On making stuff up

There is probably only a limited amount of art lying around. ONly a finite amount of beauty created during the beginning of all things. Nothing can beat on the graves of our everyday apathy to life and set our emotions a dancing like Beethoven's ode to joy, no song can make me feel as pointless as eye of the tiger, nothing will ever make me indulge as much in cognitive drift like Zimmer's Time (Inception OST.)

Among human destined roles, Ontological descriptors are probably the most unfortunate. The scribes, the crowd, the wayside peasant watching the army's march begin, Bilbo Baggins if by some chance he did not have a dragon in his tale (which justifies the Hobbit's literary existence by contributing a impuratus ex machina, failing which the tale could have begun by Frodo getting the ring as inheritance and a footnote explaining the events of the Hobbit) Those people condemned by destiny to be mere observers and not contributors. It really must suck for them.

So limited amount of art, and if a lot of it is already out, and if some forms of creativity is reactive of the only responsive type, as in it can create something only in answer to another challenging or intriguing piece of art, that makes plagiarism almost an inherent, tautological and sad certainty.

Then there are the amalgamation minds, who can only produce something different once they have truly studied lots of similar things. This might in some cases be a case of lack of skill, to bring to life that which is the minds true inspiration but trying to substitute with the known and the comfortable, and the metaphorical.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuyQzvjXI70

Hubrees!

is what a really narcissistic harees                                                         cook would name his magna cum laude.

Hubrees is also an unimaginative, thoroughly lame play on http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubris.

We will, for the purposes of this post's logical (and otherwise) constructs and their postulations, consider that Hubris is

That one trait (or a set of them , I really don't care) in a person, that he fucking glorifies in exercising, maybe it even defines him, but is an unforgivably obnoxious trait, thus according bearded bald men the right to classify it as something undesirable, which needs to be culled, in order to realize higher purpose(s).

It may be whatever he thinks he is really good at or what he thinks he absolutely and repeatedly deserves.


Perhaps deep in the apparently humiliating embers of our hubris, somewhere, lies our greatest strength; to temper it in truth, and douse in true humility, would be a task for a Zen monk brought up in ancient Greece, mentored later by the Late Steve Jobs. 

It is possible that for whatsoever peculiar particularity we might be potentially and repeatedly condemned, might, if done right, and in brazen conviction, may just lead to some sort of cosmic significance. We might just be born with one great strength and one great fault, both recursively linked deep in our beings, and covered with what we perceive as our hubris.

The quality and depth of posts is on a steady decline, but I am not sure I hadn't planned on drawing the blue prints of a crumbling edifice when I started this freudian blip (even if i say so myself) of a blog. (I love and loathe double negatives like these, depending on how full I am of bs at that point of time). The said decline might also be a result of the conscious tapering off of the rigorous rambling i used to engage in. I had a (laughable) delusion that, that was cool. Somehow.

Addictions are hard to kick, maybe because they are the love children of dopamine, ego and boredom. One simply does not kick kids, howmuchsoever loathsome. Even the ones born out of such unholy thresomes.