Alone,

I am in my most pleasant state when my hands are at work in a room alone. The goals of physical work so short sighted and so easy to fulfill, your mind has no where else to go but into higher thought. I think and laugh and enjoy the life which I live. I look at myself in the the mirror and find myself appealing, a body which has accomplishment on his face, dirt on his hands. The movement of painting or sanding or scrubbing, is the same as saying om for me, a respite from the trivialities that cause so much grief and mental energy. I would be more than happy to work; building new and cleaning old.
---my life dream---

I have seen the great mountains of the west,
understood the beauty of the shore,
felt alone but one of this earth in the never ending fields of corn,
I have spent time in bars where there are legacies as old as the stools,
reading what there is to read, but never having read it all.
I want home,

I am a midwest boy.

I meet with love and she moves in,
only us too,
her and I,
we fall asleep to a fire,
I can work, in the backyard,
and she has too many thoughts of her own to care,
and we fall asleep to a fire,
and I die, after her, to feel death before I go,
and to leave, with whatever left behind meaning as little as when I started.

XoXo
Gossip Girl

I have given up hope for the future of my art career, and not for lack of desire, but lack of desire to interact. The more and more I am becoming involved in art outside of my high school community the more I am noticing it is less about art and more about socializing. I have heard the phrase "It's not what you know, but who you know." And while it's easy to say "yeah that's true.", coming to understand the real truth in that statement is a real defeating moment. How can one continue to create something, meant to be shared with others, if the only avenue to release it in the public is through kissing the asses of every person who enters the party with their mixed race girlfriend?

In this complete cultural catastrophe, the artist, the person who finds absolute pleasure in creating work, work which moves them so much that they hope to share it with others, has been degraded. Sadly the artist has become a cultural identity. An identity that many associate with that dark stanky word "Hipster". Why have we come to see the artist as the poloroid picture taking, asshole that talks with a peculiar enunciation of words to make them sound more educated. That name dropping, information saturated babbling idiot. With every fling of the hair and mention of a band that no one but a couple of rotting logs in the forest of life have heard of, there grows a divide between true art and lies.
I do not know whether this cultural phenomena has existed before. Of course I know pretentious people have existed for ever and a day, but has internet and the blog world given too much opportunity for the uncreative and pseudo intellectual to become an "artist"? I fear it's given them to much power, no longer do they to have to put in effort to become the hip, but just turn on the computer screen and away they go.
It would be fine if they lived on their own, but they are everywhere. Vampires who suck  your soul and creativity out with their inability to have enthusiasm for anything but the arcane. The true artist cannot break these moving confines and so he has two options; join, or quit the game. Joining means turning oneself off  to the true desires and hoping that he/she reaches people of the same interest. Quitting the game means doing it for yourself, but you've lost hope of sharing it with people, perhaps one of the important parts of art.
This great divide grows stronger as the counter-culture has been homogenized into a marketable quantity. The audience and the wanna-be artists have grown accustom to taking the ideals and aesthetics of blogs and websites like Pitchfork media, and bring them with them into the art world. True, in any case of a growing culture, good or bad, there exists a counter culture, but where do you find it when these Pitchfork babies are leeching on to everything that is interesting, bringing their faux and self-righteous attitudes?
I find myself outside of a DIY (do it yourself) show, and while the bands that just played were great, the noise that is made in the PBR and cigarette stained yard of the humbolt park house is getting to me. Eyes everywhere, these people are like vultures looking for things to give a dirty look at. Why? Why at twenty five, thrity, have they not grown out of the petty high school attitudes. Why can I not come to a show and not feel attacked because I am not as old as them, because I decided to dress with what I think is cool, something that does not fit into the blogosphere. I would think that in this case, everyone of them being artists, for sure, that there would be some acceptance, reaching out, to a new comer. But sadly humans are dismal creatrues who like to stay in the cave for as long as they can. So sure, why even go to these shows if everyone's an asshole and you feel like shit?
Because, and this is the problem, they are the only way to see these bands. For people like me who have real interest in seeing new bands and experiencing live music by the occasional band who is trying to make real art, the only place to go is the basement of some blog loving lady's house.
So there's the conundrum, do I give up, or do I ignore the stares and the petty words, to see the art. Well I have enough conjones to go to these things and ignore those culturally relevant vultures, but what about when I want to make art.
I have a band.
We want to play shows.
But we're teenagers, and we don't wear cool leather jackets and listen to punk cassettes.
Where do we go?
One can only hope that the defeatist minds of these washed out people can open up for a brief second and give us the opportunity. Do they judge? Of course, but the hope is that there is someone there like me who came to see a new band and will leave and tell his friends about us. And so I guess there is hope, hope that there are more people in the same circumstances as me. Maybe one day we'll meet. Maybe one day we'll create things that are new and we'll share them without the culture vultures sucking the life out of it. Maybe one day we'll start a revolution. If there is a god, I'm pleading to you to make this happen, because life ain't no good where it's at bro.
xoxo

Voltaire and Camus would vote for....

