death breathes sanity to life
[unedited]
The early departure deteriorated into coffee fueled mania, unpacked and the car’s vacuous battery flat again, madly stringing wiring across the embarrassingly-cluttered garage shunting 12 volt power sources together. It made me consider the girth of stuff I inhabit, and how much of it makes me beam with gratitude. Precious few items, I’m sorry to report. Survival tools and art supplies; a water under the brink of something more profound ... the starter sickly moans over; I hold the pedal an increment down, and pray for a miracle. Ether/spray the hell out of it, clean the terminals, clocks’s in motions we take for granted, abusing our spare time/stutters to life. Work the pedal like CPR to a drowning victim ... Breathe! Live! Massage its feeble pulse to life. Slam the sickeer into first, and foamy-mouth out of the garage, forgetting a wire or two. The hot decadent pop of an electric spark vaporoized old oil under the carriage, a rather anachronistic term I decide, cursing my coat pincered into the door mechanism foiling my spritely exit and ineffectively grabbing the hand brake all in one
My beautiful girlfriend was invited, but I felt the tone in his voice ... this was a boys’ weekend. I wanted her along, but in reality women often ruin the sacred bond between men eating sardines and sleeping on scorpion-infested dirt with perfectly good sheets, minus a tarp or pad. It interferes with men’s halting attempts at bone headed honesty, not bathing and ridiculous stints of silence or alcohol consumption, often combining the two for pleasant, long-term degradation of social skills, as if their bank was full in the first place. One feels a little guilty, though pleasurably so, landing at roulette-wheel strips, deep in ruts and gravel, usually reserved for planes designed to do such things, knowing the passenger in back instead of thrilling in it, is hardwired to terrify, to protect the coming sons and daughters whether or not there are any. But truly, my beautiful girlfriend isn’t like that; and she is. The duality fights the light the dark perceices as itself, and her mind acts under the illusion it controls the armies of either side, knowing secretly, it defends the weaknesses it seeks to exploit, thus defining the battle’s sides in a war nobody understands. It’s all rather complicated, but anyway, we had a boy’s few days in the blazing Saline Valley desert, leaving when the air was cool and dense, my heart skipping a beat as the aging plane ate the short runway and didn’t find air. Thank god there isn’t another person in this thing; so it all worked out okay? She asked me later. Yea, we got our requisite brush with mortality, and I told her about the dirt biker somebody found, his bike folded like an accordion, broken shoulder, the works. The paramilitary airlifted him out in a decked-out copter that blew and sucked so much dirt, it was a [borax salt] white-out. I remember feeling sorrier for the machine than the dude.
The shocking silencer of heat, rock and space borders the jagged mountains and melted hills, wild uncontrolled runoff, purpose and chaos, entropy
Torpor and time travel
erodes your thinking to dust Channels alluvial fans
Our road is endlessly washed boarded scoured and destroyed
Time hands itself to you Geology beckons its mystery the undying
muttering your ears hear as hums from amplifiers busses horns machines
warns the special parts of your brain it’s about to perceive
something dangerous indeed.
Phantom jets arc hard knife ends afterburners on strafing the military airspace the ground defines fifty feet off the deck. The molecules of atmosphere bend and scream with the hollow space the exuberance of a pilot has left we look to the trail of sound the jet long since gone And return to the fragile shade of the date palm The ensuing silence burning our ears again.
How was it? Fabulous, except my skin’s so white for That ultraviolet blowtorch. I wanted to be black all my life; did I ever tell you that? An old parable: Whatever you want you aren’t. Or rather, perceive you aren’t. That’s not a full sentence my great grandmother moans from her brane, in the other [more] civilized dimension. Yea, oh well. Some must be broken and some must be saved. Not all can live in the falsity of the finite space we forget to expand, to see further still [and overfill with complexity]. Did you meet anyone? Yea, this artist, and his sixty seven year old friend who loads and drives big rig trucks through the jammed streets of Oakland. Dude looked like late forties, half the age of the man of leisure, who’d struggled as a painter all his life, traveling the world knowing who’s who in a dozen artistic creative realms. Fling low over Death Valley and the devils racecourse I speechlessly absorbed colors, and tried to keep the previous evening down, tipping wings to examine infernal mine holes, bored by men hewn from a different age. I thought, all that careful thinking aged the artist. The edge walked by those who thirst for civilized life but court madness, if you separate the two, is intense. We talked of the painting of Icharus falling burnt from the sun, into the sea inhabited by polished society, on a grand gleaming ship, blind to the divine spectacle while calmly waiting to see it ... what a metaphor we sense we inhabit, a ...
