Museum me Homey Bear, I wanna be yer honey.

fig.87.098) Old features, dim hazards of an age

I lean back my head and I like to dream about living inside of a pink bubble. One that floats through my imagination as it was when I was seven or eight years old. This was a time when I was equal parts fascinated and horrified by the spritely scenarios that unfolded during each episode of, Thundarr the Barbarian. Thundarr was a sort of animated and fluffy farty love letter to the constancy of shit falling apart, Jack Kirby, and a level of bigness necessary to correspond with something blooming directly into spectacle while skipping the detergent phase giving a fuck entirely. I like to write love letters to myself as I float through this space in my pink brain bubble. Sometimes these letters sound like this to me:

Angel-Baby-Moo-Fface let me parrot your dog like it's a damned car. Let's drop all of our stuff simultaneously. Let's be the raucous that we would like to own better. One poster at a time, each picture below the statue that we see. Let's be together Angel-Baby-Moon-Fface. Let's type and then send out the mail that we want to receive. Signed that is, by
Mr. Stamp A. Licker-O-Thumbs.

Then sometimes they just sound like it's me saying, Darling over and over while trying to sound like Barry White in my circus pajamas. But then there are other times when they sound like me laying curled up on the floor after too much whiskey.
I don't ever want to be someone that looks back. But I also don't want to be a pirate or a big fat white horse on a tall but simple white plinth. No, I'd rather have a sun sword and a best friend who's a Mok. I'd very much like to travel back in time and visit with Big Foot's ward, Wild Boy and hang out with Cap't Caveman. We'd both be good at yelling at shit together. We'd have our clubs for thwacking stuff and we'd always like drinking ginger ale.
It would be too much fun to watch TV with Thundarr and Cap't Caveman. But then it would also be fun to check out a museum with those guys. We could walk around and Thundarr would be like, "Ugghh what is this wizardry?" Cap't Caveman would look at him like Mel Blanc and say, "Ooh..."
Then I would answer, "Oh that's just Anselm Kiefer." We would all laugh until Cap't Caveman decides that it's time to go for a Coke and look at the postcards.

Comments

The apologist and the appraiser have decided to stay put

dashed wet and grim Oh now, Reagan of steel glitter in pants with which to shake them on down. Oh now, I shit you not for these are the things. Yes in any order you should choose these are the things to please please me, Oh Yeah. - Unmarked letter signed, A to A They'll say to me that it's safe to say so much for ubiquity, for disenfranchisement, and the terrorism of privilege. They'll say to me, With all of the effects from these profoundly toxic effects, is the project of our shared humanity effectively being dismantled. Are these the idle thoughts and sad tidings of despots and the tyrant kings inside of their comfortable towers of raised muck. As I've said before, They're not so far gone as to be gone for the good of all. This is plain to be seen in a world of bent backs and gross hyperbole. I'll sit in any unused doorway. I'll be beside myself while every door is locked. I'll dream of the halls and listen as the curtains, the drinking, an...

Piles of leaves: Letters Campaign

Suddenly old but feeling perfect, my wet underwear is on the the floor. It's gathered round my ankle. Myko laughs, just as wet and full of piss as ever. The violence of our togethering already feels like more than something. I reach out, taking the back of her neck with my hand. She's stepping in as I lean over to write; Dear, Temperance, October, and Brine, You are more than a place to me. More than walls and simple chimes, but I'll write to you anyway. This you'll know as you read my words. From here beside the lark's buttered breast, from under the heavy lids and the bright side kettle where we'll hum. We'll hum together, Bunny. Dickens be damned, we're now brightly doomed. Soon enough we'll see, the forest within the trees. To you, Tigre PS. are more or only this bed, maybe the floor too. We spend the day in, ordering takeout and hiding under the sheets. I get up and pee while Katt is talking about Milton. Her mouth's open, it's as rou...

Not the Willem DeKooning Retrospective (Not Even Close)

Willem DeKooning, Excavation (1950) oil on canvas Yesterday at work I bumped into this piece by Donald Kuspit on DeKooning's retrospective over at Artnet . Then this morning I bumped into this one on L Magazine's site, by Paddy Johnson . I don't know that Paddy Johnson demystifies DeKooning as much as she takes issue with his pallet, declaring it repetitive and boorish en masse. By contrast, Donald Kuspit writes an article painting DeKooning as a sadistic brute inextricably tied to the modern tradition in general and Picasso specifically. Together they make for some interesting reading, particularly as Kuspit never addresses the show itself in favor of drawing his conclusions from individual works. While Johnson seems to wear the show like an imaginary wool shawl, noting it's uncomfortable, out of style, and the zipper is broken. But she doesn't seem to get to a place that addresses what was actually there either, only what she felt was missing or to her mind ...

stagnanTVowels

Search This Blog