As an artist, our job is to pay attention to the imagery of our interior world, be it musical, kinaesthetic, poetic, based in painting, sculpture or anything at all. We live in a therapy culture that tells us everything we experience is some aspect of the self and can be analysed and understood through intellectual scrutiny stemming from Freudian ideas.
When we analyse something we kill it. It ceases to be shimmering with the vast potentiality of being here.
Day to day, rational and applied intellectual understanding of things is needed and welcomed in the appropriate setting- of which artistic experience is not.
I'm saying that we need to see this experience as a non-ordinary state where we don't pounce on things and shit them down, second guess them or 'witness them dispassionately.' Rather, what's required is raucous and chaotic abandon, complete attention and interest in the thing, letting it have its way with us, chew us up and spit us out, the other side, after swimming in the depths, fresh faced and soulfully renewed, ready to take on the mundane activities of a mainstream artistically impoverished world.
Dive baby, dive.
Since feeling is first- e.e.Cummings
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
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