... cork of assumed splendor bobbing above an unfathomable depth and under a vaster-still heavens, itself a sea, with a sky we only imagine, in the dreams of our dreamer’s dreams. Miracles occur every instant, and we decided long ago, which ones’ shadows we’ll allow our enshrined selves to see. He did Escher-esque surrealism and filled my brain with relative wisdom, broiled by the mid-day sun; the deafening silence afterwards was sweet. The desert deux knows its reference outside of its horizon inside us, and occasionally braces itself on itself; this omen is humanity’s union to come. That’s rad. I wish I’d met him. I wish you had too; but chances are ... and here I hesitate, neither of us would have, if you’d ... yet she’s not bullied that easily. Of course we would have. Togetherness is all-important. Love inspires miracles. Which I agree wholeheartedly in; no buts, she says. I try not to say but. If you seldom get out of bed, and mostly sit with your significant other, how often does jarring silence, or spontaneous diatribes with total strangers occur? She agrees, which warms my heart. Loving select beings is a form of training for a larger, scarier state. Mostly she says, but you’re afraid of its other way around. To you, togetherness [on an individual, romantic level] is a form of death. Isn’tit? I add.
I hate you, she says.
I got my fifteen minutes of glory on a glory hole wall, in the midst of creosote bushes dusted by savage winds. Apparently, my photo, carrying the aluminum body board weighted with the moaning dirt biker, was tacked to the vertical, just above the toilet paper. Damn. I said. Famous at last. Are you sure it was me? Definitely. Well. Isn’t that apt? Don’t degrade yourself; examine the metaphor closely. You think all your good deeds go out the window; the narcissists abscond with them, wrap them in silk and suck the life from them. The need to be true to something you can’t explain is suffocating; there is little to recommend it. We conjure self-satisfaction from a glacier of acts against those who followed the lemmings over hidden cliffs few reconnoiter calling for help from ... but what son of whose daughter remembers Darwin’s wacky grandfather, who grandfathered Darwin’s theories to life? And what of those, who taught those we’ve ordered into forgetfulness, for the messages they offered? I want the shriek of the siren, the man said. I would sooner give my life work to strangers, penniless but reverent to art as I see it, than those who seek color for walls as empty as their bookcases, as their heads for why the world works as it does. Ultimately, I seek those who passionately feel, and in knowing the dire delight of the devil’s bargain we walk the exclaimed delight of, lies and truth compounded into unions we ponder in moaning, morphine-stricken dirt bikers ... that’s where I lost him; and yet, I didn’t. Insanity. The sane. A Morphogenesis between them, inspires us to greater heights, seditiously expanding out from in, redefining the imaginary we mathematically describe to protect us. Look at him, the artist says. He is an oxymoron; he is jaded and innocent in one; he has no age ... I had to agree. Idiot savant, or teacher extrordinaré? No ors here/there I’d say, and you’re right, is that meaningful to you? That’s why you are unknown, and I am poor.
Those who influence those who are known are known by the few who need to knock on their doors. IF you have a fame which blocks the way to those you need to find, harnessing you in fear of no personal freedom to exit what’s known, how have you served yourself? The impossible requires space to manifest. Better to ream your passions patiently, until they epoxy themselves into covers nobody could suspect, before you realize their pages are free, and in ways only ‘gods’ know, you habit them freely and easily. They are not a binding; they conjoin at a gift the wary need to possess. Is that what you mean about love, I ask her. In a wager, I’d say yes. He had a quote with a grateful hue to it, I scrambled to remember—we were talking about galleries, and initial shows, how a vittle or two and some wine is a public service for your fellow artists. "An artist can always use a few hordeurves, if they’re a good one." I wondered if he’d parroted that line (like I hope to?) eventually forgetting its original instant. His quote was a flame; I hesitated to put his name behind ... especially since I hadn’t registered what it was, if he’d bothered to utter it.
