Continuing The Theme...

...from yesterday.  Actually gonna make two
posts today.  This one first:

The Strange Dog After Its Own Tail

And continuing the theme:

Staying In Character II

So after all that we still 

hadn't really dipped into the stream.

There was noise and confusion and light,

and maybe even a liberating flash of joy,

but the whole wheel was a stable construct

and try as we might it was not going to be an 

easy thing to adjust.  Didn't matter

if you wanted it moving faster, or the other direction, or

to stop completely.  The damn thing was riderless.

And somehow that too was heart warming.  The poor 

boys dug in their heels and the gardeners offered up

what was left of the place in some new type of communion.

No one knew how to behave anymore.

The statuesque had turned timid and there were "Tap In" 

shirts for everyone.  We felt shy about everything.  

The conversations all spun on new and majestic

concepts that eluded every finger.  But for all

that there was more laughter and some truly shameless

screwing in exotic ways.  We were all broke in

any way that could be conceived and that softened the

whole interior.  The wind barely came around.

The moon increased in relevance and the machines 

took over a lot of the heavy lifting.  They flicked the 

next switch as far as program development went and

had things functioning on a nebulous and highly 

ambiguous system of non-commital relationships, 

that could fire each other off without receiving a signal

from anywhere.  This turned out to be the most accurate

representation of the human mind yet.  They found a multitude 

of ways to fold recorded data into any realtime

information flow and that made the difference imperceptible.  The wind 

barely came around and everyone I knew was slipping on

the ideas faster than you can say, "flibbertyjibbet,"  or some

other stupid shit that will function as an authoritative,

self-critical declaration of finality.  

Keepin' some motion...

Hey y'all.  

Interesting times are happening. 

Attended the Versus show here in Calgary.  

Lots of strong work.  Lots of friendly folk.

Apparently I'm "That Guy"

Which I've begun to conceive of Westernisms zombie.

The already dead are already free.

Read, "Half-hanged Mary" by Margaret Atwood.  

It's a maybe. 

Anyway, show was cool...two artists, one canvas.  

Initially I had a vision of an aggressive event where to 

people would be trying to conquer the same canvas, more like

an art battle, you know...with design strategies as your attacks, counter-attacks.

In the future somewhere that one.  

Where did that come from? 

Anyway...make the sweetest work you can.

Do what you can...may the day treat you 

the way you deserve to be treated.

Here's the first part of a four part poem.

Stay attuned.

The poem is entitled, "Staying In Character"

Actually locating an entry point was quite the problem.

They were sleeping in the treetops.

No one was pointed in any particular direction.

Or everyone was pointed in a very particular direction.

It is not the simplest thing into, you see.

Maybe the story opens up as the sun crosses it.

Either way there is a lot of information spinning in 

The slightly audible thrumming pathways. 

So we step into the action just an uncountable

number of moments after it begins.

The tale involves some lizardy looking fellows,

and an unreasonable number of thoughts.

Luckily most of those were so whispery and useless as to pass

through the witness completely.

The whole thing was obscured behind the available mind

by the most inconsistent of veils.

We could see in as often as we couldn't,

which only served to amplify the confusion.

They were sleeping in the treetops.

We heard their stirring as the sun crossed.

But that was all.

No appearance.

No guidance through the thick bits.

We're hacking a line through some kind of

new electric wire forest growing on crumbled 

Asphalt.  The quiet vibrates with the strangest

buzzing insect I've ever seen.  It drags some 

part of its nature in its jaws.  It has a halo of eyes.

No other creature comes near it.  

Every piece turns around and the fallacy

opens its heart to its victims.

The hungry are fed and the exact

moment when we expected it to stop

and transform into a sense of something 

beyond itself comes and goes.  And we look at each other

with a sweetness previously unconsidered.

It's really a good way to begin all over. 

Wow...

So rained out from the job yesterday...
Then the sun comes out...
Smoked enough medicine to be a paranoid
mess of sorts...
BUT...
Managed to make some fun drawings...
Just like a real adult...

And there you have it.  

Keep your hearts tuned up.

...Oh, one more thing.
Obedience is not a virtue.

Postulate

Actually, I just want to post a poem.

But first, a quick thank you to the Calgary artists
who are reaching out to have their work incorporate in
MeatRobes: An Exploratory Magazine.

I won't name any names yet as part of the nature of the
publication is to allow pseudonyms and alter-egos
to protect the soft bits of those who enter work.

If they desire.  If they wish to be identified they
will be.

Times are strange.
We'll have more fun than ever before.

Spell Slinger

We flip the cards, investigate the

situation.  Seek contradictions or 

anomalies.  Changing wave patterns,

fascinated by our dreams we seek 

a wakefulness that functions like a 

blender.  A divinatory chopping into

one healthy, sweet energetic blessing. 

Impermanence is apparently

some kind of key.

The fleshy ex-monster

says to me, "you

can want all you want."

I coined the term, "bush witch"

yesterday afternoon, the double 

connotation only obvious

after the words left my lips.

And one deep grin becomes another.

Insert a grand sweeping, Leonine

gesture here, the type of motion that

let's everyone know that we are in 

the middle of something meaningful, 

something self-derived and salvaged 

from outside the veil of wake/sleep/repeat.

The air is full of attention. The small birds

find new voices, shake the old vices and 

step of the grid, raising their own uncertain 

harmonies against the work-songs of history

and all that weird religious chanting.

The air is full of attention, the gesturing

is effective, the wave patterns change, 

the fragments stay that way.

Spells linger.

It's Satyrday!!

...and it's a marvelous system of wiggles (I stole that from Alan Watts).

I steal ideas.

Some photos and a poem and I'm signing off
 again...will do a write up later this weekend on new developments...arts zine, musical
fun, connections with others...

HE arose, filthy, stinking

king of the dawn.

Still in yesterdays clothes

but breathing a new

type of fire.

His nostrils had grown.

The air moved quicker.

And everything else kept 

slowing down.

He caught a bird in mid-flight.

He pointed out the smallest parts

of everything.

Then the quiet became unbearable.

Of course, he took it.

Some of the bones...

The bones.
The conceptual undercurrents.

The deeper sensation and spatial anomalies.

What's empty in this room?


From there springs the thing itself.
There is a Rufus Wainwright song I've
Never heard before playing on the radio.

That cat makes a fella jealous.
Just fuckin' wails it out.

Some new work (incomplete) that will
appear in the first issue of

MeatRobes: An Exploratory Magazine.



You See...art is fun.

But also Serious.

Much love.  

Here are a few of the conceptual bones:

http://hermetic.com/bey/taz_cont.html

http://www.soul-healer.com/

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/chuang-tzu-and-the-butterfly/ 

Let me know if any of it touches you.

At all.

In any way.  You beautiful fuckers.

A late addition, found just this morning:

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2012/05/on-censorship-salman-rushdie.html

As we go...

Be gentle with yourself.

An attitude.  

Keep Makin' Work, Please.