The Type of Artist I Want to Be

Been digging around my hard drive looking for another piece when I found this. The document said it was written on April the 20th of this year. :D

I wish to join in the ranks of great artists whose work expressed their unique individuality, their burning core of creation. Human beings who accepted their authentic vision of beauty come what may. Ruin, or late acclaim or even madness might follow, but I know this; that the voice that compels me to write, compels me to speak, my mind's eye that sees the visions of worlds unknown, those are mine and mine alone. Worlds of beauty and horror to visit and terrify every night, and day dreams that are more real to me than anything I could ever share with anyone. They are mine and mine alone, and the trill of their exploration, the trill of crafting them into words, pictures, voices, thoughts cannot be shared. They cannot be repeated. The ranks are few, and far between, diaries come close, but not always. There's that filter in between the writers and the reader, and the less of that coming the closer I get to my core.

I will write something to make one awaken instead of fall asleep. And see the day for once. To write another novel, another piece where the reader could close the story, feeling happy and fulfilled inside for having witness another perform the task that one essentially understood to be theirs to do. No I seek to jar those with half and eye open to fully witness, to stare upon the fire here, the shadow puppets, and see the light if you dare for yourself.

A sense of life...

Each moment becomes a moment to dream. Where I belong, my own oblivion. I need no one now, can have no one.

This training, this craftsmanship aids in the communication of it, but the beauty of the inner space of the creator is something only he can work on himself. It is the boat from within to without, the link, the communication, but it will not replace a void, a cheap imitator, or a dishonest hack. Those who spend their time singing others song be weary of forgetting your own. When the voice can no longer tell its own from the others, when its vessel would mold itself completely in idol worship of another, then creation is abandoned for ritual, a performance of something past and done.

Creation is active. I must know what I think. I must do what is rare to achieve what is rarer. The truth cannot set you free if you never speak it, or speak it without honesty.

And if the blood falls in between my fingers, to disfigure either of us, I know that it is only an eye on the world that it ever was. You could learn to love a monster. But you must learn to love whatever it is you do first.

Small platitudes. Performance is the order of the day, achieving a sort of 'realism'. It's always a realism never real. A world where you're taught to smile in politeness, smile to hide anger, smile in the face of death, to smile when you don't feel like it so others won't be upset, to smile instead of yawn, to smile at our own ignorance. What then does a smile actually look like? We're taught to act, but not to be. We're told to be free, but never shown. We're made to fear, and feel ashamed when we are.

This utter lie the swallowing of that I weep for. Tricked, lied, and rewarded to act and not cognizant of their hollowness, I see the void that children become. It's ever sad, and constantly said. Children learn ever so well. To learn instead of to grow. At last we are here a spoon fed society. Unable to grow, but constantly willing to learn, to adapt. Unable to live, but fearful of death.

In another life I might have been a serial killer, if I taught others worth killing. Now I wait for my moment, scheming, hoping.

Learning has robbed away the spirits of men. Where the majority subjugate themselves to rules never questioned. Marching in lock step towards individual dreams on hollow grounds. So lost, so trapped, and so unaware. Knowledge is there, but it is never free those whose themselves unfree.

Recycling

            Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos. From the beginning it was never anything but chaos: it was a fluid which enveloped me, which I breathed in through the gills. In the substrata, where the moon shone steady and opaque, it was smooth and fecundating; above it was a jangle and a discord. In everything I quickly saw the opposite, the contradiction, and between the real and the unreal the irony, the paradox.

            Henry Miller, The Tropic of Capricorn

            Once you give up the ghost everything else naturally follows...

            In this natural season of the monsoon,

            where mists block out the horizons.

            Seeing in the distance more rain clouds,

            like an entity that never rests.

            For once in the city,

            the streets feel cleaned out.

            No gawking.

            No loitering on the streets.

            No people standing outside with no place to go

            In these rows of bars

            massage parlors

            art galleries

            where everything is a deja vu

            Of cheap imitation

            Of Cheap furniture

            cheap whores

            with their cheap make-up,

            Cheap lipstick

            Cheap alcohol

            cheap blood

            cheap sex

            cheap clothes

            and their cheap thrills.

            The rain forces them into these holes.

            Off the streets.

            Keeps away the street vendors,

            the stray dogs

            the stray street children.

            Turning corners,

            you meet the ubiquitous presence of muted television sets,

            sport channels

            game channels

            With the same music playing in all the red neon [bars]

            each corner punctuated by a 7-11

            Family Mart

            and Local marts

            Selling the same beer

            the same cigarettes

            the same condoms

            the same potato chips

            Ventilated solely by air conditioning

            With their heaving hum

            metallic resonances

            Everything is wrapped in plastic,

            Sold on a shelf

            Pictured in posters and displays

            The only thing left to do is gather around pool tables,

            lounge around television sets,

            Chat

            Play Darts

            Around the exchange of business smiles with

            Broken English

            German Splatter

            our fake smiles

            drunk smiles

            lustful smiles

            And in between lighting up cigarettes

            bored smiles

            Yawns on tables with candle and liquor

            Overflowing ashtrays.

