"There is a difference between life and art. That is why one is called life and the other art."
You perceive, then why it is that I write you this letter-- it is on account of my ennui and your sins.
With a painful sting (better felt sooner than later!) I have realized this blog is not art. Diaries unto themselves are only interesting when the person in question is notable for some worthy/infamous reason or other or a sterling representative of the zeitgeist of his or her time (no matter how unwittingly) ie "The Diary of Anne Frank". Since I am clearly neither famous nor imagine that I am a symbol of my particular as-yet-unnamed-for-posterity Age, I accept that this writing is merely a useful means of recording my state of mind and experiences on this, presumably my last foray into the sex industry, for an as-yet largely unwritten book (which must necessarily be one step removed from documenting my life as a matter of course to be considered proper art, as I see it).
After all, who cares what Shakespeare usually ate for dinner or what Milton thought about his landlord? It is their noble works we remember-- the ones which speak the universal language of truth, rather than the trifles of their personal lives they and history have wisely conspired to obscure.
Although I'm sure some would disagree, I remain convinced that the process of making or discovering how to make art is not, unto itself, art (whether living itself is the highest art itself I shall leave for wiser heads than mine to decide). I also believe the tools and detritus involved in creating works of art-- whether they are paintbrushes, to-do lists or microphones-- are, in my opinion, memorabilia, rather than objets d'arts in their own right.
This diary is my sounding-board and record of my life and aspirations if I should die before a more worthy relic is produced. I repeat: It is not art.
Apparently it is also the only place I feel compelled to flash my panties and NOT get paid.
Sometimes lately I do feel death to be close at hand, somehow. Whether that may mean death to my current personality or way of life or the actual physical end of it, I cannot say.
For myself, I would really like to leave behind at least an EP and book....
Maybe I'm just exaggerating because of ennui? I'll play it off like that, at least for now.
PS I really need to get out of the house more often.