posts with label eggtooth.
Wrankled urged hurt and blurt to LOVE
PRIMING THE TENDER GEARS
shifty ice wept the trail i followed fell through
this routine and found myself .............cracked
SACKEDpassion a distant look in
free form me
sight i see a .......want for completion.................a tumbling through and back to a familiarity
a wagging tail on gremlin lips floppy ears the buttons the dog gimme five click on that linoleum LOVE
sift, priming the tender gears i move on
move on to find myself staring there
should i break
lines and inspire from things that sting my cheeks . a weakness for when i look there
and dammit im warm in yr thoughts from here
i do know how i feel this isnt a joke this is life look there and imagine there look there
this is a post about moving on this is a post about caring this is a post about moving on this is a post about caring this is about moving on i care about you so much i dont care about being
plain when i say it
about showing i actually care
it's empty as me, a cheesy cheek filled moment of moments of meaningnothing but either anger or confusion
balance me in that space between feeling
now they say tilt yr head forward instead of back when taking pills for pains
or a thyroid condition!
a sick will reeds tremble a gold fench on whats not my porch
i was visited by a screech owl once and it just stared at me as if it knew
fly be free! (do you remember that from mork and mindy?)
five feet away we hugged i drift back to others of so much
a friendly fire over -a father's death i lost you,too
and i love you my friend i leave you to do good we shared many good years
a james bond shrieking bullet in small quarters makarov mattress sleep number bet
tremble in the years im wiser still stiff and listening to everything now
so much that its all unclear have i got another fifty years?
way up high
on the side
in the hole
you got sold.
at 9:15 PM 0 comments
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Antsy Segue from the Art Perimeter (in Atlantis) by Writing
Was a character of itself. In Atlanta the Finniky Way we get influence giggles in the hidden memories of older classmates fists full of characters who at one time.
Loathly and loather e.g. wrote to the AR department and spake the feelings from the brainshaped like a soultypewriter, a spine unglued it said with want,
"As an example of a way to start this. Money. Don't get to close to the action, the pulpit that needs to build its congregation. Not unless you're prepared to preach in a vast empty field under the burning sun. This is the South. " The Perimeter circled around the PB, in radius to the BBrainchild of fine youthful art in itself. Raising a professional wardog paw sportprint, it published a thought,
"Serious analysis of those who do research amongst those of importance ,with the important questions, as "cultural outlaws", or what have you, where are they?" Pentagram Boy's shadow elongated into that of a hairy old man. He could be seen scribbling words fromthe camera lense the audience watched,
"So in response during the blur of hairdryers and lawnmowers, multiple voices attacked with logic and a knowledge of gaps. The light of the day leaned over the city and it slept again,to wake again and grin into yet another unfinished day of business."
A Voice from over the Marta rails whirred by blurring the infinite truth back at PB, like graffiti tracks. It was feminine and demonstrative, " These writers have returned to their caves and from there, hurl a fleshed out colorful image of reality far more real than even the thing itself. They hurl them, as do the talented artists, into an environment that does not spiral outward. It consumes itself. Places value only on the very same things many themselves fight ideologically against. No soldifying praise crossbreeding beween the little narcissistic scenes. All agreeing that there is a problem."
Even within each camp of music or sculpture or dance, lofty eyes give it a gesture in a trance, is a process that only builds to a certain point before it has to throw a sort of Schroedinger's Phoenix melodramatic tree falling in the forest episode.So sayeth Eggtooth. Bowing to the mandates and the dictates,upsidedown and sqwiggly free. They walked handless frozen miles throgh groovy ends of town,past once packed art galleires. Singing to themselves.
Embraced by the machine as a character. It was a character. It was a perspective, that even the Creative Loafing would not touch. Needing that youthful idea of a hip connection. One would wish to think the blunder was unwitting, but no it is quite planned for this status maintenance.
The Breakit Brian blunder was so under it, it was hip to it with a riffler and a soldering iron. and a guest pad for all to sign. He breakit brian smiled and had to scream.
"This status of an art scene. One that demands that you not demand an observation of how the machine itself functions. Not something to try to couch this as art in itself either. It isn't a performance and it sure isn't structured as would a traditional writer,or even the most avant of post modern of non lexical poets. " He shrugged not even sure what he had said and imagined Eggtooth nodding to the statue of the ruler.
The faithful narrator traced overhead projected plans for revamping the museum and its predecessors,benefactors, and plane crash sewing circle cacklers. Ornery rich too tired to think,it likes art that stinks. it gouges greenspace for bucks for starless drinks.
A dreamy voice dreamed words across the sky over Castleberry Hill. Was it the real deal?
"Bear in mind that this art scene is also one that at once, relegates the majority of the many to a status of insignificance, because of,like any other geographic location, its undefinable expansiveness,while at the same time appears to be but a small and intimate community, ripe with opportunity.
