Processing
I'm more or less just starting to remember now the entire process of how I create and the very reason I went to art school in the first place.
First, this is a very strange process I'm discovering and I'm pretty sure there were only once or twice in my life that I was able to continue this flow for periods of time. Although I'm fairly sure these periods of time were interludes of life which lasted something like 5-6 years, so considering all of this. I would eventually produce entire little notebooks out of this strange process. The key to all of this, which has somehow alluded me for these years and was the eventual subject matter of the books that became a whole thing, was that I simply let myself be the process. It's a religion in a matter of speaking and is probably the same for any other artist, it's a form of spirituality (religion implies that it's some sort of organized thing).
It's something that I fought because it doesn't really go with the 9-5 of society.
Some days, or some moment, it strikes me and then I have to take that lightning bolt and run with it for 35 hours. If I do it then its created, if not then whatever I would have made at that time is dead forever. It may still get done, but whatever it is, is in a matter of that moment in time. Maybe it's the stars, I have no idea. And this is probably why it was so healthy to live in the unhealthy environment of a dorm when it's an art school dorm. It's unhealthy at 23 to live in a fucking dorm but surrounded by other artists, even if they are slightly younger than you, does make the entire process make somewhat of a great deal of sense. When you don't sleep for a day and then sleep 18 hours and then have a novel done and you're happy for three months just going about like a normal-body for the pain strikes at you and you have no choice but to create (and this comes in waves of filmmaking too but it's an entirely different process. The writing ether is very gentle and when it's disturbed it's like mashing eggs in the prenatal womb and expecting to get Michaelangelo or something of any nature. I probably spelled his name wrong. I apologize to legend.
Anyhow, I'm remembering how this went.
Now that I won't destroy the building of myself again it's less worrisome.
Because I'd always get to the point of having it down to a T and then get into the pattern of a changeling and mimic the behavior of others, then attempt to go back to the process not as myself but as another person playing the role of myself. The result would obviously be disastrous to extent of mediocrity at best.
When I wrote a 500+ novel I should have kept it as one novel. But I turned it to two novels for the sake of other people's entertainment. This is literally like going up to people who are watching M.T.V. and asking their opinion on literature (like ga-ga MTV viewers, like people who think Christina Aguilera is a deep and profound musician and American Idol creates artists).
It is very likely that in the East Village, I felt a certain level of comfort because of the energy surrounding me. I don't entirely know Tesla as well as I know how to explain what I feel. When you see other people who look like they're in a level of something you know you're going to go through or have gone through, you sortof feel like a family to some extent. Even if the scary steel building was built over that Suicide Tavern or whatever and even if they won't take your money unless you make 80x your rent. Nonetheless.
Screenwriting can be considered in the same umbrella as the novel, for me. But it seems that in order to really get myself like pumped in mind muscle I have to do this long-winded novel writing sorts. Then I run through the screenplay quicker because something or another happens like letting of the weights in shoes.
So for instance, right now, I'm writing in this blog, which is a way of diffusing the energy or confusion of stories inside my head between writing in a personal diary of the actual timeline of my life, on the side of writing a short story on Little Nemo which I don't plan on publishing as a precursor to writing the screenplay for Little Nemo which somewhere between I will outline as I also spellcheck this novel 4 (or 5, and in some realities 3) of Fairfield, Connecticut. Which eventually will get published through lulu.com
Even if that only means it'll be editing by myself and still reflect the same manner of elements I missed in 10th grade English.
It's not really the grammar that particularly gets with me. It's the essence of the story. As I see it, every story to some way or another is souls going through a transition in time for one instance which like some atoms are moving in the very large scheme of things and you're witnessing it, and if you can learn to feel it, which I'm just remembering to, the entire thing becomes beautiful. It also makes everything so much easier to write.
But even in creating screenplays and novels, I find a map is needed before you can really dig in there.
In the future, I will hopefully not write out long winded things in this organic method. Typing that up really stuck a whole process into creativity. Anyhow, I think it's rather necessary at this point to formulate my time and existence via this little diary which was a dream diary and now is a real diary and also sometimes is a dream diary. It's Fellini as living heart. Or so I'd like to tell myself to pay tribute to someone who's shadow could fart and blow away my artistic ability and existence.
8 1/2 forever.
And perhaps I am Guido. The character. Because I'm not all that Italian and don't believe in nationalities as ways of life.
Isn't this an international community now? I live in New York. If anything I'd like to believe myself as a piece of Manhattan. Like the city created I (as others) in it's wind at Fairfield County and now I live amongst it's beauty, under the shadows and in the light. And if it sinks into the nowhere of sea I'll probably drown with the best of them.
God bless fantastic amazement that is NYC.
Anywhere else I'd be a crazy person of sacrilege. Not that I've been anywhere. But I love you New York. Manhattan specific.
And now, I'll go and attempt to make some sort of salad green creation with bad T.V. in the background as I make way around another edge of this. It runs cycle wise but each time I get closer to myself and at the bottom of the downward spiral is me. And then, it's like a phoenix.
