THATS SO INTERNET

I’m still very much concerned about how much high art and good art seem to be tied to (borderline reliant on) fabrication, large objects, the well crafted object, and in essence processes that require the labor of uncredited people facilitating the work. this kind of artwork sidesteps many issues brought up with the process because the workers get payed. the fact of the matter is that in this mode of artmaking, the artist essentially serves a role that is part director, part producer, and part screenwriter with the full effect of each role mitigated by being combined with the other; a glorified “idea man”. the little cigar chomping executive that yammers out ideas to a secretary followed by the eternal mantra of privileged bosses, “make it happen.” except that generally executives of this ilk are generally from hollywood which actually has the good spirit to actually credit the majority of people who work on a project. the Proper Art World does not, yet somehow cultivates this aroma and atmosphere of being progressive. about what, im not sure, but if you’re around it enough you begin to notice which good scents are just febreeze and yankee candles.

“Fuck you if you want to talk to distant loved ones at our cafe”

“Fuck you if you wanted a cafe environment to do stressful online classwork and research”

“Fuck you if your job requires an internet connection and you wanted a calming environment for a while”

there is a church on every street corner for miles. they promise absolution and salvation. no one ever goes in, and no one ever comes out.

you get in your car and drive. you will run across a town you have never seen before just as the dashboard clock ticks over to Too Late. the people there will look at you as if you are a freak of nature. you will keep driving. you will never see that town again.

along the cracking highway are nothing but empty fields. a sign amidst dead grass and melting snow tells you HELL IS REAL. it offers no solace, no solution, no way out. it simply tells you what you already know.

the cities have names that strangers can never pronounce, but that you were born with on your lips. they are more than letters–they are unpronounceable symbols in some ancient tongue. they fill you with melancholy, and with yearning. 

there is a river that still stinks of ash and soot. the sun sets across it like blood spilling across the floor, and you can imagine that it is still burning.

the steel mills have been closed since before you were born. keep telling yourself that when you walk by them and hear the clanging of ancient machinery and feel your scalp tingle with unseen eyes. you will dream about white hot sparks and wake up with black grease staining your hands. the steel mills have been closed since before you were born.

it’s round on the ends, and full of an aching sense of desperation and loss in the middle.

the sidewalks are crumbling, and the buildings are nothing more than decaying ribs poking out corrugated steel sides. the clock on that building has shown the same time since before your mother was born. you cut yourself and you bleed, rust red.