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Sunday, October 11th, 2009
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the atmosphere shifted today. literally, quite literally. the necks on my basses both bent up weird. the walls of a scale model shrunk. go figure: the space that wall is supposed to go into shrunk too--it's only 29 feet, not 30 like any decent person would expect. really--why would you go to the trouble of designing a gallery and make it 29 feet square, not 30?
the atmosphere is shrinking.
i know the gallery didn't shrink. i measured wrong or didn't measure at all, and just assumed. well, it's hard to make an ass out of a space (although it has been done), so it all falls to me. so much for models, i should have just started working right into the space. i'd be half done by now. instead: a pile of paper, a scale model, empty beer cans, a pencil with many bite marks in it.
but the atmosphere! for a moment it was comparable to a perfect fall day in new york. thank you, atmosphere! keep up the good work, even if i do have to adjust my basses and scale models for warpage.
(the scale model business is for serious. i glued a strip of slide-sized images on transparency to the wall to make it look like pictures were hung or something. next thing i know today and the little strip of plastic is buckling out from the (miniature) wall! i know the plastic is heat and moisture stable, so IT MUST BE THE WALL. but seriously, foamcore is not supposed to do that...~1/8 of an inch over 12 inches of length??? considering how similar the construction of contemporary structures is to foamcore, everyone best watch their walls.)
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Friday, February 20th, 2009
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all i really miss is the feeling that, any time of the day or night (but expecially the night), a walk around would not only be entirely possible but also rewarding.
that and the subterranean jungle subway.
here i could walk but there's nowhere to go, nothing to see, boring boring boring. what a strange thing: all this space and nowhere to wander.
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Tuesday, January 27th, 2009
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i've written too many "lyrics" without sounds to go with (any excuse not to call it a poem). now the words get their revenge? just can't write like that now; the rhythm that there was, lost of it now. the excuse is defunct. time to face the music. ach!
Now look, that wasn't too bad. not even plotted too hard to be immediate. so the compass needle in range of geological magnetic anomaly (big xhunk of a magnetrock, embedded in the land) s'points all off, s'no use eh? no, compensate the reading. if there is no reading (there is no reading), then off to do the reading. recalibrate. reverse the flow of taxonomic responsibility (flow of traffic on a stretch of road if you like, between two cities both each of which think it is the better, tandem slalom pro drivers open course if you take my meaning no cones (only a spontaneous shift in the common understanding of the direction of a road and an exception that becomes the (of and also not the becomes you mightathought first) norm)). yeah. moving around these misalligning magnetrocks (all of it)--you guide the compass now.
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Friday, December 26th, 2008
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dis whole earth be a diamond
floating ashes out the window
to live and die in disney
look away, look away
the spinz'l dyin disney
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Friday, October 31st, 2008
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oh hey, bleaching the shit outta my hair. you heard it here first.
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Wednesday, October 29th, 2008
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1. moved my clock. this was really just fallout from having moved my bed (inadvertently closer to the clock). it's no good to be able to reach the clock from the bed--this is manifestly proven by failure to attend 9 o'clock class today (yesterday...whatevs).
2. looked over, just now, to check the time (because it's latelatelate). clock had moved, and i stared at the empty spot for some while. imagining the alarm, that will be going off too soon, emanating from the old location. "BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!" Good! the surprise of it coming from it's new place across the room now will be a shock and a wakeywake incentive. try not to think about the inevitable one-upping of the sleep technology that will cause me to persevere in dozing through the alarm wholesale one day in the bright future of alarms across the room and its counterpart "beds that are too warm to leave even if said alarms call out forever in my ear."
3. a beer. must quell flight of ideas and ceaselessly roving tongue for a sleepy-while. "tzip-crack!"
4. can't stop thinking about bicycle(s...mine, other's, abstract bicycles, one i see in the street that is pretty, etc.). reading about bicycles has replaced scouring crackpot political news, even. as long as i can roll, my intention is to avoid walking at all costs. research indicates that the cost of bicycle obsession can be quite substantial, however. luckily, cost of current bicycle was zero not counting time invested in scrounging parts, building bike, and endless tinkering (...but that was all the good clean fun you can have getting greasyfilthy anyway). bicycles, i am convinced, want to be free. too bad this means you have to lock them up. Praise be to the bike co-op, bestower of parts and tools! as a side note:
Doppler "clickclickclickclickclick"
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Tuesday, October 14th, 2008
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Perhaps you've heard the phrase "continuance of government" floating around these days? In short, it's a plan--scheme, plot, whatever--to force the shadowy mechanism of (American, in this case) government through an epic crisis in order to maintain "leadership" capabilities despite widespread disorder and collapse.
I don't want to talk about that though.
Instead, I would like to propose a co-option of the idea, a détournement. Let's plan for "continuity of art." Honestly, we're probably past the point where it is appropriate to ask "what if" a crisis should occur. Innumerable crises are spilling over right now. We must now turn to "when" and "during" and most importantly cast a forward-looking eye to "after."
When an artisan of ages past departed a job (especially when leaving under unfavorable circumstances--quitting-not-amicably or being fired), they might have been said to "pack up their tools." What is implied here is that in losing a job, they are not losing their art. The tools are theirs to use where they can. The idea here, bringing this up in the context of art-in-exodus, is that our artistic practice should never be allowed to depend entirely on the largess of institutions or hierarchies. Planning to continue art necessitates the acquisition of one's own set of artistic tools.
What do you need to make yr art? This is not really a theoretical question--you will always have inspiration and the making of art is assured as long as we are living, by any means. That is what it comes down to: a practical question, that of MEANS. Imagine an extreme set of circumstances. These circumstances place at risk or destroy the support systems you have come to rely upon to provide access to the means of artistic practice--continuous and reliable electricity, schools or jobs that allow you to use their magnificent equipment and facilities, a permanent home for yr music gear (and yrself!), professionals to supply materials of known quality and maintain the things that are too complicated for you to repair yrself.
