I have not been submitting applications to art shows because I didn't have the money and now that I do have some money I don't have the energy nor the care. I have come to terms with the slowness of life and the 'falling into place' that occurs. It seems that's how it all goes, for everyone. I do not want to force things; I say, I have always said, to myself.
I have not submitted to many shows in my lifetime because I eliminate unrealistic possibilities before there is a chance of exerting my time and energy towards unnecessary things: unrealistic possibilities are impossible, impossibility is the end sentence, the end punctuation. It is inherently unnecessary to chase after impossible things. I have declared impossibility and in doing so I have killed "it". What is "it"? Is it myself?
Is what you would like to hear. I am trying to describe something logical, I can picture it in my mind, it has a structure to it. It tastes good, and smells like a refrigerator. It's always tilted diagonally because I'm always staring at it with my head tilted curiously, and the closer I get to understanding the structure, the more it sucks me in. My neck twists and turns a bit more, my eyes are drawn in from my magnet pupils. It hurts but it feels so good. I think it's euphoria. I could get addicted to this, I say with my hand clamped over my mouth and my eyes darted to the side. I'm looking at you, blank computer monitor screen, my lovely. And as you look back at me, I appear like a demented being. I'm somewhere else. I mean, I literally am. I am in the fridge. My mind enters the structure and I interact with it directly: to interact with logic would be to interact in the mind. Holy fucking shit I am onto something crazy here that no one understands. Drooling a bit, probably, I stare out in a rare moment of absentmindedness. You don't see me on a phone call, talking to "the other end", eyes blank, distant, talking to someone who isn't there: dementia. But you see me in the fridge. That is the difference. That is why I do not submit to art shows.
I sit on the train and shake a bit every few seconds with my eyes staring out, open wide, bloodshot, and my hands cramped and closed-in on themselves, my knuckles protruding. I am worried because... I am... I am in the structure and I cannot bring you in. I can try to reconstruct the structure in words but that only works with certain individuals. If I exit the structure and attempt to retell my experience in it, my words fail me, and I construct false walls and angles that had not previously existed. Suddenly, I contradict myself, I realize faults, I realize flaws, but I know that these were never there in the first place, it is just that I have lost the original structure. It's agonizing. It's the only time I've ever grieved.
It goes around and around; the thoughts, I mean. I don't overthink, I'm not an "over-thinker." I don't ruminate. I don't have a "voice in the back of my head" telling me bad things about myself. I'm running marathons, motherfucker, and I am each and every voice out there. I'm every single one of them. Yours, hers, his. I'm running laps around you as you tinker with your marathon-signs and wonder which constructed phrase fits best with the sentiment you are attempting to express. I'm running laps away from something, and I don't know what, but the fact that the route is circular makes me question everything. The only thing we have in common is time.
Sit up, grab a drink, take a break. Relax. Relax time. There is relaxing time and there is working time. Is there thinking time? What happens to time when I talk to someone; stupid fucking question, it isn't real. I'm running laps and I hate running and I hate 'laps', I hate repetition, I hate unnecessary repetition, I've been clarifying that since I was twelve years old. I've been drilling into the same things for so long and nothing has come out of it, but I continue to do so because I believe in it. Woah, what? Never mind, it won't make sense. It won't make sense most of all because everyone is a believer with a phone-call tied to the side of their head, eyes glazed over during every conversation held, every conversation during held every second of every day, nonstop lap-running around and around. I can't keep up with my eyes. All we care about is the movement and the amount of times one's foot slaps against the ground, we are hysterical.
It's called making use of your time. You should submit each application with a foot slap and a punch to the face. You should do this before it's too late because we never know when it will be too late, that's the entire point. It's called university and working towards a career and then having a career. What entails having a career? Is it not surrounding yourself with people who understand what you do and therefore have constructed it into a job-action-object with enough false verification to pass under any lie detector? For instance, it's not easy to find someone who truly doesn't believe in medicine, to any extent. Or maybe lawyers are a better example... the paranoid are always afraid of lawyers.
The point is that when you tell me you are a curator I don't really have a clear idea in my head of what you do and how you do it because. My head just jerked around. Oh God, they're coming... I can't keep my eyes fixated on a certain point. I'm denying a false reality, which isn't triumphant in itself because a false reality is still a reality. And we still live it.
You should be making use of your time because we are united by time and all we have is time and, OK, sure, you in the corner, I will entertain the idea of non-linear time, but I will do so begrudgingly because it does not matter to my point in the slightest and I do not have enough energy to help you enter my logic-refrigerator, so you will just have to believe me on that reasoning. Grasp reality, grasp the air, grasp 'grounded-ness', grasp presence, grasp consciousness, grasp focus, grasp attention, grasp knowing, grasp confidence. It takes a quick motion but you really can grab at them and catch them in your little hands. And remember nothingness, remember nothing, remember loss, remember regret, remember worry, remember forgetting. Think about humanity in a selfish, humanistic manner, and get all sentimental about it. Think about humanity in awe, think about our cognitive capabilities. Then, get hit by a car: time. It's time to get hit by a car.
Time is things 'going on' or 'moving on' or maybe just 'moving,' you can cut the phrase off there and it still works. Moving does not mean that the things inside of the movement change or become this or that in any direction at all. Moving means moving. This time, we do not have the controls to it. We can measure it and understand it and use our own language for it, but there is something beyond that. The reason that 'beyond' thing is really there is because it permeates everything around us, in us, outside of us. I die, you live on. But I'm not so certain of that. I live, you die. Do you even know who I am?
Perhaps: to be successful is to make use of your time so that you may advance into a career that allows you to some day reach a point of finality, a point of rest. To make use of your time is to start—possibly even to have—a career while you are a student. To begin a career while already having one is to plunge into a deep, deep coma, a career-oriented stupor consisting of many smiles and slaps on the back. To win is to end, to kill is to make final. To be successful is to be not a student at all. And then: never consider this, ever.
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