The most interesting movie I’ve yet to film, added to the long list of too many already I’d want a crew and a bankroll to begin, involves a work of art. It’s the time-altered story of everything leading to the first line of the first sketch testing a random idea tangibly, sped forward though all the iterations, mockups watercolors and whatnot, until reaching a final product, which is again the first line, handed to digital artists for collage montage color shifting filters cutting and pasting, and then, how it disseminates into the world, ending abruptly at a stranger, who thoughtfully retires to a Paris café, and makes a line on a napkin, or random scrap of paper, then drops it, somebody picks it up, and so on. Or not. The painting of you, and your life needs to be in not only a politically good gallery, but one that will show it. Part of your work as an artist is to reconnoiter the landscape, and find the place you’d like to reside, retire, to burrow in and become part of the landscape itself; where are you going to culminate the meager pocketful of magic beans you’ve gathered, to dress the sky? We must recognize the only art we’re making is our outer selves, by either deceit or accordance in what already exists inside us.
My beautiful girlfriend was invited, but I felt the tone in his voice ... this was a boys’ weekend. I wanted her along, but in reality women often ruin the sacred bond between men eating sardines and sleeping on scorpion-infested dirt with perfectly good sheets, minus a tarp or pad. It interferes with men’s halting attempts at bone headed honesty, not bathing and ridiculous stints of silence or alcohol consumption, often combining the two for pleasant, long-term degradation of social skills, as if their bank was full in the first place. One feels a little guilty, though pleasurably so, landing at roulette-wheel strips, deep in ruts and gravel, usually reserved for planes designed to do such things, knowing the passenger in back instead of thrilling in it, is hardwired to terrify, to protect the coming sons and daughters whether or not there are any. But truly, my beautiful girlfriend isn’t like that; and she is. The duality fights the light the dark perceices as itself, and her mind acts under the illusion it controls the armies of either side, knowing secretly, it defends the weaknesses it seeks to exploit, thus defining the battle’s sides in a war nobody understands. It’s all rather complicated, but anyway, we had a boy’s few days in the blazing Saline Valley desert, leaving when the air was cool and dense, my heart skipping a beat as the aging plane ate the short runway and didn’t find air. Thank god there isn’t another person in this thing; so it all worked out okay? She asked me later. Yea, we got our requisite brush with mortality, and I told her about the dirt biker somebody found, his bike folded like an accordion, broken shoulder, the works. The paramilitary airlifted him out in a decked-out copter that blew and sucked so much dirt, it was a [borax salt] white-out. I remember feeling sorrier for the machine than the dude.
The shocking silencer of heat, rock and space borders the jagged mountains and melted hills, wild uncontrolled runoff, purpose and chaos, entropy
Torpor and time travel
erodes your thinking to dust Channels alluvial fans
Our road is endlessly washed boarded scoured and destroyed
Time hands itself to you Geology beckons its mystery the undying
muttering your ears hear as hums from amplifiers busses horns machines
warns the special parts of your brain it’s about to perceive
something dangerous indeed.
Phantom jets arc hard knife ends afterburners on strafing the military airspace the ground defines fifty feet off the deck. The molecules of atmosphere bend and scream with the hollow space the exuberance of a pilot has left we look to the trail of sound the jet long since gone And return to the fragile shade of the date palm The ensuing silence burning our ears again.
How was it? Fabulous, except my skin’s so white for That ultraviolet blowtorch. I wanted to be black all my life; did I ever tell you that? An old parable: Whatever you want you aren’t. Or rather, perceive you aren’t. That’s not a full sentence my great grandmother moans from her brane, in the other [more] civilized dimension. Yea, oh well. Some must be broken and some must be saved. Not all can live in the falsity of the finite space we forget to expand, to see further still [and overfill with complexity]. Did you meet anyone? Yea, this artist, and his sixty seven year old friend who loads and drives big rig trucks through the jammed streets of Oakland. Dude looked like late forties, half the age of the man of leisure, who’d struggled as a painter all his life, traveling the world knowing who’s who in a dozen artistic creative realms. Fling low over Death Valley and the devils racecourse I speechlessly absorbed colors, and tried to keep the previous evening down, tipping wings to examine infernal mine holes, bored by men hewn from a different age. I thought, all that careful thinking aged the artist. The edge walked by those who thirst for civilized life but court madness, if you separate the two, is intense. We talked of the painting of Icharus falling burnt from the sun, into the sea inhabited by polished society, on a grand gleaming ship, blind to the divine spectacle while calmly waiting to see it ... what a metaphor we sense we inhabit, a ...
