What is honest Art ? : My few minutes after "the Hurt Locker"

I will probably never watch “The Hurt Locker” again. Those 125 minutes of my life are convicted and closed. Inseminated with characters that I don't know, will never become. In this explosion (in my head right now) emotional rehabilitation seems inevitable. But, maybe this is personal flagellation I want - This eviscerated, exhilarated, mutilated self awareness. What is real hate? What is real love? How does experience thrust your naked head through miles of self regenerating moral concrete? It is a cathartic fever – built of social safekeeping, of conceptual rigor mortis, of questions that you have to taste, as they come out of your mouth – vomited upon a world, still chewing on its plastic placenta.

My skin is moist sponge – soaked up of tear sweat, imagined blood and a dust that crawls in, deep boring into crevasses and aches, stranger to nothing my life has to offer. Newsflash life: history sucks. It teaches paralysis efficient new ways to perforate the last bit of optimistic self worth that hides in makeshift refugee camps. It hunts it down, and rapes it – like a bleeding bitch. I want to bathe in this impotency – this strange lake of mystic wonder – pry out the few starving arguments, and watch them drown.

“War is a drug” – first shot of the movie – a mellow and veiled truth. War is the stomach of our racial body. It is where all parts are equally obliterated, by the acids that have no ethics, only purpose. It helps us come to terms with the differences of creation, the differences of death. And as we get ever more dissolved in the pit of the seamless cauldron, it pushes us into the intestines, where every last impulse, every primitive consternation is sucked out and used - Used to work the body – while the rest of it gathers indicted mass and is expelled. The body knows what to eat and what to shit.

And, what of art? Of the hours of sick derivations for the ordered plunge into definitions and deities? Where does it begin, and where does it end ? The dilated pupils of a “trailer trash red neck” that removes C4 from the bowels of a twelve year old lying on a table – the midnight sun dying over the deserts of ancient Mesopotamia, while a marine sucks on a plastic sachet full of juice – the face of a reluctant suicide bomber and the word of the prophet on his lips before his body turns to flying flesh and rotting cloth – Are these just on a screen, or in my head, or in a land where there is a genocide of questions ? Who is ready for the truth, or at least a weak, washed out attempt at being its whore for a day? Great art they say, removes from you, detachment and fear – breaking down the iron clad doors of hubris, and sending a once great river to change your seasons. It soaks you dry – stealing from you the act of care – replacing it with the storm of agony ….and ecstasy.

But art evolves with the observer. Its challenges ambush us. The proclamation is simple: Can you live with yourself, on this earth, with these rules? And yet, these rules are sand and shadows – entrapment ceases arrest, the moment we sacrifice. Kathryn Bigelow, walks like the anti-hero of our culturally shell shocked generation – she is brave without conviction, honest without condescension, poignant without empathy, ruthless without agenda. As corollary to the shards of transparent glass that greet us when reality begins to invade phenomena – this is art that leaves you confused and gasping – with the unnerving, cryptic discharge of helpless awe and that prayer for senselessness that will murder the demons of duty.

Definitions by nature are unsynchronized – swinging, trajectoried over territory that pimps it. In that clamor of judgment, all confessions are just appeals – let me see it all Krishna, the world that is rooted in your chagrined mortality, that grinds me raw on this charioted battlefield – let me become one drop of blood on your eternal brow – fuck, just let me obliterate with the dream of a world not enslaved by saccharine delight in subjugated honesty. And Krishna obliges, he sets you free to roam – forever, in this dying moment that remains nailed to your unsure body and your unkempt mind. Is that art, or is that just …….. Maybe I will watch "The Hurt Locker" again.

I will probably never watch “The Hurt Locker” again. Those 125 minutes of my life are convicted and closed. Inseminated with characters that I don’t know, will never become. In this explosion (in my head right now) emotional rehabilitation seems inevitable. But, maybe this is personal flagellation I want - This eviscerated, exhilarated, mutilated self awareness. What is real hate? What is real love? How does experience thrust your naked head through miles of self regenerating moral concrete? It is a cathartic fever – built of social safekeeping, of conceptual rigor mortis, of questions that you have to taste, as they come out of your mouth – vomited upon a world, still chewing on its plastic placenta.

My skin is moist sponge – soaked up of tear sweat, imagined blood and a dust that crawls in, deep boring into crevasses and aches, stranger to nothing my life has to offer. Newsflash life: history sucks. It teaches paralysis efficient new ways to perforate the last bit of optimistic self worth that hides in makeshift refugee camps. It hunts it down, and rapes it – like a bleeding bitch. I want to bathe in this impotency – this strange lake of mystic wonder – pry out the few starving arguments, and watch them drown.

“War is a drug” – first shot of the movie – a mellow and veiled truth. War is the stomach of our racial body. It is where all parts are equally obliterated, by the acids that have no ethics, only purpose. It helps us come to terms with the differences of creation, the differences of death. And as we get ever more dissolved in the pit of the seamless cauldron, it pushes us into the intestines, where every last impulse, every primitive consternation is sucked out and used - Used to work the body – while the rest of it gathers indicted mass and is expelled. The body knows what to eat and what to shit.

And, what of art? Of the hours of sick derivations for the ordered plunge into definitions and deities? Where does it begin, and where does it end ? The dilated pupils of a “trailer trash red neck” that removes C4 from the bowels of a twelve year old lying on a table – the midnight sun dying over the deserts of ancient Mesopotamia, while a marine sucks on a plastic sachet full of juice – the face of a reluctant suicide bomber and the word of the prophet on his lips before his body turns to flying flesh and rotting cloth – Are these just on a screen, or in my head, or in a land where there is a genocide of questions ? Who is ready for the truth, or at least a weak, washed out attempt at being its whore for a day? Great art they say, removes from you, detachment and fear – breaking down the iron clad doors of hubris, and sending a once great river to change your seasons. It soaks you dry – stealing from you the act of care – replacing it with the storm of agony ….and ecstasy.

But art evolves with the observer. Its challenges ambush us. The proclamation is simple: Can you live with yourself, on this earth, with these rules? And yet, these rules are sand and shadows – entrapment ceases arrest, the moment we sacrifice. Kathryn Bigelow, walks like the anti-hero of our culturally shell shocked generation – she is brave without conviction, honest without condescension, poignant without empathy, ruthless without agenda. As corollary to the shards of transparent glass that greet us when reality begins to invade phenomena – this is art that leaves you confused and gasping – with the unnerving, cryptic discharge of helpless awe and that prayer for senselessness that will murder the demons of duty.

Definitions by nature are unsynchronized – swinging, trajectoried over territory that pimps it. In that clamor of judgment, all confessions are just appeals – let me see it all Krishna, the world that is rooted in your chagrined mortality, that grinds me raw on this charioted battlefield – let me become one drop of blood on your eternal brow – fuck, just let me obliterate with the dream of a world not enslaved by saccharine delight in subjugated honesty. And Krishna obliges, he sets you free to roam – forever, in this dying moment that remains nailed to your unsure body and your unkempt mind. Is that art, or is that just …….. Maybe I will watch "The Hurt Locker" again.