I wrote these thoughts last July while on holiday to Maine and Massachusetts. Last night, my car was stopped in the middle of the road by a teenager bending over to show me his butt. I let him finish his act of devout humanism and drove away with only a loud, exaggerated laughter sound and an evil eye contact made. The phrase “arrogant ignorance” was on my lips for the rest of the day. I thought about an upcoming interview I did for a Moscow gallery where I am presently exhibiting work. I used the phrase “arrogant ignorance” to answer a question about American Stuckism, or lack thereof. I told the interviewer about “the song of crickets” I usually receive after posting negative, unhappy, or critical work online. Last year after posting this short essay, just one sensitive human being bothered to read it in order to like it. Or, many read it, and no one liked it.
Either way, I post it one year later to test an ongoing hypothesis—that Americans have no desire to commune, that all is surface, that critical thinking and dreaming is a dead duck to modern propriety, the latter which abides by the developing Donald Trump mantra, “Everything is keen and great as long as we masterbate”.
Also, I just like the message and think it important.
Heck, maybe many people were out that day, exercising, dining properly, ignoring children, or participating in the 10,000 things that aid in lost memory of mortality.
I’ll try again, for the sake of my sanity. Okaji is free to go for a bike ride:)
For two years, Henry David Thoreau lived in a tiny house he built on the northern shore of Walden Pond. He was a philosopher who, like everyone else, ate and slept and voided excrement, but unlike anyone these days, drafted a life worth living to a nineteenth century humanity rife with bacteria and virus that did not play nice. In my opinion, the memory of his fingernail dirt has more value on the exchange market of a modern earth turning than the life of any president or prime minister. He could conduct a future rife with wisdom to any poor boy in America over the age of eleven wrapped up for just a day in his great coat. Thoreau— a higher prince than a modern Buddha, less of a dandy than flutey Krishna, and all the glory Jesus would have become if Texas never happened…
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