That cliche about imitation and flattery is true enough - if you find solace in seeing those who look up to you merely ape your every move. There is a strange beauty in finding out that you share crucial qualities with another human; this romance is unrelenting and cannot be forced into existence. It requires years of singular thought and psychically shared experiences, and typically only occurs between people who are subconsciously working toward a common goal. Despite its rare exquisiteness this compatibility has been bastardized by generations of souls who insist on duplicating what they see and hear before them.
This is a foolhardy way to ensure that you will never be happy.
Rarely do these people look within themselves for answers or ideas, for when they peer within, the mundane horror that awaits them repels them back into the ease of a photocopied reality. A digitally rendered subsistence that serves as a pale substitute of the original, enlivened human form. These folks simply select somebody to imitate, then roll with that for as long as it serves them. There is at least one obvious problem with this. It smacks of insincerity. What's the good in pretending to know, feel, hear, or see the world through somebody else's lens? To learn, surely, there is potential. But the imitators - who, unsurprisingly are often young - do not climb so far out on a limb truly to experience the world the way their idols have done before them: alone. Independent. No scapegoats, safety nets, government grants or institutions around to foster the herd mentality.
Over the course of three decades of insistent hounding by thoughtless imitators, I've learned a lot and I'm ready to share. If this doesn't sound relatable to you then this isn't intended for you to read.
Of course, I speak most expertly from the roles of performer, musician, and writer. These are my gifts and my collective curse (that which I did not choose with the aid of a guidance counsellor). This life chose me. It plucked me out of a scholarly, profoundly lonely adolescence like a typical
Hollywood alien abduction sequence. I've worked dozens of jobs, each more challenging than the one before, solely to fund my burgeoning presence as a poet and a singer. The shaman in me is the drummer, the spiritual warrior. I could never have chosen these experiences, so from my perspective I see little merit in those who force themselves to be someone they are not.
It would be humbly fulfilling to see those who are inspired by me (or others around them) embark on a unique journey sparked by their own deeply internalized memories. Instead, I watch them copy my hairstyle and smile kindly as they seek approval. I encourage them to take a much closer look at themselves. Those of us who constantly strive to develop our strength as individuals are consistently let down by the imitators who attempt to replicate our appearances, names, ideologies, works of art, and most laughably, our experiences. Few feelings rival the intense gut-rot of realizing you've been used for selfish gain, only to be thrown away, or stored for later use. Instead of marvelling in unison at our similarities, we silently exploit or find ourselves polluted by misconduct.
Absolutely no one is completely original once they've taken their first breath. I do believe, though, that we are all unique enough to discover within ourselves at least one thing we're convinced is unlike any other. Whether or not this is correct is immaterial. It is this conscious commitment to re-birth that keeps the world spinning.
It's endlessly burdensome to try and be original. It is quite likely the hardest thing you will ever achieve in this life, and that's exactly what turns off so many people. Young people, particularly in this newly impotent digital social climate, feel entitled to co-opt whatever identity suits their current fancy. Evidently, their already abundant insecurities are only brought further forth into the light by their insistent emulation. They wait and watch from behind an imaginary curtain to see how those cooler, tougher, older, and more powerful than themselves live their lives. Then they make themselves cardboard cut-outs of their mentors. No good teacher is as fulfilled by his students' robotic recitations as their stunning individual intellectual transformations.
An artist, in her youth, floats identity-less in a sea of tempting images, sounds, and ideas, but refuses to adopt any one "look" or behaviour that is not deeply and sincerely her own. In my youth, I didn't rush out and try to duplicate every cool thing I saw. I revelled in each luscious detail and let the majesty of another human life propel me deeper into unknown realms of solitary discovery. Humble, I suffered alone through my awkwardness. No outfit, tattoo, performance aesthetic, stage name, diet, or attitude is convincing to an artist unless the person behind the facade has had the experiences to back it up. No one is innocent of emulation or idol worship. Many of us know, however, that this is not the eye of the soul, but rather a mirror held up backside toward our face, reflecting an idealized two-dimensional image back at its unwitting owner. Meanwhile, the imitator stares perpetually at his own blank slate.