E.G gripped Def jargons pen when He went to the AR Department, pleading like he would anti plead for attention from a two year old, please listen to me.
"The written media has something to blame with giving no power or senseof self to the city as an art community. It sees no audience and it sees correctly. A blind pack of puppies licking up everything. Exquisite snobby poodles."
A rough idealistic homeless person covered in metal shavings and blisters grunts into the crowd.
"Those that do it for Love are needed. To simply show up and speak your mind is all is asked. It is not for anything other than the sharing. But what happens when you share about this need for sharing? It is a specific type of process,a process that does not need detractors, but believers of the situation. Detractors are only interested in a false sense of self or ,to put it simply:
Free Wine, Facetime. And the whole day was beautiful
To further that structure. Does everyone want to be part of it? No! Praise those that do not even wish to show their creations. You will be missed and loved by your loved ones!
Many are perceived as major parts of this art community. Major contributors to... what? To the image of our art scene or only to themselves? Is either their responsibilty? They may find jobs on some level and find responsibilty in that regard, in some self contained myth without roots pointless cycle,but in the end, they know they serve nothing but an empty routine.
One's duty is strictly to the manufacture of art. And to the praise of those whose continued loving efforts continue to try to produce meaningful art into this city. Art with a desire to do something of newness, or of import, those that often exist only as an inspiration in the forgotten ears of those that used them to graft that spirit with something more compatible-with the very market proposed to be aligned against. This itself has not happened yet. It lacks even the environment for such an atrocity to occur.
This is from feedback and feeding together,that this will occur. The joy of our community is in its status as capable of practicing and teaching one another. Developing that sense of self. More of this kind we have,the better. While at the same time, the more who come in, also find themselves as perceivable threats in some manner to those before them. That's bullshillalays. It's about the art. and the folks who don't come decide.
" Their art should be nurtured and praised." said the father of critics to the pulpit under the southern sun. Their art is the focus. Is this what is taking place?
Listen one at a time to the same voice derange the playfield by being now. Too now for never to appear as but an unpublishable blip of fragments. Of art.
"It is a lovely cycle that truly does not even discuss the art. " Said the one nice voice.
"The art itself is a thing that reacts to its environment. " From across the crowded gallery.
"While the environment is also what effects and creates the entire set of values that it is perceived within. " She laughed at having her thought completed by such a brilliant and talented young man.
"Do not be fooled into following paradigms and images of the self related to other time periods or cities." This club owner shrugged and made shirts with his logo on them to sell. One day he would produce musicians and buy a restaurant.
The next in line for voice identification stepped forward.
"They did it themselves the old fashioned way, and it remains, shifting from this city, or this side of the sea or that - every so often,true, but nevertheless, these places are magnetic with dynamics and pace and expectation. " All agreed at this simplicity.
They are their own
and they draw love and attention
for something that occured on its own, almost with a lack of a sense of self.
Just as any artist finds their
own voice. Or does not
A city cannot
quit. Just as here in the southeastern corner of
the United States, we are our own.
It does not and should not (ever say should) embrace or respond to or acknowledge the tired commercialism we see.
It should not (ever say should)put friendship before honesty, as it relates to art.
The friend tells the artist what they love or do not love about their art. The friend to Art.
It has to be insular, something many southerners should all ready find quite easy.
It has to be honest and small. Judgmental and friendly. Capable of realizing when they themselves should stay off their own side. (Like this writer.)
But yr still loved. Don't leave.
Come to my opening.
No.wait..but I dont want to be seen with you with that person.
I should just go home and make art and just worry about that
I should invite others . I should weed out those that I feel I can and cannot work with for whatever felt reason.
So I can go show Art somewhere. I recognize the dragon chasing its tail in this. Or is it the dragon and the pearl or whatever.
oh. my .gawd.
at 8:50 PM 0 comments
Friday, April 11, 2008
scraping the tooth
the truman show..that's a good title.
artists feel alone sometimes.
write those sometimes honest ugly things that often are simply not true
"it's not a popularity contest its about good art ..wink wink" thing.
internet immediacy illusion on one hand its ridiculed as not real and without credibility cuz its not ,well subject to financial production expectations etc..but then it turns around and gets you banned from a place thats whole premise is based on a freedom...
i cant tell people how to feel.
i think maybe the hate part overwhelms sometimes. there are so many emotions to things.
its art about artists in the 21st century on the internet.
why does it take angry mean stuff to really get people to speak up and explain why they think something is good..
ill get out of bed for it.
the Truman show?Message: Hello Jeff! Was that you?I was enjoying the Wheres Waldo aspect of it. It's all pretty funny, I think. If it wasn't you then its even funnier.The Egg abides.LT--
at 12:14 PM 0 comments
Labels: art, eggtooth
RESPONSE TO ART TODAY 2008
coorespondance between eggtooth and LT.
