MAXIN AND RELAPSIN

I started this blog during a period of prolonged sobriety, during which I found myself with a fair amount of free time and enough free-form thought floating around in my brain to fill up a cess-pool. The comparison is deliberate.

Since that time, I have started drinking again and I find that my blog entries have pretty much declined in proportion. The alleged correlation between creative thought and action and ravenous consumption of mind-altering substances is well documented. Not to compare something as inconsequential as my personal blog to the works of Hemingway or Fitzgerald or the music of The Velvet Underground, but for the love of sweet fuck I just don't see how they did it. When I drink, there are a few limited activities in my peripheral vision of desires, and, trust me, not one of the fucking things is productive. Not to say I've never had a good creative thought when drunk or high, but I can count on one hand the number of times I was ever driven to anything remotely resembling creative action because of it. Of course, this leads me to wonder in periods of intense honesty whether I really "have it" in the same way all the great drunk writers do. All types of presumptuous on my part, I know.

Pretensions to artistry aside, this whole business does leave me with a certain dilemma. Two things I love, one productive and one destructive, have shown themselves to be, if not entirely incompatible, certainly not comfortable living together under the same roof. The decision of which one to ditch should be an easy one, and I'm sure it would be for a non-addict. Unfortunately, this beautiful poison that I have come to love and hate with equal passion is much more persuasive with me than it is with the average citizen. Pathetic, yes, but a reality nonetheless. My best hope is that my desire to actually produce something worthwhile that came from my own mind will outweigh the urge to stare into the abyss for its own sake. God knows, I've spent enough time on option two.

THE LURE WOULD PROVE TOO MUCH

Stone cold, I think I'm taking you home, so
I can be broken in two
Just like you

Sexy eyes and c'est la vie, I'll call you sometime
When I'm blue

Say so, I'm getting under your skin, so soft
I can't help but pursue
Til I'm screwed

Sunset, everything's fire
But I can't can't get any higher
Come get this lightning and rain all over me

Come to, I forget all of it
Someone, I can't remember at all
Is gonna fall

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Come back down, come back down
Come, if you're dumb

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Sunrise, sunrise, sunrise, some rise
Sunrise, sunrise
on me

Shine on, I can see clearly the light on
Crashing me into the rocks
You siren sweet

DEMONS AND SUNSHINE

I recently watched a documentary about the brilliant avant garde filmmaker David Lynch entitled, creatively, Lynch. If you are a fan of Lynch, it is truly a delight to watch, seeing the master in his preferred milieu, acquiring ideas and inspiration from sources that range from merely ugly to downright sinister. It's like watching Bach compose one of his beloved concertos.

Interspersed at various points throughout the documentary are gems wherein Lynch provides his theory of film and art and the most advantageous process whereby successful artists communicate with the world. Among these pearls is a monologue that kept me thinking about it for days afterward. Contrary to popular wisdom, Lynch does not believe that one needs to be unhappy or morose or even brooding in order to create art dealing with the dark and nightmarish side of human nature. To the contrary, says Lynch, great art, whether it be a celebration of light or darkness, is more likely to occur when the artist is at his happiest and most alert.

Watching Lynch be interviewed belies his point quite nicely. Quirky and conversational, David Lynch never comes across as some brooding asshole who's too good for his interviewer. His little broadcasts on his website regarding the weather in L.A., along with his formidable story-telling abilities relating to his days in Philadelphia, reveal a somewhat social man whose extroverted qualities cross over to his films.

Knowing that this man is the creative force behind some of the most twisted and bizarre films in history illustrates his point quite clearly. Maybe a happy life is the key to understanding the dark underbelly of the human animal. Perhaps it allows the artist a certain objectivity and distance that is necessary for an honest portrayal of existential reality. On the contrary, a genuinely miserable person is more likely to get bogged down in his own lack of joy and his bitterness at the world. Even taking something as relatively minor as this blog, I know I am much more likely to blog if I am having a good day. Methinks Lynch is onto something here.

Now, as to how to ensure that you are happy so all this great art can be brought to life? Sorry, folks, that is just not my fucking department.

Nothing But

Is there anything more important than what is true and what is correct? I've discovered recently that there is a significant portion of peeps out there for whom truth is a mere afterthought or, even worse, an inconvenience to be overcome with spin and perception-controlling. I want to write a detailed and exhaustive blog about the ultimate importance of truth and its declining importance in the age of ubiquitous media. If you notice that I've gone another 2 or 3 entries without laying down my views on the beauty of truth, please let me know. I think the time is ripe.