Women are intense and powerful beings. We all know this. Unfortunately, their ancient knowledge is too often buried by contemporary insecurity. Women often ask me how I eat in an effort to improve their own appearances. They're initially intrigued and quickly disappointed by the simplicity of my response. I eat to live. I eat what is simple, ethical, cheap, healthy, and readily available. My appearance and my diet have no conscious relation to one another. I do not "work out" for the sake of it but expel thousands of genetic demons through the intuitive creation of tribal rhythms. No workout video would ever suffice. Seven to ten years of vigorous, heart-wrenching and mind-altering self-directed training is not at all appealing the self-indulgent few who simply starve themselves to try and "look more like you."
Many of us have met somebody who meets us, takes an instant liking to us (whether or not the feeling is mutual), then shows up the next day dressed like us, or unexpectedly takes up one of our hobbies. Often the look and the act are short-lived, but the resonance of these lapses in character might last a lifetime.
Exploration into challenging new frontiers is the sincerest form of flattery. Everything else is just distraction from the truth. My mentors teach me that life can always be more difficult. They tell me to enjoy the sanctity of every breath. They show me that my own decades of suffering through traumatic experiences like accidents, illness, and proximity to violence and death are not unique. Only the love that I create out of my inherent and ancient connection to truth presents something to the world worth showing.
Take a piece here or there, and it'll taste good until you realize that you've been eating someone else's pie. Might your own not taste even sweeter?
Admittedly some good does eventually come of all the replication: it is the stark implication that we should have just found our own way. A minimal level of emotional security paves the realization that no one can be duplicated, no matter what science predicts, insists, or intends. There is simply no use in trying! How many people do you know who "used to be vegetarian" because they wanted to impress a girl, or "used to smoke pot" because their old roommates did? Or those who "used to march in protests" to get closer to an unattainable crush, or "used to be in a rock band" because it made them feel cooler than the lawyer or marketing executive they would inevitably become? What about the "friends" who refuse to support your life's work because it might put a dent in their already inscrutable reputation? There's no love in that kind of behaviour. I have always supported the passionate endeavours of friends, acquaintances, and strangers - because I am confident in the good in myself.
If you make a permanent life change to meet a quota of short-sighted flights of fancy, those of us who don't live life solely for our own enjoyment will see right through your temporary guise. Usually, those who allow themselves to replicate aspects of my outward persona are embarrassed by the results. They feel the shame of a small child with her hand in the cookie jar, and I never hear from them again. I do rest assured that one day they will have learned this vital lesson:
THIS LIFE IS YOURS ALONE.
THIS WORLD ISN'T YOURS,
BUT YOU CAN CHOOSE TO BE A PART OF IT
BY BEING YOURSELF.
This is a foolhardy way to ensure that you will never be happy.
Rarely do these people look within themselves for answers or ideas, for when they peer within, the mundane horror that awaits them repels them back into the ease of a photocopied reality. A digitally rendered subsistence that serves as a pale substitute of the original, enlivened human form. These folks simply select somebody to imitate, then roll with that for as long as it serves them. There is at least one obvious problem with this. It smacks of insincerity. What's the good in pretending to know, feel, hear, or see the world through somebody else's lens? To learn, surely, there is potential. But the imitators - who, unsurprisingly are often young - do not climb so far out on a limb truly to experience the world the way their idols have done before them: alone. Independent. No scapegoats, safety nets, government grants or institutions around to foster the herd mentality.
Over the course of three decades of insistent hounding by thoughtless imitators, I've learned a lot and I'm ready to share. If this doesn't sound relatable to you then this isn't intended for you to read.
Of course, I speak most expertly from the roles of performer, musician, and writer. These are my gifts and my collective curse (that which I did not choose with the aid of a guidance counsellor). This life chose me. It plucked me out of a scholarly, profoundly lonely adolescence like a typical
Hollywood alien abduction sequence. I've worked dozens of jobs, each more challenging than the one before, solely to fund my burgeoning presence as a poet and a singer. The shaman in me is the drummer, the spiritual warrior. I could never have chosen these experiences, so from my perspective I see little merit in those who force themselves to be someone they are not.
It would be humbly fulfilling to see those who are inspired by me (or others around them) embark on a unique journey sparked by their own deeply internalized memories. Instead, I watch them copy my hairstyle and smile kindly as they seek approval. I encourage them to take a much closer look at themselves. Those of us who constantly strive to develop our strength as individuals are consistently let down by the imitators who attempt to replicate our appearances, names, ideologies, works of art, and most laughably, our experiences. Few feelings rival the intense gut-rot of realizing you've been used for selfish gain, only to be thrown away, or stored for later use. Instead of marvelling in unison at our similarities, we silently exploit or find ourselves polluted by misconduct.
