3 March 2013

I remember being an idealistic person. I remember once caring, thinking that I would only do things for the good of the world, for integrity, for happiness and creation and giving. I remember thinking if I became a rich and famous performer I would drop money from the ceiling at every show, to give back to the audience out of my own wealth. Remember the good feeling of wanting to make art and save people.

I have changed though in the intervening time. Have altered in my goals and aspirations. I find myself fantasizing now about whoring myself out, would do anything to lose my integrity for enough money. Today I could not find a deal so low, so base, so soul shattering with the promise of an appropriate amount of money. Ironic how I spent all this time as a teenage steeling my self against the evil forces of corporate greed and now I couldn’t find a corporation (or whatever) to mill me out if I wanted to. I’m not even a commodity, which one would perhaps argue is freeing in its own right. And yet I unconsciously crave my own commodification. Now I look at the multinational whores in envy, wish I could see my own face up there, my own glittering, airbrushed face up on the billboards and the wheat-pasted, polychrome gridded repeats up on the wall. Who am I if I’m not being used by a faceless group? Who am I if I haven’t sold my soul to the devil? Who am I if I retain this integrity with all my might and the integrity is worth nothing to anyone, not even to me.

I walk alone at night on the streets, empty of bodies and I hold tight everything dear to me. Hold it close and warm it by the heat of my own heart and wish someone would try to steal it from me, if just so that I can fend them off and reassert that what I have is worthy of the interest of others. The thieves are few and far between, and leave me alone.