I always think that art is a form of sacrifice.
-Alejandro Jodorowsky

Yes, I wanted too much. This is long-lasting. It’s
origin long ago.
Now, I’m disenchanted with my failure.
One has to make some kind of sacrifice to achieve anything.
If I want to paint, I can’t be watching all the movies, playing a
guitar, cooking dishes, figuring out neuroscience mysteries,
reading the best books, and baking the best cakes. As my days
lessen, I feel the pressure mounting. On top of that my father
is a nut, prevents me from really getting into any kind of rhythm
during the day, ruins my sleep. More pressure, more stress.
It seems I need a new game plan. Time may be long, but
moves quickly. And of course, my health is flailing. 60 minutes
was airing a segment about Raphael Nadal. That guy is amazing.
So many injuries and so many triumphs. He’s fun to watch too.

I’ve been taking bacopa monneri recently. A slew of effects. It can
really control me. Woozy knockout punch, and I don’t know why. If
a drug is meant to make someone relax, but the taker doesn’t want
that, I think you have a problem.
It’s listed as a 5-HT1A partial agonist I have read it cures insanity.
This apparently, can reduce serotonin, but some science says it
increases serotonin. I know they don’t really understand. So
much conflicting science.

“There is an ocean of silence between us… and I am drowning in it.”
― Ranata Suzuki

Once there was a son on flight. He fought with his
insane father. He didn’t need boxing gloves. He said,
“I don’t need boxing gloves.”. The father couldn’t be
trusted by the son. The son couldn’t be trusted by the
son’s alter-ego. Nobody had any clue how it got to
this. They were living in a cave of darkness. Their
hearts were empty and joyless. The father’s
spirit had transcended the ordinary world and entered into
the netherworld. It was barren and cold. The robotic
body was left behind for the son to suffer….

Can you imagine a world without hope….I could then
perhaps settle down. Hope is a drug. I think I have
forgotten that too.

Why is it that I want to write and can’t, but I can think so
much. Maybe reason doesn’t sit well in one’s mind alone.
Makes me wonder if the thinker is insane. How
can one sip beer? I don’t understand that. If I want to
be reasonable I should write. My thoughts are too fast.
Remember the backside of Capitol Hill? Remember stuff.
I think I think better without the pressure of having to write.
So I lose the fluidity of ideas when I start to write.
Typing is also a learned skill. I can not type well and think too.
I guess one is getting used to it, but I can already feel my
thoughts slowing down. Shame is all this has no value.

Perhaps I can write about baseball. Perhaps I can write
about the goal. Today I got into a fight.
Tomorrow I will enter

It’s called consent – the next generation will likely too.
My example, is the lifeguard at the beach. They are
naturally a**holes. My guess the way it evolves like this:
A while back, they thought let’s provide a small service.
If you go out, get in trouble, we will come to save you!
But then they started to think, ‘well, we might jeopardize our
own lives in the act’. Thus they make laws and rules, that
are meant to protect me. I never asked for that. But they
insist. So now, you have to hear the a**holes telling you
where and when you can swim here and there.

When dealing with the insane, the best method is to pretend to be sane. -Herman Hesse

My brain hurts. I haven’t been sleeping well. Now I have an
excuse for not writing well. Ouch. I have given in to the lure
of Science. I am not so keen on the experimental, but as for
forming a successful hypothesis I enjoy this. My current
thesis is a secret of course. Magic is very powerful. One can
never be too sure. In this sense, Science is wicked awesome!

I’m the worst kind of artist; the kind that
makes everybody an artist. What could
be worse than that? – Shri

Again, am not well; not writing to make sense:

Well, what can I say? I’m still engulfed.
I’m still typical atypical. I’m still not
considerate of some other nice people’s feelings.
But not all. So many angry a**holes out here.
Ruin my way. And think about Art.
Like how the architecture is not understood well.
Like not like phenomena are not thought well.
Like making Maria mad. Like not as mad as I
can ever be. Although I doubt she gets mad
often. I can resist.
Unfortunately, it does seem perhaps in the
future I write this, having had the experience, i.e.,
not by reason alone, a priori. However, being
inpatient I give and will say this: unfortunately,
it seems as if the creation is thought to be perfect,
must be perfect in the eye of the beholder, then it
follows a perfect work is necessary in the creator’s
mind. However deluded others may find this believe,
it seems necessary for the creator.
I haven’t thought much about installation. Not
at all really. The manner in which painting and installation
intersect is of great interest for the perfectionist. That is
all I have to say.

Then something about GAD67, axon, NMDA + AMPA,
Norepinephrine, GABA analogue, Risperdone, NRIs, 5HT-x,
catecholamines, etc.

“A philosophically informed vision helps us respond to reversals intelligently,
not Impulsively, so that we can act to mitigate the situation, not aggravate it.”
― Chaitanya Charan Das, Wisdom from The Ramayana

It’s amazing how sometimes an established artist can give hope and solace to
a struggling artist, or some analogy like that. In my case, hopeless and disparate
from myself, I look to McArthur Binion, but not really in any extraordinary story-driven
sense, just like a basic need to feel better about my shitty life. Something always
happens to deflate my combustion, maybe that’s the world telling me something.

What else? I am learning that the gods I was taught are God as a kid are probably
not real. Of course, this is not a new thought but then to seriously entertain the idea
with anglo-research is always distressing. Childhood beliefs are hard to dismiss.
Rama/Krshna not real?! WTF. I was getting sick of the art anyway, the romantic
European classical icon style, the baby-blue skins. Pissing me off. I had a good
good idea, putting their images on punching bags. Yeah! Is that concept art? I
don’t know. It seems like it could be, but not sure. Darn.

Cognitive dissonance. I can’t describe this well.

My neck and brain hurt. Sleeping style and psychotic-ness – nobody else’s fault
but my own..hahaha. Caffeine too. Maybe all that beer abuse too. Maybe a lack
of success. It’s like worse than a bobble-head. I can slit my brain on both sides
and let all the light out. fuck them.