From saigo@eden.com Sat May 8 17:12:13 1999 Date: Wed, 1 Mar 1995 06:42:14 -0600 From: Jihad Newsgroups: alt.gothic Subject: The Legendary Lost Artists' Graveyard? You know, I've been following this "Marriage=Death" debate for some time, and I got to confess: It's put me in rather a strange frame of mind. You see, this mirrors a debate that's been raging inside my head for about a couple of years now. You see, I was an idealist once. Then I got out into the world. On the face of it, I tend to agree that marriage=death, or at least close enough as makes no difference. I have an old friend who used to toss around a quotation that sort of puts an interesting spin on the proposition. What he quoted was this (and no, I don't know who wrote it originally): "There's an artist buried in every vagina." Before anybody gets offended, I've seen the principle work equally well for women, it's just that my friend was a man, and the guy who wrote it originally was too. Now, this did not prevent this same friend from chasing after a woman from Boston, to Nebraska, to San Francisco, until finally she agreed to let him back into that graveyard. Really, though, consider the principle. I think that we've all seen it. People find someone who answers the deeper-seated--dare I say baser (Incoming!)--drives, and the intellectual, the ethical, the artistic impulses go straight to hell in a revel of domestic complacency. After all, as organisms, we had a brain stem before we had a cerebrum. So I guess it only stands to reason that it should be this way. Perpetuation of the species, you know? And I'm not saying that it happens every time. Just don't ask about my experience, either personal or observational, unless you want another monolithic rant. It's just never worked very well for me. Instead, I hold fast to my bizarre ethic--to independence, to refusal to compromise, having no half measures but rather seeking the dotting of every "i" and the crossing of every "t" of my solitary ambitions. But then again, I've seen the odd one or two in my short life that cause me to reconsider my rigorous independence. And it does grow bitterly cold, sometimes, out here alone. When I've logged off the Net, or put down the book, or said farewells to the crowd for the night, or parked the car--I turn around and behind me is emptiness. It dogs my footsteps in hollow halls. It lies beside me in my bed, and will give me no peace. It sits ever like shadows of Thought and Memory on my shoulders, such that neither do I rest, nor ever forget, though the shouting crowd surround me, and I act a fool in the house of mirth. It's almost enough to cause one to willingly submit, and so expire. So where's the solution to this dilemma? For me, for now, in wine and memory.... (Please forgive a maudlin rant) Jihad Who strives, who seeks, never, it seems, quite finding, but still trying desperately not to yield.