Life is a creator.
And you, the artist  in life's grip, be the conductor for the genius's work!

 

The Creed

 

All thoughts, without exception, whether these heard while passing by hastily a beggar,

or these read in philosophical books, are  nothing.

Thoughts are the man's creation, and all  thoughtless is the domain of physics that is 

unknown to human thought.

In that universe, still unknown to  thought,  infinitely complementing itself energy 

is everything, is God.

Today, while we read  these words, may this truth be for our thoughts enough:

Everybody is needed, because the genius indwells him, and our mind's

acceptance of all things without any exception may become dignifiedly God.

 

 

Warm-up

 

Largo

 

Be well rested and laid-back, but also enthusiastically concentrated.

Then, reading the words below, you'll start to create!

 

The artist's self is a crone.

She doesn't have to ponder everything and anything too long.

Whispering, the crone will always argue in your mind.

Contentiousness is her secret.

Some time she whispered, as if asking a question:

Artistry is similar to love?

I was silent

For us, the whole ages elapsed.          

Today I'll tell you my and my eternal crone's truth: Artistry is  only love!

Loving is creativity.

And creativity's mother is love.

While creating, you can't be wiser than your heart's wisdom!

Don't you feel, that  both venal creativity and love for money are the opposite

of virtues, through which you see them from the angle of your self?

Other people will think, they are buying creativity or love.

 

And you should know, that  both creativity and love, paid for once  with gold

of love, are so, that you don't need anything more!

Love, create.

 

Those, who didn't experience love, aren't artists.

While they desire, they  avoid this truth.

They deceive love, as they try to be creators.

Hey! Smile, they are madmen that speculate on curing their own disease.

Smile and shrug shoulders, as I do.

You'll realize the helpless pain of your inner part.

Exhausted from longing, the inner part calls it, awaits it.

It doesn't come!

Call the artist with me!

You'll see, only an animal will hear us!

It's not the time to call?

No, it's not the time yet!

The man is still a monster among the poorest appearances of wisdom!

Cry, create.

 

And when the indifference of those miserable eyes rips your heart -

leave the people.

Flood your thoughts with blood.

And in this lethargy, in the subconsciousness' arms, 

make everything around you a sweet play.

 

Dance, create.

Can't you overcome yourself without people?

You're still silly.

Long! Cry! Suffer!

 

Never betray love!

Go and create.

 

And when they become one for ever and never.
At the bottom of the soul's peace, the despair will arise there.
This despair is contrition, madness lying dormant.
Contrition for my deeds, wild and  how correct in their judgment.
Deaf suffering  lasts endlessly in the heart  meant for madness
- this  is love.

 

 

The Witness, Youth's Virtue

 

As virtue is virtue in the non-dualistic universe,
so  it's nothing in the human one!

 

Wasn't everything alien to you from the beginning on?

Did the early youth's shame of complexes, which you were hiding comically, 

remain in you?

I smile at those moments.

You'll smile, too.

And in this smile you'll be continuously surprised: And what is this what others always see?

Why do I not judge through the others' eyes, but through mines?

How hard was it to admire anything?

I was disgusted with pretending that I wasn't myself.

Even then I felt and I knew in my own way that human figments and judgements

were a deception.

I knew that children's virtues didn't come from their fathers' virtues.

I knew that I always was able not to deceive myself

and bend my back to the one who taught

what a virtue was, whereas he himself didn't mirror virtues faithfully.

Yes! You're hearing well.

A virtue isn't taught by the one who is full of virtues!

Because virtue is wisdom's baby.

And a baby, so as wisdom, doesn't think up her virtues.

You feel that you're an artist, because you're born into the artist's consciousness.

Yet whether you become one, this choice is only owned by your understanding.

The choice of the understanding, which was understood by your subconsciousness,

when your body was still called a baby.

And dogmas were at odds with your intuition.

Whereas intuition always went with this inner experience arm in arm.

Many artists didn't have that choice, which only you can make. Whether

you are deceived by sophist teachers at schools, or on Sundays, or

whether … you hum to yourself this sweet melody:

I only desire to look for myself, without your boring talk.

I only crave for that that there's no desire in me

I always want to be void and wild like an animal.

To be exhilarated by life, not knowing anything completely.

 

 

Muses

 

Only this one muse will always be most important.

You can choose her from among realistic muses, however,

I point out that the mortal muse is an artistic delusion,

and it can often happen, that the realistic muse's every  error

will be your defeat and you won't create much.

 

The best muse for an artist is a drunk one.

 

You yourselves can create a muse.

You'll certainly create her, only serve your heart!

For example, model the muse in the likeness of what is closest to

and most beloved for you.

Even in the likeness of yourself?

First of all.

 

The objective of creating is to crave for the muse and not to posses her.

The craving is indwelt by the hunter's fever, which creates the nature's balance.

For the artist, it's  his work's seed.

The muses' virtues are the figments of the artist's longing subconsciousness.

