nablastria

[nablastria]

which ao3 tag are you?

[nablastria]

Ugh, art and philosophy. How tf did I pick two of the most posthumous careers out there? No matter. at the cross section between Starving Ave. and Crazy St. maybe nothing of value could be found, but at least I know I’m there. That’s all one really needs to know in order to live, I think.

on art and tethering

Reading about the two artists that centered this European museum trip - Sorolla and Mucha - has revealed me something about art and…tethering. Be it Regenerationism,  pan-Slavism or Religiosity, call it nostalgia,  nationalism or faith. - “An artist who belongs to no part of the world is a useless being,” said Sorolla, “take my advice and go home.” 

(Oh wherever that may be.)

It is harrowing thing to learn though, that these artists I look up to inevitably believe in something that resembles home towards the end of their careers. I mean, believing in something is at the heart of the human condition, the raison d’être, and all that… but no other occupation (save maybe the philosopher and the clergy) has to confront that as part of the job description. No wonder all these great artists go find their big murals for everyone to see™ (Sorolla’s Vision of Spain, Mucha’s Slav Epic, Sargent’s Boston Library murals…)  after finding enough security regarding their talent and finances and family and everything but… the end. Where concrete, comforting, consummating faith is involved. 

That’s a harrowing thing to learn for me, because although the core of my being is not a void (per-se), it however is a LOT more existential than all of these artists. In this too I’m afraid I probably share more with the philosophers than with the artists. You see, artists do, philosophers… I don’t know. Be? Maybe? Maybe I should look to Camus for how to approach this the gap between “my (unfortunate) understanding of the great gentle indifference” and everyone else’s… reality. Or consult Nietzsche on how not to submit to something religious just because the end is near. But then the problem is 1. neither of these men had an exactly… consultable, ending to speak of and 2. these are men. 

Yes, I am crossing my fingers that it’s a man thing to want. Because theory goes that they are cut off from the main thing that is the most primal concrete, comforting, consummating. We know but don’t remember. The Om of all earthly being. The womb. And that towards the end, they are unwittingly reminded of this painful, lifelong separation, when they are due to return to the womb of the earth. When they can no longer find comfort in the man-made order of things, but are too much of a man to even realize that so they instead go search for a proxy of something greater that forgives them for being, for living.

No wonder all of these big murals™ end up being rolled up post-finish only to collect dust, until the legacy of the artist finally outweighs the memory of him, until he can finally be appraised as an incorporeal notion of genius and thoughts, rather than being known as a struggling body made of flesh and blood. The livings don’t want that. At least not until the end of the rope - if one even has the good fortune of getting there with their wits intact. Until then though, they want the glistening beach of València, the swirling dazzle of Giamonda, and the portraits of rich women and important men.

[nablastria]

lost in the sauce of hand refs & forgot I have two of them myself (again)

[nablastria]

on art and tethering

Reading about the two artists that centered this European museum trip - Sorolla and Mucha - has revealed me something about art and…tethering. Be it Regenerationism,  pan-Slavism or Religiosity, call it nostalgia,  nationalism or faith. - “An artist who belongs to no part of the world is a useless being,” said Sorolla, “take my advice and go home.” 

(Oh wherever that may be.)

It is harrowing thing to learn though, that these artists I look up to inevitably believe in something that resembles home towards the end of their careers. I mean, believing in something is at the heart of the human condition, the raison d’être, and all that… but no other occupation (save maybe the philosopher and the clergy) has to confront that as part of the job description. No wonder all these great artists go find their big murals for everyone to see™ (Sorolla’s Vision of Spain, Mucha’s Slav Epic, Sargent’s Boston Library murals…)  after finding enough security regarding their talent and finances and family and everything but… the end. Where concrete, comforting, consummating faith is involved. 

That’s a harrowing thing to learn for me, because although the core of my being is not a void (per-se), it however is a LOT more existential than all of these artists. In this too I’m afraid I probably share more with the philosophers than with the artists. You see, artists do, philosophers… I don’t know. Be? Maybe? Maybe I should look to Camus for how to approach this the gap between “my (unfortunate) understanding of the great gentle indifference” and everyone else’s… reality. Or consult Nietzsche on how not to submit to something religious just because the end is near. But then the problem is 1. neither of these men had an exactly… consultable, ending to speak of and 2. these are men. 

Yes, I am crossing my fingers that it’s a man thing to want. Because theory goes that they are cut off from the main thing that is the most primal concrete, comforting, consummating. We know but don’t remember. The Om of all earthly being. The womb. And that towards the end, they are unwittingly reminded of this painful, lifelong separation, when they are due to return to the womb of the earth. When they can no longer find comfort in the man-made order of things, but are too much of a man to even realize that so they instead go search for a proxy of something greater that forgives them for being, for living.

No wonder all of these big murals™ end up being rolled up post-finish only to collect dust, until the legacy of the artist finally outweighs the memory of him, until he can finally be appraised as an incorporeal notion of genius and thoughts, rather than being known as a struggling body made of flesh and blood. The livings don’t want that. At least not until the end of the rope - if one even has the good fortune of getting there with their wits intact. Until then though, they want the glistening beach of València, the swirling dazzle of Giamonda, and the portraits of rich women and important men.

[nablastria]

tbh the first step in unlearning shame for yourself is learning how to extend dignity to other people at all times. you need to hold the same standards for everyone. you're not going to be able to convince yourself that you deserve that accommodation if you don't believe everybody is deserving of it

[nablastria]

I was reading one of my childhood diaries the other day and there was a whole paragraph saying how hopeful I was that my writing will help the archeologists in the far future. Then it proceeded to describe my lunch that day and how my dog was probably secretly able to talk. 

[nablastria]

i hope that in 2025 u get to take more walks, read more books, connect with more people whom u love and who love u, achieve ur goals (even if ur goals are having no goals and just living in the moment), exercise fun hobbies, move from a place of self-direction, and weave together a beguiling assortment of beautiful little moments. remember that no feeling lasts forever. love u

[nablastria]

[nablastria]

hyperfixation please stay with me long enough to complete the project. hyperfixation do not fade. hyperfixation finish what you started for the love of god

[nablastria]

I OWE MY SOUL TO THE COMPANY STORE | SEVERANCE | 16 TONS

[nablastria]

Happy new year!

[nablastria]

I’ve been wanting to do a thing like this for a while. Behold my amazing animu mongah skills there wow swoons

[nablastria]

I hope every writer who sees this writes LOADS the next few months. Like freetime opens up, no writers block, the ability to focus, etc etc you're able to write loads & make lots of progress <3

[nablastria]

I mean Jesus fucking Christ this is not right

[nablastria]

shit, yes you are right! Thank u

thinking back to when someone found out they were autistic bc of their OC: i was writing this fic for two years and just now realized i’m probably on the aromatic spectrum lol

[nablastria]

Curious Polar bear (Ursus maritimus) standing upright and looking through porthole into the kitchen of arctic expedition ship M/S Stockholm in Svalbard, Spitsbergen, Norway by Andy Rouse               

[nablastria]

Growing up with abusive parent is fun because there are just clean swaths of time that’s been grazed out of your memory. You don’t even remember forgetting about it. It just wasn’t there. Continuum of time coming to a halt when you would rather not be a person than being here.  It’s not even numb or loss that I’m feeling at this point, it’s just quiet amazement of how that was linked to reality as I experience it - always slipping off, always temporary, like clear plastic wrapping. It’s me under it, wide eyed. Always here, always have been, always safe from what shouldn’t be. So why bother with the wrapping that’s getting change, day in and day out? Why does it matter that I don’t remember watching this film with you, for the third time now?