I wouldn’t count the miracles, if I were you.
The numbers are so unsurprising. The numbers would so wearily betray.
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses… He lies there, so beautifully–
The unjust precursor to my madness. I blame everyone, everyone who is not me.
I am now a different being; heavier, but still the same. Have I changed? Am I
To change? Why was I, to myself, even wilfully, awfully unfriendly? Unfriendly to
Incarcerations and relations with the touch-moved, whores in horse stances overdancing,
The greedy red breathable plastic. Buying books qualifies as self-care, yes? Telling myself I don’t need pills, yes.
Yes to Oversharing. Yes to Severing. Yes,
I am not whichever position you need me to be. I am definitive. I may contain multitudes, sure, but I am neither
Un-sheltered nor one scalped. I am no footwell person, eager for nudges and other throw’s decisions. I really use up
A third of my energy just to not go off-topic. There is controversy in that mere energy, the same way there is nothing
Remaining to me… My smile is waxed like the museums hyacinth macaw. Such a beautiful mag to be wasted
On a non-event, really, to follow knowledge like a sinking star. And I sink, but never fawning, never slavish,
Usually excommunicated, but barely even boring. I tip the wheelmen carrots. I save the sticks for nobody.
And here I am, trying to unwind the strings I have left behind:
Corroborations with the lesser apes; disadvantages
Of not being with the lesser apes, later age, later stage.
Later: mitigation! Later: Liberation!
I bet you, too, with the dispositing are celebrating how
Edgar is Deadgar. I dare you to be aware of yourself. Same.
I dare you to know fully, the same. Believe me, it is such a pain.
There is art in freelancing, art in managing time, art in putting things for later, art in pretending. A good freelancer must learn how to balance the blur between life and work. How simple it is, for both to collude with each other, when you are never truly clocking out. How devastatingly alluring, the margins of profits and opportunities, beaming their asses like they were a hot needle. This is what separates a good one from a great one. For a great freelancer must know when to reply and not reply. A great freelancer must wait, even when the occasion had already presented itself. They device a life that is busy by not being busy, and thus, create a bigger feast for themselves, like a tigress with its prey.
Moralities, desertions, and desires must all take the backseat. There are certain stylings that an artist learns to evade; techniques that an artist needs to learn, unmake; for it is through glourious uproar and outrage that the art redevelops itself; for the celebration of woman and man changes but new art and old art must remain consistent.
If, say, the artist chooses to re-up the utility of debauchery, do not think of the artist as debauched themselves. If the writer sounds sane, rakish, shameless, sybaritic, do not focus on their perceived voluptuary. Every artist must learn first how to lie, and to present themselves both temperate and intemperate.
There are, of course, lines that should not be crossed– credo, propaganda, blatant and tasteless manipulation. Every woman and man will later meet a downfall, if they live long enough, and if their livings make their portals hold up. But who cares how Leonardo was raised today? The masses only care to eye-fuck the La Gioconda.
…I must now decide whether to which I shall commit fully.
The full-time artist or the freelance artist? I can tell you I’ve made a choice.
Through 28 lives and through 28 deaths, I will go undenied, but safe, permanently, with the noise.
(I am now the absence of all choice of noise.)
for we are listing ourselves in the unbetrayable role.