I went out tonight, which felt like such an overly involved exercise, because leaving the house today meant three hours of preparation. I had to breathe slowly for a long time. I had to shower and imagine the hot water peeling back the congelation of that sick-sweet sweat born of the anxiety of bad dreams. There were clean clothes to find and shake out and feel against my skin to see if they passed today's test: can my skin have this conversation for the length of time it takes to eat at an ethiopian buffet in a roomful of artists and intellectuals? I had to crochet to busy my hands and forget myself.
Supper was flavorful and the company was good. There was entertainment in the form of lectures by autodidacts on photography, zombie apocalypse survival, and tumbleweeds. I took notes on a cheap dispenser-style napkin with a pen whose ink punctured the cheap paper. A woman at the next table wore a t-shirt with what looked like the madonna on it, and, (I'm not sure, but I'd like to imagine), the madonna had hands that cupped her soft belly.
It is an illustration of the first part of my original plan to become my own god.
My mind was running over weird acres of uneducated philosophical guessing games about the nature of making. If I (creator) make something (object) that is seen by people (observers), I become one of the observers at the object's completion. I am no longer creating that thing. It is its own thing. The (now former) creator and the observers are one. Everything created is given away to the world. In this way, creation is a slow process of object liberation. The objects are freed in their becoming. Not so much with you and I.
On days like today, I would like to actively create myself and give me out into the world. If I could be both the creator and the created object, I could observe me eating and talking and listening and watching. I could be both the liberated object and the creator liberated of that object. I could be my own god.
But, then, one or the other of us would get pissy about the inherent duality of our consciousness and feel all put out and bitch about how suffocating it is to never even be able to take a crap without being watched, bloody hell, and the whole thing would fall apart.
I know, I'll just stick to making stuff, and then we can both just look at it together like usual. Yes? Good.