TMM: E/Motion

Here’s the thing about art and life and love: we often wait to feel something before we act.

In art, we call this being inspired. You need to feel the story, the character, to know where it’s all headed for. Or you need to have the vision of a painting, the melody, etc.

Truth be told, it’s not like that. Of course, it’s the easiest way, but this is a circle. Like those vicious circles and self-fulfilling prophecies.

What I mean by this is that motion also breeds emotion.

Inspiration must find you working.

You start working on a piece and sooner or later you’ll find yourself being inspired.

Little by little.

Books only get written one word at a time.

So, you write a few words.

“I’m just going to work on this piece for half an hour.”

You set yourself to fail.

It’s probably going to suck, because you’re not feeling it.

But guess what?

Sometimes, sitting at a desk and doing the work it’s all it takes. You might be shocked by the stuff you produce.

You might fill in all the blank spaces you previously had.

You might even create something brilliant.

Who knows?

You won’t unless you give it a try.

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TMM: Words

“Words can create love or hate, tears or smiles, harmony or chaos, war or peace. Choose your words with care.” A.D. Williams

The truth is, words are meager things. I know this, because words are my profession. Words are what my soul is made of. And I know that sometimes words fail to express certain depths of the human soul.

When words fail, tears fall. When words fail, the world’s beauty is no longer enough to make us feel alive. Words can hurt, yes, but the most harm they ever do is when you choke before you utter a single word.

The most powerful feelings, the invincible essence of humans, that cannot be written about. For it was not written into existence, for it was not imagined into being. It was given to us, not taken, not invented, not surgically grafted onto our souls.

Words are our creations. Words and ideas. All the things we can imagine, all the dreams we lock inside the most hidden drawers of our souls. But we…we are limitless. We are infinite. We are invincible.

We are not the words we speak, or the ones we write. We’re not even the ones we wished to have spoken. We are not images or memories or song lyrics that say all that we cannot. We are what we feel, what makes us alive, what makes us glad. We are what makes us happy, scared, or lonely.

We are not of this Universe. We are not a moment in time and space. We are the Universe. We are the consciousness of this world, the Universe trying to understand itself. The Universe asking the only question that never seems to have an answer: “Who am I?”

TMM: Is it ever enough?

Leonardo Da Vinci’s last words were:

I have offended God and Mankind, by doing so little with my life.

We really are our worst critics, aren’t we? We see the worst in ourselves. We stare at a mirror and all we see staring us back are flaws an faults and mistakes and so, so much to regret.

But isn’t this what keeps us going?

The Mummy, King Arthur, and why critics aren’t always right

The world of art is a strange one: some folks get paid to be haters. Let me rephrase that: some folks, who never held a brush or took it upon themselves to write a book or shoot a movie, get paid to be haters.

In any given field, you are required to walk the walk, so to speak, in order to be considered an expert.

Imagine some guy being considered an expert in quantum mechanics for reading Q&A’s on Quora. And a couple Wikipedia articles.

That being said, critics aren’t always right.

Why?

Because they belong to a group of people who like to take themselves way too seriously.

I watch a lot of movies. I read books. Listen to music. I even collect paintings and drawings. And I do all this with the sole purpose of entertaining myself. To amuse myself a bit. To escape reality. Sometimes art is just about that: makes you forget about yourself for a while, makes you see a bigger picture; so you don’t take yourself too seriously and end up shooting yourself in the head one fine morning.

That’s why critics fail at the most crucial aspect of art. Especially commercial art.

Take King Arthur, for instance. Classic Guy Ritchie. Fun, fast paced, enjoyable. A certain kind of cinematography. Witty dialogue. Bizarre characters.

And it delivers.

And it is a fun movie. Well worth watching because it’s entertaining.

Now, about the Mummy. A horror movie that is a lot less scary than it was supposed to be, I am sure. First hour, it’s fine. But then even Russell Crowe starts playing badly(and I’ve never seen him do that) and the whole thing becomes ridiculous.

Wanna know why that movie failed?

It wasn’t sure of itself, of what it was supposed to be doing and what its true message was.

What form of entertainment it was offering the audience.

That was all.

But critics always take themselves too seriously and try to demolish a movie for not being what they would have wanted it to be.

It’s like disowning your own child for becoming a writer instead of a doctor, as you’ve always wanted him to be.

Book Review: The Subtle Art of not Giving a F#ck

There’s this thing about self-help books: they only have one good idea. The rest is mostly fluff.

You know, punch the damn keys to reach the necessary word count.

This book, sadly, is no exception.

But the main idea is brilliant. And makes this book well worth a try.

What’s that idea you ask?

Well… self-awareness.

That’s how I’d describe it.

Most people are never fully aware of their own selves. Their feelings, emotions, reactions to particular events. They’re on auto-pilot.

While this idea is by no means revolutionary, it is nice to read about it.

It is also nice to read about the inevitability of suffering, the idea that we have to enjoy the journey, with all its ups and downs, to become worthy of the reward.

We have to be aware, and decide. Decide what is important and what is not. What merits our attention, time, and energy, and what not.

A good book, well worth reading.

 

(Dis)comfort

“The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.” – William Faulkner

Nothing is as beautiful as we can imagine it. Yet, there would be nothing unless we’d imagine it first.

That’s the thing… the constant aspiration towards what doesn’t exist…yet.

Frustrating, indeed.

We are who we are because we spend most of our time dreaming of becoming much, much more.

And art has the habit of showing us what is possible.

Art asks the question: “What else is there?”

What else is there for us?

What more can we gain from life? From ourselves? From others?

Also, art gives us hope.

We are not unique… our worries and troubles and feelings are not that special…

Others have been where we are, others have struggled with the same issues, others have conquered the same demons.

There’s a great deal of value in that. Far more than we are willing to accept.

Psychologists claim that listening to music is the only activity that engages the entire brain.

Stendhal Syndrome, where a person is so impressed by a work of art, that it provokes faints and such.

Imagine that.

Art is beauty, and you know what they say about beauty…

Beauty will save the world.

Sooner or later.

Whether we want it to or not.