Bored Barbers

You've done it again, poured unto a canvas print a speckled, dusty version of the vision you had from a living dream. Such uncanny faces the figures have in my works. I've never seen such faces except for videos of riots and some various punk-rockers. I think art is our way of expressing emotions we were meant to have, live lives we were destined to lead, but for some reason, failed to.

Claire is back in my pickup, I'm freezing my ass off, rubbing two fingerless gloves together, watching my breath, looking up. What that fuck man.

I've got the world ahead of me but I feel so old. She's no better. She will idly agree or disagree with conversations, concepts, things we talk abou that have no fucking meaning. No relevance. I decree that nothing has relevance above that which the creator gives it. Even then, that relevance is fleeting and empty. It's true test is how long it lasts in the common concept. But then it's just popular, not meaningful. So no, nothing has any relevance.

Why bust my brain over what's right? People will accept less. People have accepted less. The most popular music is the kind created by "bands" consisting of a pretty teenage girl's filtered voice and a techno beat. The greatest art has already been made, and the best outlook we have is the slow intermixing of computers and paint brushes. Every thought I'm having has been had before.

Everything I've ever felt has been felt before.
What am I doing? Claire is just sitting there, watching some dumbass kid freezing in the snow, talking to the moon. She doesn't even like me that much. What did I hope to learn from this? It's a cycle that only the intellectuals care to think about, but only the mad can survive. The only way to avoid killing myself over it is to forget it. This assignment. This work. This was a terrible idea. This is not worth a paycheck. How can I make a painting that sums up "everything that the 20th century wasn't"

I give up. She's cold and I'm colder. Goodnight moon. You, of all people, have seen what we can do at our best and worst. My strength here, is at your feet. I trust in no higher power than that which I can mold with my own fingertips...

"What? Oh sorry, yeah I'm almost done. I'm sorry Claire, we didn't have to stop here, I was just being stupid. Let's take you home huh?"