You're only artsy if you kill yourself--that's hot.

Late last December, UniqueDaily.com posted up the Top 10 Reclusive Artists. Their list is as follows:

   10. Cormac McCarthy
   9. Terrence Malick
   8. Bill Watterson
   7. Harper Lee
   6. Emily Dickinson
   5. Stanley Kubrick
   4. Syd Barrett
   3. Thomas Pynchon
   2. Greta Garbo
   1. J.D. Salinger


Whether or not you agree with this list is debatable. Personally, I don't consider an artist a true recluse unless he or she commits suicide. There's no better way to pursue seclusion than to disappear from the world entirely, leaving behind all of one's organic remains of course. Unless one requests cremation as to pulverize anything human about the body. But even then, requesting cremation would require contact with the outside world. Not to mention that once cremated, one's ashes have a better chance of being distributed, which would further deter from complete seclusion. Is it possible to annihilate one's remaining matter completely? We've been taught that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Though I suppose that we can juxtapose such matter with anti-matter to completely destroy oneself + remains, assuming that one has access to it. Does accepting the absurd start to become absurd at any point?

I was recently involved in a fling with one I might describe as a tortured artist. Intelligence, talent, and freedom from normative inhibitions are qualities that often breed attraction and intrigue from those who observe. The departure from norms adds a sort of mystique to such a persona. In short, yes, some musicians are hot by virtue of their artistic capabilities and tortured souls (Note: SOME). No, I'm not a groupie. And no, I don't cry when Dashboard Confessional comes up on my iPod. And yes, I do own Dashboard Confessional music.

I normally try to avoid anything that smells insincere, especially men who try too hard to enamor women with their status, profession, and/or godly physiques. It's just not cute--save it for the bro-hos and dimwits, please.

And yet, something about the tortured, reclusive artist keeps me interested. (No, I'm not insinuating that tortured artists pose insincerity. I'm merely implying that some try pull off the persona for the sake of appearances.) Perhaps it's a puzzle that I feel demands my attention to be solved (as if you can solve a person). I can't help but wonder what's behind those wild, unruly eyes. Give me a hint of crazy and I want more. Maybe I'm a little crazy too and crave something similar, as to provide me with some sort of insight into my own sporadic, misunderstood reclusivity.

Before you jump the gun and assume that this man is just playing me, fine--I'll admit that this is a possibility and hence quite problematic for my ego. Yet, despite popular belief that I'm a radical feminist/man-hater, I do believe that there are some men who offer redeeming qualities, thereby providing some salvation to the rest of their gender.

So what's a girl to do? I'm not worried. I think that the beauty in these kinds of relationships is the ephemerality of it all. It's all so short-lived, that all one can do is enjoy it for its current value. Never mind all the strings attached because there are none.

Freedom lies in letting go of worldly attachments and accepting consciousness as a prize in itself. Yet suddenly, I feel like cutting (ok, terrible joke and total misuse of an otherwise elegant concept--duly noted).

Enjoying the beauty in my day off from work,
Shopgirl.