Of Parachutes and Hurricanes

It’s unbelievable to think that summer is almost over. I’ve been dreading this and especially having to go back to my uni, where I’m starting to feel very disconnected, confused and lost. Wondering if that is in fact what I really want to do: constantly having to struggle with non-constructive criticism from apathetic conceptual artists who create none of the work themselves. I’d hate to get to the point where I am asking someone to make something for me, and then exhibiting it and getting all the credit for it. To me, crafts is also art. Have you seen the beauty of a violin? yeah, there’s a MAN behind that. Behind huge metal and light sculptures, usually, there’s an architectural digital model, a lot of money being offered, and machines. Maybe I’m losing it, the passion. Maybe I’ve stopped thinking as an artist, but I am disillusioned and tired of this. I am so much more passionate when I sit in the studio and we listen to the demos and we try different things with the drums and the voice, maybe adding some here and there, when we sit there the whole day and I feel exhausted and a little restless and cross-eyed as if I’d been staring at a computer screen; or when I see friends of mine on stage, and I want to tell the world: LOOK! this person will be HUGE someday, and if they won’t, it’s only because the world has gone to shit, and I get a kind of pride and maybe little pangs of sadness, too. Especially when you know what or how the songs have been written about. I remember that Nick Cave night, a long long time ago, paperheart with his back against the wall, we sat on the floor and he told me everything, about this family that was breaking, I sat there and it hurt that I was the one he’d come to, just because I could feel myself going down with him – at least he wasn’t like the addicts who promised that they’d stop, that the spoon to the flame was a dream now, no more they said, but it was always in the background somewhere like a bad Omen, and me biting my lip and saying it’s over and them “No, because I love you” and me wondering how far you must be, down that rabbit hole, to tell people you want to keep from leaving that you love them in the hope that those words will make them stay, but I’d become immune to all of this already and I was glad to close the door behind me, just like this – but anyway, he wrote that song about Hurricanes, I think it’s called Hurricanes – is it? I guess I’ll see when that new album is released, last time we sat somewhere quiet upstairs at the release party, and there were girls now and then coming to ask if they could get their cd signed and I don’t know – I’d wished I was them, so full of this certain something, the giggling and the hope, the shiny eyes and the YOUTH – they were probably older, I think I was a child, but I just felt so much older, especially when he’d turn into a kid I had to be there for; and at the same time, I was happy where I was, next to him feeling that this something new was so beautiful and fragile, it was dramatic and it didn’t even hurt, none of it hurt – and so, that song, I saw it growing. After we broke, I went to a gig once. I was standing up front, but he has this tendency to take off his glasses on stage because he says he looks better but it makes him half-blind, so all he sees is a sea of people. I could have stood way to the back, closer to the entrance, but I didn’t – I wanted this love that had always been dramatically smooth to hurt. And I heard that song there, on stage, and it did – it felt like the aftertaste of betrayal.
So all this to say that art isn’t making me feel in quite the same way as music, and it’s so big and scary – like throwing myself off a cliff and figuring out halfway-through that I am not sure if I have a parachute…

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