- Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
- Youre a Genius all the time
- Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
…and all of a sudden I’m alone with a charming woman and we’re talking a blue streak sitting cross-legged facing each other on the floor in a litter of books and bottles.
*R. Landfield – The Blue Whale
Alright, this time it’s on the topic of art as a quest of looking for a missing object (MacGuffin!). You remember Moby Dick, the major achievement of this genere, you might know Pynchon’s V, which is most clever as you can’t really tell if the precious, saught-after V was an object, a person or even an idea.
The point is that it’s all auto-referencial art, these are works of art that speak about art itself. Artists create those fictional worlds to tell you about their own amazing investigations, not some real, lost objects. I mean it doesn’t concern just people looking for something but it presents the essence of art, meaning artistic search for the perfect work of art. The one that catches this magical ingredient to the fullest extend.
<as I’m going away for a few days I don’t know if there will be many updates so in change for inactivity here’s something to read on our beloved topic that is on writing>
How to write? How to write? How to write? The more you are into writing the more often and more desperately you keep repeating this question. What I mean here is the process of pondering about the method and about the approach to creating. The more elaborate version is: what kind of experience am I supposed to transform into writing and then, the most dangerous is to ask how should I live to get the most sought-after experience?
<read on –>
As this blog is supposed to be mainly about literature and becouse calendar says it’s the 8th of march I’d like to remind you of some female figures that I’d met along the way in the imaginary world, the one between the covers. <read on>
“I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad, making young girls happy and old girls happier, all of ’em Zen Lunatics who go about writing poems that happen to appear in their heads for no reason and also by being kind and also by strange unexpected acts keep giving visions of eternal freedom to everybody and to all living creatures …”
Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running—that’s the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there.
‘I’ll be damn,’ he said with amazement. ‘The Universe disposes of it’s own evil’