Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Closure of Confessions of Someone Almost 18 / The Komarovian

     I feel like I’ve been gone so long, yet in reality it’s only been a few weeks. A bit has changed, not much and everything all at once, encompassing my all as I favor to say with high frequency. The tension mounted and nearly destroyed me—and yet, I lived—fleeting the precipice of the Lake of the Dead once more; dear Raziel, we are worthy.

     Confessed out & self-proclaimed as nothing and all of everything. Predictably the pilot light flickered out with a whisper lacking a proper recognition when probably due. Unapologetically, “I wanted to kill the most amazing person in the world, then I realized suicide was a crime.”


     One last thing remains before we pick up and move on: thank you.


The Succeeding Works of
Alexis Komarov Voltaire

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 21

Nicest thing someone has 
said to you this week

I want to be your Chicken McNugget,
chewing bubblegum along side you
as the world passes by.


Just always remember who you are and what you mean to me.

30 Days to an Almost End series list

Monday, July 5, 2010

COSA18 Interviews Ryan Maloney from Cerebrot.com

“Swasticrow”

     If there’s an artist I’m positive deserves my respect and admiration, only a single individual comes to mind. Surpassing all celebrity and expectations of a dear friend, “if this isn’t real, then this is as real as it gets.”

     Over the past year I’ve wanted great things for COSA18, one especially being to go out with a bang,
not with a whimper. If there’s one person who’s taught me how exactly to achieve that this crucial year of mine, it’s the most spectacular artist I’ve had the honor of unexpectedly befriending—Ryan Maloney. The pleasure was, has been, and will be all mine.
 
Whether you feel you fit the broad definition or not—why are you an artist? When do you believe you became what it means to you?
I am an artist because Charles Manson is locked up, because Jesus Christ is a lie, and because being born is far more of a bloody and painful spectacle then dying. The first time someone told me that what I was drawing was disgusting was when I truly felt like an artist. I believe it was in fourth grade, where I was sent to the school social worker for drawing monsters doing unspeakable things to people.  I am an artist because I have to be, because I feel compelled to put something into the world besides CO2.  My whole life I have been lied to, and promised and threatened and pressured by men under the banner of God. All those people only ever encouraged me to subtract things from my life, and separate myself from the world.  Being ‘worldly’ was to be evil growing up, but now I consider the alternative to just being invisible.  So I paint, write, and photograph unsheathed.

“Fraternus”

Are you influenced or inspired by other artists? Do you think there’s a difference between the two?
I am heavily influenced by other artists. But not generally inspired. For me, being inspired is typically difficult and out of my control.  If anything, looking at art is discouraging when I am uninspired. Thoughts such as ‘why didn’t I think of that’, or ‘Christ s/he is good, I’ll never have that much discipline’, or other such negative thoughts.  But when I look at nature, and photography, and get outside a bit I can get whims of momentum, and within a few days I’m usually gritting my teeth to get off work and throw some penciling down.  I usually have a list of 10 things I want to paint at a time.  Or destroy 10 previous ones. It’s either or.

Besides fellow artists, what influences and/or inspires you?
Biology, botany, fetish, sobriety, medieval art, surreal photography and music. Also not being able to paint inspires me. Like only drinking coffee for 3 days; if you down a cold glass of clean water after that you are probably going to orgasm. Or create something, in my case.  You said besides fellow artists, so I hope that answer is sufficient.

Your own blood is your popular medium. When did you begin using blood in your paintings (or in any other artistic creation)? What led you to the choice?
Somewhere in a lot of books that everyone has read people say that blood forms the strongest bond. And people wonder why I paint with it. I may not live for very long on this earth, but hopefully my paintings will.  Blood work never really took an artistic form for me until my 20’s, but it was a means of dealing with extreme emotional distress before that. Inner thighs when I was young, progressing to ribs and pectoral areas these days. People who cut their arms probably would be advised to not try and relate to me, as I have no patience for it. The old lady at Starbucks shouldn’t feel the need to pet you and tell you she loves you and everything’s going to be OK. That would mortify me. Why would you want that kind of attention? Getting scornful emails, and negative comments in front of your paintings is far healthier in my opinion.  I chose to do it because it releases adrenaline in my brain, and I’m addicted to it. I love to paint and draw, so eventually the two just spiraled together.

