Looking back at the way I’ve been writing, and having recently been exploring art more intensely over the past few days than I had been, I’ve become a disenchanted with my words. What I really want to say gets stuck between all these passive philosophical statements and borrowed thoughts and phrases I’ve taken from my influences. This world; what I conceive of in my naive twenty-one year old mind as a neutered, scared suburbian Marxist utopia where strength and honor go to die–is certainly designed as a means of killing us. It’s a brilliant strategy really; everyone wants a comfortable life. I want a comfortable life. Is that naive too? Too much energy devoted to circumventing childish thoughts and stifling their growth. Too much energy stifled. If you want boys to turn into strong men, give them enemies to fight. If you’re out of enemies, proceed to invent some.

Young boys taken from their mothers at age 7 for the Agōgē, the Spartan ritual for transforming boys into powerful soldiers. Remembered in smooth statues…the ideal of the modern, who has to tear himself away from the screen or the soft chair to wage war against his shortening lifespan.

It’s the responsibility of the artist to take ugly truths up out of the ground and shove them into people’s faces: violently, offensively, repulsively, irrespective of feelings. That must be especially true in the twenty-first century.

-“Why do you paint such images?”

-“To remind them that they will die. A skull is more interesting than a naked woman”  (From Det Sjunde Inseglet, 1957).

More and more I see censorship as something to be destroyed, and this is why I can never be called a ‘Christian’ or a ‘Catholic’, because in order for both the logos and the pathos of a faith to consume you, it needs to fit your worldview; your narrative of the universe. My reason and my emotions are instead tuned in to the subtle horrid nature of everyday interactions. Left alone to ask God why he doesn’t fit in, the lonely mind with just enough strength in him starts to develop a consciousness that is one part obsessed with mythology and another part methodically picking apart the behavior of his peers, knowing once and for all that we are machines, animals, abominations.

It is now a moral responsibility to show people this ugliness. To show people that there are legitimate conflicts of interest between different people who are all correct, who are all merely expressing themselves, trying to go about their lives. There is no innocence, because the supposed fragility or innocence of women is a means by which to extract power from men, and children are merely adults in the making. This is the first lesson to be learned, with all equality to be cut down next. There is perhaps equality of the soul, the idea that we all experience the world in a truly valid way, but this is a human idea and will end with humans, just like “liberté, egalité, fraternité” will die when whites are swallowed up by the present world-wide social engineering project.

We taxonomize different animals often on the mere basis of slight skeletal or color differences. And humans? The ugliest truth is that there are many different species of humans, even from parent to child really. Maybe we are all different species, with our own ways-of-seeing. And in our final moments when the shadows take us, we really will be all alone.

Ought-we not to pound this into the minds of children? To soak their delicate minds with reasoned expectations of brutal reality? Or maybe it shouldn’t take a rational form at all…but a purely artistic one that overemphasizes the pain of living, and the anticipation of la doleur exquise, Sehnsucht; intense longing that can never be fulfilled…even as you long anyway.

You need to tear muscle in order for it to grow.


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