UNANTICPATED FLOOD OF WORDS FOR ALL YOU THAT GET HURT.
weird that this message went to this email...oh, i just figured out why! lisa king (who you might know indirectly/directly..have i played this name game with you all ready?) -who set up my eggtooth page, must have changed it to send stuff to this email instead of my yahoo email....weird.okay.
but hey. it's good to hear from you. it was me having fun. the truman show..that's a good title. didnt think of that one! robert didnt find it amusing obviously.
i dunno. im kinda torn on how i feel about that. you see,lenore. the thing is, i like to think what im doing is "symbolic"...cuz i guess we can all relate on some level, as artists, to feeling alone sometimes in the journey of doing something you love. the intent behind it. just being yrself and sharing and then of course theres always the "wondering where i'm going to take this art next aspect" art/business/love...i like to try to pretend to -be myself being myself-..and then write those sometimes honest ugly things that often are simply not true, but many feel them anyways. i know i do. i think those hidden felings are what motivates people in this whole "it's not a popularity contest its about good art ..wink wink" thing.
what's funnier, is for the first time-- a couple of weeks ago- i actually got to converse at length with jeff calder. ive known lisa king for many many years...(since late 80's), but anyways..a coversation invigorated/pissed gasoline on my all ready giant flames- my desire to throw my thoughts out there honestly,and i did, only about a local art publication called FALSE. jeff c is an eloquently bitter bloke about atlanta's art/music scene, thats what i gathered anyways. hes still passionate obviously, so thats good.(IM ADDING TO ORIGINAL HERE: jeff c. went on to say,not a direct quote-if yr gonna throw honest critique out there, be prepared to answer to it with substance and with strength)
i think this internet immediacy illusion of being out there and expressing yrself is funny too. on one hand its ridiculed as not real and without credibility cuz its not ,well subject to financial production expectations etc..but then it turns around and gets you banned from a place thats whole premise is based on a freedom...
but i actually understand. i think of groucho marx's quote about being a member of a club...i sometimes feel my intent is so labored and veiled and its a process of fleshing it out as it goes. its also about exposing the clunky truth to working things out.... the only way to do what i do is to do it without explanation,but still. im about wanting to promote good art in atl. so if i need to do myself a favor and stay off my own side, i understand. another rule is i cant tell people how to feel. i wont defend it.(is that what im doing now???)
kevin haller got pissed at me and wanted me to explain my context.he got his feelings hurt and took my stuff as just hateful.. i feel with my idea, explaining it ruins it from the getgo. am i making sense? i think maybe the hate part overwhelms sometimes. there are so many emotions to things. why the insecurity? i think because its art about artists in the 21st century on the internet,thats why. the only choice for anything new is to be honestly exposed and real reality about the real you. its a loopty loop.
im trying to do something that is obviously just for the sake of it..in a funny way
i just watched a thing about those old folks "young at heart" singing shit like schizophrenia by s,youth. the guy doing it said it was great cuz you know they are there not wondering where they are going to take it next... and its the secret to getting old and loving life. you fight to stay alive to get out of bed to do something you love.
wow. i didnt anticipate writing all of this! it was obviously me using it as an opportunity to hear myself
go figure! ha!
so yeah..good to hear fom you!
im thinking i might post this i just wrote to artnews atlanta blog thing, why not?
why does it take angry mean stuff to really get people to speak up and explain why they think something is good..is it cuz the process itself for them is about the art itself and this is construed as talking about the art and not art..so it's real. and therefore it's mean?
or maybe its just at this point needing to hone its craft(if it is art) which is fine.
ill get out of bed for it.
This email was transmitted via eggtoothart.squarespace.co----------------------------Lenore T
the Truman show?Message: Hello Jeff! Was that you?I was enjoying the Wheres Waldo aspect of it. It's all pretty funny, I think. If it wasn't you then its even funnier.The Egg abides.LT--
crying into agony with style
when they tried to pin me down to needing
i'd been reading about how i'd been.
reading about how i'd been reading.
i read about
crying into agony with style and how
they tried to.
pin me down.
with style, i fled when they tried to pin me down.
needing a hug i had been reading
i fled into agony. i'd been reading about
needing a hug
how it must have appeared
how it must have appeared to myself
i observed them observe you. i said to myself.
in a recording of the making of. a reaction to.
an emotion. not real. i'm standing there now
a must have
emotion in here
to myself i observed them, i said to myself
how it must have. i'm not real. in a recording.
it must have appeared
to myself,to them,i am just an
i must have myself
because it's all that is real.
