22 June 2007

"Zing on the shit thing"

Somehow an idea like this—“How do you start to suspect something? It’s directly related to becoming suspicious”—gets written down; my revelatory and original ideas, however, are as good as graham crackers left in the open spaces of an afternoon retirement home (delicious, but gone quickly).

Where do forgotten ideas go, you may be wondering? I wondered it for a second, but then realized how dumb of a question it is to be posed, but it’s you posing so I’ll deal. (Haha, look at us kid) My mind exhaled, frustrated-ly, at the nearly-cosmic possibilities on where ideas go when forgotten (in a barrel with fish, to be shot by overzealous, unoriginal types like the man of principle I assume The Brett Ratner to be, for example). Is it possible lost thoughts kill kittens, or lose wars? No. But it could explain cancer, in a retarded sense. Not in a logical one. (again with the kidding!)

Scientists (or science gossips, at least) say we use ten percent of our brains; Owen Wilson says we use ten percent of our hearts; what if we actually use 100% of both, but tasks like waiting in the Wal-Mart checkout, sleeping and shitting take up that last 90%? Those three things are my brain’s time to shine, usually producing more sensitive thought in a few minutes than in a thirteen hour workday. They’re also the most easily forgotten, as those very ideas flowing so freely are tied to fleeting endeavors—an employee opening up one of the fifteen unused lanes, an alarm clock or a flush.

If I wanted to come to a selfish conclusion, I could say these passing feelings set me across from the immediacy of every other artistic producer today. With every blog being updated every fifteen minutes and no revolutionary never shying away from a speech and a few media outlets suggesting a few what-ifs, the original thing to do as an artist would be to do nothing. A simpler minimalism—absenteeism, or something. If my point was to elevate myself above the rest, this denouement could work.

But I’m the asshole that cannot bring itself to carry around a notepad, nor bring itself to talk anything but shit all day. But you have to start with what you know, I suppose.

Oh, also: zing on the graham crackers thing. And the shit thing.

15 June 2007