I can feel myself changing into a better person. I started first with how I thought about myself, which, unfortunately, was a sort of conglomeration of solipsism, cynicism, naive optimism, ego, and crippling misdirection. I was like a still life picture of a cat jumping in the air, looking around for a safe place to jump, scared. It's hilarious, but to the cat, it's like it's potentially looking death in the face and its naive instincts to flip its body mid-air kick in so it lands on its feet. That's what happened to me. I started writing essays.
In art today, I wrote about insanity. Provoked by a dream I had—which I will probably write later—where the walls were berating me like in a creepypasta horror story and I was going insane to the point of suicide I wanted to die and everything to be over but a madman cursed me to not be able to die. It ended with me and a girl having to hold up a broken wall by painting it with black paint like glue, so that the wall would glue together and both of us wouldn't die. But then we kissed and let go of our paintbrushes and both died in a moment of pure beauty and sacrifice and I woke up and listened for the walls if they were still yelling and screaming at me in their shriveled, screeching. They weren't.
I recollect how that same day I had gone to the coffee shop to try to work on my play. I was memorizing lines, highlighting things, I worked on other things, and then I started trying to (as the wikipedia articles told me) self-neopsychoanalyze my dreams. I looked up Sigmund Freud—still a racist and a sexist whose ideas were half-brilliant half-mad/wrong— and then I looked up newer and more scientific approaches (the "neo" new methods). I didn't get anywhere, and I didn't want to get to an area like Cormac McCarthy's literary vomit of half-baked metaphors and archetypal dream sequences that are monotonously easy to unravel. I wanted to know why. My good friend, Declan, says that it's just random firing off of things we see everyday. The quote verbatim is this . . .
It reminds me of what I thought about yester-night. I started listening to some singing bowls and chimes to help me fall asleep but I realized that it only made it harder and harder to stop thinking. There's this youtube channel podcast that I also searched up that worked. It was literally this adult guy—who I believe is drunk throughout the podcast—who speaks in a monotone voice about a story he makes off the top of his head. His stories include whatever facets he think of, every adjective and strange word and noun but he makes it make sense like a normal fairytale. The monotony of his voice helps me get bored as I force myself to sit near my buzzing fan and listen to this dumb story. I start laughing hysterically because he's just talking like nonsense about life and stuff and the monotony of his voice makes it like a Rick and Morty episode.
That's what my art project is today. The stream of consciousness, the genius, the spoken truth so raw and naked and genuine like a naked beating heart, and the laughable and tear-jerking hilarity of the absurd. It's the madman writing out the truths of the world. I'll upload a picture of my stream of consciousness for you all to see, and then I'll upload a picture of the art that provoked it. My art class is studying Post-Modernism, which I know from researching Atlanta's architecture. The art is meant to focus on one sole idea, one simple facet of life however stupid or mundane or genius or absurd it us. The stream of consciousness is complex. SO so so so sOOOO so SO complex. but strange. and mysterious. and hilarious. and I love it.