The collective of words merged into
again into specific sounds. I
stood. reacting with a stream of presumptuous sounds.
why who would wonder what if words were
o get her
to forget them and merge
sy sy sy symbolic of rude of the stuh stuh stuh it is still rude
stuh stuh stuh sound stutter i didn't really stutter
i ,i, i imitated it to a stutterer's face so
ru ru rude and
said. i i i i i am not reh reh reh real now
i reh reh reh reh reh represent stuh stuh
to you, for you. i am not seeing you as real. a needless
re re reminder of symbolism that is per per per person
you are symbolic and i am now real
sounds say them reaction says its meaning
stuh stuh stuttering is the enemy in thi thi thi thi
and i don't really stutter. and i do care.
until i saw myself
Thursday, April 10, 2008
UNVEILED ATLANTIS )outtake( Sorghum Highway's dead end
Trouble walked right down the middle of his brain,swinging doubt like a young person's imagined idea of a butterfly antenna. Thoughts collapsed on themselves and smiles appeared on the covers of magazines. People talking to him saying roundabout things. Pentagram Boy hit fastforward on the tape without hitting stop. He hit rewind and then play and then fastforward and then stop and then rewind. And then rewind and then pause and stop and cut blue brain shapes for the party next weekend. The balcony overlooking the ocean was so many miles away and even that he knew would not satisfy. It had to be shared.
Hearing things like"I love you"
A turnkey life from the moment he breathed this planet's air. Carbon dioxide and solid matter passing through him. Ending things with a moment that said something about pain.
He denied this prognostication flatly and turned to the side that faced the beach.
"You should go there with the one you really love"
He knew this and shuddered a couple uncle like gestures, tears were par for the course. Held back and just so old and floating in a weird weird weird place.
"This isnt poetry and it certainly isn't worth anything"
Who is this for? What? Is it a pleasure to pass this time like this. Doubtful .
The road opened up and it found itself scattered with books and lives that gave and gave and gave every night into what? A pretend game. The meanings smiled.
He gestured to the backyard at the winding vibrant glowing green path that just bushelled and bullied its way into his sense of self. His sanity. His structure. His friends. His job security.
"This here stuff will grow in the driest of driest places on earth." Breakit Brian pulled a chunk of growth out of his garden and handed it to Delilah Redfrochs. Her face fragmented with every word and he tried to just....Smile.
"It looks like a giant pollen stem". He smiled and tossed it back into the overgrown little polotchsky of jungle sorgotol. Taffling the starrit, if taggled the untangled Breakit Brian in vein
sacked by their futility and delusion, he looked out the window and picked up an old signed copy of the fiend folio. Glaring at axes sold lunch trials and arbitrators deep breathing.
"Diseases kiss the livid victims of worth."
His harthall opened up in the sunlight, only to close at midnight and someone had scrawled the words, "I love you" all over its knobbly surface
Heth trevellers simple, trie-fed twice the rinse due. All sins oh oh oh gesticulate the width of a barnyard, a company of something youth don truil fluid dooth drool the cartoon faces become real. And you were wrong all along. It stopped making sense.
These just us and these just us trust us jumbled crumbles of her untouchable eyes on this screen.
"It sure is a big city, I don't like to confront that fact. I like my whiffle bat huffle tragic skateboard push buggy its late and wandering thru the maxe. I mean, the maze.
The head of a horse in the constellation above.It mouthed those damned words and called its mother over to read them from the screen, See if she knew what they meant. Her brother would know.
"I love you" This time he was falling apart before her. Her promotion froze time. Too late to propose Anidea. It would just be a performance,now that was all he was, he needed others to make him real.
Trouble is on the breeze. An emptiness that creeps through the art community. A terrifying trabble sagged the truth as 'bout writing styles and intimated negative things for no apparent reason
"Perhaps you're losing your mind. Perhaps it started to crumble soon after your last friend moved to san fransisco. and you betrayed him, kept back the money you were going to give him for his car"
Traffic lights with the green at the top. Covered in inert gases. Dilated by the digital age. Silence ripped the last dollar from his hop.
ssinsss are out.
Trust a worthwhile cause, execute the numbers with accuracy. Hug a bush, trumpet firth strails turds turnpikes and tombom babble on after dhalgren's last sirens song comes stumbling out of the swamp covered in little bits of greeny green grass and alligator excrement.
"Trust doesnt matter, money does...and family. If yr lucky."
A crumbling boulder with hearts painted all over it sifted through the wreckage with solder wire fingers.
"Maybe Breakit Brian will meet up with Pentagram Boy on the side of that mountain"
Glaarg startled yerteeboy fools gold from way up north where the sun never sets in summer.
Delilah denied the dolorous dew drops on her dead white cheekbone. It sunk in from the side of her smile, and remembered all of them at once, surrounding him chuckling, a naked thoughts through train wrecks of just to be held for one hour. Maybe two.
