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I turned one year older a couple of weeks ago, and I bought myself a terribly expensive gift. A sculpture of Kusuriuri from Mononoke, one of the most memorable and beloved fictional characters for me. A manufactured piece of -
See, I don't usually do this. I don't buy stuff without any practical use. I don't - didn't - see the point of owning things just for the things themselves. I scoff at art as equally pretentious as it is honest, and whatever admiration I have for it rarely shows through my thick walls and carefully crafter layers of cynism and the glares I perfected to a T.
But the first time I saw this sculpture in a photo, all I could do was to think how beautiful he was.
Not about how I wanted him (and I did!), or the materials used, or how it is another useless and pricey thing to boost a franchise. My only thought was that he was perfection, plain and simple. There are so many sculptures like this, but this one made me feel awe.
Now that I have one of my own, he makes me happy.
Art can be weaponized. Art can be made political. But this tiny sculpture has no agenda. It was crafted over months of planning, simply to be a beautiful homage to a set of complex stories. To brigthen its owner's day.
It makes me wonder. If I commit to a creation, can I craft something extraordinary like this? All I know is sarcasm and how to hide from the world when logic fails me and I feel like crying; I've never felt less qualified to do the job, to pull the others in, make them simply feel through my writing (because, after all, writing is what I do the best). How do you even channel the intention? How to endure? How to not be scared of laying oneself bare?
If I ever pour my blood and soul into an artwork (a myriad or words that come so much more easily than charcoal strokes), can I touch someone's heart the way this sculpt touches mine?
art.
See, I don't usually do this. I don't buy stuff without any practical use. I don't - didn't - see the point of owning things just for the things themselves. I scoff at art as equally pretentious as it is honest, and whatever admiration I have for it rarely shows through my thick walls and carefully crafter layers of cynism and the glares I perfected to a T.
But the first time I saw this sculpture in a photo, all I could do was to think how beautiful he was.
Not about how I wanted him (and I did!), or the materials used, or how it is another useless and pricey thing to boost a franchise. My only thought was that he was perfection, plain and simple. There are so many sculptures like this, but this one made me feel awe.
Now that I have one of my own, he makes me happy.
Art can be weaponized. Art can be made political. But this tiny sculpture has no agenda. It was crafted over months of planning, simply to be a beautiful homage to a set of complex stories. To brigthen its owner's day.
It makes me wonder. If I commit to a creation, can I craft something extraordinary like this? All I know is sarcasm and how to hide from the world when logic fails me and I feel like crying; I've never felt less qualified to do the job, to pull the others in, make them simply feel through my writing (because, after all, writing is what I do the best). How do you even channel the intention? How to endure? How to not be scared of laying oneself bare?
If I ever pour my blood and soul into an artwork (a myriad or words that come so much more easily than charcoal strokes), can I touch someone's heart the way this sculpt touches mine?
Recalibrating
This might be the longest personal writing extravaganza yet, and one day I will look at it and think so many words! To anyone reading this, I am sorry; you are an unfortunate victim of my self-chronicling, a balance sheet for when memory fails me and a glance in the rear-view mirror is needed.
I’ve been using this journal as a storage for my milestones and personal musings for years now; there’s no reason to change that, even though there have been so many other profound changes recently. In fact, you could say that in the past six months, my life shifted like tectonic plates—slowly, inevitably, irreversibly.
It’s be
On too many words (and adding to them)
I feel like my current life is made up of late nights and words, so many words, words from me to everyone and everything. Some of those words are mine, some are on order, some are spoken, most are written...
I'm tired, so tired, so tired. Not of words themselves, but of the currents they form: articles and more articles on demand, whoring out my writing for a little more money, learning how to talk about anything and nothing. It's neither good nor bad; words, my words at least, are amoral. It's simply routine, acquired skill of the words of journalists. Not tiring until they are coupled with the rest: words for my friends, words for my penpa
...and battlefields
And because late night musings tend to be not very clear and somewhat too unfiltered (not to mention filled with my - usually carefully wrapped - hate for humanity and my own shortcomings) to be featured on one's profile page, here's a slightly more concise version of yesterday's ramblings:
For starters, I got my Master's degree! Gods know it took way too long to finish the thesis, and it's still far from what I wanted it to be, but apparently it's good enough for the highest marks anyway.
Apparently it's also good enough for triple requests/recommendations for my starting a PhD. Which... is a good thing.
Or it would be, if I didn't have a
On Resolutions and Absolutions
Oh, how time flies, the poet would say. It has been three years, almost to the day - bar about 50 hours - 1093 days, an eternity, since I felt the need to stir the waters of my journal here, dip into a well I once considered the one place deep enough for my ramblings to show their fins and grow wings, break the surface like a frog jumping into the fabled pond. Three years in which a lot has changed - and I feel the need to dive in again, to shatter and rearrange my thoughts, add another mosaic piece to the twisted imprint of me left in the bowels of the internet.
This is going to be a post as long as a winter night, for Dominican rum is my o
© 2016 - 2024 warrion
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