I would never, ever refer to myself as creative.
It’s a joke between me and my sister (who is abso-tively creative!) that when it comes to making things, I will only engage in “one art, and one craft, never the plural of either, and never both at the same time”. Yeah, no arts-n-crafts for me, fool! I would so much rather go buy something beautiful that someone else put together and hang their work on my wall.
I cannot cut in a straight line, and that ain’t no lie.
Life beats down and crushes the soul
and art reminds you that you have one.
My sis loves to scrapbook.
And of course, she is VERY good at it. She is modest, so would waive off my praise, but I am here to tell you, that girl gots MAD skill. One day she made me come with her, and forced me with a knife to print up some pics. I thought, “What the hell? I’d rather get these things into an album than get stabbed.”
Seemed like a fair deal.
My goal was not to get fancy, just get the shit pasted down in some semblance of order and call it done. And that’s pretty much how I scrap my photos to this day. I tried stamping things for a bit, but I lost a couple of letters down the drain (both of my only two letter A’s — can you even believe that shit?!). So yeah, I don’t stamp so much anymore. I rely mainly on stickers, at which my artsy idol scoffs, but there it is.
We all know that Art is not truth.
Art is a lie that makes us realize truth,
at least the truth that is given us to understand.
The artist must know the manner
whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.
Now writing — that I can do.
I love stringing words together and can whip out five pages fast than you can… well… faster than you can make one art and one craft. I wouldn’t say I have mad skills like my sis, but I enjoy it in the same manner she enjoys cropping photos. So my mom says we are both creative, and I’m good with that. As long as I don’t have to measure things or weave wreathes or crochet or build birdhouses or anything like that.
Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.
It also turns out I am crazy.
You may, or may not, have noticed this. I do not mind spouting off about stupid things in public. Like for example, when an arena charges spectators a $15 entrance fee, makes you pay $500,000,000.03 for a soda, and yet can’t seem to shell out for public wi-fi. How stupid is that? So I complain about arbitrivial things of that nature in a loud voice, carrying on with embarrassing obnoxious-ness. Drives the hubz mad! And proves I am nutz.
But hey guess what? It is perfectly normal that I am not normal! Yeah, I said that. What’s up?
Oh, you want proof? Scientific American said so! Furthermore, the author indicates that my creativity is the reason.
“Both creativity and eccentricity may be the result of genetic variations that increase cognitive disinhibition – the brain’s failure to filter out extraneous information.
“When unfiltered information reaches conscious awareness in the brains of people who are highly intelligent and can process this information without being overwhelmed, it may lead to exceptional insights and sensations.”
Here’s the bottom line:
“People who are highly creative often have odd thoughts and behaviors — and vice versa.”
But that’s what being an artist is –
before everyone else
~The New Yorker
Eat that, haters! My brain is just that cool. Next time I get freaky in public, I won’t feel nearly as guilty — buyer beware!