|To Let Those We Love Be Perfectly Themselves
||[Jan. 16th, 2013|09:10 pm]
|nodeath needs time
. by definition. the need for time arrives when it does.
i always keep a main notes file, and timestamp every entry. it might as well be a running clock.
i don't like clocks.
without time, we have it all, as my parents do. as my way late friends do. as our past selves do even, for that matter. when we have it least do we need it most, for that we would spend it most preciously on. like we do that material substitute for it; money. (if time is money, why are most broke when we have all time ahead?) there is poetry there remaining, waiting, meanwhile lost. paintings too. & unmade satoris, that still remain possible...
i am at home here only in my mind. i never made it home. i chose to live in this world instead.
it's enough to say anything now. even gladly no. ticktock.
err on the side of love
and hold tight to your generosity of spirit, i always said.'The Mystery Freedom'
- of the earth, as she is. of the living fire of each moment... as ever, she gives us further possibilities of further possibilities themselves... the cascading curtain of aurora borealis is her skirt... the history and evolution of clouds is writ large in her dirt...
the breath of life, in utter inhalation, inspiration -we take her in and consume her
-in roaring flames -then expelling silent smoke, spewing ashes, expiring wisps...
...& we cover her over, and emtomb her with our proud dominion...
our mother planet lives on yet, despite us.
we are but part of her, with little belief.
little vision. little love. no understanding.
she whispers to us still, cooing wisdom, in her ever innate grace. telling us of the vast good, the great differences, that can be...
she tells us of the things we deny, those things we know not that exist within and without, and of that that can be.
she tells us things we will not hear.
she tells us this is our only opportunity to know, to go, and become among the vastly greater host.
she tells us she is the offer itself, her skirt ever raised high, and so then leaves us with it... the mystery freedom.
we are all her, all her voice, and so commanded to author en masse
|It Was Worth It
||[Jan. 7th, 2013|12:58 pm]
|The Weeping Of The Skulls
the complaint choir of the night rolled in slow, singing in the background. the stars receded, the darkness darkened even more. stillness grew. we were awake. alone. still.
whispers of the laughter of the crazed echoed dimly. we never knew we were hearing it, each to their own thoughts in the pleroma as the world became what it is...
...and such small freedom of thought that the night gave was all that was left us. the roiling cacaphony of humanity boils even greater, as even the seas themselves rise. what we add, i add to, here, but the coins of time and attention have all been long paid out.
we stare at each other with blank sockets as the choir sings on.
|Elegantly Wild Terms Of Estrangement
||[Jan. 4th, 2013|03:09 am]
one has to deal with things on their own terms. why not take it all in wholecloth. why not take it all the way. on one's own terms. why not go to france, back in time, to the moon, to 3am, to the end of the river, to ground. why not go, go, go. be a gone daddy-o, as offbeat as any. a 100% reality channel switch. out. one can. he did, and he did, and she did, and that other guy. an entire roster of heartful good people of quietude and solitude. unratified artists all. unamerican for all that, and nowadays would mean unearthly in a noncultured world as wordless as disney world.
one must deal with things on their own terms. one must. one must deal with one's self on one's own terms. what are your terms. these are mine.
i left my home in the valley and went up cold mountain. coming down, i went up the other side come the inevitable flood. as gone as any. as dead as if offline. skyrise, skyfall, and the sky bent down to cold mountain. han shan gone, no whisper left. cold mountain has it's own terms. count your blessings. the fish are still clean there and safe to eat, and as plentiful as the snow.
i went where the old weirdos were. i went where the mad felt right. i went where no children were, or should be. i went where the holy were as quiet as the wind and even more unadorned. i went to that impossible place where all was gentled by it's own very nature.
tiny statuettes in the ditch. tiny paintings in the branches. the road lined with ancient telegraphs. the sky dotted with zipatone. the rocks lined with mascara. the dirt sifted clean every day. out entirely. this was not america any longer. this was an older earth, a newer earth, a different earth. not earth at all. nothing that the word escape could even ever apply to. the ever undiscoverable itself.
come the earthly scenario, zenith far behind, a time and place for everything as always.
my name is the radiating grin of sheer triphammer heart.
|For Two Quarters, Broken Wings
||[Jan. 2nd, 2013|08:02 pm]
|An Unfinished Work
ak! one word says so little, so much more in even all that coherent insufficiency, but there it is.
