DA BOIS A STRGL EDT

DABOISASTRGLEDT (phrases) – by Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev

DABOIS, your boy is back again with another phrase to turn your heads. Kind of like Mass Appeal by Gang Starr, but without the gangster part. More about the lyricism, the beauty in only you knowing what you’re up against, and the impossibility of anyone else ever experiencing your life the way you do.

Because art… is life that can’t be replicated – and vice versa

I’m ten days away from my birthday. The trip around Europe is over, and we got home safely.

I’ve got a thousand stories from that journey, most of which deserve a place in the future of this blog.

But today, there’s something more important I need to share: I still haven’t watched My Dinner with Andre.

I know—I know. But even without finishing it, I’ve memorised one sentence from it. One sentence that’s been sitting in me all summer, renting space in my soul and making me think of Andre, Wallace, and, for some reason, Gary Vee.

The quote goes like this:

“I could always live in my art, but never in my life.”

Masterpiece. Literally. Figuratively. Spiritually. Emotionally.

These are the kind of words that don’t just scratch, but leave a wound –followed by a scar (in a good way, though).

I’m 24, scribbling under stars, feeling all the wounds – art’s my pulse, life’s my scar.

I’ve read and heard many things that moved me. But this? This line is haunting.

And I’ve been trying to unpack it all summer long. I’ve thought about Mr Vaynerchuck – someone who talks about kindness and authenticity like gospel. And I believe him. But I also know… his words are his. What they mean to him can’t ever be felt by someone else in the exact same way.

And that’s the thing, right?

Even when we preach love, peace, or pain (it’s ours). Our fingerprint. Our burden. Our creation.

You can understand the surface. Maybe you can try, even imitate it – but you can’t live in it.

Let me not waste your time. Let me get to it.

These words, Andre’s words, hold more than art.

They hold a contradiction. Salvation. Destruction.

That beautiful mess I always call “everything and nothing.”

And today, I want to try to explain what they mean to me. Even though I know I’ll fail. Even though I know I’ll come up short.

Because that’s what expressing yourself is – failing beautifully in public.

You’ve been there, too – pouring your soul into something, knowing no one gets it like you. Let’s crack this open: art’s our fire, life’s the fight that never ends – until it does.

But first, let me welcome you all again to another week with DABOISASTRGLEDT.

Thank you for lending your precious time to this strange little world I’ve built. We may all be going through hell, but I hope this blog becomes a community – one that makes room for more forgiveness, more understanding, and more effort (none of them more or less, but certainly enough and most importantly, willingly).

So, BOIS and GALS, don’t worry: you’re not the only ones struggling.

We’re all in the huddle together.

And if you missed any of the previous editions, you can explore the archive – I got you. In the meantime, here’s the most recent post: Scent of a Woman…

If you like the type of content I’m sharing here, you can definitely check out my daily newsletter for some more interesting twists about different aspects of life (and some free goodies) – Subscribe to My Newsletter.

Europe tour checkpoint: The Czech Republic was great. The next country on our list was Poland, and it was magnificent. We also checked out Slovakia, and now we are in the beautiful capital of Austria – Vienna. Will be in touch.

The Life Within Art

Life is much more than art; it is art itself that can’t be replicated, as stated earlier.

What I incline to is the art of messing up, of learning, of trying, of noticing, of understanding, of being able, of falling, of getting up… again and again. The art of living.

The life we get offers us countless opportunities, even if most of them are hard to come by. And maybe that’s the point – because art, like life, isn’t some curated forest for understanding and creation – nor should it be.

I remember Sofia, ’20, I’m fresh off becoming a 20-year-old guy, spilling poems for a girl who never read ‘em – or even if she did, she probably couldn’t grasp why I wrote what I wrote (that said, back then I used to write some crazy stupid things). Anyway, I thought my words could save her – but it was me who I had to save first. It’s funny how we often try to solve others’ problems and neglect ours, thinking, “That’s the right thing to do.”

Yet that’s the hard path – I mean, not the meaningful hard one (just the painful hard… and often meaningless one). Because we do things we don’t want to do but do them anyway. We convince ourselves that this particular direction is the best one, at least for now. (Of course, that doesn’t apply to everyone, but you get what I’m saying.)