... cork of assumed splendor bobbing above an unfathomable depth and under a vaster-still heavens, itself a sea, with a sky we only imagine, in the dreams of our dreamer’s dreams. Miracles occur every instant, and we decided long ago, which ones’ shadows we’ll allow our enshrined selves to see. He did Escher-esque surrealism and filled my brain with relative wisdom, broiled by the mid-day sun; the deafening silence afterwards was sweet. The desert deux knows its reference outside of its horizon inside us, and occasionally braces itself on itself; this omen is humanity’s union to come. That’s rad. I wish I’d met him. I wish you had too; but chances are ... and here I hesitate, neither of us would have, if you’d ... yet she’s not bullied that easily. Of course we would have. Togetherness is all-important. Love inspires miracles. Which I agree wholeheartedly in; no buts, she says. I try not to say but. If you seldom get out of bed, and mostly sit with your significant other, how often does jarring silence, or spontaneous diatribes with total strangers occur? She agrees, which warms my heart. Loving select beings is a form of training for a larger, scarier state. Mostly she says, but you’re afraid of its other way around. To you, togetherness [on an individual, romantic level] is a form of death. Isn’tit? I add.
I hate you, she says.
I got my fifteen minutes of glory on a glory hole wall, in the midst of creosote bushes dusted by savage winds. Apparently, my photo, carrying the aluminum body board weighted with the moaning dirt biker, was tacked to the vertical, just above the toilet paper. Damn. I said. Famous at last. Are you sure it was me? Definitely. Well. Isn’t that apt? Don’t degrade yourself; examine the metaphor closely. You think all your good deeds go out the window; the narcissists abscond with them, wrap them in silk and suck the life from them. The need to be true to something you can’t explain is suffocating; there is little to recommend it. We conjure self-satisfaction from a glacier of acts against those who followed the lemmings over hidden cliffs few reconnoiter calling for help from ... but what son of whose daughter remembers Darwin’s wacky grandfather, who grandfathered Darwin’s theories to life? And what of those, who taught those we’ve ordered into forgetfulness, for the messages they offered? I want the shriek of the siren, the man said. I would sooner give my life work to strangers, penniless but reverent to art as I see it, than those who seek color for walls as empty as their bookcases, as their heads for why the world works as it does. Ultimately, I seek those who passionately feel, and in knowing the dire delight of the devil’s bargain we walk the exclaimed delight of, lies and truth compounded into unions we ponder in moaning, morphine-stricken dirt bikers ... that’s where I lost him; and yet, I didn’t. Insanity. The sane. A Morphogenesis between them, inspires us to greater heights, seditiously expanding out from in, redefining the imaginary we mathematically describe to protect us. Look at him, the artist says. He is an oxymoron; he is jaded and innocent in one; he has no age ... I had to agree. Idiot savant, or teacher extrordinaré? No ors here/there I’d say, and you’re right, is that meaningful to you? That’s why you are unknown, and I am poor.
Those who influence those who are known are known by the few who need to knock on their doors. IF you have a fame which blocks the way to those you need to find, harnessing you in fear of no personal freedom to exit what’s known, how have you served yourself? The impossible requires space to manifest. Better to ream your passions patiently, until they epoxy themselves into covers nobody could suspect, before you realize their pages are free, and in ways only ‘gods’ know, you habit them freely and easily. They are not a binding; they conjoin at a gift the wary need to possess. Is that what you mean about love, I ask her. In a wager, I’d say yes. He had a quote with a grateful hue to it, I scrambled to remember—we were talking about galleries, and initial shows, how a vittle or two and some wine is a public service for your fellow artists. "An artist can always use a few hordeurves, if they’re a good one." I wondered if he’d parroted that line (like I hope to?) eventually forgetting its original instant. His quote was a flame; I hesitated to put his name behind ... especially since I hadn’t registered what it was, if he’d bothered to utter it.
The most interesting movie I’ve yet to film, added to the long list of too many already I’d want a crew and a bankroll to begin, involves a work of art. It’s the time-altered story of everything leading to the first line of the first sketch testing a random idea tangibly, sped forward though all the iterations, mockups watercolors and whatnot, until reaching a final product, which is again the first line, handed to digital artists for collage montage color shifting filters cutting and pasting, and then, how it disseminates into the world, ending abruptly at a stranger, who thoughtfully retires to a Paris café, and makes a line on a napkin, or random scrap of paper, then drops it, somebody picks it up, and so on. Or not. The painting of you, and your life needs to be in not only a politically good gallery, but one that will show it. Part of your work as an artist is to reconnoiter the landscape, and find the place you’d like to reside, retire, to burrow in and become part of the landscape itself; where are you going to culminate the meager pocketful of magic beans you’ve gathered, to dress the sky? We must recognize the only art we’re making is our outer selves, by either deceit or accordance in what already exists inside us.
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