Absolutely no one is completely original once they've taken their first breath. I do believe, though, that we are all unique enough to discover within ourselves at least one thing we're convinced is unlike any other. Whether or not this is correct is immaterial. It is this conscious commitment to re-birth that keeps the world spinning.
It's endlessly burdensome to try and be original. It is quite likely the hardest thing you will ever achieve in this life, and that's exactly what turns off so many people. Young people, particularly in this newly impotent digital social climate, feel entitled to co-opt whatever identity suits their current fancy. Evidently, their already abundant insecurities are only brought further forth into the light by their insistent emulation. They wait and watch from behind an imaginary curtain to see how those cooler, tougher, older, and more powerful than themselves live their lives. Then they make themselves cardboard cut-outs of their mentors. No good teacher is as fulfilled by his students' robotic recitations as their stunning individual intellectual transformations.
An artist, in her youth, floats identity-less in a sea of tempting images, sounds, and ideas, but refuses to adopt any one "look" or behaviour that is not deeply and sincerely her own. In my youth, I didn't rush out and try to duplicate every cool thing I saw. I revelled in each luscious detail and let the majesty of another human life propel me deeper into unknown realms of solitary discovery. Humble, I suffered alone through my awkwardness. No outfit, tattoo, performance aesthetic, stage name, diet, or attitude is convincing to an artist unless the person behind the facade has had the experiences to back it up. No one is innocent of emulation or idol worship. Many of us know, however, that this is not the eye of the soul, but rather a mirror held up backside toward our face, reflecting an idealized two-dimensional image back at its unwitting owner. Meanwhile, the imitator stares perpetually at his own blank slate.
Women are intense and powerful beings. We all know this. Unfortunately, their ancient knowledge is too often buried by contemporary insecurity. Women often ask me how I eat in an effort to improve their own appearances. They're initially intrigued and quickly disappointed by the simplicity of my response. I eat to live. I eat what is simple, ethical, cheap, healthy, and readily available. My appearance and my diet have no conscious relation to one another. I do not "work out" for the sake of it but expel thousands of genetic demons through the intuitive creation of tribal rhythms. No workout video would ever suffice. Seven to ten years of vigorous, heart-wrenching and mind-altering self-directed training is not at all appealing the self-indulgent few who simply starve themselves to try and "look more like you."
Many of us have met somebody who meets us, takes an instant liking to us (whether or not the feeling is mutual), then shows up the next day dressed like us, or unexpectedly takes up one of our hobbies. Often the look and the act are short-lived, but the resonance of these lapses in character might last a lifetime.
Exploration into challenging new frontiers is the sincerest form of flattery. Everything else is just distraction from the truth. My mentors teach me that life can always be more difficult. They tell me to enjoy the sanctity of every breath. They show me that my own decades of suffering through traumatic experiences like accidents, illness, and proximity to violence and death are not unique. Only the love that I create out of my inherent and ancient connection to truth presents something to the world worth showing.
Take a piece here or there, and it'll taste good until you realize that you've been eating someone else's pie. Might your own not taste even sweeter?
Admittedly some good does eventually come of all the replication: it is the stark implication that we should have just found our own way. A minimal level of emotional security paves the realization that no one can be duplicated, no matter what science predicts, insists, or intends. There is simply no use in trying! How many people do you know who "used to be vegetarian" because they wanted to impress a girl, or "used to smoke pot" because their old roommates did? Or those who "used to march in protests" to get closer to an unattainable crush, or "used to be in a rock band" because it made them feel cooler than the lawyer or marketing executive they would inevitably become? What about the "friends" who refuse to support your life's work because it might put a dent in their already inscrutable reputation? There's no love in that kind of behaviour. I have always supported the passionate endeavours of friends, acquaintances, and strangers - because I am confident in the good in myself.
If you make a permanent life change to meet a quota of short-sighted flights of fancy, those of us who don't live life solely for our own enjoyment will see right through your temporary guise. Usually, those who allow themselves to replicate aspects of my outward persona are embarrassed by the results. They feel the shame of a small child with her hand in the cookie jar, and I never hear from them again. I do rest assured that one day they will have learned this vital lesson:
THIS LIFE IS YOURS ALONE.
THIS WORLD ISN'T YOURS,
BUT YOU CAN CHOOSE TO BE A PART OF IT
BY BEING YOURSELF.