Voltaire:
Voltaire was a religious man, but also man who believed in man's freedom of choice. That's why he was buried half inside a church half outside. He was a man who believed in the good of the world. Do either of our main candidates have these qualities? They put on that they do, but that's a necessary act for a man who is supposed to lead a nation. No one likes a pessimist or even a rational man, people like men who inspire.
Voltaire would be stuck in the conundrum that most people are, choosing the better of two men, because neithercandidate are able to inspire, to move, or to lead. He would be glad as most of us are, probably more so because of his country's monarchical/oligarichial rule, that he was able to choose at all. Still though he would be drawn into the problem of knowing the only vote that would matter was a one for either of the two major parties. The third party has little, if no effectiveness and Voltaire wants change, or at least to be part of decisions for the betterment of humanity.

Mitt Romney would be his vote. Mr.Romney embodies Voltaire's religious ties and is for a more of a conservative, which would be agreeable with Voltaire who would repel strong goverment, because of the stronghold his government had on him and his fellow men. Sure he would disagree with many of Mr. Romney's points, but again he would be choosing the better of two men.

Camus:

In many of the other blogs students argue that Camus would not vote at all but looking at his personal history he was involved in politics. Revolution is what he wanted, revolution from the strongholds and destructive goverments that existed in his turbulant age. He was an editor of a French Revolutionary magazine, which means that he was not indifferent but saw rather that change was necessary and it was up to the individual, himself, to make that change, basically existentialsim. Not, what many others mistake as not caring or seeing the point. 

Even if he took an abusurdist stance, he would still vote. He would acknowledge the rediculousness of the political system, but he would understand that there may be meaning in it, well atleast in participation. Camus would appreciate that he as a citizen of a nation had a say in what the future of the nation would be, however puiny or unheard that say was. I am not clear on what his political convictions were, but I want to emphasize the point that he would vote, or atleast put in a blank ballot.

XoXo

Something Meaningful In Your <3 <3 <3 Life

Zach Galifianakis Live @ the purple onion embodies everything I believe is funny, good performance  and good art. Comedy is universally considered one of the lowest forms of entertainment, but why? Because people like Ron White exist. Jokes that play on nothing and vulgarity are stand up comedy. From the first minute Zach Galifianakis steps on stage, minutes late because he didn't know when the show started, it is him against the audience. He isn't trying to humor them, but rather himself. His word play, self-righteousness, and nonconformity within the structure of a stand up routine, make a most entertaining performance  I was talking to a gurl who said after five minutes of it she turned it off because it was so hard to watch. I was shocked because I hadn't even noticed that his performance could make someone uncomfortable. It also might have been that every time I watch it, I've had my hands on my face crying with laughter. Galifianakis gives artfulness to comedy and can make any day for me a good one. Thank you my bearded friend, I'm sorry the hangover destroyed your life (which in fact is true, from the few interviews he had been forced to give).

XoXo
Matt

"If you love Barry Manilow, you're gonna love the Insane Clown Posse. Love them. They're exactly... well, they're not exactly alike, but they're a little bit alike." 

