Between Pain and Boredom

“Hope is the confusion of the desire for a thing with its probability.”
― Arthur Schopenhauer

 “I think you have to try and fail, because failure
gets you closer to what you’re good at.”

― Louis Szekely

Art is as much punishment as it is therapy, even the false therapy discussed in the previous post. There the missing canvas was the key. Here instead of a clever Magrittian ambiguity we have Lacanian lack; the missing model (…mate/muse/whatever) is a “petit object a,” as necessary and missing as the canvas was in the former.

“We seldom speak of what we have but often of what we lack.”
― Arthur Schopenhauer

Bosses are not fathers and lovers are not mothers and none of the four are, like clerks and coworkers, are friends. “Therapists are for people who can’t afford friends” a philosopher (or was it a comedian?) once said. Like Louis CK or Schopenhauer, you tell me the difference. “If the world were clear, art would not exist” says Albert Camus (both a comedian and a philosopher). He also says that artists shouldn’t try to explain life but just describe it. But even that can be against a law.

Therapy is the trial. Evidence of affects and effects is presented; the whole truth, nothing but the truth, beyond reasonable doubt goes to a jury, not of peers but others. Art’s transference, introjection, intellectualization, projection even, is the punishment, the punishment for failure, failure to accurately read the other(s) in work and love.

Through fantasy, we learn how to desire― Slavoj Zizek

We H. Sapiens make our what-ifs from our what -wases. Our actions are determined by our remembered successes and failures. The accuracy of those memories determines, in as much as it is under our control, our future success. Or does it? Is it the other way around, where the success verifies the accuracy? After successes, we use the same tools again; but after a failure, we try something new. After a while–say 40-odd years–we run out of tools and we stop trying.

Every day starts, my eyes open and I reload the program of misery.
I open my eyes, remember who I am, what I’m like, and I just go, “Ugh.”
― Louis Szekely

Sometimes I don’t know why I do it, why I do anything really. I am, a la Schopenhauer, between pain and boredom, and like him I’m not happy. I mean I gotta be doing something, I guess that’s why, but what in particular, now? The Will remains, but the object of desire is sometimes–most times, these days –completely out of sight. My old eyes see things at a distance and they look good, but closer up they don’t. So it’s a good thing nothing I think I desire desires me.

 “One can choose what to do, but not what to want.”

“It is difficult to find happiness within oneself,
but it is impossible to find it anywhere else.”
― Arthur Schopenhauer