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Ten years ago or more, without the parens, this would have been a little essay on one form of debauchery or another and largely just an excuse to talk about drinking, decadence and dressing up, as if that’s all that’s required to have a philosophy, a wit, or a life. sadly, in most cases, it doesn't contribute very much at all.
The excess I want to talk about today though, is that of me and my friends – f2f, on-line and those I am just getting to know. The one common thing to all of you is that you are all, like me, and I suspect like most people you cherish, gloriously excessive, at least to what we must presume the average eye to be.
Whether in devotion to friends, lovers or gods; whether in our appearance; or in our studies; or to our goals and the filters that help us parse the world well enough to achieve them, we are all theoretically easily mocked for our convictions, courage and will, for our hobbies, for our beauty, for our desires. Sometimes, hoping we are not so profoundly other as we might suspect we are, even if we keep it well hidden, we even think it or dish it out at our own kind, even when our own kind is nothing like us. I know I’ve hurt friends that way, but I also know I’ve come to appreciate them more in seeing what my bullshit was in those moments.
Seriously, you are all fucking fantastic, and I hope you know it. Even when we are in pain or the people around us are in pain, I don’t think I know a single person here who isn’t absolutely determined to utterly enjoy what they are, whether it’s the lot they ever meant to or thought they would wind up with.
It’s good to remember, because it’s easy to forget. Everyone is other; happiness comes, as best as I can tell, from knowing and not minding it.
In a related vein, I have the opportunity to ask a creative professional, who happens to be related to my whole Australia deal and is wildly successful but not terribly well-known, a question, but can I think of one? Nooooo. That my friends, is a fucked up thing. But, I assure you, one I will rectify. It's worth thinking about -- who you admire, and what you would ask them, and if you feel tongue-tied even at the thought -- Why? The nature of admiration through the lens of our culture is so strange, so built up in fear, when it should be anything but. Through strangers I have learned to take risks, eschew labels and to listen. I have let my ideas of them lead me on bizare and useful personal pilgrimages. To be afraid of asking them questions is to reject the idea of data, to merely want to repurchase paintings already owned. It's a funny thing, learning to want other people's answers, even when you know, that in the end, you might like your own better. It is also a funny thing to exercise the discipline of asking, when a part of you merely wants to tell. I went to the beach alone, at sunset, to watch short foreign films about conniving pets and distintegrating relationships, and between them, I confess, sometimes I looked for you to be standing there, on the sand, your hands in your pockets. It's a great opening idea for a story, especially if I make it about one that isn't actually true.
The excess I want to talk about today though, is that of me and my friends – f2f, on-line and those I am just getting to know. The one common thing to all of you is that you are all, like me, and I suspect like most people you cherish, gloriously excessive, at least to what we must presume the average eye to be.
Whether in devotion to friends, lovers or gods; whether in our appearance; or in our studies; or to our goals and the filters that help us parse the world well enough to achieve them, we are all theoretically easily mocked for our convictions, courage and will, for our hobbies, for our beauty, for our desires. Sometimes, hoping we are not so profoundly other as we might suspect we are, even if we keep it well hidden, we even think it or dish it out at our own kind, even when our own kind is nothing like us. I know I’ve hurt friends that way, but I also know I’ve come to appreciate them more in seeing what my bullshit was in those moments.
Seriously, you are all fucking fantastic, and I hope you know it. Even when we are in pain or the people around us are in pain, I don’t think I know a single person here who isn’t absolutely determined to utterly enjoy what they are, whether it’s the lot they ever meant to or thought they would wind up with.
It’s good to remember, because it’s easy to forget. Everyone is other; happiness comes, as best as I can tell, from knowing and not minding it.
In a related vein, I have the opportunity to ask a creative professional, who happens to be related to my whole Australia deal and is wildly successful but not terribly well-known, a question, but can I think of one? Nooooo. That my friends, is a fucked up thing. But, I assure you, one I will rectify. It's worth thinking about -- who you admire, and what you would ask them, and if you feel tongue-tied even at the thought -- Why? The nature of admiration through the lens of our culture is so strange, so built up in fear, when it should be anything but. Through strangers I have learned to take risks, eschew labels and to listen. I have let my ideas of them lead me on bizare and useful personal pilgrimages. To be afraid of asking them questions is to reject the idea of data, to merely want to repurchase paintings already owned. It's a funny thing, learning to want other people's answers, even when you know, that in the end, you might like your own better. It is also a funny thing to exercise the discipline of asking, when a part of you merely wants to tell. I went to the beach alone, at sunset, to watch short foreign films about conniving pets and distintegrating relationships, and between them, I confess, sometimes I looked for you to be standing there, on the sand, your hands in your pockets. It's a great opening idea for a story, especially if I make it about one that isn't actually true.
