one thing abt ai and the mainstream climate of entertainment is that it's made it clear we need to celebrate weird imperfect offbeat art more than ever. the ai art i see floating around is pristine in such an uninspired way it's made me rethink my relationship w creativity entirely. i'm less concerned with creating polished works than i am with creating and consuming the bizarre, the messy, the challenging. i want my brain to go ❗️ when i see something beautiful - not because it's a perfect clone or amalgam of populart/contemporary style but because it stirs the worm in my heart that feeds on what it means to be human!! it wriggles in delight at the taste of fallibility !!!!! make weird shit and dance with your shadow!!!!!!!! canonize the magic of being human by giving the absurdity of it form !!!!!WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN THE EFFICIENCY OF OUR CELLS!!!!
really obsessed w how rage manifests in my body what it does to my bones my blood my brain every combination of matter the way it expands and builds and devours like a scream a roar a cleansing fire wailing to life and burning away the aching parts of me, leaving me vacuous and deep-space cold vast enough to see the expanse of my emptiness like standing in a cathedral haunted by the remembrance of containing anything at all, even the divine, even the divine,
and the rage, the rage is the ghost given a mouth and teeth and an awareness of hunger so primordial it could consume the heart of a galaxy and still be left wanting, searching, insatiable and overflowing desperate and certain too big and too small everything and nothing, existing to burn and to be burned to be the kindle and the flame no beginning or ending just consumption and starvation living as one pinprick of light in the core of me flaring flaring flaring like the birth and death of a star and there, there, at the very center of an impact crater a black hole an empty room with walls i can't see i am a mirror held up to entropy astounded and horrified by what it sees
something about spirals, about the inexplicable urge to scribble them in the margins of our notebooks...the hypnosis of starting a circle only to never complete it, only to set it on a chase for singularity somewhere deep in the well of its slow curvature. unbreaking pattern, rune of the human condition. i haven't been the same since i learned all celestial bodies are circling inevitability on a scale unfathomable to us -- us as in humans, us as in earthlings, us as in stardust set adrift on an exhale that has been frantic in its quest to return to the body it left behind. maybe my hands understood before my conscious mind did just how ancient a longing it is to come back, only to realize as you float along its perimeter that back isn't a place or a time, it's you, inextricably, and you haven't gone anywhere.
maybe that's why we're mesmerized by depictions of spirals. we draw them on our skin, our walls, on crumpled receipts, bathroom stalls and blackboards in empty lecture halls, on postcards before sending them across the sea and on glass panes blushing with fog -- maybe we draw them because we get it, cosmically. we know what it's like to be the line and the instrument and the infinitesimal point you can't always see, all at once. we are orbits within orbits within orbits, sometimes submitting to and sometimes raging against our natures as decaying things. countless millenia ago we looked up at the stars and they taught us the function and poetry of pattern -- a dizzying orature. we circled the fire, as did the earth, and we gave this kinship form 🌀
obsessed w the idea of a calling. like the term itself...a call, a cry, a beckoning, a pleading, an inescapable and irrefutable song from a place you're meant to be, calling you home, leading you toward yourself through the act of answering. i could scream