The art walks away, and the Pharaohs dance. The walls are crawling onto the ceiling, fans covered with dangling decorations, Morroccan ‘do not bomb here’ signs decorating the walls, which are overgrown with ivy. None of it is poisonous. Their clay vessels are filled with newly distilled and brewed beverages guaranteed to put the taste back on the tongue, and watch out, you will be bit. The shadows that grew too long, are covered and redefined by the facades that impress contrast and inform the hours of the day, all day.
The second dimension has beaten the fourth dimension in hand to hand combat. Mud to drink. A bunch of drunken fraternity brothers built a colossal beer can pyramid out in the desert. You could use it to tell the time, or just look at it and say, “It’s timeless. Let’s build another one…and a bigger one this time.”
Art is our test, the artist reminds us. Either it works, and finds its place in this world, or it’s rejected in favor of other accomplishments in other media, or is sold as sex, using advertising to bathe and clothe it. Choose your own medium, but be certain there is an audience that will reward you with their personal recognition and bankrupt patronage. Every crazy artist there ever was, only existed because their rapture was certain in that there was a free market, shocked by the rush of images available in 31 flavors, and so, they kept their finger on the pulse of it, thumb in the ass, without realizing how fickle fate really is, and how life is tenuous at best. I used to call them the ‘Screaming Me! Me!s’ But everyone else calls them ‘the memetics’. I guess that’s a new philosophy.
There may be a light at the end of the tunnel vision, but that might just be the mother ship vehicular clara beaming you into a new incarnation. The light at the end of the tunnel may be an oncoming train, but make lots of friends, and don’t treat them like their fiends do, where nothing is ‘r’s. And don’t just spew ‘ars poetica’ even though it’s the flow, guide yourself around, about, with, and through, instead of over or at, or under. Always being down is like always getting high. It’s a form of addiction.
Prejudice for, is like prejudice against. It’s an obligation where anyone that hears of it can pull that card. Being humble is like taking a few hits while boxing. It’ll wear them out, but watch out for the heat yourself, and don’t forget, running is great exercise. Especially for running away. Running towards is good for the endurance, but doesn’t kick out the jams quite as frequently.
Being proud is like having to defend a lie from other’s truths, because it is only one’s own truth. It’s merely an ‘in’ when otherwise we’d be ‘out’ and about, having yet again avoided or escaped another’s stand. Rather have you spend it all in one place because I don’t trust you, then help you hurt everyone else in the way….shit, we got so old, I fell asleep, and you thought I was dead. You freaked me the fuck out, waking me from my daily appointed rounds. I laughed, eventually.
Sudden intuitive breakthroughs may take years in the making, and development needs to be realized, resources acquired, and in addition, digging is the high point of religions. Nature abhors a void, so don’t bike downhill with your mouth open, even when yelling.
The low point of defending personal beliefs from people who weren’t there when it happened, is trying to convince them you weren’t really that drunk at the time. It finally dawned on me that I couldn’t move forward if I was reliving the past when I looked at my present. I wondered where I was buried. I wasn’t where I had hoped to be when I was young, but I just wanted to be somewhere where we could even ride elephants, if only because they were around. I like those architects of the jungle, they make asking for directions a silent affair.
Any direction, including inward and outward, is possible. Breathe the colors in, neon icing magnified by fog remembers you also. Cake walks, so why can’t we?
The glazed eyes, full of echoing imagery and right angles, buffer the bit dot torrent stuffit expander for dreamtime later. Frames of solar panel energy collar the pictures covered by programs that enhance the already iconic images according to element and style. Perpetual motion of graphic emotions recorded for space and time.
Potions for a dollar, everything tastes better with a line beforehand, women wearing televisions, wishing they would strip, especially that boob tube, clay-mation videos competing with paper mache’ heads from All Saint’s Day, flying boats, bands that can really play, booths full of personal exhibitions, postcards, placard, framed prints, alcoholics staggering the grinning crowd, police texting, the 99% marching to the sound of ‘Hare Krishna’, dogs pulling their owners to the side to check out some tiny thing someone dropped, students from high school definitely watching and taking noted from the drinking crowds, piles of flyers, boxes of trash…
Not having ever tried to sell my art on the street, I wondered what my time spent would be like. I'll tell you when I don't have to be at work or class that evening. Be white/ black!
"I fly on planets everyday…"-Dr. Octogon
I don't remember how it started, at least not exactly, this time. Of course, she forgot her ID, of course, she was expecting to get arrested. Of course, we had nothing in common, except that having an apartment wasn't exactly having a home. The discussion therefor would cover not only three successive crying interludes, but also several generations of cigarette butts, named after people who we hid from each other, language being a blessing only in that the less said, the more understood. My friend and confidant, "B", was homeless until 9PM THU, the day of the art walk, the first time I was ready to sell street art at. I was down for whatever, so I snuck her into the second elevator, reserved for models and photographers, makeup, and wardrobe, art department, grips, etc… a hot set. She had lost her ID at the old guys house, he was jealous of her cooking for other people, although the old guy was just pumping iron to get an erection again, her being a mere child of twenty one, him not wanting to die from her violent love, or from her cooking. I gave her two fifty cent bags of chips, and she called her mother and cried when I was gone. I brought back some cokes and cigarettes, and she perked right up, and explained herself. She liked the fun, and she thought I was fun, and I was funny, and made her smile, and all she had was her smile and no one could take that from her. While I was out, I discovered that people voting for Ron Paul are scared of the future, love the present, people wearing green shirts that are too small for them are angry, and we have to move along, bossy, can't graze here…. However, pretend Vietnam Vets are really cool, and real vietnam vet nurses can make a hundred on selling cups, and walking her dog and wine opener. A hundred! I sold two patches for ten dollars, got a dollar tip, a peace sign, and a guitar, painted both of them on Kurt's jeans, he was going to use them for a costume, I was happy to oblige, being so poor I couldn't afford material to paint on, instead using denim readily available to me. I had, along with two other guys, been at a party where we weren't allowed upstairs, I found out trying to find the bathroom where there was a black and white TV with porn on it on the toilet lid. Climbed the roof of a different house that night. Anyways, some chick threw all his clothes out the window, and we scored six pairs of jeans, I didn't know who he was at the time. "You're a bad man, Kurt Cobain!" "What?" Slam, bang bam boom, we were rich men. We split them three ways. I can spread the wealth, now. Bought a ten of some fire, ran upstairs, stared into it, she explained what a ovarian cyst was, and she was scared shitless. I left. Women. They should just bless us, send us away, laugh, sing, and welcome us back when we run out of ideas. Well, anyways, I stared at the fire until I felt like a camera, unmoved, trip? Yes, but no OD, Garfield. She started in on her johns, and I nodded into space. She approved of me, and I agreed readily to our similarities. A parallel journey, last exit to…wherever land. Whatever Man, my new secret identity, agreed mercilessly to the perspectives frothing from her story. A ship in the night, who knows who was at the helm, not me , I lost everything, and now all I have to eat is leaving me. Whatever, man. Second installment next art walk. Second crying interlude, also.