And since the muse is perfidious, he always suffers sweetly.

And he creates.

 

Constructive and fruitful skirmishes with the muse consist in the  continuous role change.

Once the creator is a slave to her.

Once she is the tyrant's  slave girl.

But there can't be any compassion.

The poverty of the muse that cries for compassion is the muse's betrayal.

It isn't the muse!

Whether her  hunger, or dishonour, or her tears?

You mustn't rack the heart with compassion.

Alike the creator, the muse must feel suffering.

Suffering nourishes.

At the moment, when the muse's suffering becomes your non-compassion and it's your  

only objective, like a long gulp of alcohol without a toast, then you'll feel the muse.

The gulp that makes you forget and lets you become completely engrossed.

And then you won't understand, what the muse is.

The most loyal and hidden among your muses.

Hidden in you.

You'll see her in the mirror ecstasy of yourself, through tears.

And in the sweet balance of this relationship will obstinacy interlace with banter.

Fascination with contempt.

Even the muse's contemptuous agreement will be that what's needed.

And the lack of shame between the muse and the creator

will become the highest love, artistry.

The muse is your shadow,   which you don't recognize.

Accept, and you'll grow to love this shadow.

This shadow is like Themis, that isn't your oracle.

This is your only friend,  the second YOU, unknown to you.

 

A brilliant creator is such a phenomenon, in
which lives a  slut, but  a simple guy not.

 

 

The louts

 

You were born to them.

They are everywhere, you don't need to look for them.

Shaking off the powers of their beliefs doesn't come to you without suffering?

What keeps you in the trap of helplessness  are the genetic bonds with them.

Struggle.

Suffering, you will believe that without their and your understanding,

without their closed and  

your open eyes, you wouldn't be yourself

Close your eyes! And you'll see through their hearts your so different heart.

Saying that you don't see, you'll lie.

Saying that you don't see, lying, you'll prove to yourself that there isn't still

any artist in you.

Wait.

They'll talk to you.

Your silence will be the untruth to you.

While they speak and you speak, nothing can be understood.

Muzzle them!

Knock out!

Shout at them out of your depth, or whisper with your eyes.

Their inside will only hear a silent echo.

And the pause will follow, the echo will return.

The mutual incomprehension, theirs and yours, will ensue.

You'll be  surprised in what a funny and incomprehended way they  serve you.

Let the king, who is the ruler,  not govern.

Let the king be a jester who listens to a jester!

Contradict them always, and you'll find the way leading to yourself.

Sometimes forgiving, sometimes not pardoning, form their identity, you are the creator.

 

 

Judges

 

The most reasonable, unquestionable opinion or judgment is only a wave.

The wave is a filter for relativity.

Judging, the judges of creativity, as they want to judge creativity, 

become  the creator's creation.

And he doesn't care about this creature.

He only smiles at the judge.

The judge judges.

The creator dances.

The judge fell asleep.

The creator creates.

 

Oh, these judges, critics of everything!

Subjectivism, which is also called self-adoration, has taken them to the judicial position.

What often shows them the balance is that they admire themselves in the consciousness

and don't in the subconsciousness.

When the judge starts to judge you, judge him immediately with your subconsciousness!

However, passes he the sentence, don't forgive him this!

You are one of sages, and not of judges.

And the sage can cheat everybody with his truth!

Because the sage doesn't create for the contemporary, but for his successors.

Put on the judge's clothes.

Look sternly around you.

You are your judge.

Create.

 

 

Artisans and Their Favourites

 

The artist - this is when the master hides himself in the madman without shame.
And the craftsman – when there's too much shame in the madman!

 

The artisans, vendors of their talents.

This race desires to live on art and not for it.

Their conjurer-like works decorate every nouveau riche's salon.

And sometimes, not by mistake, also their privies.

Oh, how conjurers and the mob cling to and complete each other.

The subconsciousness of the same race stitches them together.

The artisans promise cleverly artistry to those blind men,

who are knocked unconscious by their rapacious greed.

Wonder never cease! Although they  betray artistry and deceive each other,

they look satisfied.

 

They adore it, how their eyes become foggy when they outshout one another while settling

accounts.

Both groups probably have a heavenly sense,

because they are able to judge and have already 

assessed the work before it was created.

I stand to one side and look at this bargaining, and the hellish mode starts to pester me.

And only this, that I feel and know that somebody loves me,

pushes my thoughts away from suicide.

They are also the products of evolution, but they didn't probably come out of water,

did they?

Instead, they came out of musty swamps!

I probably have got used to this mustiness, and , letting this go, my soul 

muttered: If I'd known how to pray, I'd not have known what to ask for them in the prayer.

Despair, despair, despair.

Look into their eyes not through despair, but through your  nothingness!

Desiring your doom, they'll turn away quickly

And praying for themselves, they'll pray for your doom.

Bitter-sweet bliss will wrap their hearts.

And as they  watch one another from the corner of their eyes,

they'll fall carefully onto knees.

