More stuff I wrote on YouTube!

All forms of art are plagued by the popular crap. There will always be the ones who figure out that lowest common denominator formula and churn out the worst kind of dreck and get very rich doing it. This is, to an actual consumer of said art form, such a galling and egregious violation of artistic meritocracy that it can make you want to quit the scene you love so much. But hold fast, good person, and stand back for a moment, and realize that the art you love is still there, unchanged. And the like minded people with whom you commune about your tastes are also still there. The dreck does not delete the gold, merely eclipses it in the eyes of the masses. As far as I can tell, all we sophisticates can do is lock the door to our own little realms and ignore the popular manure of the day. Keep the gatekeeping to a minimum…. after all, we only found the things we love because someone else let US in. And remember that at the end of the day, the good stays golden, and the crap merely gets flushed. 🙂

not bad, eh?

93

And this is the video I was replying to, offered purely for reference as it’s over an hour long and largely about classical music.

So yeah. Popular culture will always produce the occasional prodigy of crap now and then. They will always be with us, and railing against one does nothing to prevent the rise of another to take their place.

We sophisticates aren’t entirely helpless. We comedy types and other assorted wits can always resort to mockery. A few particularly deadly quips at the expense of the unjustly successful can be a wonderful balm for the wounded artistic soul.

And if you absolutely must go do battle with the forces of ghastliness in art, humour is your best weapon there too.

But step very, very carefully : you don’t want to seem like you are trying to take away the public’s new favorite diversion. That will just make his or her fans all the more determined to close ranks and defend them.

Instead, you have to avoid any sort of direct confrontation and instead hone in on a mannerism or verbal tic that they have and make gentle fun of IT.

Even better if you can distill the reasons you loathe this person down into an easy to understand and self-evidently accurate observation about this person.

The late Norm Macdonald was great at that.

But in the long run, you’re probably better off simply ignoring them,. After all, it’s not like they are appealing to you and your fellow sophisticates. There’s no chance of that.

So who cares what a bunch of common boors wastes their money on?

True art is not a money meritocracy anyhow. Yeah the money is great and it’s great to have an audience, but the real measure of artistic success is whether or not you appeal to the people who know a lot about that kind of thing.

And, of course, whether or not you, the artist, like what you make.

More after the break.

---

On the turning away

Let’s talk about my not being able to face reality.

I’ve spoken before about how when I try to do things to improve my situation, it’s like the place where the energy to do that is supposed to go has a leak in it so the energy just drains right back out again and nothing gets done.

At least I think I talked about this before. Whatever.

And when this terrible draining out of energy happens, it feels like some part of me, a scared and hurt little boy perhaps, is saying “no” and turning away from reality rather than face their fears.

And I don’t know what to do about that. It takes place on an extremely deep level of my mind and thus is nearly impossible to grapple with via my overpowered intellect.

So the direct route is out. Can’t solve it with my go-to default response of applying overwhelming intellectual force to the problem.

’cause I’m the Juggernaut, bitch., But that’s not helpful here.

The word that keeps coming to mind is “healing”. That part of my mind needs to be healed of its terrible Wound before that scared little boy will be able to feel safe enough to not just face the world but embrace it.

I belong out there, in the world, in the sun and having fun. This cloistered existence is killing me. Killing my soul, my spirit, my esprit.

I am desperate to be born already. But I have to heal first.

And that’s going to take something seriously spiritual. Something far more powerful than my poor mind and all its tricks and illusions. Something powerful enough to reach my wounded core and soothe its pains and draw the ancient poison out then wash my poisoned heart clean with pure waters.

It’s like when I was raped, an icicle dagger was thrust into my heart, and I am not going to be able to heal and go forward until I remove it.

And it’s in there deep. And so much scar tissue surrounds it from all the decades it’s been there. My whole psyche has been warped around it to protect it.

But it’s got to go and fuck the damage. Fuck the pain, too. I am ready to grab this ting by the handle and pull with all my might to get it the fuck out of me.

And I don’t care if it turns out to be Excalibur and I am now the rightful king of England (Sorry, Charles!), I am yeeting that fucking thing over yon horizon as hard as I can.

I am well sick and tired of this sad, pathetic life of mine. I’m ready to leave it all behind to so in search of greener pastures.

But I have to get better first.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.