“Having once found the intensity of art, nothing else that can happen in life can ever again seem as important as the creative process.” -F scott Fitzgerald.
BS. I didn’t like The Great Gatsby that much.
“life is not a paragraph” -e.e. cummings.
I took a walk on the Camino de Santiago yesterday, the famous pilgrimage trail across northern Spain. Seven hours alone in blazing heat under skies that did not forgive. At the top I got to meditate on the top of these ruins in the foreground. I chewed up samsara and tried to sink into the atomic mesh that connects me with the air and the earth. I almost really connected with the earth by falling off the ledge I was on because every stone was loose, but there were still the soul-soaring moments of meditation where one feels everything and nothing colliding like tornado fronts. Whoosh. Sometimes accompanied by adrenaline shots of almost falling off again.
This guy for Verge quit the internet for a year, tangled in existential loneliness that he thought was the internet’s fault. Before he quit, his friend told him the real key to happiness was to forget about the narrative of his life. That there is no arc and to stop imagining there is one and feeding an evermore insatiable modern-western-man ego. He never really took that to heart I think, and he never acknowledged later that he failed to.
If I have to wait for anything else for the rest of my life I’m going to kill myself. Like something to say. The words will come. Right now I’d rather dance, or “dance,” like running slowly downhill, to Chief Keef and pull wine. Oh, and Japandroids. I see nothing morally wrong with living viscerally. Try to convince me to care for Syria or my intestines. Half the time I only care about whatever girl exists somewhere, my age and beautiful and brainy. That’s the only thing I really feel. That’s fine. Whatever.
“Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.” -Kerouac