So, instead of writing what I actually want to write, I talk in snippets about how I never am writing, perhaps metawriting. I do not proclaim to be a writer, and I take fastidious care to write so complexly as to never convince anyone otherwise. Though, a writer is just someone who writes, and in a less literal sense, someone who is paid for it. After all, being a writer does not seem to connote actual skill, but perhaps a certain connection to the spirit of writing, which is now a very romantic word for the hegemonic 'publishers.'
There is a certain sadness that is felt by anyone who sees something referred to as 'art' when it is manufactured for a profit. Somehow profit, or the drive towards it, ruins at least what 'good art' is believed to be. It makes eminent sense as a business model, but I think it speaks to the truth that money is aesthetically and emotionally meaningless. I'm not saying that money is bad, actually, I'd enjoy making a lot of it if I could. No, it just seems that to really desire something like money is antithetical to desiring art.
My thought is pretty simple: if you hold money as a top priority, any benefit beyond yielding more money is of mere consequence. Indeed, the point of anything that calls itself a 'business' is to focus mainly on generating revenue. Though, this raises a curious question since most organizational bodies in this country that have any clout are businesses. If most of human energy is expended to generate more money, then is most of what we value--which is rarely money--merely of consequence? Is our ability to grow and learn secondary to our utility?
But isn't our utility derived from further growing and learning?
A paradox, perhaps a tragedy.
Work on, then sleep.