Holding Forth

Bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity,
bangity…

Toss me onto a dance floor,
bathed in this beat,
at volume and,
B-O-O-M!!!

Tim-grenade.
Ti-gr.
TG.
Tangential Gusto.
Terrifying Grandeur.

Dancing, ducking,
prancing, pulsating,
twisting, twitching,
sweating, spinning,
flowing, floating,
bobbing, breathing,
………dancing.

It just got darker.
A deep, desperate breath and submerge
…down…light fading…lungs burning
…beat weighing down…delirium descending
…vertigo…up is gone
…nothing without down.

…..more.

An apparition of who I am.
Releasing the flesh.
Leave Plato’s terrestrial cage.
A zero-gravity smart fluid.
Pick a shape and I am; imagine a motion and it is.
Being blur.
Exterior definition melting away.
Molten, ellipitcal me.

I need to dance…soon.

t

Heckling, biting breezes chipped at me all day today.
The temperature was cold, but not normally cold.
It has been abnormally warm as of late, actually.
Wind does it for me.
It always has.
It is as if the the shifting ether brushes the dust from my shoes and invites me to come play.
And I have a hard time resisting.
It makes me want to move; restlessness becomes my head-fellow.
And move, I will.
The summer breezes are looking to be continental this year.
Wind.
Tomorrow we are expecting winds of 30 mph.
After summer, comes fall; my time of the year; a time of rambunctious winds with leaf-accents.
Autumn likely holds some gusting changes; situations blown to new phases; winds of the new world.

Breath is wind too.

t

“you lied” floODing auDio Canals,
mental machineRy meshing MENacinGly,
a cerebral symphony of comBUSTion, turbines, and TORn orgaNICs,
bones, flesh, and the fragile have no place here,
artifice, hydrocarbons, and geomeTRIC lines fORGE the landsCAPE.

thought-BOMBlets hurtle as a RAGing rain,
simplicity has been SOLD,
metal compleXity: a RIP tide TEARing at the Remains of the Common,
absTRACtion is the new high,
INHAIL until the comPLEX takes over; until bLACKout desCENds
tell your docTOR

youR jesus won’t saVe you here,
he has been perSECUTEd as false,
tears fall to Ash,
GRound into theoRy,
KNOTted head-intestines sCREAming for release.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am writing a paper for school right now. This is what is what is oozing out between the cracks.

Inhaling to submerge again,

t

ps. Thank the gods for Tool.

A waxing water nymph of a moon, dusting icy scales upon my seabed.
Lunar light twisting and dancing through the imagined eddies of frigid air.
Frozen fingers beckoning.
Tempting me to walk in the fairy’s light.
Inclinations of a stroll slithering up my spine like a Siberian snake.
Three-dimensional space splintering into four.
Stare deeper into the scales.
“Where am I?”
As Cold grasps the hand, the mind melts.
“Come with.”
For out there is a place where the rabbits defend against her.
Where the deer move not out of anxiety, but to keep the inner furnaces burning.
Where the trees visit with Morpheus, biding their time.
Creeping on the horizon are many more ethereal nights of violent calm.
Clarity of Night, in her glory, means bitter, bitter chill.
But she comes wrapped in a beaded blanket of icicles.
Beauty prancing in her footsteps.
Durability trudging in her shadow.
Woo, but do not cross.

This is what I see from the window.

From my shelter.
From my shell of heat and glow.
Muscles registering the ache of cold.
Of the long hours encased in protective layers.
Knuckles tight from exposed fumblings.
Eyelids seeing only bed covers.
Tea chilling on the slow draft of consumption.
Ushering a warm security to my core.

Tomorrow holds another cold journey, but in daylight.
This night is given to her mother.

…

The place I currently dwell is one of crystalline and eloquent beauty.

I wish I could show you it, but I am not sure how I got here.

t

The Debutante’s Ball ~ tcs

bland but the opening is attended by only a sparse gathering of middle-aged aficionados and gallery assistants with throwback-to-the-’70s mustaches of dark-coated men and leather-clad women after-party, at the new Klee Brasserie. “I don’t get to go to fancy dinners very often,” he says. “So that is cool.” it’s common (albeit frowned upon by some in the art world) for gallerists to visit M.F.A. programs in search of new talent V.I.P. dinners at the former Versace mansion “To have excellent work there gives us an ability to talk about it with curators, writers and collectors,” Mr. Deitch said. “This is the key moment for us to expand his audience.” “I’m sure I would have loved Ted’s work anyway,” she noted, “but the galleries do this incredible editing: they see so much work. They’re out there all the time.” representing the trendiest (and perhaps not accidentally, the most photogenic) throw a very high profile party for a select 300 invitees During the day the gallery will be in close contact with Mr. Mineo by cellphone, to summon him when an introduction is to be made. And last February, when W magazine published a Bruce Weber photography portfolio featuring the attractive young things at the fair, his face wasn’t in it. “I’m a big boy.” “But I think that art fairs can be very off-putting for an artist, because their work isn’t contextualized in any kind of thoughtful manner. It’s just crammed into these booths. So they go and have fun, and then they come back and they’re depressed.” “Just to be down there as a social trinket doesn’t make a lot of sense. The chance for real dialogue is pretty rare.” “They’re a little bit downtowny, fashiony, and their openings can feel like a mob scene in kind of an icky way sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes I can feel weird about that.” “I guess it does create a level of professionalism among people: There’s a career track. You get your B.F.A. and then you get your M.F.A. You move to New York, you have a show, and it’s like being a lawyer or something else. “If you’re halfway interesting, you can have a moment, but to sustain a career is another thing entirely.” He chuckles. “In the beginning, everybody is willing to believe.”

Below is the article I copped from the NY Times. It provides a stark glimpse into the state of affairs of the art world. I suggest clicking on the title below to see the actual art.

The bold text is mine. I like the condensed (my) version better. If you don’t have time to read the whole article, just read the poem/blabber above.

You should read the whole article, though.

This is the kind of stuff that bogs down one’s desire to be creative.

Enjoy…I guess,

t (more…)

of minds
dancing and twisting
through abstraction
to find a
more
pure reality.

thoughts freed
backed by
heartbeats
flickers
ripples of
belief.

better than
truth
more than
truth.

conclusion?
nay.

we linger in-between.

Lichen by Aphex Twin suits my mood incredibly well.

I go to read.

t

My bones ache.
My muscles twitch.
My nerves tingle.
The horizon of eight months beckons.
Residual beats throb and torment.
Not enough volume.
Not enough energy.
Soon, oh androgenous paradise.
My screams will lace your ether.
Your ether will carry me.

t

Photography cradles me.
Obsession is a start.
A way of life is closer.
Capturing the visceral, no.
Documenting what is, yes.
A documentary as I see it.
My eyes.
Leaving a trail.
Follow?
It is where I go.
It is who I see.
It is what I do.
Photos are what is left behind.
Only part of it.
A small part of it.

t

Some times the life we live is vibrant.

Some times it is not.

We must do all we can to sing every day, and to dance every night.

For there will come a day when another does not follow.

There I will meet you.

t