...we were strange birds. a greatly dispaced seagull and an alley crow? i don't know. strange birds nonetheless, as estranged to one another as can be, and there it was and there it lay save for the remaining great sky above all.
...having taken to sky, i leave. the nearest beach is in texas and it's gulf, befouled even further nowadays, and of course still of texas as it was. i would be in california if i could, mayhap...
|Art is Either a Complaint or Do Something Else
||[Dec. 31st, 2012|03:14 am]
|When One Stops The Inner Dialogue One Is Left With The Inner Monologue
"So, what do we do to entertain ourselves around here?"
"Entertain? You mean like attain, detain, retain, obtain, contain, abstain, attain, detain, retain, obtain, contain?"
"Whatever would pertain, I guess..."
"That would be sustain."
"Okayfine, how do we sustain ourseves around here?"
"With entertainment, of course."
"And how is that done?"
"With great restraint, we simply refrain from boring ourselves to death."
"Oh, live it up for once. Let yourself go..."
"Wait! I know! We could put on a show!"
"Who'll we get to produce it?"
"You can be the producer!"
"Okayfine, I'm the producer. First thing I'm gonna do is fire you."
"Don't you have to hire me first?"
"You're hired. You're the scenery director. Go get us some scenery. Do you know how to do that?"
"Let me guess. Attain it?"
"You're a quick study."
"I have to be. I'm the understudy."
"What we need now is an overstudy..."
"We can let the audience handle that."
"I thought we were the audience."
"Oh no, you're the producer."
"I thought you were the producer?"
"I was but I fired myself. Then I hired you."
"Just what we need, a hired audience..."
"Well sure, how else would we have one?"
"Voluntarily, one would hope."
"I volunteer! Do I clap now?"
"Oh no, not yet. The show must first go on..."
"So what can I do now?"
"But that's boring..."
"So is the alternative."
"The alternative is another audience..."
"...Wanna see what's on TV?"
|Waste & Glass
||[Dec. 26th, 2012|10:05 am]
|Dancing On Gravel
the warehouse is dressed in an expensive shade of gray throughout. diffused minimal light leaks in through the painted panes up high. a scrolling marquee of words, barely discernible, lies just below. the soft orchestra reels out from the leftward darkness, plucking from the opening silence some bare motes of notes and builds upon them as the bay door rises.
one by one, trucks slowly roll in through the big door, crunching the gravel beneath their tires. they line up beside one another and halt and open their doors in unison. dancers disembark slow and graceful as clouds.
the music is smooth as smoke. seamless with the haze. quiet. soft with dim light. gravel crunching beneath their feet, the dancers array themselves slowly into patterns of diamonds, melting into order, and they dance.
it ends ninety minutes later as it began, only darker with the sun completely set. the performance over, the dancers embark and depart much as they arrived, leaving behind them only the patterns in the gravel from the dance.Photographing The Grain
the next day, or some other nearly as soon, a photographer haunts the warehouse, careful with her footsteps. shooting the patterns in the gravel from the catwalk high above. shooting them on the ground from afar. shooting them up close. shooting many shots, many rolls. she takes lunch in between. she considers her shots carefully, patiently. she meditates on the dim light as the day passes. dust motes hang in the air like microscopic christmas ornaments. she finally departs as evening finally arrives, her volvo trailing dust down the rubble-strewn street.He Wasn't Just Another Poet Of The Apocalypse But Hers
what fish dare one catch in such times. what nettles, what berries, what rabbits. for all that, he had food prepared that evening. candles were lit.
he wrote only by pen, and only upon her negatives.
it was another kind of a literature.
it was another kind of a dance.
she developed her film in the evening. he sat before their wall, remembering, waiting. pen in pocket.
looking at her day's work, he saw patterns in the patterns. he saw the footprints, the choreography, the passage of the performnce, the perverse aesthetic of desperate art. the sheer hope of it all. he saw her own desperate hopes in the photography, the angles and lighting, the particular images caught, the very number of shots taken. he took his pen out and wrote upon the negatives, with great calm and confidence, as if the world depended on it. he wrote with no fear, no fury.
|For Dr. Memory
||[Dec. 13th, 2012|07:46 am]
is it really so late in the night?
that the sheer brass of the thing should overtake it's gold?
