This post is but compensation to all the wasted time I would have spent updating this blog. Previous promises I imposed upon myself were but fleeting declarations and false hopes. If I were to continue writing (or "keying" in this respect), then I must do it with sincerity and honesty, and with enough concentration to induce bleeding in the eye sockets. If I were to make a new promise, however hard keeping it would be, a revaluation of what I have done a few posts in the past need be considered.
In my previous post, I found myself driveling about conjuring drivel. My twisted mind is not that oblivious to the moronic phrases contained in that "treatise." Take note of this: Although I referred to it as a work purely of drivel, I was actually settled in a state of addressing the sleeping artist incarcerated within. He itches in his sleep, uncomfortably bound by the ankles and the wrists. Poor fellow needs relief, even for a short while. He bangs the back of his head to the wall, and the tumult manifests itself to me as a hellish migraine. He stays there in dire need of attention; but most of all, he needs total independence from all the dullness. He resides in my mind, never bitching much about being uncomfortable and all. He worries much that he might wither into a dust heap before I wither in a coffin myself. Inside a prison cell can be very, very abject, unless the prisoner finds a fanciful way to escape his predicament. I pity the artist within me, so I give him things to muse upon. I give him drivel. Enough drivel to send him into violent panic, provoke him to break his bonds, and come after me, waxing melancholic and, telling me that I'm doing things in the most atrocious manner.
What I did with my previous post contained hogwash, nonsense or whatever trifling word so-called literary experts use. Like writing in a journal, one writes without the consent of standards. This blog is never different from a journal. Whoever stumbles upon my writings must bear in mind that I write with the consent of the self and of the freedom-deprived artist that dwells miserably within. Drivel, to me, is a mechanism, that allows a free-flowing river of thoughts stream down from the subconscious and unto an empty sheet of bordered paper. Drivel, to me, is rudimentary in translating insipid thoughts into reinforced language; language which is understandable, which persuades and not pose as revolting to an audience.
I'm not saying that I write drivel for the most serious of occasions. I write (or speak) drivel simply for building confidence, and the more confidence that seeps through my drivel, the more I mature with my writing. If anyone detects problems insofar as my method is concerned, let him step forth so I may use drivel in my defense. Chances are, he may not go as far as understanding the complete gist of my defense. I am an apt student of the School of Drivel, and I have strong conviction that drivel can lead me and the incarcerated artist from the pangs of intellectual idleness.
By the way, for the record, I am a (self-proclaimed) disciple of the Surrealist Movement. I bet that will explain fully why I am a slave for driveling.
On a side note, unlike those who think they are doing a pretty good job telling people what's intellectually worthy and unworthy, I believe in individual differences.. People are not the same. Each one is unique from another. Included are the writers and their readers. If a writer sermons on "accepted standards" in his practice, he is violating not only himself, but his colleagues and his readers. What makes art beautiful is the existence of creative faculties. These are faculties, by the way, that recognize no boundaries, and give a work of art a humanistic touch.
I do not care about how the reader reads, or how I the writer writes. What matters the MOST is the ability to create something without the existence of standards, the very standards that give insult to art.