Have you always solely used your own blood, or have you used the blood of other people or animals in your work?
I’ve only used my blood but I have made a few commissioned pieces using other people’s blood to paint their live portraits. It always ended badly. Apparently taking the commission was akin to prostitution. And that’s not what I plan on when I pick up a paintbrush. Live painting is anxiety to me. I don’t know how a person can engage in sex acts after spending hours worrying that they are making the victims neck too fat or eyes too bland.  So now I strictly paint in my own. It’s my art, my craft and my madness.  The only blood I would want to mix with my own in a work of art would be another artist, not a bystander.

 “Myself as a Bird”

I won’t inquire the specifics of your blood drawing methods, but I will ask this: do you ever dread having to draw the blood for use in a piece?
If anything it’s the opposite. Though there are days where I look at a finished penciling and as I cotton scrub it down (fading) I get a pang of annoyance at the labor that is impending. Once I start and that rush hits my veins however, the bar is down and the ride has begun.  Recently I’ve been using vials and painting from stored/refrigerated blood for ease of effect and its just nice when you are out of Bactine and don’t feel like being shirtless.  You can’t do this kind of thing and not get a little bit excited about it. If you don’t lick your lips a little bit you should probably hit the hobby store and pick up some paints.

Clearly, you are not the only “blood painter” out there. Do you hold any sensitivity or lackluster involving the field of blood painting?
Clearly. I started this before I knew others existed. I had no doubts that there would be others, because no one invents anything these days. I’ve been gravely disappointed at other people’s ability to give me any credit, since I have a lesser fan base or whatever. But in the previous 12 months time I’ve sold a few thousand bucks worth of original art, prints, and commissioned live pieces, and have had several photo shoots with more on the way, and more orders pending.  So, that pretty much comforts any sensitivities I have about being accused of copying or wanting to crawl up another artists ass.  There are certain individuals that I hold sensitivity to. It’s not in my nature to be forgiving, or overlook things unfortunately.  I’m a grudge keeper, and its horrible immature but immovable. Art isn’t about choosing sides so people can think whatever they want.  For some people art is like changing songs on an iPod, which is a shame.  I don’t paint for other people. I paint for me. If you don’t like it then just hit next.

What types of environments do you create when painting?
I try as hard as I can to not create any environment. Painting the things that I like would just be ruined if I tried to put them in a setting. That’s what photography is for in my opinion. But many a great painting has one form of environment or another that makes it wonderful. I just am incapable of achieving that at this point.

What piece are you most proud of, and why?
Infetish is the one I am most happy with… but I am definitely not proud of my works. I’m proud of people having the courage to tell me that I’m degenerate or fucked up, because I believe that takes more courage than what I do.  Correction. I am very proud of everyone who works with me on photo shoots, and my kitten when he superman slide tackles my painting and forces me to start over and create something better.

“Infetish”

I’m sure you’ve heard about Marilyn Manson’s Antichrist Superstar video being leaked from the depths of his website by a hacker of sorts. With Cerebrot.com unopened to the public, how would you feel and react if someone infiltrated your art in a similar way?
I did hear about it, and was sent the video before I was even aware of an issue or leak or anything. I was expecting something totally different. It showed up in my inbox first thing in the morning before work, I hit play, rubbed my eyes and started my morning with one of my favorite songs, paired with a strange video.  It wasn’t till two days later that I found out people were piss whipped about it. Now it feels like a drunk hook-up. It just kind of happened, it was over before you know it, and now everyone is standing around yelling and pointing fingers and someone might lose their job. Cerebrot.com will be a blip amongst a billion blips. People won’t visit it often, it will just be partnered with my Facebook page to be updated with new pieces and shoots. And the occasional photo-travelogue or absinthe review.

The video was magic. It’s a shame it caused such a stir.

In Plato’s Republic Socrates says, “as [far as the] arts are concerned, then, no art ever studies or enjoins the interest of the superior or strong party, but always that of the weaker over which it has authority.” What do you think about this statement?
Horse shit. Art can absolutely be the authority on the superior party.  AKA critics, or swarms of fans whose wallets can skyrocket a piece to infamy.  Weak and strong can’t be distinguished in the face of art save for the few that can destroy it, or engulf it in recognition.  Art has silence and stirred millions of people for ages. Looks like Socrates didn’t have his little boy the day he wrote that.  Paintings, statues, palaces, jewelry, monuments have been erected for ‘superior’ people and often those are the pieces of art that endure the test of time.  I could just be misinterpreting the quote though. It’s 3:00am.

 “The Light Shines”

Over the next ten years, where do you hope your art carries you? Or, where do you hope to carry your art to?
I want someone to have a cardiac arrest standing in front of one of my paintings in a gallery, and have the person’s family spend inordinate amounts of money on the piece so they can ritually destroy it in the name of God.  Then I would like to attend the funeral and be thrown out. That is success. 

