(again, from the New York Times, which I should just quit reading because all it does really is depress me)
An article today about “Fame Motivation,” the strong desire of a person that motivates their actions with the hope of becoming famous. What the hell is it with us humans? Why are so many of us obsessed with fame? Me, I’m guilty. Of course I want to be famous. For the recognition, the rationalization, the realization. That I matter. That my life means something. That what I slave away at day after day has some bearing on the state of the universe.
Which of course is ridiculous. My life doesn’t matter or mean anything. None of our lives REALLY mean anything. That’s only our egoic mind (thanks, Eckhart Tolle). I should really tell my ego to shut up now again. Care less about who “knows me”, or how important my artwork is in the realm of society’s mythology at large.
And yet, here I am, writing a blog. To be heard. To be seen. To matter. Making a film so that my voice will rise up and participate. But what good is a film that’s never seen? A blog that’s never read? Conversely, what good are they that DO get seen?
I would love nothing more than to let this feeling go and be totally and utterly content with being just and average Joe, living an interesting albeit vanishing life. Merely a speck of existence in one, humungous broiling MOMENT. An ever-changing ocean of “now” existence.
Yet, I hold out some hope. This NPR special talks about people’s built-in mechanism to STOP yearning for change, newness or anything fresh. To settle into a groove. Maybe that’s what I want. Just rut it out for the rest of my life.
Nah. Just kidding
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