Fart

Being a painter in the 17th century is so much cooler than being a painter in the 21st. Roaming the streets at night, drinking 'til the earlier morn, and causing too much trouble sounds a lot more exciting than waking up at 8am for a six hour class on dimensional drawing, and discussing how language is arbitrary--where without language, the highest form of thinking (abstract) can be accomplished and that language is a mere agreement to try and get through in the world. What?

In watching a "documentary"/dramatic recreation of Caravaggio's life, I admire his don't-care attitude, amongst my envy for his God-given hand and eye. Although I will never have the balls to live that sort of lifestyle, it's interesting imagining myself in attempting to do so. I feel as though my short-lived Space Mountain moments are the closest I can get and the brief present moments are what allow me to live that life.

NEC SPE, NEC METU
WITHOUT FEAR, WITHOUT HOPE

Can one live by such a phrase? Caravaggio did and look where he ended up: in jail half a dozen times, a murderer, seriously loco, and stranded on a beach to die, right before his pardon back into the world.

So perhaps I do like my six hour classes where I get to learn that living in the 21st century won't allow me to paint anything new and revolutionary, and that being an "artist" (though I can't call myself one yet) is probably hopeless.

What's (literally) written in my mouth stands and will always. Without it, there is no point. In anything.