(un)expected

I was talking with an old friend the other night. We were talking about art and expectation. He claims that all artists create for an audience. Even if they aren't consciously aware of it, nothing is solely for themselves. It's always to be seen.

It made me think for a moment because I could not disagree, yet I could not agree totally either. For me, when I write something or when I make something I don't do it for the audience. I do it for the potential of an audience. Everything exciting is in the potential. Often what is actualized is disappointing. That moment right before a first kiss--that's golden.

So it's had me thinking about expectations. Mostly how expectations ruin all sorts of situations. Either they are too high, and are not met or are too low. If they are too high they bring with them disappointment. If they are too low they bestow resentment. Not to mention the weight of them.  Aren't we all heavy enough already?

 I recently met with a financial advisor to help me manage the money my father left for me in his estate. I had no expectations. I had no desire to be there. The fluorescent lights and dropped grid ceiling clashed in an unseemly juxtaposition with the oil rubbed leather and mahogany furniture. It was disconcerting.  I had nothing but a folder with my tax returns and the sum of my father's life boiled down to a bank account number. It was fucking depressing.

I guess I did expect that.


Speaking of depressing, I've been reading Wuthering Heights again, and Im not ashamed to admit its only because of Twilight (which I also reread not long ago, what of it?). I like it. I do. There's not one good character in the whole book really, everyone is horrible, and selfish, or cowardly and more like real people than just about any other story I've read recently.

"...he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome...but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same..."--Emily Bronte

I really liked that quote there though, about how they're the same. Her love for him isnt based on how he looks, its not shallow. It's in her blood, its part of who she is.

It's such bullshit.

I love it.

I love you.

Goodnight.