Cameras flashes of the mind.
Blinded. Denied, this is the part where you ask yourself about a promotion. Into another calendar year.
Into the minds of those ten years older and younger. Clotheslined
The truth comes from hairy buddhist places and offers you a tennis racket to work healthy perspectives into your life.
" I happen to like Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys."
Well. That's your problem, im going home...
wherever that is.
You get what you deserve
from what you put in
what you get back out
doubt for a moment
cut me out of vinyl and stick me to something where i will stay.
at 7:54 PM 1 comments
Sunday, April 6, 2008
A NON ART NIGHT
I drove up to Eyedrum late last night. It was about 9 o'clock or a bit after. The gate was open. I thought it seemed quiet and it was. Entering a place expecting frothing energy of human life always amplifies its emptiness for me. Going to a regular place of work or school in off-hours has the same effect. It triggers an association with loneliness. For me. This is probably part of why I am writing on a blog that is not mine.
By golly, I tell ya, this little community of artists. I don't know what to say. But I sure do try. Ask Ben Grad and his bicyclist buddy.They came rolling into Eyedrum shortly after me. I recognized his face from his blog. He had showed up curious about an opening as well. Instead, he finds Eggtooth posting random weirdness on Eyedrum walls. He is a quiet sort, small framed intelligent seeming bloke. I suspect he absorbs and listens, the soft sponge type. In this case, gathering what was probably already concluded from reading Eggtooth's writing. I conclude that he is young. Young to the idea of an art scene. Which is great. I am sure I am young given certain perspectives. We are on the same team, the trick is making us realize there is a team in the first place. Otherwise, the whole scene we exist in is what?
This art scene. I know I have given it thought. Perhaps on a writhing, trying too hard level. I believe I take much for granted as common knowledge or logical,or common sense, and go from there with further conclusions. This is scary to me.
Evidently, others are too preoccupied with either real life or their own art to think of such things.Do they presume we have a readymade art scene, like the one seen in books or movies?Is it like the one their university professor told them to prepare for? Or maybe some old Atlanta gallery owner?
It is amazing what I assume others are doing when they consider art and an art scene. Those I respect for their art. Sure,they think about it when a friend has an art opening. Or they themselves have an art opening. Ask them then and they are full of opinions. None of them critical,though. Not truly. Much of it still based on an idea formed from a classroom. It's still about building portfolios. Proper presentations. Traditional ways of experiencing art. Friends. Business. Which kind of brings me full circle. The classroom example represents an opportunity for critical thought, amongst peers. Fellow students. Do we blame our university system? I look to the commercial galleries and then I look to the non-profit or grassroots style locations. Both appear to have expectations. Both have an idea of standards. I believe Atlanta's art community is stuck in a cycle that can only be broken by forcing or creating more open honest dialogue. This dialogue should be provoked in any way shape or form. It is that desperate. It knows it and is powerless. The problem it encounters is this perception of biting a hand that feeds you. There is no food.
I say now it is not there. I say now, it has Eggtooth to eat. Eggtooth will give you all something to chew on. Just like how easy it is to agree that a highly technically skilled piece of art is easy to look at and like. We can agree that Eggtooth is but an open typewriter and mouth,but we can also agree he has had some success in provoking dialogue. Even if it is only talking about talking. It makes some self aware for a moment. To even think about what needs to be thought about. So now, do it better than Eggtooth- if he is only curse words and negativity."making a living saying mean things"-is what he heard someone at Deconform said,before it became the too self-serious version it now is(hypocriscy alert! how to be serious without being labelled too self serious?..by saying we want dialogue,well what i am doing now is dialogue...not simply observing from the outside! aaagh! fudge. its all about trying to define a truth. maybe we gotta make folks relax and laugh at themselves and the truth. maybe. make bonds first,then hit serious? with false stuff? )
Dialogue. Something you failed to do. Something we fail to do. Your great review or art show disappeared in memory months ago. Welcome to Atlanta. I'm here to help.
This idea of a community of communicating people just isn't real. There's nothing to get worked up over because nobody knows anything,muchless do they actually care. The only time it is considered is when the topic itself is specifically addressed. And thats usually construed as pooping on the party or dismissed by elders (or those benefiting from a false sense of self or money)as naive. Don't look at the man that's not behind the curtain that isnt even really there. This is Atlanta. Lets open a gallery. Let's start a publication. Let's show art. Because we love art.
But aaah! We want, but We are afraid to give critical feedback, so we continue to allow those with nothing but the biggest mouths(look..its elvis!)(or the biggest wallets)to be some idea of the "biggest" artists. (ahem) . Our traditional journalisitc critics are as useless as tits on a boar. They are even more forced to play it safe and dull.
