The Spice

How strange that no one ever agrees on taste! Arguing tastes is so frustrating. Sure, you can learn all the theory in the world and construct flawless arguments about film or art or whatever else, but these arguments do not convince people away from their own favoritism. I try to stray from personal tastes a little bit on this ‘blog, though it is ultimately unavoidable. I like to avoid personal taste and opinion because, for some reason, a lot of us take differing tastes too seriously.

Everybody has the experiences where something one holds so dear to the heart is seen as less significant, or even garbage, in the eyes of another. Real problems only occur when those “inferior” tastes interfere with one’s ability to choose or succeed with one’s own opinion and path in life. You know, when one’s creative talents are stunted because everyone around oneself doesn’t like a certain element (for example, the mere aesthetic, the mere packaging) of one’s creative output. Or when everybody else is threatened by its success.

I feel like bigotry and ethnocentrism work in a similar pattern. Socially, everything is always nice and groovy when there is a large amount of distributed wealth in a community or nation. In economically successful communities, only psychos or people with low self-esteem or punk kids are bigoted hate-mongers. But what happens when there is an economic crisis? Any identifiable cultural or ethnic differences, they become serious arguments for stomping out a connected group within the whole! Lessen the competing groups or individuals!

But success only comes with innovation, change, variety — with something new. And the only reason it looks glorious when other people succeed or do something well is because you’re not pursuing what you love. When people settle or compromise their lives too much, really they’re giving up the ghost.

As they say: variety is the spice of life.

Warm are the breezes;
Grass grows in sunny meadows,
Listen!
Listen, there pipes the nightingale…
I will sing:

High up there in dusky mountain forests,
Cold snow melts and oozes;
A maiden in a grey dress
leans against a damp oaktree;
Her cheeks are ill,
The grey eyes burn
Through the dusky, giant tree trunks.
“He doesn’t come yet. He’s making me wait”…

Die!
The one dies while the other lives:
That makes the world so deeply beautiful.

–Alfred Mombert/Warm die Lüfte

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