...or is it all pyrite? no. no, no, no...
without too loose a mind to be seduced down lyrical trails, as if how a word sounded held more import than it's meaning, there is first the wordlessly real moment, the very moment before any words at all...
||[Nov. 30th, 2012|04:22 am]
|In Terms Of An Unfixed Shuffle
they grew up, they made tea, they typed on typewriters, they photographed their meals -once in a while would actually sit still, do nothing. they made lists of lists. and tore them up. the secretary paid the bills. the secretary was never seen. they woke in the morning quiet as mouses and drank their coffee. they woke in the afternoon stoned full of ideas that flowered in evenings that begat unusual results. they feared upheaval lest all come undone in an american scenario. theirs was a continent in miniature. it smelled of print. typography. art for the sake of art. declining officialties. they discovered new things sadly.
they relived the same years over and over unknowingly. the loop breaks at some point and becomes news. the american scenario.
lengths of dialogue unrolled, unraveled into text, became playthings for new bohemians to scatter further. nothing mattered as time continued and with it brought changes like blue filters. there were letters to write, letters to receive, automatically generated by the culture of culturism itself, a spontaneous thing. breasts were bared in formal pomp for it had to be done. the papers arrived. the numbers numbered.
the breathless vista was ignored, accepted as normal.
somewhere someone told a story and another a joke. a song was sung. money was made. some was spent. some was briefly saved. some forgotten in old stored clothes. nothing was explained. ever.
death came and went. that's all there was. the paintings, the photographs and all the miscellaneous papers were never moved. this was what kept the guns and knives away, the violence aside, the american scenario at bay. such crime was kept hidden, secret, detested by authorities. hate like cockroaches and rats and mold crept in and over. every 100 years a day of cleansing disintegrated all that and a random image was shone.
the new intelligence was a simple point that held all. when all is held, the point is as simple as a dot. it knew that and it knew it'd had been known by some that had come before. none of that mattered. neither does this. to some.
there were no candles, but matches aplenty.
please copy all this. print it out however you wish but paste it to the wall. we're home.
|X Marks The Spot
||[Nov. 9th, 2012|11:39 pm]
|Range Of Vision
How big a 'cone of vision' circle to draw within? -From the center of vision point ('CV') upon the horizon to the furthest corner of your drawing times two
equals the diameter of the Range Of Vision circle, the 'ROV'.X-CV
ROV times .866 is the [X-CV] distance from CV straight up to the 'X' point (the camera, or your eyes). From X, one can use a protractor and a long ruler to locate vanishing points upon the horizon, but that is not completely precise, nor entirely convenient. With this utility (click the page's link above), the resultant number is (in inches) that degree's vanishing point's horizontal distance from CV.
In the future I plan to remake this
to output a whole range of incremented degrees
for a given ROV.
...Win7 precludes me from running my old DOS utility, XCV#4.EXE
||[Oct. 7th, 2012|01:43 am]
|midnight"dirt-tired, greased & wired, but the job's done, hey."
the scattered tools upon the table, all in disarray. the wrenches, sockets, screwdrivers, extensions & adaptors, nuts & bolts & washers scrounged from the floor and about all (mostly) gathered in coffee cans... the piles of parts; case halves, studs, con rods & cranks, camshafts & shims, heads, manifolds, oil radiators, fan housings, distributors, coils, voltage regulators, generators & alternators, carbs & pistons, fuel pumps, filters, trannies, CV joints, axles, brake shoes, fuses, spark plugs, batteries, mufflers, belts, pulleys, flywheels... the cans of mineral spirits, carb cleaner, oil & gas; brake fluid... cleaning a set of wheel bearings w/ an air hose sets it spinning at umpteen hundred RPM. buckets of grease. pressure plates & throw-out bearings. clamps & hoses. breaker bars & torgue wrenches. plastigauge. pedal clusters. cables. shifter plates & bushings. tires, wheels, brake drums clanging, struck by a 5 pound sledge hammer. smoke from the ashtray curls up to the rafters. the coffee pot ticks. we laugh like mad children w/ dirt (like black soot) on our faces & elbows & old worn clothing in the midnight garage.
the eternal engine that moves us. forward.
"i could carve one from a rock..."
crank it over. snick it in gear. let out the clutch. foot on the gas in Wide Open Throttle.
stand on it.
||most recent entries