Frothy moon.
Just outside the domed enclosure. Not a cloud in sight. Yet up against the glass, the floating lobe of light lingers in the distant. My thoughts take me through Pink's album. The refracted light. The rainbow path. The existence of echoes.
The lunatic stands on the grass, peering out into his new understanding. Awaiting the moment when no-one is looking towards his escape. Did we all get exiled? Did Eve do Adam wrong? Or was it just another tall tale to tell the children?
Well It’s finally here. another year, and just wanted to look shortly back at the tiny things that happened this past year. A ton of growth, and rollercoaster of a ride. So where to begin? How about the gift? Yes, let’s work backwards.
First, the art show, and the gift. This year got to be part of this tiny group show/pop up market, with a tons of great artists. Which I’ll leave links to their instagrams for your perusal. The theme was “I’ll be home for Krampus”, and I took it to that Krampus place. Bringing back my Defecters’ series, and introducing, who might just one of the great defecters of our age. Ole Krampus himself.
The show ran all day on the 15th of December, and it was quite a success, in so many ways. Not just the amount of people who came through, but also the,“events” within the “event,”, such as musical chairs, a small ritual for the Krampus gods, and some interactive performance pieces.
The gift, which was given to me by a young artist, Maria-Teresa Bernard, caught me by surprise. It was part of a project she did for school many years ago. She was asked to do something with a living artist, and chose me and my painting “Harmonic Resolution,” for the project!!!! Yes, I got the feels. She also did a copy of the piece, and wrote a little note. which I will post a pic of, once I get a good photo of it. (ugh lighting). Well that and my camera phone is currently cracked.
So, onwards, to the show. Lots of artists in a room sharing and hanging out and telling their tales to one another. The story builds from here.
Henry Miller once said, "an artist is always alone- if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness". It took me some time to realize this, as I am now writing these very words on digital paper. My fingers touching two piano keys at a time. A skip across the middle of the sea to the place where the bass clef live. Mescal, and habanero bitters remind me of a strange night not too long ago. I was in a bar, sitting next to her. Watching her laugh. A simple gesture, and she leaves as usual. This time, I follow to the door, and stop her in her tracks. She did always make a grand exit. Kissing everyone on the way out. I, usually entrapped by the muses, but for this measure before the coda, free of their restraints.
Music can cause hyperthermia. I once thought it only gave one warmth, but alas, even strings and winds of wood can't save drifters and draftsmen from their demise. Two fingers, now three, playing the chords, with
words hanging off the deep end of the memory of another melody. So where am I going with all of this? Well for one, I am happy that my laptop has no autocorrect. Novels of the fututre are written using this method. Instead of following in Burrough's footsteps, books, are produced like albums for the churchless masses.
Television seems to take that away. i spent the last three years in front of a smaller screen, working away ideas, and researching stories and visuals to match personal visions. That was up until my computer crashed. Burnt out. Went to that permanent place of eternal digital sleep.
No more screen saving,
when the show ends,
our story begins.
In all that quiet,
amongst the whirring exhaust,
and distant fans clapping immortality.
I sing the body electric sheep,
two fingers tapping,
below the middle of the sea.
Within the elegant touch,
a tremble of memory remains,
skin to skin, seen through centuries.
I weep for agression,
Tornadoes cause no harm to the eye,
Enter the tunnel vision quest at your own expense.
The dream was weird. The television was on in the living room. There were children in the foyer playing. I was on the couch at my sister's apartment. The commercial was a double exposure of a caribbean travel destination, mixed with different point of view shots of women performing fellatio.
Read MoreSome people like dirt.
Some people like sky.
Some people like fire.
Some just like to cry.
Some people cold inside.
Some the warmth outside.
some there shoelaces untied.
Some there eggs fried.
Some people like religion.
Some people like pride.
Some of them restitution.
Some of them lied.
Sometimes some or other likes words.
Sometimes some like something sweet.
Sometimes some like some or other
Sometimes some enjoy defeat.
Sometimes some of us like another.
Sometimes, someone who likes another.
Somehow fits into this cupboard.
Sometimes grimm, sometimes hubbard.
Someone told me people like.
Sometimes some like to hit like.
Some of them like to look at hits.
Sometimes look at art, food, tits.
Somewhere else people like to follow.
Some give a like to get a like back.
Some just follow to be followed.
Some just ghost, some just hack.
Some like phoney camera television
Some like text read play
Some people like rbg
Some of us cmyk
Somewhere people like to kindle.
Some of us like to ignite.
Some live to read.
Some live to have something to write.