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.

Meat Robes...

...Mind in Meat Robes...We have a theme.

Just so you know I am wearing my new disguise
and observing the intoxicating lameness.

One must research.
It really is gross, though.

Grab the choice illusion.
Ride the streamline.

Beyond the system is
the art of play.

You can't even read this...

a fragile airy thing inside meat robes (simple as we are) and 

toxic collaboration.  The purity hunters, basking

in the glory of being correct, aim themselves directly

at those lizardly old fucks.  And thank God.  Or whatever.

Someone has to but it seems like odious journeys for 

small change and I can't for the life of me 

believe the best road to change are the ones

you are filtered into.  Just my guess as far as power-plays probably go(the alliteration was an accident, the editorial choice of leaving it, intentional).  

To put it another way:  Make art without permission.

To put it another way:  Play life as you like it.

I'm learning as I go here, and what comes out is what comes.

Spontaneity, or something like it, stay.

I sleep strange hours.  Or, better said, I awake at strange times.

It has to be dealt with.  Perhaps I'll seek medication or 

a more balanced lifestyle.  Then I can be better and more 

effective.  It'll be great, I'm gonna be a go-getter.  Or I'll take pleasure 

in what is.  Read some Li Po.  Kerouack, "Scripture of The Golden

Eternity".   

Many translations of the name of 

Buddha.  

The Named One.  The sitter.  The Quitter.  The Ready One.  

Another paraphrased gem (watch out for paraphrasing...One

can start spinning words across words until the whole idea

is fucked into incomprehensibility, never mind locatable in form) Telling a man

to be pure is like telling water to be wet.

(I couldn't even read it, I just made it 

straight into mind activity, a swirl of

arising ideas wrap the swirl of past

ideas, none of it me, all of it mind

all of it me, none of it mind).  

Make notes. 

Surf porn.

Study castration cult mythology.

Start new art projects.  

Smoke marijuana.

It can get weird.

It is only

Isness.

The middle of the night is good.

The early morning is good.

Would you rather be alert and focussed on 

your own project at 3 am or well rested for work

at 8?

I know what I've chosen.  

There are so many issues to be dealt with. 

There is no where to go and nothing to do.

Each piece is a mysterious event.  A mystic stroke of luck.

Is Is meant to be.

Some new imagery:

The devils at the flea market.

I've started a collection of a certain 

type of Native literature.

Sunday afternoon in the yard.

Again.

It's getting slightly loony and 

finally interesting.  

Playful.

And Faster.