ante diem xvii kalends july 2003 c.e. More dream news. I'm just writing things up and getting my thoughts together. From my notebooks: June 24, 2003 When I did sleep last night there weren't any dreams, nightmares, guilt or regrets just a deep sleep. Over the weekend I bought Homeworld and I played that the other night. Unfortunately this reminds me that, like Khan, I continue to think in two dimensions. I know that I'd get a better handle on the game if it was turn based instead of a real time strategy game. The miracle of modern art is that anyone can do it. Anyone can do Picasso's Demoiselles d'Avignon. Rip off some motif/design from Africa like Paul Simon and use sloppy and imprecise strokes to render it upon the canvas. The only art evident in such works is in the ability of the artist to be clever in describing the work to their audience and make them understand why the piece looks like a toddler's nursery school project. That's the only abstraction in modern art, not by using vague forms, outlines and iconography. Apologists say the artists paid their dues in the various salons and schools by honing their skills in the classical styles. These apologists also explain to the vast audiences, the ones who will listen, why such horrors are noteworthy and deserve to be hung in the museum solely on their artistic merit. They veil the virtue of cleverness with the vice of lies. It's like a gourmand wanting to try something exotic and they're offered a sample of what a chef calls tiger shit. It's brown, it smells and has all the other hallmarks of being tiger shit but is it truly tiger shit? The chef could've went into the backyard and got something from his dog named Tiger or used an aquarium net after he dropped some friends off at the pool. The gourmand doesn't know this and a part of his mind turns off so the gourmand believes the steaming offal presented did pass through the alimentary canal of a big cat. Should this decadent aficionado happen to have a moment of clarity and question the nature of the tiger shit or even question the whole concept of coprophagia then it's up to the chef to spin a yarn about how the gilded rajahs of India once supped upon tiger crap during their high holidays or how it is an acquired taste and once acquired that individual would become part of an elite society who has known the wonders of this delicacy. That is what modern fine art represents to me. Hoodwinking people by claiming great struggles, angst, and introduction into an elite, secret society of other people who have learned to appreciate that art. Anything else which is created by someone who is not part of that vast and unattainable pantheon of Artists is considered to be pedestrian or at the very best "folk art" completely devoid of merit. If critics, apologists, aficionados, et al would strip away all pretense and simply state "They're awful clever to make us think that" or admit to someone having vast technical skill but no talent or vice versa that would be honorable. Yet these people are clever enough, like their heroes, to argue they have already said that and their words carry no weight. Of course the very idea of modern fine art fits into my belief structure. Anyone can do it. The infuriating aspect is not everyone can acquire renown or respect regardless of how prolific, talented or respected by the masses that individual or that individual's art may be. Works which are truly deserving of such laurels have to run a gauntlet of professors, critics and admirers in order to be accepted into the hallowed temples of museums which already have their own pantheon along with no desire to add anyone else into their fold. Ignominy and obscurity are the hells these works and artists are consigned to for their hubris. To quote the immortal words of Homer Simpson: "The lesson is, never try." Those who do try and continue ever onwards are labelled as cranks, hacks or at best serving a niche genre where talent or skill are not required for admittance or acceptance. From what little education I have had in this field and from my experiences these folks end up dyring, languishing in obscurity for an age only to rise to prominence, held aloft on the shoulders of their "discoverers" as prophets long before their time. Such acclaim is small comfort for the bones which lie mouldering in a centuried, unknown grave. Perhaps in the far-flung future there will be technology which can raise the dead from the half rotted pulp of meat found within an ancient molar and from that recreate a semblance of consciousness, of soul, to the individual so they may accept these accolades. The folly of art is the fact that art is subjective since one of the natures of art is to be appreciated by an audience. To have widespread appeal is commendable but the arguments against works which have widespread appeal is the fact that the audiences do not understand that they are being given the aesthetic equivalent of McDonald's when they could be privy to the subtle and soul-wrenching experience of tiger shit. These people chuckle at the fact that the masses would turn up their noses to their chosen delicacy at not having such a learned and experienced tongue but the masses will plainly state the obvious, "You're eating shit." In closing I have to say that I admire the artists who claim and are quoted as saying their art is lacking merit and virtue, that people are stupid to acclaim their works akin to the second coming of Christ. These artists understand truth. Truth with a small t. Truth with a big T is a whole other story. While writing this, editing it for coherency and typing it I am quite aware that a lot of me is reflected in this article. Whatever part of me is evident in this essay I will leave up to the reader for discovery if they are so inclined. A Daydream from June 24, 2003 This vignette happened while I was writing the previous essay. It's a daydream about my pending execution. America is overrun by savage, Muslim invaders who go from house to house rounding up people for