**Wrote this a month ago and forgot to post it… The orgasms are still just as strong though.**
Have you ever gotten a shock of inspiration so strong, so brilliant and beautiful that it sends your chest pounding, fills you with a fast, rosy heat, sends your brain racing with bizarre brilliant thoughts?
It fills you with such passion, such adrenaline, you lose your appetite, forget the time, halt the work you’re doing. You want nothing more than to crawl up into this inspiration, to curl up and then unravel; and flourish within it, as a part of it.
You want nothing more than to create and create, and do nothing else but create wonderful things. You don’t even know what. You need — NEED — to move your hands, to work them, to roll your fingers around something tangible when it’s in your grasp, powered by your touch.
You need to create, to ignite the world with something of yourself and this wonderful inspiration that is now a part of you.
Yeah. That’s the rush of emotion and energy that elf-shot itself through me when I watched the music video for “Flesh Without Blood” by Grimes.
Or, as I originally described it, artsy-fartsy orgasms of THE MOST INTENSE kind. Seriously. Like a volcanic eruption of orgasms all over my living room. I officially deem Grimes the Hitachi Magic Wand of pop music.
Long time, no see, my lovely blog. The spans of time I spend away from you seem to stretch longer and longer with each post, don’t they. Alas, life has been busy, if not totally crazy, and leisure time is sparse, and there’s way too many things to explore and life to live for me to spend it online. Unless I’m browsing Amazon for books, of course…
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I like to think I keep things pretty real on this little blog of mine. I may not keep things lively (almost two months since my last post…), but I definitely keep it real. Quality over quantity, right?
Thus I should probably go ahead and make the confession, (if you haven’t figured it out already) I kind of completely hate the internet. Not a fan. People waste way too much precious time and energy on it, especially when most of its content is repetitive and useless, built upon attention-hungry individuals and their stupid shit.
(*Remember, this is the majority of the Internet. Doesn’t mean there aren’t also plenty of delightful beacons of light out there amidst all the shit.)
Seriously though, I am like the closest thing to being a Luddite that you can get without completely despising technology.
Thus, I hope you’ll excuse my lack of digital involvement from time to time. Just too busy reading and adventuring, ya know?
However I recently read a nice little book that made me reevaluate my strenuous relationship with cyberspace, and recognize the — dare I say it — beauty it can bring into millions of people’s lives.
I’m not really into reading “how-to” books. Partly because I’m one of the curious kind who enjoys learning and exploring and figuring things out on my own. Also partly because I’m flat out stubborn as a petulant (but very cute) little mule. Need I even mention the sweet, immaculate gifts from God: Google and Youtube. Not to mention the other endless internet sources and apps created for our convenience, to teach us anything or serve as a quick fix for any problem under the sun that we might have? Who the hell needs an instruction manual long enough and with the nerve to actually call itself a book?
And then one day, browsing all the books that I really don’t need to be buying right now on Amazon, something caught my eye. “READ THIS IF YOU WANT TO TAKE GREAT PHOTOGRAPHS” flashed across my screen, and my interest immediately piqued.
I cannot say that I fully enjoyed this book. Though, to say it’s a book that should not be read would be a far more inaccurate statement. As the book cover says, Art and Madness is a “memoir of lust without reason.” It is a tale of a young woman lovesick for artists – writers in particular – men, tormented and passionate and drowning in alcohol, their lives devoted to writing gorgeous creations into the world.
Yet Anne Roiphe, our narrator and heroine, flawed as she is, is tormented as well, though not by the overconsumption of alcohol and the need for artistic immortality. She is tormented by the company she keeps and the life she lives in the literary “art scene” of the 1950s and 60s.
In essence, she is lovesick because she doesn’t even realize that it is in fact not these men she is in love with. It is art, itself.