CANDIDE, CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

The punishment never fits the crime. The umbrella like punishments we have established for dealing with the "criminal" have never done justice to the victim or the criminal (victim of the system). The overwhelming similarity  to me at least, between Candide and the modern world is that Candide is being punished by a world in which all he did was exist. He did not create or even choose to take part, but suddenly like birth, is placed with no training or prior knowledge to guide him. The world then takes advantage of him and begins to ravage and rip him apart piece by piece. Punishment for existing it seems, but it's the best of all possible worlds!
---I had been sitting in the greenery on Jackson and State when I was approached by a homeless woman who asked me "did I believe in god?" I said no, I wasn't opposed to god, but it didn't have much relevance in my life. Words frothed from her chapped gums as she screamed at me "Who do you think made all this!" "God has a plan for all of us, God is good, God is great, I would be nothing without god." How fucking depressing. She was indeed Candide. She knew no better than just to put faith in god. Her existence was far from good, she was missing all but seven teeth, but the world was good because she knew god was up there looking down. The indifference of the world was crushing her every second that she lived. The system created so that the majority could at least be fed and housed was up in a tower shooting down any potential she had. She was being punished by the world like Candide. Did she deserve this punishment, I don't think so. Who deserves to have all but seven of their teeth lost. Who deserves to wear a pink shirt so soiled by dried dirt and spit that you would mistake it for grey? Who deserves to have eyes the murky mix of yellow and red from their last drug intake. The world punishes, who? The unluckies, the Candides. Candide was kicked out of the castle, flung into the real world because he tried to kiss a girl. Put into the ocean without a lifeboat because he tried to live life, his crime doesn't fit the punishment, nor do most people's for that matter. It's the fact that life sucks and then you die, for those unlucky people who get the wrong end of the stick. The person who kisses the girl right as the king passes.

XoXo

HowDoWeKnowWhatWeKnow?

Bertrand Russell described this as the problem in Philosophy.

Question:
Have you ever had a "Deep" coversation with someone//group of people where it ended in someone saying "everything is relative, this could all be a dream, nothing has to be real." Aside from that guy being a grade-A Ashhole, he's wrong. So if you were that guy, don't be, you were wrong, dead wrong sucka.

We know things relatively speaking, because of what Russell describes as Sense Data. I know that my desk will still be here after I open my eyes from the sensation it gave to skin, the smell it has, the color of it, the taste if I was so inclined to lick it. How can we deny our sense data? There is no probable reason to and so we must accept that what we sense is real. With that though, we must accept that when our senses are cut off (blinking) we cannot know what that the obeject which exists strictly by sense to still be in existance but we can assume. Knowledge then is a conglomoration of sense datas and assumed sense datas which are to be ascribed as "real". There for knowledge, relative to our own expirences, is a history of sense datas.

Well then what about things we are told? We didn't see, smell, touch, taste, hear the Civil War.

That is knowledge by discription. Knowledge by description comes from our understanding of the reality of objects which would have existed within the described. How do we know that the Civil  War happened? Well we know people are real, we know of the existance of clothing, fields, etc. Therefore we can assume it was real.

~Now to which parts of history are true or not is another quetion, the answer from which I can not steal from my dear Welsh friend Bertrand.

History is the acceptance of truths based on singular or multiple perspectives which detail an event unfolding a specific way. Therefore history will always be "true" and "mistold" at the same time. With the passing of time, ascriptions of previous and future events and their effects on to said historical event, and from which perspective the event was looked upon (each perspective including the previous criteria), how can we know anything definite about the past. So! If everything we know besides what we expierenced is history, we know very little for sure. All we can do is assume, and you know what that does. No wonder humans have described themselves as idiots.

Bertrand Russell

Also, The Problems of Philosophy is free on Amazon.com for Kindles. Gud Reed.

XoXo

Gadfly!

Salesman:
For those who haven't seen it. See it or take a college film class, you'll see it then.

Four Bible salesman. The open road.  Fall in love with these men. Fall out of love with the world. The American dream. The American Nightmare. How do you sell the Holy Book? These guys have been doing it for more than twenty years and they still don't know.
You'll find out how scary honesty is.

Salesman was a revolution; both in film and in my head. Salesman is cinema verite: literally, cinema-truth. It revolves around the idea that if you put a camera in front of a person eventually they will forget that it is there and return to acting like their original selves.
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~~~~~This does beg the question if the people on Jersey Shore or Real Housewives of New Jersey actually act like ogres, since they do spend a majority of their waking lives in front of a camera.
probably not. no.
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                               ~~~~~~~~~
I tried to contain the "New Jersey" as to not infect the rest of this post.
                               ~~~~~~~~~
Salesman is the perfect gadfly because it says so much without saying anything at all. While Micheal Moore's veins pop as his shrill nagging voice is slammed into that megaphone he carries everywhere, the Maysles sit quietly actually documenting. They pose questions by presenting the truth. Brilliant!

You can't shove an opinion at someone and expect anything but shut doors and closed minds. Documentaries don't document anymore, they tell, they shout, loading people with more facts to support their already bloated arguments. Do they change anyone? No of course not, everyone who went to see Moore's most recent garbage (french pronunciation for comic effect, always use french pronunciation when talking about film, the northward dwelling liberals love it.) already had an opinion before they even entered. The Maysles give you information and let you take what you want. So-crates asked the rich and powerful questions on those Greek stairs, some understood his message, most didn't. McCarthy stressed this; So-Crates never imposed his opinion on the people he questioned. The Maysles didn't either.

