The Anti-Calendar isn’t a planner. It’s a brick through the window of what’s expected and if you go back to the 70s when the punk movement came about…
This is punk but for your art.
It’s a middle finger to the algorithm of what’s deemed normal in today’s society.
You know? That greasy hamster wheel of football games, trending hashtags, and microwave relationships served on social media paper plates.
Your art is a vampire. It doesn’t live in daylight. Doesn’t give a soggy fuck about brunch dates, Netflix binges, or whose corpse is currently propped up on the throne of pop culture.
Your job? Feed it your time. Your rage. Your silence. Your goddamn marrow.
Here’s an example of an Anti-Calendar…
It’s football season? Let the normies bark at screens. You? Carve paragraphs from the static.
New video game dropped? Your friends can grind XP. You’ll grind pigment into canvas until your hands look like a crime scene.
Latest TV obsession? Let them simp for plot twists. Twist your own stories.
Romance? Love is a distraction wearing a thong. Fuck it. Fuck them. Fuck everything that isn’t the work. (I learnt this the hard way recently…)
But… (There’s always a but, like a goat head in your boot.)
The Anti-Calendar isn’t a cult. You don’t have to live in a cave chewing on roots and your own bitterness. Burnout is a bastard with a flamethrower. So here’s the caveat… Sacrifice, don’t suffocate.
In the beginning? You amputate distractions. Carve away the fat of other people’s priorities.
But once your art has teeth. Once it can hunt for itself. You loosen the leash. Take a night off. Watch the game. Fuck the person. Taste the dopamine.
Balance isn’t a sin. It’s a tactic. You’re not a machine (though machines break too.) You’re a thief, stealing time from a world that wants you numb.
It’s about prioritising your art, cause if you the average life span is 80 years old. I don’t have many years left.
Stephen Walker
https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom