Some self-help transcripts read something sort of otiose like, “Consistency is the anecdote of success”. Ask me, and ask my neighbor, ask my father, ask by bizarre family members, and to add, some scholars, who I don’t know much about, or weight-loss seekers, business owners and climate change experts, devout worshipers and clergyman, and they will all relate something similar.
Just last weekend I committed myself to the art of consistency and wilfulness and found myself imploded with a maggot-infested pile of feces.
In the midst of willingness and dedication to routine and habit, I also found myself questioning the purpose of familiarizing myself with this consistency. After about an hour and a half, I grew lethargic and my apathy was the root cause. I just sat there like a blob, glaring at a bright screen, stomach growling and knotted, head full of mildewed anxiety. I stared for another ten seconds and felt my brain screaming at me, teasing me, ridiculing me for sitting on the sofa like that of a fool. I belched and my stomach felt less bloated. I looked at my coffee, the epicenter to my morning ritual, and felt seemingly displeased and disgusted. “Yup, that’s it”, I said. “Fuck it.”
I stood up from the sofa and began to pace back and forth like some kind of spaced-out junkie. “So this is what has become, huh?” I looked out of the window, hoping to catch a sign of amnesty from the unorthodox American gods. But that too proved useless, as the only inspiration that I would get from this site outside is a heap of dog shit and those black birds that aren’t really crows, nor really birds, but just some Aves. I say aloud, “Is that Tuba sitting atop the fence licking her hoo-hah? Man, I’m fucking hungry. I want a cigarette.” Well a cigarette isn’t food, you dumb shit. You don’t eat the cigarette, you put it to your lips to inhale a bunch of deadly man-made toxins. Are you proud? “Who’s that talking?” I asked like a lunatic. And someone shouted back, “If you drink anymore coffee, you’ll piss yourself, and you know you hate it when you piss yourself.” By now I’m laughing like a hysterical fool. And I think about Henry Miller, and I picture him laughing too.
Henry was a devout pioneer of words and wisdom who would write infinite things like, “Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him.” And, “The worst sin that can be committed against the artist is to take him at his word, to see in his work a fulfillment instead of a horizon.”
No, no, no. The worst sin that can be committed against the artist is to bombard him with false truths from prestigious scholars and then ridicule him for defying the tradition of so-called art-making.
What in the actual fuck is art but a word created by a flux of man as an umbrella term for the strangeness that is the world?
These sort of sessions are good for the self, to just stand there in the center, or at the window of the room, and question every question that you’ve ever had. To say it aloud to the self, and create a divisive panel on the discourse of art and self-fulfillment where the moderators and commentators are all you… leading you back to you… leading you back to humanity… leading you back to life… leading you back to a mindful stillness so that you may sit back down at the sofa and recreate, all over again, the same trance that put you in this trance of stupor. God, I hate the television and computer screen for staring back at me as a muddy caricature of god and Samuel L. Jackson.
And how is it that I’m entirely caffeinated and consistent in the strategy of consistency but still rampaging for more caffeine? How can one be restless and nervous but sleepy at the same time?
I suppose I could ask for more of this caffeine and hope for a counter-reaction. And even then the only thing that remains consistent is my unwillingness to commit to the series of art-making.
And every where I turn there’s some thespian trying to instruct me on how to approach that series, which is a continuation of how I am to evolve, walk, talk, breath, eat, sleep, dress, “impress”. I don’t want to, in fact, no one does.
Then can someone give me some more coffee, so that I might wake the fuck up out of this delusion?
Dedicated to all my friends and acquaintances in conversation with themselves, trying to reap the benefits of consistency and art-making. This is me in convo with myself, about myself, attempting to clear the clutter in my head.
Aylin Sozen 2018 ©