What is art, and in turn, what am I in the grand scheme of it?

I often wonder from time to time where life is headed. What direction we may see ourselves, or at least myself in ten years, five years, a year, a week, tomorrow. But yet everytime I cannot see past the very seconds I am living. Probably accounts to the reasons I haven't "blogged" in ages. But something is troubling me tonight. I recently started using "photoshop", and by recent I mean five days ago. That really isn't the concern, I am quite enjoying it when my laptop isn't lagging or I'm utterly lost with it. I'm looking through "The Art Book" which I purchased a few months ago, it has the major artists that have ever lived with a sample picture of their work. I hate the word contemporary, it sounds so bland, lacking all emotion. When I see canvas' with single brush strokes labeled contemporary I am not sure how I feel. It is art in the sense that it has no purpose but to be, therefore it is art, and with that a very steep pricetag. But with programs such as photoshop kicking around, where is the feel to it all. I'm looking at Hausmann's "The Art Critic" as I type this, it's a photomontage made in 1919/20. I guess what I'm really wondering is where are we headed, actually scratch that, where am I headed with art. Art, like life, should be about a reflection of the soul of the individual. I know I am at times lacking the will to want to continue on my jounrey through this horrid world with its people who do not seem to understand, or I lack the capacity to understand them. It's probably why I spend most of my days alone. People only talk to me when they want or need something. The internet is a horrible place to make relations, and it seems I disappear far to often to collect friends. Why must my mind ever stay in a state of security? To stay in one place with one idea of life and have it never change is so extremely dull and idiotic. Lifestyles run through my life like seconds on a clock, ever changing than refering to those which have passed from time to time. I alternate between drawing, painting, music, and now photoshop as if my mind cannot keep to one thing for long enough for me to become settled. A photograph is art, but not all photographs will be valued. Same as paintings and drawings and melodies. How does one become an "artist"? Or even better yet, how does one contact these "artists" who sell their works for hundreds or thousands? What is the difference between good and bad art if contemporary allows for single lines upon a page. This hurts my mind, and seems not to effect anyone around me. Maybe I am just the crazy one in the bunch of sanity, or perhaps it's the other way around. What makes something pleasing to the eye or the ear or the brain. I once took a philosophy course (which I failed I believe, only because I was lazy and didn't do any of the work/didn't quite understand the concept of anything due to my youth (though to be fair I still do not understand the concept of anything due to my youth) and we were asked to describe the colour red to someone who was colour blind. Describe what makes for "good" art, and in turn describe what makes "bad" art. The perception of the onlookers through societial and evolutionary traits and characteristics passed down through either environmental or internal circumstances. My mind hurts and my stomach grumbles, I think this is enough for the night. Until next time, -Rob

Meow says the box to which I drink sweet nectar from

The epitome of western society: sex, drugs, and music.  What a fantastic life it is to be living in.  When one doesn't need the ability to actually produce viable tones with ones own vocal chords in a pleasant manner.  God bless autotune.  The ignorant artist who seems straight lines rather than that of which nature is blessed with; curves.  The disorganized atmosphere of creation, rather than that of German stereotype and just; as if everything must be in its place without the joy of the sunshine ever sharing its warmth amongst all to which is felt during its presence. 

I am a slave working for mere peanuts compared to those who reign over with their piercing glances.  Smash my innocence and sell my ever lasting eternity for that of mere dollars and cents.  How pitiful is life when one must only live within a dream rather than face reality and live with what he or she lusts and desires.

Caged in a vat of despair and lies, surrounded by objections.  Why must life be so hatred of those to which are different?  Are we not, in a sense, all the same underneath?  Why must we live with those that hate and despise others due to their inequalities?

Have your way with me, for I am nothing but a whore.  Wrap your legs around my face as I suckle on the very thing which brings life into this cold universe.  Let me feel the warmth of your fluids drip ever lastingly down my face as I become nothing but a slave to my own predecessors; and like others before me I die a lonely, slow, painful death of disparity drenched in the very fabrics of creationism and life.

1848

Loyalty to the highest bidder. Loyalty subject to change with the presentation of any new ideas.

It's that feeling of being jailed when all you have to do is open the door and step out.

Stop.

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That which does not make sense to one, may be the answer to all for another.

Que?