What tools do you use? What tools do you need? How many of those tools are only lent or rented to you? How many of yr tools depend on infrastructures that may cease to support them/you? Do you know how to make yr own tools and supplies? See what I mean?
Skate towards where the puck is going to be, not where it is now. If you are left with nothing but yr voice and a stick to scratch in the dirt, will you even be able to make the art that expresses yr outrage or will you just pound the earth and scream at the thought of what you can no longer realize? The point is not to think of what you can do with yr voice and a stick, but how you can prevent yrself from ever ending up in such a creatively disenfranchised situation.
I don't want to sound so preachy, but I really think it's worth thinking about. You can eke out a living any old way, but it will always be better if you can make art and worse if you can't. If shit gets truly awful, then do you really want to be trapped without the means to art? It's already dissatisfying to me to have a certain amount of my creativity exercised in the shadow of being beholden to institutionally held facilities, not to mention the rigidly associated ways of thinking and making. Even though this is probably a dead horse by now it bears repeating that art is not just a way to make suffering bearable or put things in a better light or fly upon escapist fancies. It is also a strong alternate vocality, one of the most powerful tactics you can use, and is possessed with a strange factor of social union that may not be a thing to be Known but is nonetheless nothing to be underestimated. Make sure you can keep making it.
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Monday, September 29th, 2008
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two aborted LJ comments later, i realise i have Nothing Good To Say (TM). so it's time to post:
Microwave Theater > political theatre
fear ? hate (toss-up, decision pending)
beer < signs (all signs point to beer)
blacklight < fluorescent < incandescent
(but there's little choice in the matter
all with the lesser of available evils
and the temptation of slippery slopes)
Now One For The Audience:
pack overlap--do you or don't you?
[potential litmus test]
nested interest: i always liked that word, LITMUS.
vested interest: personal validation of pseudo-hoarding
requests to the bandstand:
teehee
would you stage a cash-burning?
no(./?)
why, (shhh)it will burn itself!
(sic)[apathetichic]
also, it's already been done.
K Foundation Burnt a Million Quid
already still burning on film--
no need to compete
in terms of oxygen
much less gathering [li]quid
assets
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Wednesday, September 3rd, 2008
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| Time: | 2:55 am. |
| Music: | head echos. |
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(alt text: "dang")
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Thursday, July 10th, 2008
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ach, rereading yrself is hard. ha(r)d to respeak, record in voice some of this old shit. yes, there is merit. maybe one day; maybe sometime soon--rework, rewrite, release. ex(er)cise clouded memory, DO NOT THROW THIS AWAY. "i haven't yet."
i dunno if it's healthy to return to that state of mind. but it's more valuable than just a record. make it something, dammit! don't let that old exploded-on-the-launchpad shit claim a 3x6x6 patch of its own. anything that can make a scream from that far back doesn't deserve to be buried yet? OLD BUT NOT COLD
what a bunch of confusing shit. bad to revisit, worse to ignore.
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this room snaps to attention
and it's noteven meant to entertain
yr supposed to ignore it?
there was a movie where that was turned on its head.
bathrooms, i am always passing through you.
tonight, i will linger and pretend that the
antechamber (?)
to a shower stall is as good a place as any to write
in and about?
( Read more... )
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Wednesday, April 23rd, 2008
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Saturday, April 19th, 2008
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she sprawl that
good confined hand
in the shade;
to pass upon my head
unexpectedly
in the wreck of
afternoon, please stop the clock.
oh fuck please, don't be a joke!
unasked an answer in semaphore
with quite gratitude
colossus she, infective
striding pace; abreast
i follow and she catches up
in turn we're face to face
--all shameless smiles
a various time
passed giddily away
(the title)
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Thursday, April 17th, 2008
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close the window. inside it smells more like me that like cigarettes. this is good. me is a lot of things here.
emissive, residual--body; laundry, faintly; that same light remaining wink of a fuckyou from the bins' couch--a cat is also saying fuckyou through it; the scent i introduced to the air to make everything more of a dullroar, not my word(s); heat, still; that is all the smell of it i don't know it i recognize it it is nothing but it is there. heat smell is wavering air.
late reading, in the sense of there's little time to do it. not it's already late, but it wants to be.
no point in putting anything on the walls only to take it down. soon enough? mixed countdowns and apprehension of course that comes and can't be helped. and goes, and can't be helped and it'll be something else and then again it won't. hopefully something else. hopefully something else
a mantra? not helpful. lend me focus, give me per-severance! times six, one half gone already. choke on words. and that cursed the next sentence to deletion. end it here, do it now. sounds dire, but keep it to a context. get through.
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Tuesday, April 15th, 2008
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time is short. feeling enormous and hollow, a tree long past seasons making its way back underground. squinty. sunny but cold. at once the wind is facing you; moving, doing anything brings resistance. --yr cigarettes smoke too fast, and unevenly.
smile and wave. lean on things and shift from one foot to the other. the appearance of a destination is crucial, when up against the wall becomes uncomfortable. say nothing, smile, and wave, and go elsewhere. let the first step fall upon the butt tossed judiciously ahead half a pace unbroken.
pan up into the branches. a bike with no hands. building a sense of just being along for the ride. a brief pause in the fretful narration--the sound of the chain clicking away on wonky gears. still the wind and its too much exertion! cut loose a look down to check if the tire's flat. hands on.
cinematic and other cliche images of impending. beads fall from a strand, calendar pages whipped away, nothing is not staccato. incessantly tapping on things. maybe it's anatomical morse code--an uneasy thought that had to be smuggled into expression.
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onlyvalidinink's journal
physical gold.