Interview by Alexis Voltaire

Sunday, July 4, 2010

30 Days to an Almost End - Day 12

Explain the person you love most

 
     He’s my brother. He’s anything and everything to me, forever and always. He is the only person I would ever consider giving my life for. If it came down to me or him, I would rather it be me.
     Never to worry, for I am here. You have no better protector than me.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Are You the Rabbit?

     I am a danger to your life, I’ve come here to ruin it—this we hopelessly surmise. I’m not prepared to ever apologize in my name’s sake, however. I’ve been through this a million times before. One of the onlys of our issues is that you have not, not yet, not with dangerous me. Ruthless, conniving, vindictive; unwilling to surrender with or without a fight to the death of the inevitable end. I am the brakeless train, don’t beg the question of if there should be a complimentary wreck after you’ve promised me there’s room in your life.

     For you this might be exciting defiance. For me it’s a pathetic repetition I should know better than. Although, I will take partial blame, full if it is fault of my own for this lifestyle I’ve dripped into. Do I enjoy difficulties? Perhaps I’m rendering it so.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Sovereign


     I’ve never felt sexier in my entire life, notwithstanding the facile appreciation of surreal power over other human beings. This isn’t quite it though, this is something new and something beautiful, something free of the aches of time and caresses of dirt and grime. You couldn’t endure this ascendancy if you tried to hardly comprehend—your capital empowerment grazed with bloody muddy selfishly childish paws, my gra-gra-graded lesser? Wolfy and salty, to not delve into the abyss with abortion risk…

     Batting the cages of realization I pass the escape brink of madness, “Complete damnation, I drowned in,” tout de suite sprinkling me in souvenir of what is effortlessly washed back ashore the island of self-deceit. “But no more!” I said in admirable defiance, I will evade every bullet train you fire with missile-aim to scorch myself within a submarine not quite yellow—blue with steam.

     & Here I lodge in the dwelling of Mulholland Drive, drenched in my own stench of fame and fraud and fortune. What you’ve always been and always are, cowering away to the tone of Sybil’s tormented cries and water vapor… Your cover has broken free. I’m not sorry, for I refuse to apologize to Me.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Case of the Missing Bereavement

     It’s nearly engrossing how less I feel in the arms of what I hold close to you. Your nonexistence, it pleases me. Watching you suffer, God, that too.

     To beyond greater things than the grandeur you were enveloped in—my ideals, perhaps of you.

     What a peculiar feeling to be this so-called “in love,” when we were just falling so terribly far and apart. Maybe I still don’t know what it feels like, your absence just isn’t devastating enough for it to be true…


     For now, this is all I want to feel—but not with you.

Monday, June 7, 2010

On the Epic of Pathetic

     Theyre hard, its life. Sometimes they end badly, rarely goodly—what’s left? Uncertainty. Perhaps from one end, hardly ever both. Loose ends? I’m unsure. My tightrope isn’t unraveling.

     Almost piteous, never angry. I hate to see crumbs when there wasn’t a reason to crumble.

     Break-ups. Theyre hard, its life.
But it is never, ever ever ever, over. (:

Thursday, June 3, 2010

“Before everything else, I was like you”

     The Fragile is bellowing from two regions of the house, feeling like a surreal type of moment for a reason I cannot define.
     To some extent it’s suggestive of five years past, a time when I should have been luxuriating in life’s young simplicities of being 12-13, in lieu of the intricacies of distorting heartbreak. Wholly—the authenticity of a world I was by no means ready for, shining in a world full of ugliness.
     I suspect the dichotomy is a life on two different tracks, double spaced by time and event and emotion. On the horizon, I go towards the absence of light, where everything is meaningless...

Resist your anthropocism for a moment,

     So few pleasures of this world would I define as radiant and labyrinthine. Grasp onto my meaning when I describe the following et cetera: there’s a bizarre pleasure in the tiny things along for the ride with our insignificant existence. An ice cream cone on Sunday from the unexpected truck making the neighborhood rounds, the innocent kiss of a shy child, opening a late birthday present you didn’t envision receiving.

