I contemplate the devolving sophistication of our culture... for my
own sake... for the sanity of the mind of a writer... The more content
the better from a marketing stand point. (Look at Stephen King or
Grisham or Patterson... they never stop writing). Often a higher
quantity of 'product' reduces quality all around. This is a double-edged
sword. Our culture is a hyper attention-deficit, over-medicated,
over-populated conglomeration. We all play follow the leader though at
the rate at which we are following currently, this can only be a
downward spiral.
I contemplate the idea of quantity
over quality. Sometimes I think I'd rather create one masterpiece and
enter directly into the reams of history after I die than create endless
amounts of shit to become a celebrated puppet in our contemporary
culture. On the fronts of celebrity news magazines or some such drivel.
Huge
masses of trivial information bog down potentially enlightening
information. So yes. Quantity is good for a marketing standpoint because
most marketing geniuses are the ones smart enough to exploit the
stupidity of the masses. Stupidity meaning the attention deficit
over-saturation sort of thing. We can't expect them to listen unless we
repeat ourselves 500 times a day. Does it bother you to be a gimmick?
Wouldn't it be nice to be celebrated as the anarchist you are in your
heart? To be lauded. Loved.
I'm just afraid that no one will ever expect quality out of the products they seek. Everything might turn to shit.
----
Staring at the sterling 5 string slowly spinning on a page that can be purchased directly. Drool over it for a moment and never forget and then contemplate the idea of a 5 string bass with low B which would be a flat in my tuning. It would be a good idea, maybe, to disguise freshly sour milk with instant breakfast before ingestion. To trick the body and the bank account proper. Would work fine. Witnessed low rider and smoke out. The bathroom flooded and no videos went up. Something personal and alone. A problem? The way with words. All lines rehearsed. Very illuminating. Broken etiquette. Not true you would never know when to yell. Yell always. Be heard and make an impact. Be loud and respected simultaneous. Yell to yourself. Find words where necessary and take sleeping pills that make consciousness waver like drunken sailors fresh to port, feeling the earth beneath them sway like the great ocean. Like sewer rabbits darting fearfully back beneath the gutters. A whole inner city jungle down those pipes. Creatures convalescing and growing out of morbid curiosity. The motivation for life? Morbid curiosity? This body is a prison or a temple or a passageway. Depending on how your brain developed. When did the authority figure in your life chisel the ideas into your head that you hold as your own. Until reaching the age of reason, though many never do, young death or sheer stupidity, or fearful conformity, or worse... Then you question with full intelligent capacity. Seeking out that small high. Percentage of users over do it. And all lights go out at once with the final breath of Chicago. City streets, cars splashing through puddles, rain and drizzling opinions, opening eyes in the rain as the sky tears across into a giant ravine, the sky an open wound. crying tears of greek gods who exist though no one believes in them anymore. their temples are now tourist traps. hordes of camera-wielding vacationers, trampling the sacred solid and capturing the soul of a place, the life essence with a retractable lens. they wear pastel colors and sun hats. dark sunglasses and foreign languages. american english? this is not the language of the gods and it is often clunky when compared to a sophisticated ancient language. there is beauty to be found rather than mere communication. but we've reduced the societal language to awful grammar and spelling correctly to be a form of autistic savant syndrome. we have forgotten how important it was to keep intelligence at high esteem. to support each other as human beings in this rat race of existence. holding hands and skipping toward a brighter future. but no. we will accidentally step on others without ever having a negative intention toward another in the world. there are unforeseen consequences to every action good or bad. planting random flowers. maybe they grow thick roots and kill the garden. all the while blossoming into something beautiful. lay me to rest in that garden grove. let me sleep in the forest among the damp leaves and menacing by night trees, tall and majestic as fuck. let the contemporary cultural linguistics slip into my speech. euphemism. we are a reflection of it and vice versa. do I feel represented properly?