I’ve personally gone through a lot that I’d call creative – not because it was “art,” but because those moments were puzzle pieces that built the collage of my life. If that’s not creativity, then what is?

Was it the times joy or sadness arrived via the people I love? Was it when I was the one who caused that joy – or that pain? Was it the days I knew I was wrong and kept walking that way anyway, silencing the voice that warned me? Or maybe it was the rare, precious moments when I let life carry me – completely, vulnerably, and with a pure heart (which, of course, I didn’t care about and thought were the worst of all… how stupid.)

It doesn’t really matter which moment did what – because they all built me. Sure, our choices shape where we end up. But sometimes, that truth only holds in theory. Sometimes, you can be dead wrong, and still, by some twist of grace, be vindicated. Rewarded. Resurrected by the one time you chose differently.

Of course, I’m not encouraging recklessness. I’m just saying: as a “wise” Bulgarian once said, “When someone knows what’s good for them, only I know what’s good for me.” (That’s a stupid joke, and if it doesn’t make sense to you, that’s absolutely fine.)

And even if you’ve never cared about art, life goes on. It evolves – with or without your permission.

The tragedy is that it can evolve without us… but we can’t evolve without it.

I hope these words speak to you the way they speak to me… but something in me always doubts. (And that is today’s topic.)

No matter who you are, I genuinely believe you hold the capacity to see life beyond what it appears to be. Because life is not a work of art—it’s all works combined. It’s a thing that cannot be replicated. A masterpiece with too many layers, too many contradictions, to be reduced to any single form. Yes, art can be copied – sometimes even convincingly (and let’s not include AI in the conversation.)

But life? Life is messier. Deeper. And infinitely more nuanced.

There isn’t a person on this planet who doesn’t care about their life. But some people hate art.

Not because they really want to. But because they’ve never tried to create something of their own – and then dared to call it beautiful.

Most likely, someone somewhere trashed what they once dared to make. And ever since, they’ve looked for mistakes… in everything. (Which, to be fair, isn’t all bad… as long as they’re not blind to beauty and can openly appreciate it – which is another thing I doubt… but certainly hope for.)

Life is strange. Beautiful. Unfair. Harsh. More than we can ever imagine.

And still, we fence it in. We slap boundaries on it, then forget why we put them there in the first place.

There are people – many of whom I’ll talk about in the penultimate section – who’ve clearly seen more and understood more about life than most. They tried, in their own ways, to pass on what they’d seen. To show us what they believed the world could be.

But just like today’s phrase says, “I could always live in my art, but never in my life.”

In other words, we may try to understand one another. But we’ll never really get there unless we choose to do it. Consciously. Every. Abso-fucking-every. Day. And even then – there are no guarantees. (And even then we probably won’t succeed, but this is not meant to be a discouragement – quite the opposite.)

Art isn’t clout; it’s blood – not literally, but sometimes it could be.

I’ve written my heart out, got misread, and kept writing. I’ve done things I’m not proud of and accepted what I did – even though it took a lot of time – but I forgave myself, and I’m continuing the journey.

I think that if I were born a couple of hundred years ago, I probably would’ve been dead by the time I was my age—but I guess you never know, right?

So what do you think, BOIS and GALS? Let’s play hot and cold.

I believe art is what you choose to feel and do with your capabilities; life’s something you’re given.

Am I close to the truth? Or am I drifting too far off into the weeds?

The Art Within Life

This one’s a little more complicated – or at least it seems that way to me.

Art is much more than life. You can live one life and still experience thousands of forms of art within it. (To me, it’s like a map that navigates me through life’s roads.)

But the truth is, what you experience most deeply – what actually reaches your core – is whatever you’re able to feel and then translate into something others can understand.

No one’s born with art etched into their skin. Sure, history might argue with that, but I’m not here to convince anyone of anything. Some people come with a gift, a talent, something raw and unshaped. Others develop their art through a never-ending desire to learn, to explore, to get better.

The difference doesn’t matter. What matters is the doing. The time, the patience, the practice, and the vulnerability of showing the world what only you can show – knowing that even that might never be enough.