     Studying the cosmos and the astrophysics comprising it all for ten hours straight, missing rise and set of the closest star justifiably blamed on the consumption of an all encompassing existence lacking an intelligent creation—you create the most gorgeous moment that’s undefined in its glorious warrants. Beyond it, magical in the moment of stepping outside the suicide door breaching the murderous world, newly learned and brave to see...
     Alpha Centauri A, B, and C dancing around a Venus lying in wake of a very Sirius Coma, dying for a Milky Way; that’s all we think of when we consider the cosmos—a charming joke of sharable quality, tales of spineless man, at the shoddiest stab of aforementioned animal-in-denial: a gravity-defying candy bar. Reduced to “nothing of bothering importance,” except it’s everything of me and you and the sun and the stars and the dogs, cats, plants, and animals roaming free. It’s the Sol if there ever were within, yet we go spiraling on to the fixed law of gravity as if none of it matters.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Monday’s Excerpts – The Art of Living by Epictetus

     One book read like a religious text, more so than The Greatest Show on Earth, for it offers wisdom purely directed at what is affectionately described so commonly as “the soul,” The Art of Living has aided me so thoroughly in approaching life like a banquet and realizing that all events are impersonal, even death. Of all things I hold close and dear in the privacy of my mind, The Art of Living is one of the few burning as brightly as it has from the beginning, not to go out with a whisper any time soon. These are a few of my favorite excerpts.


This Weeks Book: The Art of Living by Epictetus

Events Dont Hurt Us, But Our Views of Them Can
Things themselves don’t hurt or hinder us. Nor do other people. How we view these things is another matter. It is our attitudes and reactions that give us trouble.
    Therefore even death is no big deal in and of itself. It is our notion of death, our idea that it is terrible, that terrifies us. There are so many different ways to think about death. Scrutinize your notions about death—and everything else. Are they really true? Are they doing you any good? Don’t dread death or pain, dread the fear of death or pain.
    We cannot choose our external circumstances, but we can always choose how we respond to them. (Page 10)
—————

The Right Use of Books
Don’t just say you have read books. Show that through them you have learned to think better, to be a more discriminating and reflective person. Books are the training weights of the mind. They are very helpful, but it would be a bad mistake to suppose that one has made progress simply by having internalized their contents. (Page 97)
—————

Never Casually Discuss Important Matters
Take care not to casually discuss matters that are of great importance to you with people who are not important to you. Your affairs will become drained of preciousness. You undercut your own purposes when you do this. This is especially dangerous when you are in the early stages of an undertaking.
    Other people feast like vultures on our ideas. They take it upon themselves to blithely interpret, judge, and twist what matters most to you, and your heart sinks. Let your ideas and plans incubate before you parade them in front of the naysayers and trivializers.
    Most people only know how to respond to an idea by pouncing on its shortfalls rather than identifying its potential merits. Practice self-containment so that your enthusiasm won’t be frittered away. (Page 110)

Books finished this past week...
★★★☆☆ The End of Faith by Sam Harris
★★★☆☆ Psychiatry for Beginners by Brizer
★★★★☆ SuperSense: Why We Believe in the Unbelievable by Bruce Hood
(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

For Your Facial Manifestation,

     I have uncertainty on doing this alone although everything until now has been, obviously not saving your raping gaping holes poking the opposite of happiness into my everything of but what a dark matter.
     I’m on the precipice of unchanged trembling with fear of almost the Room 101 with no no puppy to save me. I received “ticket for two” when what I really requested was a ticket for one.

     My forsaken dance of the fucking death by dial toll is what we once knew as our tender romance of the tender ages, four by maybe five accusations—none deserving the ripe credibility they have grown: cruelty is never a gorgeous gore, no matter the tone.

     When I said that everything is forever changing and nothing is unstoppable, what I really meant to scream at the very top of the tightrope of my lungs was ME, for man is BVT A WORM.

 

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Not Dead, Yet Dying

     Do you know the rights 
to finding me?

     Today was the day. The only thing coming in my mouth this leap is on an exit to existence, beyond the world I believed to be the only. Nightmares of your faceless stares, reversion into your kingdom for hours on end—you are not the only thing. Earlier gate calls might have saved us all.

 

Part Four: Maxims and Interludes. Section 89.
Terrible experiences make one wonder whether
he who experiences them is not something terrible.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

I’ll teach you about loss.


     Like death, love, and life, I do this alone. Everything, all alone. I know the right decision, and I know the biological reason why it’s so difficult to commit to. Who am I to convince nature my conscience is right? Who am I to pretend I exist as a dichotomy? Who am I to question that I am not capable of a feat this great?

Monday, May 10, 2010

Wheeling Weak Week: The Final Day of the Spectrum



Congratulations! You have reached the
     When you remember that you have cataracts raping both of your eyes and only you can recognize them for what they metaphorically represent on the grand scale of “things,” the world suddenly transpires into a mess less cloudy for you to perceive.

     To tear them wide open for the light to be in: this is beyond the existence of what I formerly considered to be me.
dead star.

