Haw haw haw!
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
I recognize also silence is a privilege not granted to everyone, but I have precious little left. What is it that Chris Whitley said?
"There's miles of stone, jackhammer in my hand. There are compromises I can't comprehend. Soon I'm gonna drop this jack and run. Return into the wild where I'm from."
I wasn't wired for this modern world. I simply can't sustain the rage.
Heads up Baltimore, and Ferguson, and Downtown Brooklyn... and more. My heart is with you, but today I feel all used up.
Monday, April 27, 2015
I wait I wait I wait I wait...
And then life becomes a series of waiting rooms and pharmacy slips and appointments. Everyone demands blood and urine and you are surprised when the former is easier to come by. You check in at an office and there is a column on the sheet that asks, "are you dropping off."
I answer that nothing has dropped off yet and the girl at the counter doesn't even crack a smile.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
~ Nikki Giovanni
Saturday, April 25, 2015
"She said "you are the sort that just drifts in the current. Life just happens to you. Therr is nothing appealing about that. You don't make any thing happen. You don't contribute anything. You consume rather than create. You are along for the ride." It may have hurt less were it not essentially the truth. I did expect pain but not this kind of pain. I never expected the truth. The truth is a fucking low blow and I had done nothing to deserve the truth from her or anyone."
Now see... Shakespeare knew. He knew enough that when you Google "unkindest cut" there are multiple responses. The sentiment has been echoed in dozens of poems and pop songs, most of them mediocre but the point is the same. As Superman had his Kryptonite, we all have that one weakness... one vulnerability... an Achilles Heel. It will be those whom we hold closest who will know it.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
And why should they? You refute it with fact, and they just say the liberal media is lying. It's the Goebbels Effect: The lie so big that everyone believes it.
Then when and if you get to a point where you either get caught in the act, or caught in a lie, and you source the action or the information back to the other side. I.E. Glen Beck told his listeners that Barack Obama was responsible for leaving Hurricane Katrina survivors in the lurch.
And so on...
I just don't think I have it in me. I want to go somewhere.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Man has invented his doom.
First step was touching the moon...
It's funny, really, but not haha funny. When I was a kid people talked about overkill and nuclear holocaust and it all seemed so real. I guess the threat was real. Or maybe not. Who knows?
Then the powers-that-be got together and shot the shit and signed some papers and these days the duck-and-cover drills seem like a bad dream. Sure, they still talk about some rogue nation or terrorist group getting ahold of some mythological beast (or not?) called a suitcase nuke, but for the most part we don't talk so much about baking the whole planet in a single afternoon.
So it's kind of funny that we more or less nullified the quick option and it looks pretty much like we've decided to take the slow road and fuck it all up a little at a time. You know what I'm talking about too, unless you live under a rock.
Okay, this is a cheap shot.
The title of this post was the first headline I read when I came home tonight. The photo above fairly well illustrates what came to mind at about the same time as these words escaped by lips:
Don't take that the wrong way. Were her breasts any larger it would be pretty much the same reaction.
Who really cares?
It's not like breasts are a rarity in most corners of this world. I'd venture to say I'd rather see fewer of them on the internet.
I'll end my rant here. I'm feeling cynical and punchy.
And I don't care.
You think Munch and you think The Scream but it's not like that. It's not the bilious, blood-streaked horror though the day may have started that way. It's hard to recall. All the elements were there, the dread and horror etc. The emotions were there, or rather the aftermath of the emotions. The frightful awakening to the very truth of it all having happened so long ago -- and surely this is a common thread or so many people would identify so quickly and with such clarity to The Scream -- what comes after is the reality of what inspired the agony.
The relentless monotony.
It's the dead eyes or in some cases no eyes at all. It's the stiff limbed resignation: you will trudge home and perhaps sleep but surely get up and do it again, and again, and again. You will bruise your heels on the sharp heads of cobblestones.
And again Munch with the color. Not sickly and headachy like The Scream but dreary and then again fertile at the same time. There is profound depth and weight to the color... the garments. You almost feel Munch more than see Munch. Their limbs become your limbs. Their exhaustion becomes yours. You know that grim resignation. It's in the color. The color has gravity.
I'm certain I'm plagiarizing myself here also but that's almost the point of this. You will live long enough to plagiarize yourself and repeat yourself and become tedious. But yes, there was that first time I encountered Edvard Munch during that long summer in the early 80s, sitting high atop pallets of remaindered texts and throwaways, reading art books. It was, of course, The Scream. Maybe it was the weed I'd smoked before settling into the lunch hour but I'm guessing it wasn't because so many other people experienced the painting in the same way -- it came in like an ice pick though. It was an awakening. There it was in front of me. Someone had gone inside my head and pulled out my waking nightmare and committed it to canvas. Even still I was certain that I was the only person in the entire world who was experiencing this painting the same way because how could so many people know what was in my head? Certainly this was just for me. Some painter had created this knowing that at some point in time, someone would "get him."
But of course I'm not so special after all because that's the entire point. Everyone gets this, despite that nobody really wants to.
So what was the subject of The Scream looking at?
I believe it was this next bleak canvas, populated with hollow men with hollow eye sockets and tired legs and precious little to look forward to but a calendar populated with the same damn thing.
And that was today.
And probably tomorrow.