that emotion. There should be truthfulness in different magnitudes. How can there be truthfulness if there is not the slightest hint of understanding? If it is being absolute, then there should be no need for one to understand. It is mere beauty. It is mere truth. It is mere emotion. It is just that.

The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator

by Anne Sexton

The end of the affair is always death.
She’s my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


Finger to finger, now she’s mine.
She’s not too far. She’s my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night alone, I marry the bed.


I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute’s speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


She took you the way a woman takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today’s paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.


Anne Sexton, “The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator” from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981). Copyright © 1981 by Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. Reprinted with the permission of Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc.

Source: The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (1981)

Jeff Buckley Interview Excerpts (or something like that)

Ninakaw ko lang to kasi interesting:


1.

JB:

G.I.T. was started by Howard Roberts, the guy who played the wah-wah guitar on the theme to Shaft. And this other guy named Pat Hayes. I don't know. It just seemed like a racket, really. John said a lot of things to me that stuck in my mind. He said that there was nobody who stopped you, sat you in a room and said, okay, we have all these artists that you're learning the licks from, you have your guitar heroes, your virtuoso lust objects. But there's nobody who can make the kind of music you can make now except for you. And you can make it now. You don't even have to know how to go fast. And that makes all the sense to me in the world. It's also kind of an unseen process, that concept, originality. It's like that in all the education systems; there's never any real...identity education, self-generative identity art sort of thing, to be yourself. If everybody in Melbourne had a Wurlitzer organ and had the passion to sing something or make something, you'd have hundreds of thousands of different styles, if they were coming exactly from only their DNA, only their makeup, and their emotional percepts, their idea about what art is. You could have way-removed genres from what is already accepted, avante garde country-rock-punk-folk-whatever. It's unlimited. But for some reason, the conventions always take over and there's a very ready and powerful formula to step into...



2.

JB:

That's what CDs are for, though. They're for you to get acquainted with a personality, or to scoff at it or spit on it. Sooner or later, a song will mean something to you. He's taking it as a package, as we all do as consumers. But music, songs find meaning elsewhere. They're sort of like picnic flies ; they buzz in and take your shit.
That's funny. God only knows what he thought of the packaging of Grace. "Hi, I'm Jeff Buckley, I'm a syncretic wanker."



3.

JB:

Exactly. I don't recognize that sensibility at all. I don't recognize anything that doesn't recognize a bloom. You were talking about Anne Sexton and her rhythm. The thing missing from your written poetry is [points to his chest] this, the body that gives it meaning and shoots it out into the air. Poetry comes from the people who make it; the books are just books, blueprints. Dylan and Leonard Cohen and Patti Smith, all dark, all romantic. When I say "romantic," I mean a sensibility that sees everything, and has to express everything, and still doesn't know what the fuck it is, it hurts that bad. It just madly tries to speak whatever it feels, and that can mean vast things. That sort of mentality can turn a sun-kissed orange into a flaming meteorite, and make it sound like that in a song.
And there's that pretentious label we were talking about before. People say, "Why dress it up? It needs to be a song. Why all this froo-froo stuff?" Well, why art? Why painting? Why sculpture? It seems as if the world has done away with art altogether, any concern or any relationship with it. So many easy things seem to be over the public's head. But really, if they just came at it a certain way, it would hit them right in the guts; it's so easy.
Smith's and Dylan's and Cohen's power lies in their ability to tell that story so well, and all the stuff on Blonde on Blonde and on [Smith's] Horses and Radio Ethiopia and [Cohen's] Songs From a Room, even Death of a Ladies' Man, which is a sleazy-ass album; it's a real jewel, for someone to be able to sing that, to say that. Dylan had no ornamentation whatsoever. He had pure feel and pure language coming out of him, and that did all the work. He had such affectation! [starts imitating Dylan singing "Visions of Johanna"]



4.

JB:

There's nothing wrong, in my mind, with criticism. But there's something sinister about critics who are outside the process ferociously trying to legitimatize an art form into their sensibility. Can you imagine living in that kind of world? You would listen to a shitload of Billie Holiday, Satchmo, Fats Waller. You'd concentrate on the 30's, 40's and 50's, and then you'd write about PJ Harvey because she's sexy and she reminds you of Howlin' Wolf. I like a lot of their tastes. It's just that the way they speak about music obviously illustrates some real sour soul.