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Showing posts from June, 2016

Deep in the Brain of the Mind

It's good to know your way around. This is your sextant. The yardarm is there and that's the mizzenmast behind the fore-mast. You don't want to get them confused, one day it'll all be buckets and flaming pants. You'll need to know who knows what and who's just got your toes. Now, did you bring the rope like I asked? I'm Vaulting to Victory, from the old Sailor Moon outtakes on the second disc. BWAHAHAHAhaha Viking is like the best band ever so insurance, sure. Aren't those the little yellow ones? I remember liking those a lot. I've been meaning to ask you about them.
Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Goodbye, Goodbye-eee-eye, She's singing the Goodbye song to him from the small closet at the foot of the bed. Davy is thinking about the last time they did it in here and he chuckles, The glossy map, the tacks that went everywhere, and all of that fat cotton thread that still can't spell chicken. Yes she has these worn out gym socks in the bathroom and …

Earnest risk of the Noble Actuary

Don't you know that we're Dancing Dancing through the Flame of our beards, Apostrophy, Parenthesis (in that old order), Mrs. Jamwell June of Sunny Market Place, Deeply Hopless Records
I remember when the farm and all of the small math kept making it a bigger and more complicated place for everybody in it. No one ever, it's making us more hungry too. The farm's poaching the little prime numbers from the bottom and the chalk starts to disappearing and the will to use it evaporates. It's the worst time ever for empty hands like mine, pressed into service like a couple warm pennies. Reaching out only makes the others flinch, they're not mentalists or soft smelling teachers either. The calculator room is mostly empty now. It's long tables are buried under paper cups and rodents that race among their legs on the warmer nights.
But I keep my time up still. My pockets are full of butterflies and nicely snipped ends. A few of us have gathered some chairs in the bac…

Off screen while you were gone, she died

Making this work of oil, building it's seeds from the stone. The night is plenty deep, let's burn the shadows instead. I believe that the heart this thing is a warm and ruddy faced Socratic observation. Now whether it's a hypothesis or a conjecture too, does it even matter? We live in this time of indiscriminate hatred and loathing, people are everywhere. So much so that even our suspicions are guarded from themselves. I have this grandiose sense that social media is a symptom of all of this radicalized fear. Our passivity and confusion is in some very particular sense institutionalized by the presence of Facebook and Twitter. But the thing is this institutionalized fear couldn't exist without animosity fueling it and making it grow even more fearsome.
Some people talk about the responsibility of media but I'm not so sure that's entirely accurate. That's how this story starts itself and a little boy answers his door. A tall man hands him a very big package…

Gericault (abiding the shtick of great sadness)

Here are your visual arts and and all of your performing arts, Here are your exhibitions and your artists that talk. Here are your workshops, the symposia, and every policy related to every round table discussion that's ever been. Here are your fairs unfair and all. Here are the funds that rise and fall if ever the artists are in the front and near the center. Here are your screenings the ones that are related to your visual arts and all of your performing arts too. Here is all of the programming that is too unique or too timely to be of such great importance within the insides of this hollow and gutless city. Here is the programming that's been left behind. Here is the programming that's left to serve you, or that might interest you or it has every intention of one day elevating the practices and the perceptions of the cultural works that relate to you. Here is your armchair stuffed and all. Here is your bucket of glue.