The Fearless Creative

We live in a time where nothing is sacred. We are living in a time of the now generation. I need it now. I want it now. Why not? Why can't we have it now? We have suffered for thousands of years as a specie to get to this point. So can't we have the new Kanye album now? We are in a constant need to have something new. If this week it was the 1.0 next week we need the 2.0. We live in a constant need of neo and we want it now. 

Does it ever come together? Or is it falling apart. Who do we become when it all comes together. Flattering in our own wake of menial successes. We bury that fear, that mood and push on to the highest height. We breath in breathless air of oxygen filled weed. We tire we tighten we exhale and regain. So its not falling apart or coming together. Its falling apart and coming together. Up and down like the air in our lungs. the beat in our heart and the twinkle in our eye. 

The bubbles blow the smoke flows. There is a solution. To fly like an eagle... Till there free. The revolution won't be televised it will be broadcasted live from doles park. The mad hatter and his wolf mingle with the hola hoop the frisbee flies and the pigeon oh the pigeon... He walks and talks he bobs to the pulse. We all do.

Its not depression. Its not anger. its confusion. Confusion from the facts. Or lack there of. Where is the peace. We need no justice. Only peace. Peace of mind. Peace of heart. Peace of body. We need a peace of us. We lost. we are losing constantly. Leaving behind the unheard wishes of the past participators. We lost the emotion to have emotion. We thrive off of pension and lose sight of compassion. We work backwards being and having been. We lost that being. The sense of being. Im not sad. I'm not mad....I'm merely confused. 

The world is full of them. Modifying the good will of the people and loosing site of what really matters. How can we do this to ourselves? How can we do this to each other. Money is a magnifying glass. Peering into ones soul. start with there bank account. They have leeched in to us all and disturbed the natural way of being. Living for one another rather than trying to win some endless game. He who has the most colored paper wins. Its no wonder we are all dropping out and switching off. This game of life is lived in a jungle filled with rodents, beast who mangel with there lashing teeth and witty red eyes. They are here for the take. and the take only. The leave the rest for the bottom feeders. the flies the ants the maggots. Then we all morph into a modified version of what it used means to be human. 

Eyes are open hearts are heavy we seem to be living under a finger. A finger not yet on the pulse of humanity. Where speed kills but also accelerates and raises the bar higher. Living with the will to defeat. The will to be defeated has gone on for to long. We live in an age where its all possible but nothing is possible. Nothing excites or gives you a feeling of being alive. Apart of a group that is going to change the direction of perspective. Bend the prism to refract the idea of modernism. To reflect the unpopular belief and make it sub culture. Now its sub commercial. Everything is lead to the slaughter house, hit with a tranquilizer, and bled out to pollute the very water the rest of the sheep are drinking. 

A loss of worlds. a loss of words. It seems to happen at the same time. Everything out in the open to fall on us. The creative few tasked with the regiment to make the world feel more free, open, and cosmopolitan. We the few. the brave, the brilliant, the recluse. The horn plays, the pencil sketches, the impersonation continues. It withers away to despair leaving a deep and un mendable wound. We never heal. we split wider and wider until no more. Until dust to dust. left to the blood sucking hounds and leeches to keep watch and point fingers for gold. 

This city breathes and moves constant...people places things moving... Sometimes to much.. Sometimes just right some times not at all. This city filled with decay and life and new ideas and old practices. Patient impatiens...veonarble...  unstoppable. This world never goes to bed always overdoses and is always the life of the party. Stay at home dads with tattoos who have a garden...broken down dilapidated war vets begging for change...300k cars parked on park ave mad men on mad...the world meets here...stops here.. Starts here...never finishes 

What we perceive to think is right we strive for. No one having any real idea why. For what. When it will end.  Although we walk. Walk through hoops of fire and rage to maintain perception. The idea that you have to be a model. The idea that you have to be a them. Why not a you? The idea that it's me. Not them the ideal perception. The perception of me. You see me is not you and I am not them. Me is first. You is not permitted. Them is everyone else. You are right me is wrong. Them is everything else. Listen to you. Create your reality. Change their perception. Allow you to influence me  and change them. Now we're them. We are one. 

What does it really mean to be an artist? For me its a constant question. with no constant answer. You must question everything and answer nothing. Leave it all open ended. it also means you must be open to constant critique constantly. It hurts. it stings. Only another artist has any idea what I mean. Thats a problem. Many people aren’t artist so it makes it even harder to relate. The only way we can safely communicate is through the work. The work of art. It leaves you open and vounarable to constant critique. Left up there upon the wall, the screen, the stage, the earth. if your lucky thats forever….forever. Who the hell wants that? We all do? We hate that we are not the first person in line. We revolve around the idea of being first. We are trained from a very young age to take this prespective in the world. If you are not first…well then you are last. So we strive to get our work recognized, critiqued, and then we die. or in meat cases kill ourselves. Drunk to death, hi to death, loved to death. We are a lost art, a lost art of artist and rebels with fiats, facebooks, and focciccia bread. We revel in the oh why is this so hard over 10.50 fresh pressed juices with extra wheat grass shots. Wear dark glasses and leather, lots of leather. Our pants show our ankles and we work for creative agencies and are all “photographers”. What happened to us? We used to be the ramones, bas quit, harold hunter. now we sit at a computer al day and blog, Facebook, tweet, tumbl, and squarespace. We went in with paint brushes and came out with 250k debt of school loans. We spend mommy and daddy money well into our 20s and we live in lux lot like apartments with steel doors. However we make believe and create dreams and make magic with apples, and coffee beans. 

The world seems to be turning into a wash of what it once was. A brilliant painting melting off the canvas from over expousure to the sun. We are all falling off. lazy, ignorant and more advanced then star trek. but as far back as ever. We have lost touch with each other but more in touch than ever before. My life at this point seems to be going in an interesting rhythm. Similar to the way I’m typing now. Slow cumbersome and missing letters. Sitting in a fancy coffe shop with no one here drinking a watered down americano that I’m probably going to pay 4.50 for. Where has it all gone? This si supposes to be picture perfect. An artist, a cafe, an americano, and a moleskin in NYC. If that is so right? Then why does it feel so wrong? I swear when people read all of my thoughts they are going to think I was clinically depressed and willing to throw myself in front of an on coming F train. However I couldnt be happier. Im just sad that everyone else seems sad. Was it always this way? I can remember a time when being who you were made you happy. Now….we all hide. Hide behind what we imagine everyone else to think we are. Hide behind the fact that we all want to fingepaint and make ballon animals. Maybe not. Maybe thats just me. Maybe I’m the artist, that still thinks he can be a clown. Maybe he can still get by smoking weed and watching cartoons looking for a spark of motivation. Looking to hold on to an unimaginable dream of the movement. Holding on to the edge of this island. Drowning while the rats feed off of what ever is left. Loosing a battle to sewage, dog shit, overpriced vegetable juice and bearded hipsters who hang in a coffe shop all day. The window on creativity shut long ago. It went to jail with michale alig, to the hospital with andy warhol and in the herion needle of miles davis. NY, NY you sicken me so. My long lost obsession with hip hop ciphers, broadway plays, chelsea galleries, gone. down the drain of despair a feeling none the less bottomless, selfless, and creative less. Why did I love you in the first place? You had such an inspiring lure. A magic. dare i say it…a creative spark now lost in the blend of bland.