Magnetic Lines of Sight

Having spent pretty much 3/4 of the year sans blog, I can say that I don't miss blogging every single day of the year. I get the random urge to type about this or that, but frankly I don't have the time to write that stuff down anymore. Nor would you care. How many people actually looked at the Karmath Blog each day? Maybe six at most? To those six, I commend you and thank you for your interest in my life, I'm interested in yours as well. But it makes you think . . .

Why do I want people to know what I'm thinking? Is it because I'm a polite narcissist, putting myself out there in the hopes that people care enough to look me up the way I want to be looked up? Yeah, actually. I don't crave attention. Well, scratch that, I do. Sometimes. Other times I do like to hide away in a cave and do my own thing. But usually, c'mon, you know me! I'm your fucking clown, I'll shit in my own mouth, I'll fondle a blowup doll and fuck its eye if it makes you happy. At least, I thought the spectacle of that sort of performance would have been interesting to see about five years ago. Now, that act has to have a reason behind it. I can't justify fondling a blowup doll ever, since it's hokey. But to fuck something in the eye . . . I have an idea behind that one . . . trust me, it's all good and gravy, and it's a doozie of an idea. It deals with PATCH, on the topic of fetishes and obsessive compulsion, to which I have both. BOOM, I just found reason to muse on sticking a phallic object into the empty eye socket of some personified object, living or dead.

Jesus . . .

I'm scared. Seriously. I've just made PATCH go live. I've now reached that strange frontier where I have to garner enough attention on me and my musings in order to justify keeping PATCH alive. My job is to be a somewhat impolite narcissist in order to make my dream fully realized. After this, you'll hopefully turn me into an object where I don't have to ask for you to look at me, you'll do it on your own. And then when I want enough, you won't let up, you'll still lust for more, and I'll sink into a spiral of self-loathing and irritation that I'll regret ever having wanted to start PATCH in the first place. Do I still want to do this?

Hell yeah. I'm a born narcissist. I love theatre. If you're in theatre, you're a narcissist. People love watching stories, hearing sounds. Who's going to do that? Narcissists. Who'd rather be an audience? I come from a world of performers, so I don't really know the answer to that. My friends are all attention seekers. Drama queens. We've fucked this many people, we've been screwed over this many times, we've been in this many bands, our hair truly is in touch with our individuality (which is a mirror of another individual which is a mirror of another and another . . .). I want those people to stop thinking about themselves and look at me. I want those who are not narcissists to look at me. I want everyone to look at me.

Why won't you look at me?

I'll just have to think of another way to make you look at me. Or keep doing what I'm doing. We all have magnets glued to the sides of our eyes. The object is for me to put enough attractive force into my own magnets so that yours feel me pulling you in, if only for a brief glance. I pine for a double take. Hell, I pray for stares.

This is what they should teach in art school programs. How to get stares. Instead they teach expression, how to get a feeling out. Valiant effort on putting a sugar coating on narcissism, but I'm not buying it. You're really trying to steer people inward, keeping your own performance as a teacher on top, getting more attention. You teach how to get people to maintain eye contact with you and your art, those pupils become successful. How to extrovert the introvert.

I've seen that before, this person's not saying anything new, it's not daring enough, this artist looks like an asshole, they seem quiet, they're not interesting. I've seen people sticking their dicks into a blowup doll's eye socket. It's not that original. It's not that interesting. Anybody can do it.

But can you turn that idea into a one minute section of a song? Can you get rid of the basal act? Can you turn it into an emotionally charged act that people can empathize with (and not just people who have also fucked a blowup doll or who are thinking about maybe branching off and embarking on that act in the future at some point)? How about something that won't get old? They'll keep staring at it for years and years.

I've got this shit. I can do this whoring of my art. I'll keep my integrity, I'll keep my good nature. I know who I am, I know my motivations. My motivations regard talking about my motivations, most of the time. It's all meta-self-analyzing.

Time to compose some emails . . .