I’ve known unlived love in my life. Some more than others. Maybe I played it safe. Maybe I tried too hard. Either way, I made my choices, consciously or not.

That unlived love shaped me. For some, it confused me. For others, it made it even harder to grasp. They’re both right, and they aren’t right.

But I do know that I regret none of it. Not really (well, maybe a little). The point is, even in the “what could’ve been,” I learned something about myself. In one version, there would’ve been blame and heartbreak thrown at the other. In the version that happened, all of it falls on me (and I carried it).

If nothing else, that’s growth – or at least the belief in what the word “growth” stands for.

Some things are beautiful precisely because they remain untouched. There’s a purity in what’s never realised – because the moment multiple hands try to shape it, it begins to fade. It changes. It rarely regains the raw, blinding glow it once had. Especially not the feeling it gave you the first time.

And this isn’t just about love. I bring it up because it’s the highest form of art a human can experience – especially in terms where art is missing in one’s life. 

As for me, I write. Lately, I’ve tried drawing too, but let’s just say the results have been… humbling. Still, what I write, what I create, is how I perceive the world. That doesn’t mean that’s how the world is. It just means that’s how it feels to me.

Am I getting anything from this expression? Not really, unless you count the fleeting satisfaction of reading my thoughts structured into something coherent. Rereading them, wondering, “Was that real? Or did I just imagine it?”

Either way, it’s mine. And no one else will ever see it quite like I do.

Which brings us back to today’s phrase: “I could always live in my art, but never in my life.”

No matter how many times I’ve tried to explain myself—this isn’t even about my writing; it’s about perception in general—I’ve never felt fully understood. Not once.

And I’ve made peace with that. I’m not seeking understanding – although that’s what I’m really after (it’s just that I do not demand it, nor do I force myself on people). Nowadays, I’m seeking conversations. I search for those who are willing to hear something different and who have something of their own to say back. I think that’s rare.

Yes, probably I sound like a 500-year-old vampire saying that, but still, most people who do speak back want to convince you they’re right. (Which is pointless… and boring.)

So we all live in our own worlds – some by choice, some by necessity. And most people only understand what they want to understand. Which is fine – as long as they’re aware of it. (Please be aware of it… or don’t act offended when you’re told the truth in your face.)

I’m trying to be that kind of person. The kind who knows. The kind who understands himself, even if no one else does. I don’t know how well I’m doing, but I feel like I’m improving. Can I know for sure? Of course I can, but it doesn’t matter. (Except maybe to me.)

Because none of you reading this can truly know who I am. Not here. Not through a screen. All you get are these words. And words are tricky – anyone can write anything. But living what you say and standing behind it? That’s something else entirely.

And that’s not the point anyway. I’m saying all of this because I think it matters. These are things we don’t say often enough. The small things that reveal the bigger picture – that often change whole worlds.

Which again brings us back to today’s phrase: “I could always live in my art, but never in my life.”

Whether I live in my art or out here in the world, I’m not sure it matters. Both places are real. Both are illusions. Which one would I choose? The one that makes me feel more like myself.

One takes me away from people. The other takes me away from myself.

I need both. I can live with one a little more and the other a little less. And maybe every now and then, it’s worth swapping them around.

Andre’s line isn’t just about art – it’s the gap between who you are and who you show. I’ve flopped many times – loved too safe (if I even loved at any point), hid my fire, and regretted it (last two for sure). There’s always someone who is trying to tell you how to live, but all that bullshit talk skips the grit: truth’s that once in a lifetime kind of a road trip (messy, lonely, alive).

DABOIS, how are we feeling today? Got any reactions? Reflections? The real ones? Wanna take this thought experiment a little further?

Let me know. I’d love to hear it. For real, real.

No Matter How Much We Try To Understand, We Could Never

And here comes the part where I want to speak about the giants in the art game. The ones who have given the world so much yet lived so little – at least by the standards of what we now celebrate as “full” lives. Not in the credit-fueled spectacle of consumption that many today parade as meaning. That’s a topic for another time.

