Monday, August 26, 2019

I'm Backkkk (maybe)

Hello, is anyone there? So it’s been what… 6-8 months since the last time I posted on this thing? You are all probably totally checked out like I have been, but in the last few weeks I was craving my old venue to splat out my brain onto the wonderful ether of the internet.

The last month, the last almost year, has been a life-bomb of deeply bad things and general malaise things but the weird art of practicing thinking through words is something that is of greater benefit than maybe I even took into account. Regardless! Everyone deserves a vacation from themselves, even those of their own making, so ta-da! I’m back. (Sort of – who knows if this too is a one-time re-surfacing)…

Anyways! When I was falling asleep/waking up today (I forget which actually) I imagined myself posting on this thing again and while I sit here at my day-job literally stabbing time with my eyes, I thought, heck why the hell not.

Let’s bring back an old formula where I just rando blah blah on this thing and hopefully that will appease this urge to over share once again.

Boring Internet

Is it just me or does the internet seem BOR-RING? Like, I know it’s full of rabbit holes of wonder but sheesh, it all feels so canned and familiar. Even the exciting stuff gets horror-vacui-ed back into itself in seconds so that it just straddles the crap loop like everything else. Design online, the platforms and apps (new and updated), all just feel like vague 2.0s that are psychological dissertations on serotonin and reflex control. Maybe I’m too much of a Luddite or sci-fi wannabe but I want my internet to feel either simple in a way it has never been before or more mind blowingly advanced. I want lasers in my fingertips. LASERS! I want to experience a new type of visual language and experience versus creepscape populism and goopy emotional anorexia. Not sure how to change it, but aren’t there like a ba-jaillion coders out there who can’t even drink yet that can figure this out? Maybe it’s an infrastructure thing. Maybe the wunderkinds are out  there and the moneyed apparatus is still dino-teching them down, but meh, seems like if something can be broken the internet could be.

The Word Boring

So the other day I was saying how I was “bored” and then people all jumped on my back saying (boring) things like, “only boring people are bored” yadda yadda, essentially judging the crap out me cause I basically don’t feel stimulated? Aiyiyi, what a world. So yea, the concept of boredom is a reflection of probably some source, personal or structural, that yes you (me) as an individual could change, ‘work on’ adjust in some way but let’s be real. A lot of things, life, reality, is boring and that may be unpleasant but it’s the truth. Also when I say ‘bored’ I almost always mean the people. I mean I could be standing in line at security and if there is a funny person or incident or just general something not mundane occurring while on said line, that is not boring! If I’m at a banger party and the scene and vibe is fantastic but the person I am stuck hanging out with is a sop then I’m bored! If we are talking about politics, heavy duty stuff about one thing or another, if you are someone who has intelligent thoughts, perspective, attitude, then hell yeah it’s a blast. If you are regurgitating and incapable of real listening, empathy then booo bored I will be. So, it’s not that things are boring per se, its just that the people and the surrounds can be. Am I just being selfish? Perhaps. The suggestion that one has to be “entertained” is seeping out (though not the main focus), but heck, we are all mirrors. If you bore me, I’ll bore you. If I excite you, please excite me in return. If not, let’s just admit the situation as it is, boring or otherwise.

Male Emotional Landscape               

This might get some backlash but I am truly wondering about the (cis) male emotional landscape. Like what is in there? This is a topic of conversation that I have had with fellow (cis) women and it is truly a source of perplexity. For me personally as a woman, I feel that my emotional landscape is a goddamn Pangea of environments. There are deserts, valleys, deep cliffs and mellow bays. There are storms and pink clouds and fields of poppies and spooky swamps. Sometimes, when I imagine the male emotional landscape I image this vast horizon populated with the occasional oasis and these pit stop areas for snacks and refueling. I’m not trying to belittle or undermine the landscape of men in feelings but I truly do not understand! Someone please educate me. I know it may be faux pas but we are animals and our brains and hormones are real. Plus society. All that society that gets crammed down our bellies and in our brains that trip wires all this to sometimes ungodly places. Anyways, just throwing it out there. Truly perplexed and curious.

Repetition as Ritual

So this idea holds for basically everything, life, religion, relationships, work all of it, but I will point this a little bit towards ART since, hell, this did start off as an art blog. I am thinking about repetition and ritual not in the obvious form of the practice of people being artists. Duh, that can be talked about ad-infinitum. But what I am thinking about is the art structure and specifically the cycle of gallery to institution to museum. There is a path. Art always seems so mystical to outsiders on ‘how does it work’ and while there isn’t a CV by-lined trajectory there is actually sort of a CV by-lined trajectory. It all starts with the small shows, group shows, friend shows, then you make it to a smaller gallery then a few more here there, out of state, internationally, then you get into a smaller institution show and then the coup d'état, the big museum show. And then you start again but the levels are different, you go back to the friends and the galleries and worldwides but the context is different, the people are different (if not different at the same elevation as you) then you wait a few more years and another big museum show. Then again and again it goes again. You have to keep up with this flow. Even you going off to the desert and just chilling out is A-Okay because that’s apart of the step one cycle again, but you are allowed to do it! You earned the right to operate in that level as you see fit. It’s like an inverted cone, big base swirl at the top, tight swirl at the bottom. You are just repeating it all in this circuitous sort of way that feels natural but you are still in the cone. To be a person who is able to do this well you have to mantra, accept and desire for this revolution. You have to make it a life practice and have the patience and endurance to do it. We all do this all the time in basically everything so why not in making a career in the art world?

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Whenever I Can

So, I am obviously not following the Monday schedule anymore so from now on this blog will be updated whenever I can. I will still try to do once a week but meh, that may change too. 2019. It’s here. I thought it was gunna be the best year ever (I mean anything would be an improvement from the blasted 2018…) But wow, universe is still giving me the big middle finger.

There is really not much to say or think because atm, I feel like I’m in a daze of personal revelations. Sometimes things are so big and surprising I just go on mental cruise control. Destination unknown. Just straight into the void still I crash into something.

So here comes a bunch of nothing. Going to just copy paste something because that’s all I got today folks.  

The Waste Land
By T. S. Eliot


              I. The Burial of the Dead

  April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

  What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
                      Frisch weht der Wind
                      Der Heimat zu
                      Mein Irisch Kind,
                      Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

  Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

  Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson!
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

              II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

  “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
“Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
  “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
“I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

  I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

  “What is that noise?”
                          The wind under the door.
“What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”
                           Nothing again nothing.
“You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

       I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
“Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”   
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
“What shall I do now? What shall I do?”
“I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
“With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
“What shall we ever do?”
                                               The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

  When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.