First, this is a very strange process I'm discovering and I'm pretty sure there were only once or twice in my life that I was able to continue this flow for periods of time. Although I'm fairly sure these periods of time were interludes of life which lasted something like 5-6 years, so considering all of this. I would eventually produce entire little notebooks out of this strange process. The key to all of this, which has somehow alluded me for these years and was the eventual subject matter of the books that became a whole thing, was that I simply let myself be the process. It's a religion in a matter of speaking and is probably the same for any other artist, it's a form of spirituality (religion implies that it's some sort of organized thing).
It's something that I fought because it doesn't really go with the 9-5 of society.
Some days, or some moment, it strikes me and then I have to take that lightning bolt and run with it for 35 hours. If I do it then its created, if not then whatever I would have made at that time is dead forever. It may still get done, but whatever it is, is in a matter of that moment in time. Maybe it's the stars, I have no idea. And this is probably why it was so healthy to live in the unhealthy environment of a dorm when it's an art school dorm. It's unhealthy at 23 to live in a fucking dorm but surrounded by other artists, even if they are slightly younger than you, does make the entire process make somewhat of a great deal of sense. When you don't sleep for a day and then sleep 18 hours and then have a novel done and you're happy for three months just going about like a normal-body for the pain strikes at you and you have no choice but to create (and this comes in waves of filmmaking too but it's an entirely different process. The writing ether is very gentle and when it's disturbed it's like mashing eggs in the prenatal womb and expecting to get Michaelangelo or something of any nature. I probably spelled his name wrong. I apologize to legend.
Anyhow, I'm remembering how this went.
Now that I won't destroy the building of myself again it's less worrisome.
Because I'd always get to the point of having it down to a T and then get into the pattern of a changeling and mimic the behavior of others, then attempt to go back to the process not as myself but as another person playing the role of myself. The result would obviously be disastrous to extent of mediocrity at best.
When I wrote a 500+ novel I should have kept it as one novel. But I turned it to two novels for the sake of other people's entertainment. This is literally like going up to people who are watching M.T.V. and asking their opinion on literature (like ga-ga MTV viewers, like people who think Christina Aguilera is a deep and profound musician and American Idol creates artists).
It is very likely that in the East Village, I felt a certain level of comfort because of the energy surrounding me. I don't entirely know Tesla as well as I know how to explain what I feel. When you see other people who look like they're in a level of something you know you're going to go through or have gone through, you sortof feel like a family to some extent. Even if the scary steel building was built over that Suicide Tavern or whatever and even if they won't take your money unless you make 80x your rent. Nonetheless.
Screenwriting can be considered in the same umbrella as the novel, for me. But it seems that in order to really get myself like pumped in mind muscle I have to do this long-winded novel writing sorts. Then I run through the screenplay quicker because something or another happens like letting of the weights in shoes.
So for instance, right now, I'm writing in this blog, which is a way of diffusing the energy or confusion of stories inside my head between writing in a personal diary of the actual timeline of my life, on the side of writing a short story on Little Nemo which I don't plan on publishing as a precursor to writing the screenplay for Little Nemo which somewhere between I will outline as I also spellcheck this novel 4 (or 5, and in some realities 3) of Fairfield, Connecticut. Which eventually will get published through lulu.com
Even if that only means it'll be editing by myself and still reflect the same manner of elements I missed in 10th grade English.
It's not really the grammar that particularly gets with me. It's the essence of the story. As I see it, every story to some way or another is souls going through a transition in time for one instance which like some atoms are moving in the very large scheme of things and you're witnessing it, and if you can learn to feel it, which I'm just remembering to, the entire thing becomes beautiful. It also makes everything so much easier to write.
But even in creating screenplays and novels, I find a map is needed before you can really dig in there.
In the future, I will hopefully not write out long winded things in this organic method. Typing that up really stuck a whole process into creativity. Anyhow, I think it's rather necessary at this point to formulate my time and existence via this little diary which was a dream diary and now is a real diary and also sometimes is a dream diary. It's Fellini as living heart. Or so I'd like to tell myself to pay tribute to someone who's shadow could fart and blow away my artistic ability and existence.
8 1/2 forever.
And perhaps I am Guido. The character. Because I'm not all that Italian and don't believe in nationalities as ways of life.
Isn't this an international community now? I live in New York. If anything I'd like to believe myself as a piece of Manhattan. Like the city created I (as others) in it's wind at Fairfield County and now I live amongst it's beauty, under the shadows and in the light. And if it sinks into the nowhere of sea I'll probably drown with the best of them.
God bless fantastic amazement that is NYC.
Anywhere else I'd be a crazy person of sacrilege. Not that I've been anywhere. But I love you New York. Manhattan specific.
And now, I'll go and attempt to make some sort of salad green creation with bad T.V. in the background as I make way around another edge of this. It runs cycle wise but each time I get closer to myself and at the bottom of the downward spiral is me. And then, it's like a phoenix.
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