Artistic Visions and Other Illusions of Grandeur

There's something about New York that makes me want to be an artist.

And it's incredibly irritating.

Don't get me wrong - I admire the great creative, holistic, and embracing romantic spirit as much as the next person, and I don't mean to dismiss the pursuit of it. But me? Being an 'artiste' (with an 'e')? It doesn't compute.


I'm not an artistic person. At best I can be described as mildly clever with an appreciation for the more imaginative aspects of life. Meaning that I don't instigate any great creative feats myself, but I'll happily support, consume, and enjoy the works of those who do.

There's no shame in this! I quite like it! I base many of my life decisions on this enjoyment. My friends are creative types. I go out to watch bands, plays, and browse art galleries. I have seen more TV than could possibly be healthy, love movies, and plan on reading myself into the grave. I like to support those who are talented and good at making things with their own two hands, their own drives, passions. And what's more, I have no problem with not having all too many of those gifts myself.

Or at least, I thought I didn't. 

Then I came here.

So far (after a grand two months, so take this all with a grain of salt), I've realized that New York City isn't really like everyone describes it. Which isn't to say that everyone is wrong. It's just that New York is, ultimately, exactly what you want to be.

Although, to be fair, this claim is half crap. New York is clearly filthy. It's a tourist trap. It's expensive. It's got a ton of personality and not all of it is good. It has too many people, a fucked up education system, and an ego that could consume the globe if given half a chance.

But those are 'facts', and at the end of the day, facts don't make a city. What makes a city is how you feel while you're in it. And New York is big enough, diverse enough, romanticized enough, to make you feel any and everything. Ultimately, you define this place more than it could ever hope to define you.

Which is why I'm so irritated right now. Because it's not New York making me want to whip out my inner scribe - the city's simply enabling me to do so. Because here it's okay to be a dog walker with dreams of Broadway stardom, a waiter with a script that will rock the globe, or an accountant with a rock musician buried deep within your psyche. New York is big enough to contain all of our dreams, even the ones too big to be spoken about in our everyday 'real' lives.

People say that if you make it in New York, you can make it anywhere, and I actually think that's true. It is hard to live here, because it's hard to locate who you are in a city mythic enough to hold within it each possible version of yourself.

And so, with this in mind, I'm going to blog. Or at least, I'm going to try to. It won't work out most of the time, and I'll have no discernible theme to the madness, but I'll keep posting, even when I don't want to. Even if I think I'm being stupid and no one will want to read what I have to say. Even if I'm posting on a TV show that was canceled three years ago, a social theory that has as many ill conceived notions as a first-year philosophy paper, or an opinion so unpopular that it'll make the masses scream "WTF!?" at their screens in the night.

Because dammit, New York might be making me bold enough to follow-through with all of those half-formed thoughts that make up most of my life. And even if this blog ends up being my voice thrown out into the universe without cause, support, or reasoning, at least I'll be able to say that I've added to the noise.

So bring it on, city. Bring it on, life. Bring it on, you disappointing looking year of television.

I may not be an artiste, but I still might have something to say.