Wheeling Weak Week: Day 8 of the Spectrum



70 01110000 75 01110101 72 01110010 70 01110000 6c 01101100 65
     Now you repose unprotected, no longer am I sinking in your wake of my eternal wait, so hear my prose for we are as embarrassed as we were before we fell in and leapt out of this damnation called: rapturous adoration.
     Warped was the unconventional, misinterpreted was the obvious. Fear and lacking gathered us here today to this fun urinal, we, together as one against all others, for the final time of our union as I perceive to be perfection, are the flies pissing from the seat at this miserable Lake of a wake of the dead Red salty Sea.

     For geographical comprehension of pitfalls, look away from the fizzled black dwarf consuming your singular concept of a truly dead star you maniacal imitation of a mind of a lunatic of Christ-like confessions! The only parade marching has been you drumming right along to the beat of a long exhausted trifle.
     A supernova: surrendering to the gravity of the unknown for your Death and Resurrection Show. Instead, you chose to tread the event horizon as a result of your distracted boredom of God knows what in the physical universe. Your spans spanning elsewhere, where other female kitchens, roam still… undesirable by you as a party of the state unless dead thereupon the doorstep after conception.

     In absence, we all look away from the sun we subconsciously believe shines brightest, yet, why does it hold so easy for you to gaze into the abyss? Staring into you, consuming first your outstretched hand scantily holding the very invitations to your own beheading, you’re the mirror of the blankest stare, what are you doing—!


     And I, am just a reflection
     And you, just a projection
     Of my disgusted images.


     To be up this high on the tightrope, we must fare—
01100101

Saturday, May 8, 2010

“Anywhere You Don’t Belong” – A Poem

You are just a catalyst,
mirroring the beauty I reflected onto you.
You shattered my reflection...

not me.
 

Still I ponder frequently:
Am  I collapsing in? Is this the motherfuckin’ end?
It’s so hard not to just let you back in

to anywhere you don’t belong.

Mysteries of My Creation

    Today is your (un)lucky day—have all you’ve ever wanted if you can only reach it on your own. My money’s on: you can’t, and that’s why you pushed away what you claimed was such a great thing for you, you selfish hypothetical gene. If you genuinely believe deep down that all you deserve is the shit that you spread, that is all you will ever even be. The rewards won’t exist, you’re less than that to me. This is the time of your last feeding. I hope you’re as happy as you deserve to be.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Fifteen in the Sun


     Over and over again in my head, the breathy lyric, “Yesterday everything I thought I believed in died, but today is my birthday.” I’m taking this in a different light than how I assume Manson intended it for himself. Allow me to explain.

     Darkness encompassed my yesterday, in a way I believed to be impossible. I didn’t predict my love for another clouding my true love of biology and cosmology to the length of existing nearly in oblivion.
     While drowning in the love I had fallen into, I was never caught in my love affair with the sciences. My love of another human being was a great muse and inspiration to care more for life in its entirety and my personal passions in their individuality. However, I never considered the consequences of letting that person in deep, for them to suddenly leave me under any circumstances—even those that may be justified.
     I learned my lesson, I learned about loss, and it hardly took forever. Now it’s my time to go under, I can only hope from the opinions of others—that I shouldn’t even care about—that I didn’t wait too long before gripping life’s reigns again and taking control of the only thing I can: myself.

     In this way, today is my birthday. I don’t think this is what he meant by the Death and Resurrection Show, although, maybe he meant it for himself… maybe he didn’t consider that it would apply for me too. Well, my rebirth will be different. The arsenal isn’t the same, I’ve been stocking up for a millennium, it feels. I am the motherfucking cosmos today, and nothing’s going to stop me from colliding into every other galaxy I know. I am everything, everything to me. I am driving into the sun because I am the motherfucking sun.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

10 of Spade


     The hurt I’m experiencing right now is such an absurd type of hurt. It’s an oddity, a rarity—it’s what we always were except now it’s buried in our demise, the trigger you pulled to initiate “us” into becoming the “used.” There’s no room for regret because you jumped before the worms were even born, and how could you? I don’t blame you for my agony and I cannot even really blame you for this, but I can’t help but ask the hollow question of: How. Could. You. Do. It?

     You’re either the strongest person I’ve ever met, rendering you even more so into my flawlessly flawed ideal of the Übermensch, or I’m not the subject of much heartbreak for you. In the end, my value has gone up. You skyrocketed me to the top, and it might be unfortunate for you because I always wanted to take you with me.

You drained my heart 
And made a spade 
But theres still traces of me 
In yours veins.