There had to be a couple people who left thinking.

 

Fact: Gil from the Simpsons is based on one of the characters in salesman.

Gil- "I need this sale, my wifes gonna leave me"

Car Salesman - "I'll take it from here Gil"
Gil picks up phone - "You should have seen me honey, I was so close to making a sale. Hey, who is that in the background? Awwww, is that Tom? I thought you were gonna leave him. No, no... dont put him on. Oh, hi Tom!"

XoXo

The Unexamined Life Is Not Worth Living?

The unexamined life is the life that is lead by most people, examination only leads to problems doesn't it. We question we get crucified, put to death, excommunicated from our church, our family, our friends. Are most people even capable of asking questions that invoke any thought? If the majority examined their life would they even find anything or would blank spaces frustrate them as they circled around questions they cannot possibly find the center of. The answer lies in the fact that we have denoted a profession to people who examine life; the philosopher. They are able to question and we are able to become enlightened through them. We (the majority) don't have the will power, brians, or enthusiasm for asking questions that will never be answered. Does this we mean we shouldn't expose ourselves to the unknown? Of course not, while it seems to me that it is a waste on a person who will never want to examine their existance, we should try to bring enlightenment and conciousness to everybody, give em' a nibble and see if the fish pulls. If so reel em' in. If not let them keep swimming. To often there is a misunderstanding between examination and imposisiton. Being forced down and choked as you shove your beliefs down my throat, which while might sound a bit harsh, is what people tend to do when discussing ideas. I think this stems from lack of confidence in their own beliefs. People become more adamant as they are less sure. Back to the examined life. Yes it's good. It's not for everybody, actually for few people. If you don't get it, you don't need it and shouldn't feel bad. If you are be as loud as you can about it. Read Man and Superman, at least until you fall head over heals for the rouge attitude and confidence of Jack Tanner. Just don't choke people, it's hard to know where the line between discussion and choking is.

XoXo

Eulogy:

The lifeless Lithuanian corpse before us is a young man by the name of Matthew Balzekas. He was confused by "it all". He died a teenager and that is what teenagers feel; anxiety.
Did he accomplish anything of significance? He was an eagle scout. That means something to some people, people he liked, working class people.
Did he accomplish anything? He had a band and made films. Were they of any value? No, but they showed signs. If only he didn't die so young, maybe he would have figured it out. Maybe if he didn't wallow away his time, knowing better but still watching television on his laptop and listening to music because the "other" was a couple footsteps away. Long footsteps that is, to a destination where he would only judge himself to harshly to garner any momentum.
Maybe if his family wasn't middle class american, born and bred.
Maybe if the blanket that shielded his whole life was lifted or burned in some sort of cataclysmic action his way of thinking would be more concrete.
Matthew lies here at six foot three and 180 pounds.
Matthew was fed three meals a day and given money to buy snacks if he wanted. His mother didn't keep track of money, she didn't need to, she had too much. The excesses of the sufficient had given him a reckless confidence to say anything he wanted to, without much thinking. He did have regret, probably the average amount for a white male. But who knows, no one really talks to each other.
He wanted to be part of people's lives. Faces that he had no more than names for confronted him in the hallway and gave way to feelings of loneliness. His friends were never good enough, searching for something more was something he liked to do. A higher goal? Perhaps. Maybe he strived for something beyond the high school rigmarole. If that was the case and it wasn't a defeating self martyrdom (one which after editing predominates this eulogy) good for him. His friend which he liked to call by his first name, but which we can not include in here so we will supplement it with the letter of which his first name started with, A, was a good man, a good young man that is. He liked A, he just wished that A liked rock music. Trivial in the light of both of their deaths. A and Matthew died on the same day, eulogies to be submitted on the same day, a Friday.
Matt would be glad he died on a Thursday night, one appreciated by all because of the heat that preceded it. Matt liked Thrusdays, they had the routine of a weekday with the feeling of anticipation for the weekend. There was peace and sereneness that sat upon a Thursday.
Matthew could have written more. He could have written a lot more. He wouldn't because he knew that sometimes there's beauty in leaving things unexplained. He liked life enough. It's sad that he died, that all american son of a bitch.