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Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the human. The human. The human in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am not human. Nor am I the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernist thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. But, yah, no-one said I was, so I’m not quite sure how I came to emphasize that here.

I am merely a writer from another dimension with the desire to share his soul, and how it is thrown back by the force of the human beings denying its existence in the face of their reality. It brings me to life…A life I don’t need, as it is one in which art is facing total annihilation.

Ah, humanness: Gaia forbid that you ever be left uncaptured by the brush holding, pen licking, clay sticking, stage tricking, string plucking, dicks ****** freaks and geeks on this earth that we call artists. Mozart, Kafka and Brecht. I am walking in their footsteps…And I’m sad I came too late.

The traces of great men with great minds in times of terrible trouble. And it occurred to me that none of these traces will be captured in a glass box, plaster casted to outlast the shit storm we are currently concocting.

It occurred to me that these traces needed to be refreshed…


Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the mad man. The mad man. The mad man in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am a mad man. I am not, however, the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. For he is otherwise known as the genius artist. And although it is real that genius artists are mad men – I, a mad man, am not a genius artist. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of being mentally incapacitated, of having been thrown back by the force of the mad man genius so hard once, that he was pulled onto and forced to blueball the horse of crazy for the rest of his life.

It must be evident, by now, where I am going with this: Madness is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe – if it wasn’t alive already, through birth. And I wasn’t born the way you real people are born…So…

I see Caravaggio, Keats, Socrates and Ataman. For it is them that I next visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. At least, it takes a mad man to believe they are there. See for yourself.

It takes one to know one.

I talk to them, I smell their dead presence as ignorant and disbelieving tourists walk past – snap, snap…tap! As if a ghost can be captured on celluloid…It can’t, okay? Pixels neither. One needs to invite it into the habitat of the living with some live conversation, maybe a smoke, and a fresh cup of coffee, or something or other. Do that, and you’ll be up for a real good conversation. Find out about untruths that will make your ears sing. Green eggs and ham isn’t the only meal we never heard of…

It turns out the genius creator has decided he will be the mad man none of us, without losing their fragile minds, could be. Indeed, at this very moment even, my fingers have trickled away from the cerebral center they are controlled by, and green goo in the shape of square bubbles is oozing down the walls left and right of me. There isn’t much sense anymore in letting these letters fall together so coherently; they have nothing to say about the state I am found in yester morning days, seven pickles…Path, laugh, dribble…

And indeed, as Dalí pointed out, the only difference between mad men and mad men genius creators, so to say, is that the latter aren’t actually mad. I have to admit – I do feel the same. “We are but men, ROCK!”

And so my humble little behind is out to find its kindred souls…


Moment of sanity, Part I: The Genius

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the genius. The genius. The genius in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Please let’s make one thing clear: I am not a genius. I am not the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of infatuation, of being thrown back by the force of the genius so hard that he is pulled onto the horse it is riding for a moment or two.

It is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe. It is Hemingway, Godard, Gaudí, Picasso and Dalí that I see. And it is them that I first visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. Paris is in my way, and Montpellier, Barcelona, Figueres, Marseille, Rome, Athens, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Berlin and finally Essen – and they are also helping me – as I reach for the genius. The unforgiveable, (un)wealthy, unhealthy, blasphemous, sexist, insane and infamous genius.

Those unattainable little fuckers that never seem to think about good and bad – at least, not the way you and I do. That would never give a journalist a straight answer, unless he was upside down. That would never give the crowd what it wanted, but autistically sought to make it want just what they created. And we would finally cave…Yeah, art is not so much about good and bad, healthy and unhealthy; not in the brain either.

Given the idea, then, that art is not essentially about good or bad (health), what good would it do a pioneer to the quest for true emotion, a seeker of the unknown known to walk the path that hath been trampled on before? We are all trying to be good, trying to be healthy. What is a genius’ business sniffing around the bushes of the all-too familiar sane world? Maybe for some bread at times, a place to stay. But really, the genius creator, the artists we all love and hate (oh, we are so good) will carry madness in the mind. Bad hair. Bad teeth falling out…And he loves the way his tongue fills the holes in his mouth, that he curses.

My humble little behind out to find its kindred souls…


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