These people lived in ways most of us never will. Through pain. Through loneliness. Through feelings yet to be named. They tried to share what they endured – what they carved into their backs, their bones, their words – and we’ve received their messages. But did we truly understand? Or did we just extract what felt convenient to us?

I’m thinking of names worthy of an art Mount Rushmore. Maybe I’ll miss a few – feel free to add your own. Reflect through their art. Try to feel through their eyes. But just know this: it will never be the same as living it.

Let’s explore how today’s phrase, “No matter how much we try to understand, we could never”, and how it echoes through the legacies of the figures I chose.

• The Triumph of the Human Spirit on the Canvas

Think Van Gogh. His brush was more than a tool; it was a lifeline. The late David Lynch once said, “I don’t think it was pain that made him great – I think his painting brought him whatever happiness he had.”

His swirling skies and bleeding yellows weren’t just landscapes; they were raw emotion. Too raw for the world. Too raw, maybe, for him – but his art became a place uncontainably beautiful where everything could bloom despite the madness.

Kahlo, too. Frida Kahlo painted pain in its purest hues. Her canvases bore the weight of shattered bones and splintered love. I remember the first time I heard about her. It was an English class in the 9th grade, and I thought, “How could they put such an ugly lady in a textbook?” (Can you imagine?)

Later, when my hormones weren’t raging as much, I understood that her self-portraits weren’t vanity – they were confessionals. Places where pain could exist safely – similar to my pain (but much more painful). Where she could be seen without needing to explain. Where transformation was possible – not of circumstances, but of the soul.

All of us have moments like that, don’t we? Where creation feels like the only real form of living. When we journal, compose, craft, or cry out, we translate what the everyday never lets us fully process. We carve our truths however we can, however we want – hopefully in a non-destructive way (the world doesn’t need more Richard Ramirez alikes).

• The Brutalist Architecture of the Mind

Now look at minds like Voltaire and Orwell. They didn’t paint or sculpt but constructed mental architecture. Cathedrals of clarity, born in the chaos of their time. Voltaire, with his razor-sharp wit and satire, carved out space for justice and reason. Orwell, with haunting dystopias, dared to bottle political horror in ink, daring us to see what we try so hard to ignore—though nowadays it’s hard to ignore anything… they just stuff it in your face whether you want it or not (but that’s another problem for another time).

Jane Austen built her world, too – quiet, but exact. A dissecting table for social hypocrisy, relationship intricacies, and emotional nuance. Her novels, polite and sharp, exposed a world of contradictions with surgical precision – she’s not a real surgeon (I googled that).

These thinkers didn’t just observe – they created frameworks to live within. I do that too. Through art, reflection, or simply trying to make sense of a world that often defies logic. I try to give myself a structure (however flimsy it may be). A narrative. A worldview. Sometimes it holds. Sometimes I collapse with it. What about you?

• The Very Detailed, Very Tender Sculpture of Self

Michelangelo found the soul beneath marble. He chiselled eternity into stone—it’s as if marble almost resembles the human satin-ish skin. And Rembrandt, through shadow and light, captured not just faces – but internal storms (and what storms those were). These artists didn’t just depict life – they sculpted what life tried to bury.

We’re all doing the same. Slowly. Daily. Carving out identities with every joy, every scar, every lesson. I like to think I’m more in control now that I’ve grown – but maybe that’s just another story I tell myself to sleep easier at night. Nevertheless, we’re all shaping ourselves. You too… even when you’re not trying (then you leave that part to life).

• The Epic Path of Personal Being

Before us, Homer was the one who told the Odyssey and the Iliad. These two epics laid down paths we still walk today – facing fate, wrestling with freedom, and yearning for something greater. They spoke of struggle not as an obstacle, but as a narrative necessity. Suffering was once the raw material of meaning – how did we lose touch with that, hm?

My life has its epics, too. Yours does as well. The question is, are we conscious of them? Are we narrating our lives or just letting them slip by in disconnected scenes?

Kurosawa filmed honour. Tolstoy wrote faith and despair into existence. Seven Samurai. Anna Karenina. They showed us existence as war and as detailed as a teardrop. When I look back – on choices, on consequences – it’s in those reflections, not the events themselves, where the epic lives.