consideration under their tribal-described-as-muslim law. While I stand in a line-up under the blistering and perennial Colorado sun this one bearded soldier bearing a Kalashnikov fingers my pendant. "Islam does not allow images, only Allah can make an image" he says in decent English. I feel the need to troll, "How do you know it's an image when you have never seen one?" He snaps, "That is a star!" My gut reaction is he'll call me a Jew, even though my star is a pentacle not a Star of David. "No, this is twisted wire." I point to the sky, "If it was night you could see stars." The fedayin grabs it, "Then I will destroy it if it's just wire." "No you won't, my father gave it to me." Of course I end up on the short list for the infidel executions. From my notebooks: June 25, 2003 Fucking paranoia is killing me. I can function but in order to function I force this "happy drone" façade. With my job experience has told me to keep quiet and roll along because to show any kind of paranoia or anxiety will make everyone else become suspicious in regards what I may have to be anxious about in the first place. Every time that fucking door closes with all the managers in there I get a knot in the pit of my stomach. I repeated the litany against fear at least three times today to remind me that these feelings have no basis in fact. With Dee it has been proven that I do have something to fret about during the long silences. Of course it's only one incident, or one incident that she told me about, but the seed of distrust has been sown into fertile soil. Last Sunday I sent her three emails, two of which were drafts that were written earlier but never sent, that basically said "Shit or get off the pot." The Birds are moving away. Not tens or hundreds of miles but still the thought of them moving away nags at me during my quieter moments. My parents are moving out of their house too. I'll paste the email. Hi Son, I will respond as soon as possible. I have my hands full. Our house was broken in. The cops feel that Ben chased them out They broke the glass in the kithen door reached in and turned the key. Ben and Kate was waiting. The alarm company called the cops. At 11:45 A.M on Saturday, yesterday, I recieved a call from the Springfield police that some one had broken in. Mom that morning said she was going to stay home and take care of Guiseppe, the new dog. She went out. Mom has bruises on her arms for no good reason except that her blood is thin. I thought that she was hurt and rushed home. When I got home the cops were in the driveway and Mom was parked on Milltown Road and standing on the back deck by the kitchen and holding Ben by his collar, panic stricken. I was pissed. The cops and I went in the house as soon as I put the dogs in the Garage. No one passed through the house, only in the kitchen. Two hundred dollars later, the kitchen door is repaired and we are now going to place the house on the market. I love you and will keep you updated as to what is happening. Love you very much, Dad. First, they're moving away which bugs me because it's like they're not creating a foundation for a life or they got halfway through building one then decided they should go elsewhere. Secondly I feel guilt that I wasn't there to do anything like help Ben rip apart that nigger. Everything is fucking falling apart. I was checking my livejournal friends list and saw a private entry by Brian's girlfriend about how Brian was out for all hours and she was pissed at him for not checking in with her at least once to let her know that he was okay. No big fucking deal but I decided to read the comments. This one cuntrag posted how she wants to take her steel tipped boots and dance the tarantella on Brian's head. I was relieved that it was just a woman instead of a guy because if it was a guy that would imply that it was one of Deanna's online guy friends who has designs on her and believe me she hasn't had a good record in this regards while with Brian. Either way, I emailed Brian to give him a heads up but my fury at the threat of violence on one of my own made me paste in that comment. Brian spoke with Deanna the next day but made a comment about steel tipped boots. Deanna jumped to the right conclusions and became furious with me. Whoa there bucko. You're not angry with someone who threatens violence on a man you supposedly love but should his friend give a friend a heads-up to smooth things out and to avoid one of your dipshit, short-fused friends then you're going to be furious at me? DUDE I AM SO TOTALLY A NARC!!! Get some fucking perspective. Either way the situation makes me feel like I'm back at home where one side hates me and the other side likes me and I'm ambivalent if the hating side hates me or not along with Brian emailing me to tell me to make some manner of peace with Deanna. Let's see. I've dissected one of Dee's personal philosophies and found a flaw that I can not reconcile and I have myself knotted up on the inside of bringing this up to her and insulting her since it appears to be a delicate issue or just keeping it inside as usual to keep the peace. I feel sad that the only thing in my life that I feel I have any control over is my job. Come in on time, don't fuck around, work hard and keep up appearances around the sensitive women. Hrm, it's more think than feel. Yet the only true anxiety I have from my job are from the sensitive women. There have been countless incidents where they complain about me smelling and when the upper management have confronted me they haven't noticed anything and go off on "well it's a closed space, blah blah blah". So if only some people are noticing it are they just busting my balls or trying to use their seniority or familial relations to subtract a non-family individual from a job? The incidents where something was mentioned but the management was baffled outweigh the number of incidents where I came in and everyone said there was something wrong. So now I go into work smelling like a god damned woman with two passes of roll