White men that I admire, deceased. The tragedy of wanting to be loved, etc.

There’s something happening lately – forgive my hippy sensibilities but I attribute it to the end of the winter solstice. Never mind the whys, point is, it feels like the bleeding, infected openings of fresh wounds are everywhere. Artists I love are committing suicide (Mark Linklaus of Sparklehorse. Why, Mark? I loved you.) I have been of late obsessed with the remembering of other artists I’ve known and loved that went the same way: David Foster Wallace, Elliot Smith, Richard Brautigan, countless others I’m forgetting. Even if they made it through without dying (Thom Yorke, Charlie Kaufman) we’re all so fucking sad. And it’s abundantly clear that making great art can’t save us. Writers, artists, musicians, we’ve got to get this through our head. First of all, fuck your ambition, it’s gross. You’re probably not going to “make it.” Second of all, if you “make it” it’s not going to make you happy.




So that’s art and that’s just a small piece of what I’m talking about. Some people go so far as to say the only real impetus to even make art is to be desired, or to put it crudely, to get laid. Simplistic? Yes. Annoying? Yes. I would agree only in so much as it seems to me that lots and lots of things stem from a striving to be loved, and wanted, and understood. And we go into this world so fresh and bright eyed and bushytailed, and if we were lucky our parents didn’t horribly hurt us, so we expect that the world is not a dangerous place, and then we get to find out we’re wrong! Fun!

But I hang with weirdos, freaks, and otherwise doomed persons, so most of our parents did hurt us. I don’t know, let’s say for example your father left when you were three years old, and he never explained why, but he came back sporadically and gave you love sometimes. You might go shopping around to have that experience repeated in every single man you meet, because that’s what you think love is. And whoever these men are, they have their own perception of love based on whatever their mothers did to them, and then you pile into bed and make some disgusting soup of a relationship until you can’t take it anymore. Just for example.

Oh my god I don’t know what I’m saying. It just seems so out there lately. Everyone’s pain seems raw and on the surface, and I feel weirdly psychically in tune with all of it. I feel like I could look at a waitress on the other side of the restaurant, and I could say to her: “so your Dad was a sex addict and you found the S&M polaroids in a shoebox in the closet when you were 6, and that’s why you want to cringe every time your boyfriend touches you?” Are any of you out there having a similar experience?

Oh, me. I love men that don’t love me back. Men and women love me that I can’t love. We’re all like dogs chasing cars, what the fuck will we do when we catch them?

Anyway, it’s the end of the solstice. We’re shedding our winter skin and it’s like peeling a band-aid. Things are going to get better for us. If we could just learn to love each other without all these chips on our shoulders that are really more like anvils, eh? That would be nice.

5 thoughts on “White men that I admire, deceased. The tragedy of wanting to be loved, etc.

  1. Molly

    Solstices, patterns. Rolling feelings, early imprints of growth and learning. The human condition is a painful one, we have this level of self-awareness layered on top of rather clever monkey. Most of consciousness is an illusion of expert systems.

    Add this to your human desire for love, acceptance, nurturing, having a pack to run with.

    As artists, I think we are only different in that we have these means and urges to express ourselves, to take all of our feelings the patterns we see, the conclusions and beliefs we hold, and pile them up like a mountain of mashed potatoes on the kitchen table, running around like Richard Drefus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind yelling this means something.

    We all want to be understood and appreciated, but most simply do not express this in any overt way. They sublimate it in distractions, daily grind, keeping that self-awareness from gnawing at them. Yet it, is this same shared feeling and thinking that allow others to connect with art. It matches and affirms their sense of life and reality in an atavastic subconscious way. It is not that everyone isn’t screaming inside, it’s just that for artists, the scream isn’t silent.

    sheesh, sounds like I need to get laid:)

    Rob

  2. “You are the sickness yourself…. You realize all this…when you look at the black hole and it’s wearing your face. That’s when the Bad Thing just absolutely eats you up, or rather when you just eat yourself up. When you kill yourself. All this business about people committing suicide when they’re “severely depressed;” we say, “Holy cow, we must do something to stop them from killing themselves!” That’s wrong. Because all these people have, you see, by this time already killed themselves, where it really counts…. When they ‘commit suicide,’ they’re just being orderly.”

    - David Foster Wallace

  3. First things first, not everyone who is screaming inside has the desire to let it out in some way. Hell, some people aren’t even screaming inside. I tend to think they’re something wrong with them, but that’s probably not true and many of them are genuinely good people.

    As far as the give and take of love go, that’s a lifelong struggle for everyone who is screaming inside. I imagine that for a bulk of the people who struggle with it, it’s somewhere on the spectrum of the Groucho Marx joke about not wanting to belong to any club that would have you as a member. And for people whose neuroses exist on that wavelength, they’re everywhere from compulsively searching to being absolutely certain, regardless of circumstances, that they will die alone.

    For cases like Dave Wallace, it has absolutely nothing to do with the love of others, and part of his pain, I think, arose out of people not being able to realize that.

  4. Molly

    Solstices, patterns. Rolling feelings, early imprints of growth and learning. The human condition is a painful one, we have this level of self-awareness layered on top of rather clever monkey. Most of consciousness is an illusion of expert systems.

    Add this to your human desire for love, acceptance, nurturing, having a pack to run with.

    As artists, I think we are only different in that we have these means and urges to express ourselves, to take all of our feelings the patterns we see, the conclusions and beliefs we hold, and pile them up like a mountain of mashed potatoes on the kitchen table, running around like Richard Drefus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind yelling this means something.

    We all want to be understood and appreciated, but most simply do not express this in any overt way. They sublimate it in distractions, daily grind, keeping that self-awareness from gnawing at them. Yet it, is this same shared feeling and thinking that allow others to connect with art. It matches and affirms their sense of life and reality in an atavastic subconscious way. It is not that everyone isn’t screaming inside, it’s just that for artists, the scream isn’t silent.

    sheesh, sounds like I need to get laid:)

    Rob

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