Skip to main content

international arrival (wastrel and the sand)

it apostrophy is... 

Statement of Intent: I'm tired of working for my gravy. I'm going to do another thing. I'm going to stop keeping notes and pictures. I'm going to open up my room instead. I'm going to hide my bed in the corner. I'm going to harness this big big power of my look. I'll be evident, I'll be the sad misanthrope last seen standing on the dusty floor below the music. The lights will be grim. They will be cold and unflinching lights, blinking at me like a gut knife in the panic. 

This is not a chemistry that will be measured for accuracy. Alternately the beach, it's also a service to the function of memory's use of the plastic arts that are stored within. Experimentation and reaction can be engaged with clear eyes to boot but it's important to respect the enormity of our experience. It's only ever sometimes seen with both of these eyes through polished lens or frail mirror. It can only ever be translated very poorly by me. It can only ever be misconstrued or ignored using these rules one time because it can never be faithfully executed using the tools that are before us today.
Optical acuity is a spectacular obstacle to our overall awareness and to our healthfulness. It is not the rule, but it is the accumulation of a series of inextricable guidelines that cannot be bypassed, exchanged or altered. Representation and abstraction as form are confined by our perceptual limitations. This object is itself only a place holder. It is only ever in transition between action and inaction. As a result the following states can only ever be documented and then set aside.

  • These flowers will be seen. 
  • These are those flowers. 
  • Here are some flowers. 
  • The flowers are naked.




 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.


Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…