It's so cliché. And I almost naturally move in the opposite direction of the herd anymore, by first impulse now. But I love Vincent van Gogh.
Eventhough he's an incredibly well-known painter among the herd, van Gogh. The herd being, now, working-class Boomers and their Millennial kids who followed their path,—that 9-to-5 life—who drown the misery they feel from their lifestyle by consuming junk—cars, clothes, food, entertainment, & etc.—as a measuring-stick of their success. Or else Pablo Picasso, I'd say, is probably just as well-known, or Leonardo da Vinci. Because these are the most known painters to me. Because I am a part of the herd myself, afterall, really. Since I've never really made proper in-roads into the the study of painting. I've always just admired from afar, my amateur, juvenile taste. And I have no idea what makes a good painting good. The theory behind it, I suppose. Though I have developed a fine taste for writing, I like to fool myself. And the pursuit of mastery in one area spills-over into other areas pursued, I'm convinced.
So though I've never really studied or practiced painting like I have writing, I'm confident in my ability to spot quality painting regardless. Because I've come to be able to recognize quality writing, and have actually practiced it myself too, writing—knowledge through experience. And painting and writing are so alike. Fine arts, I suppose they can be called—or are called, or whatever. I don't know. But they're similar arts, writing and painting, creation from nothing, the pen as the weapon. Painters tell little stories in what they paint. And writers paint little pictures in what they write. They're very complimentary arts, writing and painting.
And though the mob loves van Gogh too, so do I. Like The Beatles I never really liked. Because I never really listened. Except to those few super popular songs you hear everywhere, on commercials on TV, and on the radio. Which I was sick of hearing by then. But I refused to listen to them further, The Beatles, because they were recognized by the mob—the herd—as maybe the best band to have ever existed. So they were shit in my mind. Till I did actually give them an honest listen. My taste in music, now,—allow me to say—is exquistite too, I like to fool myself. I have a very well-tuned ear. The only thing preventing me from playing an instrument myself is poverty, at the moment. But once I have some money, I must learn to play an instrument, it's already been decided. Probably the guitar, and the drums, and the piano. But I need ease and comfort first, to practice, free of the burden of having to work a job. And though The Beatles aren't favorites of mine, I'm able to admit honestly now, that they are very, very good actually.
So generally the mob has terrible taste, then. This is the rule. Of course there are exceptions. Which you learn studying language, that there are always, always, always damn exceptions to the damn rules, those few weird words which you must unfortunately just memorize versus apply the general rule.
I forget why I'm mentioning van Gogh even. The guy was on my mind, I suppose. I was looking at some of his paintings for inspiration. I've been drawing more and more. And then that idea above had popped into my head, and I thought it'd be a topic about which I could write,—which I've been somewhat neglecting again, writing—the taste of the herd. So I opended vi and began typing about van Gogh, as I did.
And then,—when I opened the vi editor to begin typing—I had a quick image in my mind of where I wanted to take the rest of this little piece, this essay, or whatever it is, this little chunk of writing. And I encoded—let's say—that image in the title. Which I wrote before I wrote anything else, the title of this post. Like I do. Like I did when I wrote a post previously about some considerations. I used the title to remind myself where I had intended to take my writing.
And some hours have passed since I last wrote that above about van Gogh and the herd. I completely forgot what else I had in mind to write. Though the title reminds me.
But it only just reminds, the title. However the rest will come-out when I write it, who knows? It comes out however it does, the writing, in the moment—whatever moment that is. Which is always a surprise, how the writing turns-out in the end, always different than you'd planned. But how it always seems to work itself out. Like life really. There's a general outline, a general idea to move towards. But the details are never how we expect, once moving.
Anyway, I remember Henry Miller writing of this somewhere. That he doesn't even care what he writes. If to-day he says one thing, and to-morrow he says the complete opposite, no matter. It'll all work itself out in the end anyway. What does he care? He's only here to record the drivel as it falls, the stylus. That's it.
Back to the title now, and onward with the writing, to get this done-and-over-with. I must sleep soon. I have to walk to grandma's by 9, for a ride to the birthday party of a cousin. And here I am, still writing of nothing, not going to sleep till I finish.
The new direction of which I speak in the title to this post, I've already mentioned. How I've been neglecting writing lately. In favor of drawing mostly. I was coding for a bit there too. But I've calmed on that end, for the moment anyway, coding. I move in spirals-like. And drawing is receiving most of my attention currently—an attempt to make some money from it.
The progress of which I speak of in the title is also in regards to this spiral-movement. Why have I cooled with regards to coding, for example? Because I had progressed enough to a point at which I'm well satisfied. And then it's time to move on to the next activity, the only 3 or 4 that I continually practice—the circular, spiral motion. And the next matter-at-hand is getting a book of some sort published.
Now, to write the book is one thing. But that's my thing anyway. I like to write. But thinking ahead, how to publish the thing once I do write it? So I was looking-into that, how to publish a book. Which I mentioned at the end of one of my recent posts, that I was thinking of purchasing the Adobe Creative Cloud, which I'd seen recommended as a necessary tool to publish a book.
But I'm cheap. Because I hate working at the job for money. So I spend as little of that money as possible. And that Adobe package was going to cost me about $300. So I was searching for alternatives. Which I thankfully found, free, open-source solutions to publishing a book. Instead of buying Adobe Creative Cloud, you can use GIMP for photoshop and Scribus for formatting.
And then I've been tinkering with these a bit, GIMP and Scribus.
So that's that, the progress.
The regression, now, that's about 2 long stories, they'd be. About the job, one. How they got me working crazy hours during the day now. And they're working me like they pay me $100,000 salary a year. Though of course they're only paying me peanuts. And they got me so micro-managed. That my co-worker is my supervisor, they think. How me and this "supervisor," my co-worker, my partner-in-crime, I suppose I'm stuck with, how we've been arguing. Or, how I've been arguing, a shit attitude I've had these passed 2 weeks. Because I'm getting fucked here now, even, at the job too. When the job was the release from the misery of this house—my mother's. How I have no relief now. Or time. And I'm stressed. And getting nothing for all this new stress.
So I go to grandma's. My new release, from the misery of this house—my mother's—and now the misery of the job too. But my dad and his girlfriend are there now, in transition from moving, at grandma's. Though that's the exact reason I've been more frequently going to grandma's, to visit them, dad and the girlfriend. Who are more like friends of mine than anything, than parents. But my dad has been an absolute rascal. A brat really, I realized. And grandma's has even been miserable now. So every aspect of my life, despite my attempts, is miserable.
But I just get over it, I suppose. I don't know. I don't want to get into all that. I'm tired of typing. And this post is already long enough.
But at the job, me and the co-worker are back on-good-terms—for the moment anyway. But I got 2 more weeks of days I must survive still ahead. And I was already all types of angry upon leaving the job one of those days last week. I calmed on my walk home of course, as I do. And then I realized, that though I was all annoyed and angry, we spent all day, me and the co-worker, describing the storm that had passed as we worked. I had had no idea that this co-worker was so artistic, I didn't even realize. Which calmed me, realizing. How people are so interesting, if we'll just pay attention to them—if we can get over our selfs, that is, our emotions regarding responses to our environment, to which we've become accustomed. Some of the observations, I realized, that this co-worker was pointing-out were really beautiful—little droplets of water on some leaf. Which I always miss, near-sighted images, because my eyes naturally tend to look far into the distance.
About dad, the rascal, now...well, I can barely wait to escape this town again, it's already done.