Because we don't talk, we dont critique,we dont argue or debate,we wait to see someone else set up the game pieces and then talk about those pieces,and even that is done behind friend's closed doors.
I am frustrated that my own review of False magazine was nothing but curse words and chaf. I am frustrated that trying to explain why i did not like it presumes a great deal about a much bigger picture. I am also frustrated because i also liked the magazine. I liked its intent. I am frustrated that it is things like this that get a reaction at all. People like Jerry Cullum are respected,but to what end? Does anyone care what Felicia feaster or Cathy Fox wrote? Really?
Understand that all of this does not include the commercial gallery sytems of Atlanta. It is a foregone conclusion that Atlanta's art scene in that regard does not even qualify as the art I write of here. That area is mostly about home decor. It is not,to borrow Brian Holcombe's phrase," relevant to now". The galleries I find of interest with most regularity are Eyedrum,Saltworks, (and Solomon Projects), and New Street. There are others that are of occassional curiousity, but for the most part, that is it.
But you know,today,this morning, I still think of my comments about False magazine and then I think of Karen Tauches. I believe I have lost that artist as a person to share ideas with.
I believe in Eggtooth, He just doesn't believe in me. I used Eggtooth as an excuse to hide from,and even then I didn't stand constant. Losing grip of my own logic. That's the jist of it. I utilize the same technique as Karen. How does one back up a feeling or a felt truth that operates from an intuitive place? Is there substance? Does it have gaps in its logic? I read her article in False Magazine and it represents her very well. Does it expect to have those ideas filled in by some sort of Warholian association with a person's name?Will they ever actually happen? Is that eventhe point? By reflecting it off of others and then fleshing it out? By just blurting it out and not giving a damn about fact, counting on those that FEEL you? What's the point? Is it a spirit or a fortune that we count on? All we have to do is generally point in a direction with words and ideas of ideas and we are supposed to just nod? Nod into ACTION?
Maxwell Sebastian,who doesnt like Chinese Frankenstein, has encountered a dilemma. He must spread his wings. It has been declared that his work has been shown with too much regularity at Eyedrum. There are a number of ways to interpret this. He must take action.
He also believes someone vandalized and stole some of the work, still partially on display, at the most recent show at Eyedrum.
I hear it is true that Felicia Feaster is taking a job away from the Creative Loafing.(Creative Loafing is cowardly and has its hands tied.It is painfully obvious when you read their "best of readers picks issue") To fictionalize this account a bit, I will say that I was chewing over this fact while I put up a sign beside the entrance to the Eyedrum gallery. But I wasn't. I was curious about the empty parking lot, fully anticipating the opposite. An opening of Michi's was supposedly taking place. Later on, which happens to be about 2 minutes prior to typing this, I would discover that the opening was scheduled for 6pm until 8pm. Around the corner at Lenny's, Im certain Maxwell Sebastian will not be in attendance, not eagerly ripping ten dollars from his pocket so that he can help out victims of the tornado,enjoy some music, and more specifically, enjoy some Stan Woodard vs. Chinese Frankenstein. Maxwell Sebastian does not like Chinese Frankenstein.
Meanwhile, Alyson Laura is trying to help the art scene with her campaign to support public art.
I don't think anyone cares.
But what do I know? that's just me trying to say what is true and what is false. That's just me talking about talking about art. What a waste of time. right?
I had a weird dream last night.
I was on a wooden raft going through something like a small canyon. Rough waves and whatnot eventually lead the raft i was on into a weird chaotic spinning circular pool. There were other ritualistically dressed people on a small island chunk of dry land in the middle of the circular spinning rapid pool. I witnessed a person have their face defleshed by the canyon walls.I saw a bare slimey skull hang and swing from still human shoulders. It was a bright sunny day. The face struck the wall again,shattering the skull this time. It was an execution, I found out later. The ritual people paced over smooth rocks, some of them a pretty color of purple.
I have a thing for purple water lately.
at 9:15 AM 2 comments
Thursday, April 3, 2008
POTTER'S FEEL by Mark Prejsnar
The poem below was written by Mark Prejsnar and read by Mark Prejsnar at the April 2nd 2008 meeting of the APG. Part of Eggtooth strongly suspects a certain specific acerbic genius embedded in and on the surface of this poem. He feels it was very craftily angled and perhaps delivered in or about his general direction. Eggtooth allows that it could just be his narcissism telling him this, but certain things about it are painfully applicable. Mark Prejsnar is a founding member of the APG. He is a brilliant human being and incredible writer.
Jeff Dahlgren admires him very much.