• The Vivid Dreamscapes of the Soul and Its Cage

Then there’s Dostoevsky – torn between belief and nihilism. And Dalí, where clocks melt and logic fades. They travelled the subconscious because reality wasn’t big enough. Their inner worlds spilt out – sometimes grotesque, sometimes divine – but always more than what daily life offered.

I resonate with that. My mind is a strange terrain. Sometimes chaotic, sometimes serene, often scarred. But it’s mine. And I live it most deeply when I write. When I let my thoughts roam. When I make peace with my dreams, fears, and fragments that don’t fit into polite conversation.

Shakespeare ends this Mount Rushmore journey. Because who else could? From Hamlet’s paralysing doubt to Lear’s madness, from Romeo’s naïve passion to Macbeth’s descent into horror – his characters contain us. Every ambition, fear, betrayal, yearning. We act them out daily (often silently). He just made them visible – too visible, and too uncomfortable.

It all comes down to this: you are your own canvas, sculpture, novel, epic, and dream.

What you’ve lived, what you’ve felt, what you’ve survived – those are your materials. The lessons you’ve taken from the giants mentioned aren’t ways out of life, but doorways deeper into it (into yourself).

You may never fully understand what they endured. You may never feel what they felt. But you can create something true from your own struggle. And maybe, just maybe, someone one day will read your words or see your art and feel a little less alone.

That, to me, is the highest form of understanding we can hope for.

You’ve Got One Life: Live It the Way You Want

No matter how I try to say the things I have to say, I still can’t fully express how I really feel – or why I feel that way.

What follows likely applies to you. The truth is, I’m trying to convince you of something – without really trying to convince you. What I mean is there’s so much hidden between the thin lines of life, and only you can understand it the way you do.

I’m guessing (being rather sure) I’m not the only one who’s been in this situation: something happens, I try to explain it to someone, and they look at me like I’m an alien.

People often fail to grasp even the basics of life as it is. So how could they possibly understand the finer details that shape everything else? (Not that I fully do – it’s always a matter of perspective.)

What’s important is this: no one else will ever experience the moment in front of you the way you will. That’s what makes the individual path unique. It’s embarrassing, seriously, when someone thinks they’re special. I mention this just after using the word “unique,” because there is a difference.

People are unique, but they’re not special.

Why do I say that? What exactly makes you special? A certain talent? Fine. The ability to understand something, to do something well? Sure. But everyone has something. So where, exactly, is the “special” in that?

There is none. We’re all human, and as different as we are, we’re the same.

That’s what makes me believe we’re unique: each person can offer a different perspective – or not entirely different, but shaped by their prism. And that can contribute to the community, whether by helping or first hurting. (In the end, everything aims to be constructive. Look at Mr. Trapezoid Moustache… though a little less than a hundred years after, it seems that some people on the upper floors forget what happened.

All jokes aside, that’s also why it’s so easy to live in your art – but not in the real world. What is personal is unrepeatable. Sure, people consume each other’s art – movies, books, music – but my point is, what they experience through it cannot match what the artist felt making it. Even when we try to share our experience, we can’t fully transmit the spirit of it. And that makes complete understanding nearly impossible.

Yet, the energy does get passed on. That’s what makes art – and any personal experience – so meaningful. Even if no one can fully understand it, they will still try… in their own way.

That alone makes it matter. (Again, I hope what I’m saying makes some sense – and that these aren’t just words written in vain.)

I don’t think there’s a better way to wrap up everything I’ve said today.

And by tradition – it’s time for the usual pair: a poem and a haiku.

Life = Art / Art ≠ Life… ∞ (poem)

Like violins that lead the ultimate symphony,
life is a song of sorrow with a beat harmonic.
Each night, I dream in a fractured castle of glass;
each dawn, I turn my doubts into another chance.

How can I speak if no one cares to hear?
Life is a movie — unedited, raw premiere.
No script to follow, just blurred-up scenes.
I zig-zag. I fall. I’m half-whole. I try. I see.

Breathe in, breathe out — did Caligula feel shame?
I’m human — neither god, nor noble… just plain.
A philosopher by choice, like Marcus the ruler,
a sinner-blessed who doesn’t seek any approval.

