To Be Continued

Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.

Note that I do not nod to the creative process, nor the feelings of The Artist, here. The emotion generated by The Artist and the emotion generated by The Voyeur are two entirely discrete sensations, and it is those of the latter which have been on my mind.

The Voyeur. The powerful, lustful, ever-cunning Voyeur.

Pleasant or unpleasant, it doesn't matter to The Voyeur; one set of emotion is just as desirable as the next when we're talking about creative response - any emotion at all is a distinct check in the column of 'win'.

Distinct as they are, each their own association and yet still often each other's, this 'pleasant' and that 'unpleasant'... the distinction is of no mind to The Voyeur. The only jones that must be fed is the howling lust for some kind of emotion, as The Voyeur bores all too easily. The lack of caring at all, the void where desperation for evocation exists will, if ignored, eventually lead to distinct disgust. Nothing offends The Voyeur so effectively as boredom. Still, the end result? This distinct disgust? Emotion. Therefore effective... yet the path to that end is worthless, as The Voyeur's disgust is shameful when it is not earned.

I've digressed.

Writing, like any art, is only effective when it evokes emotion.

When my own Voyeur read Matt's writings on U2's The Joshua Tree, the lump in my throat insisted that I pay attention, reminding of that time of innocence. And fear. And pressure. A familiar, the lump wasn't new and unknown and revolting; no. It was interesting and provocative. It made me feel. I discovered that this album, which I have never owned, has a very concrete association with time and events nearly twenty years dead.

They were strange days, those. Strange days indeed...