The APG are having their next Lang Harm at 8pm on April 16th at Eyedrum. It is titled Two Poems because the event will consist of two poems. Eggtooth is looking forward to this strange evening of words. This will be his second time performing with the APG.
fabulist that is grown away from
a little bit of dawn slipped on the
dew-soaked verbal surface or, if i've got my bleeding right
go on & gnaw a bone of contention
breakneck speed leaves shards from remembering
back in melo-trauma
fretted down by toxins
it's part of the the sell structure
novelization flat first run hostage situationist
at the ballot maybe clicking into place
parenthetic i know how they feel it's S pre-day core
huggermugger link fumble all racking up the balls
right on cue! ergo: nomics
we scamper back out of the light lack
a flounce of nature
you can only go one way if tight-fisted when that tune
acuminate the edge of the blade, kid
i needed a word there vibes rattled it apart
pro-sceney yum 4th-wall sorehead! i ain't gotten floated
so far outside this world since syntax
& i'm thrilled
i think the only way to fathom's in high-end process
mottled data rip creep applepieify
do all the stuff you normally do when they get out of
handstands efflux in the middle of a sleepless bellow
confabulated the book slammed closed just before
a technology commercial unuttered this way financing
your postures without a single tear "if"
it's got market appall
cross-examining the cross pollination
at 8:59 PM 1 comments
Labels: eggtooth, eyedrum, poetry
UNVEILED ATLANTIS: " I don't like music "
EGGTOOTH VS. SWEDISH ROUGAROU : dead from shambalabama
A spaced out night, a curtain black dropped and the word "Fuck" pierced the darkness. A crowd of heads bobbing up and down and lolling on the heavy swells. The current shit figures from the floor of the ocean in giant bubbles. They road to the surface, breaking, breeching black and white whale songs of hesitancy. Bubble rap. Shit was all in Eggtooth's eyes and he smeared and smeared as he swam. Shrugging off the thoughts of the drone of the day. Laying back and bathing in the sound.
Atlantis had a problem with its Pubic Heart. Covered in tiny hairs that grew for no apparent reason, they would hire undead indiana women to pluck them with their teeth and tie knots, like sluts in casting calls with cherry strings,moaning eyes on the chords. The four chambered piston would spit tiny red dots out from where the hair had been plugged. Momentarily bleeding. Adrift in the long tall shadow of a presidential candidate. Shagging the coco puffs from the top ,all the way to the fruit loops at the bottom. A long night in shining armour,trashed and staggering, doing a hoola hoop with the microphone rope.
Eggtooth showed up late to the circus of the sea, dressed in purple octopus tentacles. They swang limply at those around him. Trying to suck suckers on so personal skin. Divulging secrets not squeezing,but relaxing the muscles and reading a digest, Breakit Brian's skiff, made of thousands of mummified human titties, breasts that is, floated up and over ,up and over, up and over the angular refracting sunny waves. It spied the surface circus and the big top with the the space elephant swinging its ticket selling trunk. It was selling them illegally, scalping for skullflowers. The titties jiggled in their leathery ancient stiffness, as taut as a drum head and brown as a finger removed from the dare-ee-air of a three week old corpse.
Lightning zapped the surface of the ocean splitting it down the middle, and for just one moment, the rest of the world saw Atlantis. It was beneficial. It spiraled out and sent a water spout running for the horizon. Breakit Brian cried "woah nellie" to the narwhal pulling his skiff made of human jiggling leathery mummified titties. It screeched to a hault before the entrance to the circus and everyone jumped out.
"Im captain Asshole the Elephant", said the Elephant.
"You're the shit,yo"
"right on", said the elephant and turned so the patron could enter its gaping anus. The show was about to begin. He climbed in and prepared for launch, but the elephant had to wait for three more paying customers to start the ride, so there he sat.Sitting in bubble rap, reading dead lyrics from the 80's.
Outside the concert began anyways. A vine grew and protected the ocean from spreading purple algae, but they were not thankful for this, so a shrewd pack of sea devils, draped in garbage bags rattled their way across the sky, eating the vine. The circus attendants began to fart and fuck inna mass of writhing icky flesh. The sounds produced babies that the king eggtooth commanded be shoved back into from whence they had come.
It was then that the Swedish Rougarou flew in from Shambalabama on beneficial giant black bat wings, he threw jared leto's mark david chapman posing head into the middle of the ring and it bounced to the tune of "For the benefit of mr kite", slinging pathetic limp semen and blood all over the crowd.
