One can reasonably expect to be disenchanted, angry, or callously indifferent when faced with the oeuvre of a prolific artist. There can be no coping with such a legacy. Bob Dylan is lost to me. Even if a life is spent excavating and distilling the essence of one person’s lifetime-output it can be concluded that another individual’s works are at the same time going unnoticed, getting moldy in some basement or else suffering the ignominy of zero-hit & zero-comment in an online archive. It’s a natural and unavoidable assumption that there is just as much manna going to waste when you embark upon specificity, when you write that first outline of your thesis proposal.

The answer then is to do nothing yourself, or at the most, very little.

But of course do it publically and in a grand fashion. This means the collective output of humanity might one day become manageable and graspable to all. True collective wisdom is at stake. We must acknowledge the failures of the past – failures that in no way rely upon the content and ideas raised in various works and discourses, but instead failures that may be adjudged as such by weight of their weight. In short, ideas remain opaque to the majority because of abject authorial prolificity. One must be against this; all must be against this. We need not advocate a burning of books, but instead just a gradual turning of the eyes. Forget the writers who wrote a lot, the musicians who lived a long time, and the artists with ‘phases’. (All unnecessarily long blog-postings should be resolutely ignored too.) When we come to a consensus on this matter it seems inevitable that world peace shall follow, consumerism – the feted cause of a material world war 3 – being nothing but the awkward desire for a more prolific, multi-faceted sense of self. I look forward to the day.

Just as everyone looks forward to the arrival of truly intelligent post-avant hip-hop, or a paradoxical segue that gets warmer the longer you linger over it. The majority of commercialized packages of the hip-hop genre (I speak of it broadly, generally, and without research) maintain the boring status-quo of a long gender imbalance. The vociferous male rapper rages through verse after verse of unintelligent stereotypical drivel, that is nevertheless, fascinatingly wordy, and even rhythmic to the point of being nuanced. Words come at a rate of knots until the sound-bite chorus loop. Typically, here you are given the beautifully wistful female vocal – she won’t ‘say’ much, but she sure is pretty (thereby effective). The male is wordy, aggressive and angst-ridden in his daft language-doubt; the woman is silently beautiful and practical (calm) because she understands the essence of communication, like perfume. Same old same old. Post-avant rappers will recognize this perpetuation of the prolificty myth and rectify it. Perhaps they already have. Bugger epiphany.

Everything will be said in a more concise manner by everyone. And everyone shall be poets, and we shall all be able to share in the theories that matter. Like this one. There will be an upsurge in the popularity of irony and online random-essay-generators. Topics, like search-strings, will abound.

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