In their numb lamentation will they howl and squeal: 'Have mercy upon us!'

H'm.

Who do they lament to?!

I've no idea.

Therefore perhaps because of this play, because of  this creative vanity.

Have mercy on them, you, who are the artist!

And with the artistic creative pleasure commit this crime that's called mercy.

 

 

Drug-induced creators, these sober ones,
and those who are euphoric by birth

 

The teetotaller sees the addict.
The addict sees the teetotaller.
Nobody can judge his opposite, let him come to his senses!

 

A cigarette, a butt, a beer,  a butt, a wine, a butt, a brew, a plonk, a butt,

a plonk, a brew, a joint, a brew, a butt, a hard drink, a joint, a butt,

a hard drink, a sniff of snow, a vodka, a joint, a mushroom, a pill, a butt etc.

 

It's hard in this world for the creator to do without stimulants!

Do you want to flee the people or your thoughts, you, the artists?

Can't you or don't you want any more to commune with the world that surrounds you?

Do you stupefy yourself to have a brush with this state, which borders on death,

because you've  felt and learnt, that there, near it,

you understand all things more easily and see their brighter sides?

Do you want that those cool hallucinations would become the sweetest truth

you've been dreaming of?

Or the reality?

Or you flee into pain, like to the sweetest lover?

 

I tell you: the need   and the willingness to create takes up quite a lot of health.

This is a burden for the body!

I personally just like to have a drink, that's all, by birth,  I always feel like doing that,

for this reason I won't complain in this terrible way any more!

Therefore:

Isn't the stimulant something needed to regenerate the brain through burning off

in it every unnecessarily mutated influence?

Perhaps  this ALTER EGO wants to get drunk, 'cause he'd like to calm himself and then

he'd have a frank word with me?

Didn't stimulants always belong to rebels, who love to protest?

 

There're some artistic cases, whose waves of emotional behaviour sway, and  it'll

do for them as a stimulant, if they, for example, don't sleep . I know all those manic and

manic depressive types. So called screwballs. This is the best material for an artist.

People like that are born every day as emotionally different persons.

Is some ability of artistic domains added to those compositions of brains,

the fact itself that they exist is a piece of artistic work.

 

You'd call my thoughts demons, if such caught you.
But I see in those demons of my life sweetness, even though
they tire me. And I'd already like to sleep continuously.

 

Ow, the sinners will complain loudly about stimulants.

With a hangover, they won't  confess them.

 

The brain can never help because it's still under the illusion: the body's suffering.
However, leave the brain out of it, and the body'll live without noticing the illusion.

 

 

The friend

 

Among thinking beings is the word friend very popular.

The artist looks for such friendship that'd be similar to love.

He looks for a friend, that – as love does – doesn't want anything in return.

To come across such a friendship is the joy, yet the joy is hard to keep, ‘cause our 

human thoughts have something of a rapist in them.

By wanting and taking, the thought rapes.

Look for a friend.

Experiment.

Or do a certain thing:

Start keeping by you an animal, for example a dog.

And you’ll see, that through this animal’s innocence you discover the world differently.

You’ll be learning from it its world, and learning it, you’ll start to discover yourself.

Your thoughtless friend’s got this virtue called faithfulness, which

you need so that you’d be able to learn balance.

You’ll learn to discern, whether the animal’s eyes, while they’re ill, beg you

for help, or express a command!

Love and friendship don’t need words.

 

 

 The Creator

 

Do you draw or do you use canvas?

Stave paper, or a fountain pen?

It's very difficult for your perception to catch creative moments, keep them in mind.

Being a creator, do you experience these unexpected moments of your sweetest truths?

At that moment look for a brush or a pen.

And  then, when you're still looking, you'll be seeing everything clearly!

But the moment you start to find the tools, suddenly you'll start not to understand and

to forget all those ideas of your hidden quarrels.

Don't lose heart!

Know, that your quarrels want still to sleep in you.

Creator! Never force yourself, don't plan creative activities!

You can't be a creator against yourself.

Let your works lie dormant!

This puzzle, which can be  perceived in the human dimension, will start to piece itself.

The puzzle is your life, which – as always in the way you don't know – will come  again

with these quarrels of yours.

It'll come once more, 'cause this's your love, 

which – as you've already learnt – always returns.

Since love and the consciousness alike are the artistry's eternity.

And the power of your creation is the sobbing of the consciousness, this old crone.

 

Only the master can delude everybody,
without having deluded himself!
For his truth.

 

Smile.

Love is similar to youth.

Love yourself with the smile.

Create.

 
I had a dream today that at the beginning of this short ABC I wrote a dedication

to all those who understand me.

And I dedicated the ABC to all scientist, at the same time dedicating it

to the patients of psychiatric clinics.

Then I had a dream that I woke up and was looking for an alarm clock.

I finally found it, but it had no hands.

There was a calendar hanging on the wall, from 2042.

 

 
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