Descent of Ishtar 2

I still haven't quite resolved the issue I referred to in "The Descent of Ishtar 1." To resume, I think I am writing the novella partly because... Well, I'll attempt to describe my feelings about the arts, perhaps as an indirect way of addressing a difficult thing to delineate. I get high on hedonism. Often (though that is probably apparent from my post about the scandalous scene of me and that williwaw in the parking lot on Tuesday). I over-indulge in literature. I glut myself with paintings and scultptures, left bloated by their beatific brushstrokes and compelling chisel-marks. I listen to intemperate amounts of music, and (used to) play the cello more often than is healthy. I gratify my yearnings to write (also probably apparent...) and read and discuss and breathe - though I can't say that breathing is generally connected with the arts. For me, it is. When surrounded by something I consider art, I almost forget to breathe. It's as if I can subside on the inhalations/exhalations of the art - I can live through the art. I need no longer to rely on lesser, corporeal limitations. My spirit, which struggles to master this body of mine, finally gains the upper hand. My physicality is in denegation, submitting to my gluttonous spirit. Through the hedonistic tendencies of my soul, I acheive aceticism. It's an addiction. When I am hungry, I can satisfy body and spirit through art. Poor attempts at conceptual culinary masterpieces are as disgruntling to my spiritual tummy as food poisoning to my physical. I can't stomach bad art. Sometimes, though, my tastes change - my immune system's tolerances vary. Essentially: art is my drug. So I suppose that is much of the reason. Though my novella may not be accepted art, to me it is. Though this blog may not be considered with clout in the wider art spehere, it is my daily artistic high. So, now that I am sufficiently intoxicated, I will now move to the other world I live in, hoping that maybe I'll drive drunk and kill someone with my writing or music. Or better yet, get killed myself. (metaphorically, of course! please, do not interpret this as an indication of suicidal behavior. honest. I want to live!).