Thinking about all the scenes in LA I watched rise and die in the past decade + ... How they all had identical trajectories , something rare and exciting and full of creativity and power that eats itself, Someone gets on a billboard or in a window at the mall , someone tours the world , it starts to hurt feelings,, it acquires definition and material value and the laughter stops, the party drugs turn into coping drugs , Competition begins over the small sparks that are left, the grieving starts, the exit procession begins , What they were all chasing was not tangible anyways, not a destination, but a habitat that needs maintaining, that needs to stay loose, but somehow nothing stays loose for long, Suddenly it's all just grieving and killing , licking wounds and collecting winnings - if any - The lead singer is to blame, No, the internet, no it's just getting older, it's just the times, It was an illusion to begin with ,It Was Never About Art Couldn't You Tell ? , You check up on the old stars every few years. Dead profiles with hints of the past. It wouldn't make sense to reach out. If you're lucky you'll run into them unarmed at the grocery store on a weekday, sleepy and open, heavier and kinder, you'll get to watch it all flash before their eyes as you say their name, when they say How Have You Been? it'll sound like Why Is Life Given If Death Always Comes? and when they say Nice To See You Again it'll sound like So Is There Anything Left?

Writers and artists are often accused of self-centeredness and yet, in their eyes, what they commune with when they shut out from others is not themselves but an entity they are constantly seducing, battling, interpreting. Another human who cannot see this entity only sees one person in their field of vision - an aloof individual in a state of consistent, contrived obsession, like a bee shaken up in a jar, possessed by the burden of an invisible, pushy impulse. If you call an artist or writer self-centered, they will give you a perplexed, defeated look. They will not understand, as they often yearn to be closer to the self in all of its maintenance and tangible pleasures. In their head, they have been toiling away in service to another being their entire lives. Feeling as if they are in a constant state of sacrifice, it is not the self that lays in the center of their reality, but a demanding, spectral visitor latched onto a host.

accidental 555 moment in the camera roll

refining

letting them enter

two moods