on under my pits, baby powder for my crotch and walking out the door with a mouthful of listerine that I hold until I get to the intersection of Platte and Circle. I take care myself and do my best not to offend at any time but the measures I'm taking appear to be ridiculous and above and beyond the call of duty. Almost as if it's a form of hazing. At least those measures make that anxiety manageable. What isn't manageable is filling in the blanks, connecting the dots, trying to ascertain what's going on between the long and profound silences with leaps of logic or spivak's razor. Why do I have to know everything? It's a defense mechanism. The only times where I've felt up against the wall or cornered are when I didn't know something. I am not in control in those situations or, more importantly, a participant in those situations. Being a participant, even if I'm on the shit end of the stick, is acceptable to me because at least I know what the hell is going on instead of making things out to be worse than they already are because in the end all life is suffering. With that kind of knowledge I know I can survive, I know that I can continue to tread water until I catch sight of a ship or make my way towards some distant shore where I can begin again. Right now as I write this, about 11:30 a.m. on Wednesday, I'm trembling and I am not that hungry. When I'm anxious I'll go to Denny's for a big lunch since I can't have a four martini lunch to steady my nerves. There, I just forced myself to pick at the scrambled eggs. The last time I felt like this was last July when I drove to Tulsa to spend two or three hours with Dee. I need to go to therapy again. I'm self-destructing and I'm working my hardest to help the act of self-destruction along by drinking, pushing people away and building up that wall around me so nobody can get in or out to hurt me or touch me or love me. I'm pushing Deidre away and being horrified that it actually seems to be working though it's just me making leaps to judgement. I don't talk with my family much. Much less than when I was living with them. I don't talk with anyone really. This site is my only outlet for all the thoughts, ideas, dreams and ramblings that haunt my head. My only confidant or at least the only confidant that I know will not judge me. I avoid the Birds ever since 9/11 and last March 2002. Fucking Makonan. "Whatever". "I don't want to talk about this". Shit like that. I wanted closure or understanding. Maybe I pushed too hard to see what her damage was but most times I really can't fucking bother to care since someone who I once considered a friend and there were all the hallmarks of someone being a friend, rather than me just living in a spviak fantasy world, ended up not being a friend anymore. Yeah, fucking blame me for not talking but you kept to yourself as much as I did. Little. Yellow. Nuprin. From the git-go I had the impression that she really didn't want to be there even though she flew out on her money to visit me. I save online conversations so I can have proof that people once cared and said things to me that conveyed the emotion of love, liking or understanding. Something I can look back upon and go "See, right there. That's where they said it. I am vindicated because I had every right to believe that because I have something objective rather than subjective!" Why do I avoid the Birds? For some reason I constantly equate them to Ty and Stephanie, a couple that once hosted our gaming group. The dynamic was an aloof male and a touchy feely female but at best with Ty and Stephanie relations were cordial among the gaming group. Ty, unfortunately, had short man syndrome and needed to overcompensate. Stephanie was somewhat of a confidant mostly because she was playing a vampire nun who eventually adopted my character who was an eight year old verbena mage. Well one time before a game Ty took me aside and tore into me about lightening up and to stop talking with Stephanie because he was sick and tired hearing about what I'd confide in her and how sometimes she'd act like she gave a shit about my tiny life. I was irritated, far from furious, because she didn't say anything to me and it really came across as her words being projected through his mouth. Typical woman shit. Either way, I want to avoid situations like this. Of course being honest and expressing my feelings, my past and my belief only serves to create a sidewalk made of eggshells rather than actually opening up venues of understanding, acceptance or some other multisyllabic word. How are the Birds like this? Well Jaybird's definitely a better human and I do not say that because he's fifteen feet above me as I transcribe this from my notebook into index.php but he does seem unapproachable and everything has to be scheduled which I can understand since it's virtuous to have a structured life. Yet after March of 2002 it became really awkward because Jaybird and maribou were arguing amongst themselves over the whole shitstorm that happened in my apartment. Jaybird was on Makonan's side and maribou was on my side, to an extent more of an apologist. Fuck, once again I'm stuck between two people. One likes me and the other one doesn't like me to be very simplistic about the situation. Jaybird apologized to me after something happened between his friend Idiotboy and Makonan because he realized that I wasn't fully at fault in the situation. I felt vindicated and that life had returned to normal without me being perceived as some high maintenance fuckwit who ran away from home. Either way I feel like I've crossed a line with the Birds, not knowing them in person long enough to even share those kinds of feelings or thoughts with them and being completely out of line having done so in the past whether embarassingly like 9/11 or awkwardly with Makonan's abortive visit. Of course there have been countless reassurances, unbidden or asked for, that they love me but these are the things whispered into my ear by the spivak wearing the horns and red pyjamas.