"You want my fatherly advice? Have more than one kid, and make them fight each other." -God
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"Ohhhh….how I love them whores…" -Jane's Addiction Insignificant things. My art got walked on by accident by a really drunk actor I recognized too late."Whatchout man, there's some drunk muthafuckas out here, I'd move to the curb." So now my gutter art competes with street art. Like the beach, one of my favorite places. Sit on the sand til you're too hot, swim until you're too cold. Reverse. Perpetual motion machines. Some kids brought pizza and traded me some more weed for art. They were into the illuminati. Made them look really young when they said that. I muttered,"Fuckin' Illuminati." They laughed.It was really good pizza. They smoked, and bought an eye of Horus from what they said was representative of the dollar bill. I told them that it was the crying eye of his father, the one that killed him and dismembered and mailed his corpse to the far corners of the globe, actually between the legend and reality, we buried him where the desert is now known as the Sahara, and many generations have gone to his parallel dimension where genocide doesn't reside in one person, one swift mother fucker, to be taken like life and laughter from a proverbial cherished firstborn child. And never returned to the mother. I only know this as a father/son team of avenging angels, unborn, unsung, unrealized, and unburied, because my generations had been kept from returning to the green wilderness from the beautiful khaki colors of ancient science, I mean Egypt, a place where the halo above was the desire to reincarnate one and only one sperm, lizard on your pineal gland, and only the Pharaoh has the lower halo, where no one knew he shat and pissed….the Nile, instead of the comfort of privacy. Wow. You CAN fool all of the people some of the time. I never tried to fool anybody. I tried to give them their dues and play them forward in time, to realize that they contribute, share a burden, that any bird on any wire realizes is a current, an electrical charge positive and harmless in the flow of many mouths to feed, and all the harvest is assigned by due process, a kind of 'being healthy-care", as opposed to the health care today that seems like "sick-care" where you have to be dying of some terminal disease to warrant the shared burden of proof of life for those that serve and protect the many facets of your existence. Imagine being begrudged inalienable human rights because they presumed it was for luxuries instead of the com forts of creatures. We are creatures, magnificent as we are, yet creatures, nonetheless. I met some one who I recognized from those plains, he went by the name "Perks" and handed me a pack of cigarettes and a cup of wine, asked me about the liturgy hiding inside the paintings, I said they were worth a thousand words, but the time was the real value, the time spent relating the oral tradition inherent in the provocative drawings. The Egyptians were the first to ascribe to motion picture's law of continuity. They all faced the same direction. The Sumerians faced the audience.They were an execution squad. We told each other what our interpretation of different events were, then I went to feed cigarettes to a youngster trying to light my electric cigarette with a broken lighter, lit by the spark of an empty lighter. It wasn't really working for either of us. "B" told me about the variations in the themes of "Players" who often offered the freedom of the world without informing them of the actual way that the world worked this lifetime. Insurance. Receipts. Credit. College credits. Etcetera….
"There is no real or unreal. Just because you've never seen something, doesn't mean it doesn't exist." -God.
They say trespassing is illegal, in that it's premeditated. Yes, I dreamed of falling last night, awoke in my bed, and realized I would have to see some places where the people who work/live there think I make too many mad dog faces growling at the fence of rifles they paint white every year. Every shadow at night reminds me of the contrast between good and evil they tried to make me an extremist with when I was young. Since I had incurred the wrath of trauma in my early years, sexuality was more of a guess than a decision. I sent my 'who cares' friend packing with promises of futures where she would decide our relationship forever after, and I decided not to become a very good friend. I could never fuck my very good friend, without marrying them first, however, then I would be fucking all of their despised enemies in front of them, not validating their existence with even a precursory rapacious vigorous lovemaking of life, defeating the purpose of friendship in the first place, like so many women before me… I read that, and yes, they are that sexist…that bastard moon of Tiamat, rent from her womb to turn time and tide in favor of patriarchs. An asteroid belt converted into the inverse relationship between water and air, the constant flow and force exchanging precious presences with present tense. Did I just write that? Know way! What are water metaphors doing in this story? There was no third walker. There was only the lonely flow of people inundated entirely on museum quality art, installations that would dwarf a full grown individual, making the gutter punk in me retarded enough to try and fail, having trifled in the flow of trafficking in expression.
"That blank look? It means whatever you want it to mean." -God