The contour lines across my face, as though where my wrinkles should be and have been for years before disappear like smoke dispersing through the air.  And I love her, or at least I needed to believe that.  Those feelings of loneliness rattled through my body, disguising my pain and sorrow from my mind and leaving it but upon my face.  I seem to have aged an eternity in a matter of seconds, all it ever took was a no.  The rejection from another as you were then whisked away into the oblivion of someone else's subconscious.  Never more would I ever be on the forefront of their mind, now tucked away, forgotten like the days of school.  Now with only the fowl odor of scotch resting on my breath did I know what life had in store for me: despair and depression.  The childhood dreams I had once hoped would lead myself to a world of glamor and fame now lay at my feet surrounded in a pool of its own blood.  There is no way to write a Basquiat or Pollock painting, they are ones to be seen by the eyes and not read. 

I lay back, an obscure boot acted as my pillow.  The life of an epileptic, nothing more than that of an AIDS victim or cancer patient.  The crippling illness of pondering whether to accept the invitation from a certain brotherhood, which shall remain nameless, or not. 

Permanent erections, what a dreadful concept.  Though on women, that could pose such questions such as; why must I be a misogynist or why must I lead myself into the paths of women to which I know will only steer me wrong.

A fan made of only human hands.  Not one which spins round keeping you cool, but one which adores you for your work in the general arts.     

One liners, my nose feels constricted as we speak.

The worst way to die would have to be that of a sexual nature.  Dying during your partners orgasm.  Dying during your own would be the utmost peaceful way to go.  Experience enlightenment in two different ways.  No need for the shame of after sex.  But if it was of your partners orgasm, especially male if you happen to be female; because you probably haven't gotten off, it's been about five minutes, there really wasn't any foreplay.  It just sounds as though death would be better served during an orgasm of your own rather than any other way to go.

I play an A, you heard a B.  Words strung together opposed to colours splashed upon a canvas, or the complex melodies of a piano hitting the strings of your inner ears.  Though concentration may be found in ways of the imagination and creation rather than pondering the questions of space and visible time.  

Moonlight Sonata - 15 minute Freewrite

Within the seconds of death I turned to him, the last man I'd ever see.  This was my last moment, the last time I'd ever be close to another human being.  But still nothing ran through my mind, for after all we had been through, I still loathed this man.  His auburn hair glistening in the sun as he cocked back his rifle.  He has asked if I had wanted a blind fold, or even a cigarette, but I refused.  Why start now?  Why turn away from death, for all my life had been leading up to this moment.  Staring down the barrel of his loaded rifle, the wind did not howl my name, the sun did not dim as though looking away.  The summer night remained the same as it had been yesterday, and that of the day before.  Nothing ever changes.  No one ever remembers.  There were more words to describe the scenery around me than the emotions I was suppose to be feeling.  By skin slashed and torn from the savage beatings I had received throughout the earlier weeks and months.  Scabs now healed over, then reopened by the tyrant now standing before me with his God complex.  And to think, all I ever wanted was a loaf of bread.  But in times like these, that seemed to be to much to ask for.  there were no rights for my kind, only that of slavery, of death.  Locked away from all pleasures of life, the ecstasy of love and lust forgotten.  this didn't bother me as much as I would imagine it would someone else.  "Any last words?" I heard him shout at me.  But I remained silent, as I had always done.  There was no bother praying for drastic wind changes, or lightning bolts for the Gods in the Heavens.  this was my punishment.  All the wickedness I had done throughout my short life, this was my judgement.  the last thing I remembered was that of a gun shot, and then, nothing.  No light at the end of a tunnel, no darkness surrounded, no heavenly gates, and no fires of eternal damnation.  Only the impossibility of nothingness.  My mind was as gone as my body, which now lay destroyed on the ground before me.  I lifted my rifle up to my shoulder, there it lay in rest.  Another one dead, another one gone.  They were only orders I had to follow, to kill that poor man who's body I tore into each night with my fist and knife.  His scars healed, and I was told to reopen them, to make him feel his wickedness.  But does that not make me now the wicked one?  To murder someone over a loaf of bread.  Denying him his basic human needs to survive.  But that didn't matter anymore, for he was dead.  As I looked over his lifeless body, I wondered what truly separated us, if anything at all.