Art reproduces as the cell, as our cells, becomes immortal by our own mortal hands; we envy its lack of date of expiration.
It is possible in this hatred, we lash out, displace rage upon the world inasmuch art cannot be murdered; we aspire to create a legacy and as certain mothers do certain offspring, despise their very becoming from their bodies and loves the prior or preceding without question nor restraint.
Haunted since the first dream in utero, the artist begets not art but madness in various, vicarious sorts, adorned in battle dress to march out against the dream that has long made them a pariah, caused the wedge between them and the norm, exterminated the falsities the human condition is likely to attach as a parasite. This condition of the human race beckons them one direction but they stray to the opposite, advises a move and they loiter, signals self-preservation and death descends in a torrential fault. Art is inherent in the artist, it is not a choice; to attempt to abandon it, is but an unheard scream for help in a desolate world, an introduction to mortal misery and weakness; to give up their disposition is to become human and thus possessing human fragility, human simplicity.
The implements of self-impalement are but few effective, as one summoning by intonations the angel of eternal sleep. Film is the one true line in which to view the plausibility at the future, of a future, and what can become of it. What cannot become of it, whose to say, we can only speak of the then and now and not with confidence the latter and later. A leap of faith is determined only once the erroneous, one-sided ignorance of this world is relinquished and all avenues subject to the abject are considered, given a diverse spectacle, grown and nurtured at its distances.
One work of art is not the entirety of the artist, it is a fracture of the fragmented dream migrated in all direction. We don't know if Rimbaud was the figure literature has made his memory to be, nor do we know if Kafka ever intended to share with the world his journals and letters; what we do know is that the world desired their ghosts.
It is possible in this hatred, we lash out, displace rage upon the world inasmuch art cannot be murdered; we aspire to create a legacy and as certain mothers do certain offspring, despise their very becoming from their bodies and loves the prior or preceding without question nor restraint.
The implements of self-impalement are but few effective, as one summoning by intonations the angel of eternal sleep. Film is the one true line in which to view the plausibility at the future, of a future, and what can become of it. What cannot become of it, whose to say, we can only speak of the then and now and not with confidence the latter and later. A leap of faith is determined only once the erroneous, one-sided ignorance of this world is relinquished and all avenues subject to the abject are considered, given a diverse spectacle, grown and nurtured at its distances.
One work of art is not the entirety of the artist, it is a fracture of the fragmented dream migrated in all direction. We don't know if Rimbaud was the figure literature has made his memory to be, nor do we know if Kafka ever intended to share with the world his journals and letters; what we do know is that the world desired their ghosts.
Dontrell Lovet't
from, [To Whom All Humanity is Dreaming]
No comments:
Post a Comment