In defense of hipsterism. True hipsters? They’re artists, they’re entrepreneurs. They can’t be classified, goddamnit: they’re oddballs. They care about our environment (thus the old tee shirts and tote bags and buying less and direct-trade coffee, and enjoying it for-here)…which has never been cool, except for 2004-2005. True hipsters care more about quality of life and how they spend their dollars than being rich or getting things or shopping. So remember: the original definition of hipster predates even Jack Kerouac’s angel-headed hipsters of the late ’50s, and goes back to the early days of wild, free, crazy, fully-feeling jazz. The original hipsters were anything but cool: they were hot, vulnerable, passionate, wild…they went all-in on life…they let it blow (as Kerouac said) all the way. The original hipsters studied Thoreau and Zen and the Bhagavad Gita and practiced yoga atop a shed atop a mountain atop Big Sur and cried and sang and drank too much and did all manner of things, because it’s impossible to catalog the activities of a group defined only by what it searches for, not what it has found. By its warm individuality, not its cold conformity……..Waylon Lewis
playing with the miraculous and wildly rich inner life that oozes out into the day to day routine is about being fit and fearless as a soul warrior….this is our unsung originality and fierce expressive expansion…..may you never know the wretched well of deep complacency…
Among other changes, I want to rediscover a feeling of fearless love, toward life and toward myself and toward the passion and willingness to be vulnerable and caring that have led to the best things in my life. Somewhere along the line, fear sneaked in, snatched that away, and sabotaged the good. I want it all back. Here is where I am taking direction, from a paint can. Painting, both walls and the self, is a messy process. No matter how it got there, you are responsible for the gunk and grime in the walls you live in. Simply covering up what is currently showing does not work. Whitman understood this- that life, art and emotion are inherently messy. I never understood that beauty develops precisely because of, not despite, the fractures we experience. Your heart does not belong in a fruit bowl alongside oranges and apples. It is vibrant. It contradicts itself. Painting your self and throwing your colors onto life is less about absolute fidelity to detail and more about capturing and coming to peace with that interplay of contradictory multitudes……Patrick Linder
Where did I come from,
and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober.
Meanwhile, I’m like a bird from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord,
and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.