            With everyone gone, I

            walk down to the beach

            where the water drains with sewage

            Condoms, Cigarettes, beer-bottles, pads, plastic,

            the insignificant dead

            floating out into the ocean

            Consumed by sea-animals

            Recycled back into human-bodies

            In the sea-food restaurants

            that line the pier

            Back into town

            Humans consuming their own shit

            High-heels and sneakers

            Hip-hop clothes

            Football jerseys

            The drainage pipes never stop flowing

            Black is everyone's favorite color

            As their dragging them around the bars

            Always waiting, legs crossed

            All I am able to do is write back drops

            Chasing my story to a close

            Perhaps these metaphors mean nothing

            Like words

            Like life-style

            Like impositions

            A system caught onto itself

            Like Telephones & Televisions
            [ Sealed and wrapped
             In ac(c)ord ]

Copyright 2010, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn

The Pianno Girl

“This is a failed experiment.” I’m p[l]aying for the Girl in Blue. I’m writing pages in a manuscript for a diary in a journal. Am I pretending to be somebody else?

Everything you’re hearing right now does not necessarily have to be true. When reality is too solid it weighs you down. This is not a “chill out, man” kind of saying that’s aimed at avoiding the problem—or really showing {how you don’t care}. I’m saying that, everything you’re going through right now is not what’s necessarily happening—and even if it is, how important is it really? What’s the use of thinking that everything has to go a certain way; to be harsh about it; to force it to happen as you imagine it. You make reality with your thoughts and your worries; and how much it can weigh on you is really up to you. It is not what is happening.

All this started because my first girl-friend was great at inventing codes. Codes, you used to think that the whole world can be understood if you could read the codes, read the signs. {You’re getting closer to me.} The mystery can be solved; and code is the process. Codes also means there is something to hide. Someone, or something is being hidden, being secretive. What is it that they don’t want us to know, or want us to know, what do they mean, by trying to keep it secret?

So now here I am, playing Piano for the girl in blue playing in the corner… and she’s signing on the counter leaning against the TV. BBC on mute. Me right here across writing, watching, smoking. Still trying to solve this mystery.

Music is also a communication system, and those that can express themselves purely through sound are artists. But what distinguishes writers from other categories of writers? Perhaps, it is which part of you that you allow to write.

For the lover of music. The keyboards are a powerful instrument.

[Such] Intensity of description.

Acoustic.

The image; the word.

The humidity of the streets. The crowds you’re against. Facing it; a wall of indifference, a wall of hate.

You’re right. You’re a whole different person when you write. People choose which parts of themselves to choose to write. It’s because I know you in real life—in living with you, being with you, in reflecting off you. I sometimes can’t reconcile the difference between the two. I think of something to say, to reply to the you I know in this written universe, but then I think of the you I know of experience, from memory, from real life—and I don’t know how best to reply. Who you can be, and how you can reply, in this written universe is also so much different, vaster in some ways than in real-life. I can’t see your reply, as I do when I’m talking to you face to face—to see what your face says, to reflect what my being is changing or not changing in you right then and there. All I can do is reaching out to you, through writing. What we all do in real-life—minus reflecting on a faster reply. Such trying to reach you… a way of being with you.

I can’t say sometimes; just sending and receiving. If anything is happening. I’m more worried about what the response would be—if I’m going to send this to you. What should I do to best get through to you? What should I say, and what can’t I say?

Some people get lost in this world. In this separation… not wanting to get lost in life, in the crowd, the masses.

Starts serenading from the computer, in one palm, silent with the other.

[Such] Intensity of description.

Acoustic.

The image; the word.

Memory is different here. All the words written… [become a trail]. Clues to this self… clues leaving closer to that self--that self that writes. On this journey into the self… Retreating….

Some people get lost in this world. In this separation… not wanting to get lost in life, in the crowd, the masses.

Just ignore it.

TV is like medication. You want to be happy, and this is a distraction, it is never as good as the real thing. Because you don’t create. Something is missing. And, when you create. When you invest your psychic energy. That is when you can be in love. In love, and joy. Perhaps that is the feeling from first love… you create something, in your mind, that you’ve never loved before, and love it. I remember, one of the first girls I’ve ever loved, I puzzled her. It is the greatest sense, and source of curiosity to get to understand her weird and erratic pattern. To bring order to her system. And perhaps, this is the most beautiful way two people can get to know each other. When I really want to understand, with all my curiosity and passion, how this person is. To find joy in such true communication, to such understanding.

Music

Never try to write a memory; memory is passing; and this moment is a rememorizes the next. Where would we be if we stopped trying to remember? In oceans is not about being blameless; it Is not about being guilty. When we smoke we sometimes become more blameless; we might feel like it. But we also become more easily influenced; we are not on longer responsible for what happens or is happening; we might feel no guilt for things; but that never means we’re not blameless; everything we do is imprinted;

The reasons are sometimes too easy… or weak, the child not yet learning to be a man in male rock. The way we were as children, this beautiful word becoming not what we thought it was. Growing up becomes a process of taking this essential ignorance; this essential goodness; and not losing it. These changes; polar opposition; logic; turns people’s natures upside down.

Pop culture: taking everything in; leaving your eyes wide-open without judging folly for sin. Guiltless enjoyment. Uncensored.


Copyright 2010, Saranit Vongkiatkajorn