I want to scream about how murderous commercialism is to a live human spirit. We are trained not to notice, but underneath the “how are you fine thanks”, souls are crying.
Especially if you are an artist doing something original.

I have to admit, from day one of immigration, this has been eating into my soul. I am used to an environment where culture is cool. Where it’s respected because it’s culture. Not the showsmanship, not the clown suit or the bling, culture. The spirit. I used to take it for granted. I actually did, can you imagine? Being faced with the pressure to clown myself around for the Interface is not fun. It’s not me, it’s not who I have ever been.

Gradually, I am stripping the clown suit off. For all practical purposes, I am not doing it. I made a conscious choice. But it means fighting against the accepted norm, every day, every day.

We are trained to not complain about it except for show, because it’s embarrassing to complain. The successful ones don’t complain, do they, only the misfits. Wrong, actually, but many of the ones who have unquestionably “made it” are forced to do things that I would not be able to do without a gallon of liquid prozac, three times a day. Clowns are not happy people. And I don’t think the attempt at murdering the spirit stops when you “make it big time.” I suspect it intensifies. I also believe that happy people don’t overdose on drugs. Nor do I have reasons to think that Michael Jackson, whose success was unquestionable, died a happy human. People live inside their lives, not inside a magazine cover.
Why I am saying it? For truth. Here I am. I like everything real. Art, relationships, conversations, ever parties, fuck it, even parties. And I insist. The environment keeps pushing me, whispering scary shit in my ear. I am not afraid.

Commericalism can go fuck itself. Also, a big shoutout to my brothers and sisters in this fight. I just came back from a Saul Williams reading, what a man.