No truth is pure. Perfection is just another lie.
All breaks, all bends, all floats and passes by.
What’s mine is mine; what’s theirs — theirs to keep.
One flight descends. Another one rises and proceeds.

Life is an Odyssey: a blend of darkness and light;
of endurance, of intent — where fate’s the only guide.
Values trade hands. Loyalties are few —
what is home, if no one welcomes you?

Peace wears war paint. Freedom chains the soul.
The rebel has a cold, but he’ll fight until he’s “cold”.
Life is both gift and curse — a gemstone, a paradox.
Strong are the veins where foolish passion walks.

Peasants and warriors — who’s honest, who’s not?
They build empires from ashes, bound only by oaths.
Seven are the samurais, each with wounds unique,
with effort, with courage — justiful victory they seek.

So much wrath has soaked the sands with blood;
fate, love, and grief are etched in Iliad’s timeless rub.
Poems and histories mirror mankind’s spirit ill —
small, hidden details are ending worlds with a flick.

And David stands — no less than any king…
Courageous, graceful, wise — he doesn’t flinch.
The weak hold power; he who sees afar, he wins.
Michelangelo carved that truth into a marble skin.

Think thoroughly. Treat others the way you gift a gift.
Freedom wears a veil — often strangling the swift.
Is art a release, or just a trap we selfishly missed?
The captain steers the ship — the choice is to resist.

The answers are many… scattered everywhere.
Anna’s no caricature: oh, she lives; oh, she dares.
Pain, filth, moral weight; delusion and truth —
life is a play, the salvation… a pill of doom.

Or maybe Prince Myshkin — Christlike, but flawed —
a fool declared, for being kind, naïve, too soft.
Society expels those who refuse to wear their mask —
the honest bear the hardest of all… truest task.

In some warped world where clocks dissolve,
time drips like yolk — no meaning, none… at all.
Reality folds, time constantly flows but never waits —
it starts, it ends… it bends, then suddenly breaks.

And somewhere still, upon the eternal stage,
stands Hamlet, trapped in doubt… in rage.
Madness, guilt, conscience, shattered intent;
the richest, the sinful — innocent, not dead.

Life is pure art, and art — an endless galaxy.
To live is to act; to create — a constant heresy.
To understand is to wear your chains by choice —
I am a ghost in flesh, with caring human voice.

No soul stays whole inside a common frame —
we’re inmates of our weakness, not our name.
What is a world, where “normal” means no thing?
You are the whole filming crew — the same old kid.

P.S. We’ll all remain misunderstood —       
each crazy, not mad; it’s all good.
        Life’s a revolver, its bullets — messengers:
        Will you fire… or first aim at the relevant?

A Thirst For Meaning… (haiku)

My strange days, I live
in a world that sees me not —
until silence falls.

But Andre’s truth still stings: I can’t live life like art, raw and free. Struggle – the intentional one – is a switchblade: art may be the voice, but life doesn’t care what you have to say, so say it anyway; the echo transcends through time… someone, somewhere will still hear you.

I tried to express everything I could on the subject, though I’m sure there’s more to say – there always is. (Although I just went over 5,000 words, which is about 11 pages… so yeah.)

Hopefully, you found yourself somewhere in these words. Hopefully, something in what I wrote sparked a thought, inspired a feeling, or gave you a reason to live more fully.

By now, it should be clear: You can’t truly live in the common world the way you live in your personal one.

And there should be nothing wrong with that.

Life is like a woman, the real kind, I mean: unpredictable, fascinating, and endlessly irritating – some days more, some days less.

What matters is giving all of you (fully) to every moment in front of you.

Whether you get hurt… whether it makes sense.

Not to follow blindly, but to focus entirely.

Moment by moment.

Whether I’m wrong or right, as always… I leave that up to you.

Struggle is inevitable, no matter what you choose to do. Therefore, choose wisely.

You are God on earth (not technically, but you get the idea).

I’m a beat-poet fool painting stars on the ceiling of his cage.

Be well. Find peace. Express yourself. You can.

The WORLD is (Y)OURS!

Yours sincerely,
Ivaniel “Misunderstood-Until-the-Very-End” Georgiev