Acedia

"To the "virtuous" person (by which is meant the person seeking integrity) no value is attached to happiness that involves non-virtuous means. But the solitary by nature of his or her disengagement from the world and society has a very low threshold for non-virtue. Put another way, they have high expectations and standards for what should be considered good and worthy in life."
--Kant on Acedia

Ah, Kant, you sting my sinner's heart with truth.

Acedia, as defined by various dictionaries secular and otherwise I am too indifferent to name specifically, is:

The spiritual paralysis of the powers of the soul.

or:

A state of restlessness and inability either to work or to pray

My sense of equanimity has returned, attended by a listlessness I little thought the happy recession of my misery would occasion. I decided it's probably acedia, really, an amorphous state of spiritual ennui omitted as one of the Seven Deadly Sin after it was apparently judged to be too indistinct to be used as a measuring stick of personal accountability of the same magnitude as the the other watchwords of moral offense that DID make the cut-- sloth, lust, gluttony, etc.

Excellent article about it here: http://www.hermitary.com/solitude/acedia.html

My week off was spent in quiet contemplation, solitude and very pleasant shopping trips that felt a bit like reconnaissance missions until I told myself-- for once-- to stop being so hesitant and buy everything I needed without allowing myself a return trip. My home is finally decorated well enough that its state no longer preys upon my mind. I am satisfied with it for now, FINALLY.

Yesterday I went to the annual Renegade Craft Fair in McCarren Park, and bought my little brother another Squidfire shirt (I have a bunch and buy them for him regularly as well):


http://www.squidfire.com/

I'm going to start laying aside little presents for his visit. I needed this time off to regroup so that I can really work for the next few weeks-- I don't want to do so after he arrives. I'm not sure how to time my plastic surgery yet... guess I'll figure that out when I have the last little bit of money for it saved. No stripping allowed when he is in the picture, that's for sure.

PS Have not checked my voicemail or texts in about 10 days. I'll fax my phone replacement form to the insurance company tomorrow morning and finally get a new phone-- I'm starting to actually miss chatting with people. Well, my brother, anyway.

The Difference Between Life and Art

"There is a difference between life and art. That is why one is called life and the other art."
--Goethe

You perceive, then why it is that I write you this letter-- it is on account of my ennui and your sins.
-- Poe

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.