Friday a bunch of us went and stayed downtown in this beautiful Italian Romanesque bank from the 20's that was converted into a hotel. We got moronically drunk. Good times were had. It was raining and beautiful and fragile. The rain makes me feel like I'm living in a dream and I could live like that forever. Perhaps that's why everything I've been writing this weekend has overwhelming Jungian overtones. It's a bit frustrating.
I find it interesting to read the books that inspire my favourite works from others, or look at the art, or listen to the music. Then I find myself being inspired by them but feeling like I haven't an original thought on the matter considering I'm being inspired by the inspiration for something I'm already inspired by. It's such fucking recursion. I've just been pulling quotes, and snippets, and bits from everything, throwing it together and leaving it until I can blow something up with it. I still really need some good fiction to read.
I'm kind of really fucking in love with this and with whoever is doing it.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Illusion, thought, choice....now only you feed my desire for deception.
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2 comments:
I completely know how you feel about inspiration. I think we all inspire each other. We consume then regirgitate something unique and our own.
barf
hahaha!
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