i am a big red orbit vessel: it's the real true life of ignorance. death of the artist ego reveals a great many things: like, how much one should and when if why and what.
two cows one died they were castrated bulls, actually. steering one's art around. one's art: one does one's best. one's art: atrophying but the castrated bulls have nothing to do with this: one's art: one's best was done. twas. now i remember: there's nothing left to do now: my artist ego is dying: Help me I'm dying! I cannot perform the making of art anymore: I have nothing to say or do, or anything like it (art) at all. There's nothing left for me: solemnly: I am not an artist. I don't care about art: I don't see any. I don't reach for any. Too busy working - pity me please, you must - in a factory - again more pity, please: on the national minimum wage. By the age of 35, all artists should have achieved some degree of success (more degrees of success than their age). In fact history books (the art history books) usually tell of the young masters showing promise at ooh, at such an earlier age: less than half of half that age. I'm still waiting for my promise to show. I've waited all my life. I made art while I waited and still it did not come. Oh such woe and tidying the shed. Pity me please, for, I am not an artist, but merely, an arts-hole. And when you pity me, please make sure it's the kind of pity I expect: I don't want any of that pity which I have not second-guessed is due. Thankyou, Yours, untidily, James W. Morris. Oh what do I know? Just this small little life. Insignificant. My ambitions were rubbish, I've tossed them away. My job is trying to pull me down to it's level, it's insisting upon me: you imagined you could program, you imagined you could paint, you imagined you could do any of those things you ever thought you was good at. The only thing you've ever been good at is weaving delusions of mastery into the fibres of your being. Even here at work, you repeat the same task over and over again, you think you get good, but you don't. Where is there to go from here: this bottom of the pile? Nowhere. You want to do what they do? You can't do that, you belong down here. With the devil speaking in your ear... -- _ : http://jwm-art.net/ -audio/image/text/code/ _______________________________________________ NetBehaviour mailing list [email protected] http://www.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour
