Yes, I dare call them thoughts.
I almost fear opening my mouth right now, or at least letting my thoughts appear on this screen, because I am really not at all sure what I am going to say. I feel vaguely full of words and my fingers keep moving so I suppose I shouldn't try to squelch the muse and just let the dang thing happen.
Ah control. That tentative thing we all try to grasp. That security we all like to pretend we have.
(I say "we all" all the time. In case you had not noticed. I like to identify with humanity and yet I feel as though I am selling you all short in a way. Like I expect you to be as imperfect as I am. If it comes off that way, I apologize. It has not escaped my notice that many exemplary people exist and many of them to not have the vices I portray "us all" as having. I know I have them and, in my narrow scope, I like to think maybe those good and wonderful people once had them too, but they outgrew them. It's a very optimistic view and it gives me hope, so let it be. Just know that I am condemning no one but myself when I make overgeneralized statements about "us all.")
And that was a tangent! But it felt good. Today I just want words on paper (or blog as it were.) These short posts, as I mentioned before, seem so incomplete, so half hearted. I need some sustenance. So I will ramble and maybe something semi-readable will emerge and I will feel better and you will be like "Whoa..." (There are worse things than shocking people with your strangeness. Better than shocking them with your cruelty or your bad breath, for example.)
I may have failed to mention I am home schooled. It may or may not have been on purpose. We shall delve into my feelings on this subject at a later date, because while I feel like posting something long, that deserves it's own header instead of being lost in this free write of randomness which is basically me trying to get a grip and let the words loose. (Hey- we came back to control again! Why does this excite me?)
Returning to the sentence the home schooled thing was supposed to support, I am loving the Literature program for Senior year. Like, seriously. Where was this stuff all my life? You know, back when I was too young and (because I was/am not a child genius) stupid to read it? It was there, I assure you. (Dickens is a lot older than I am.) They are so deeply refreshing.
I won't lie (this time), I read a lot of what is best classified as crap. (Sorry, Mom.) It's light and the stories are trite, recycled and... mediocre. Not to say this stuff isn't popular, because it often is. But many times, it just isn't quite art. I realize that in order for the artist to get paid (a.k.a. pay the bills, not starve, keep the electricity to run his/her computer) he needs to sell a product. It's basic economics (yeah! I am learning something from that loathsome book!) But when the product becomes our main goal in art, sometimes the creativity and quality of that product is compromised. And so, we have lost the meaning of art. True artists often don't get paid and those who write to sell do get paid.
Economics. You give the people what they want, they pay you, you make money and can support yourself. Yay! Good things! But should art be sacrificed for its sake? Perhaps it shows how the focus needs to shift. In a materialistic world, material (product) is the goal. We forget about the means and the people behind them. But... (Here comes the impossible, riduculous, idealist statement: run!) prehaps we can balance these two? Maybe one does not have to die at the feet of the other (wow, Anna, that was graphic). Maybe the two can co-exist and... maybe... they can even strengthen each other.
I do apologize for the scatterness of this post. This was more for me than for you. Though if you ever glean, like, loathe or laugh at anything in this blog... you're welcome.