A roar shook the ocean floor of Atlantis. Eggtooth grabbed the microphone and pointed a long finger into the sky. "It turned purple there were people running everwhere." They felt they had to run from the mayhem, but it appeared that they didnt even have a concern.Everyone gripped little fake WW2 hand grenades in their hands, waiting for the signal
Eggtooth heiled Atlantis, he pulled a tiny kitten from his pocket and held it to the microphone. It roared a tiny ineffectual roar and the music began. The polls were officially open.
at 8:03 AM 0 comments
Sunday, March 30, 2008
UNVEILED ATLANTIS: The Boring Talk Episode
8's served the best black beans in the known universe. Glark Seakaptin made a point of visiting 8's at least once a week. He shoveled black beans into his face with chicken grease covered fingers and a plastic fork. His eyes tuned down at a local publication,reading across the surface of one of the articles. It skipped for him,his attention divided. The black beans here really were ridiculously good. Sometimes they served them swimming in a bunch of the dark bean juice they lived in. This was extra special,because you could soak it and slop it up with a piece of garlic bread. Maybe get an individual straggler bean stuck with it. Glark's eyes trailed across a page and pushed it with a finger near the gully,forcing it to lay flat. A chunk of partially chewed something,probably beans, fell out of his mouth and on one of the collector's edition pages. He grunted aloud because he was a collector of things and it frustrated him to have tarnished this important thing. He had the perfect place for it in mind. He would get home and gently file it in a special spot, just knowing it was there was all that mattered. Knowing the idea of it, imagining that perhaps one day the very fact that it existed would give it value. He'd found many past speckled publications over the years.They had flown to his shelf and now there they sat,reminding him of how in ancient times preachers would tell their congregations to put their Bible "in the highest place in their home". They would take this literally and the preacher loved this. Wrinkled obliging faces moving rickety handmade chairs to stand on and stretch fingertips. Placing their bible out of reach.Placing their individual thoughts in others's hands, freedom and security assured through faith.Being accepted as part of the crowd,part of the congregation. Now the preacher could tell them what to think, what the words in the Bible truly meant. They needed no false interpretations. No rebel thought mongers. Individual thinkers were dangerous. They needed blind followers.If you behaved,perhaps they'd invite you to be a member of the choir. Ignorance was good if ignorance was obedient.The bible pretended to let them pretend they were thinking enough on its own. Now all they needed to was to get them to breed children who would breed children into this system.
Glark chewed and could actually see in his mind an old tiny church with tiny houses in the woods, hiding their politics behind religion and control-weak lack of thought. Smoke burning from a chimney, trails of lost thoughts floating out with them. Jesus was the ultimate conceptual artist. The artist sacrifices for those that don't deserve or appreciate. To appreciate validates. Your eternal life and his sacrifice officially made true. With a price tag.
"Can I take this tray here of yours?" said the shuffling old busboy,his hand on his blue plastic tray.
"Huh? Oh. Sure." He responded and moved the art magazine to read it with better attention. The article he was on wasn't doing anything for him so he flipped the page.
Finished eating,he felt the urge to clear the table for other people as he began to read. This one had an interesting graphic to go with it. Words words words. Glark looked up at the door and decided he'd go home and read this later.Perhaps work on some of his own writing. His own art criticism. As he stood up, the door opened and for a moment he thought it was going to be the art police,here to arrest his thoughts. Or perhaps the Social Committee for the Convenient Dismissal of Individual Honest Thoughts.
"You're a lunatic!" Said the pickled faced leader."You think you're on some sort of mission, don't you? Don't you know how common you are? It happens every so often in Atlantis,you know. Somebody flips and decides they're on a quest. It's always amusing."
Glark pretended to respond."Oh..really? What's the right way to go about it? Lay snerky low and cool in some gallery backrooom at 4 am, rolling around drunk and junked out from years of going with the flow? Waiting for your other buddies, to pretend to "play against the rules" of the game board? You're still on the same gameboard! The very thing that creates us, creates you, also ultimately denies you not take it too far.We follow mediocrity and comfortable convenient thought. We look for practical uses of the given situation, so that we can pretend to eek out another show, meet another person. Into the same context. Don't ever actually even fully commit to addressing the camera. Just put your art in front of the camera and shut up,right? Don't wanna wreck others years of useless show for show work,now do we? Oh,pardon...do you want me to present options? I should just focus on my art,right? Well I am! The context of the art is everything!"
Glark left 8's still carrying the imaginary conversation in his head.Some of these words were actually muttered aloud. The pickled leader was now in his imaginary face. He saw her blocking him from unlocking the door to his car. A homeless person was approaching him in realtime,though.A weathered extremely feminine man with his eyes bulging from the hollow sockets.
"Hey, can you gimme some change, i just got here from Vermont,heres my I.D., I'm for real and here's a note from my doctor, i just need 75 more cents to......"
Glark handed the guy a dollar and told him that he gave it to him with his good will, what he went and did with it was on him. It was his gestural way to pretend to retain value for the action. For his good will.For hope for mankind. He gave the homeless man the dollar. Glark thought for a second that perhaps he would write an article about homeless people. Maybe that would be interesting.
Pickled faced leader glared at him from the passenger seat.She was actually kind of attractive. Of course.
"How did you get in here?" He thought.
She turned in the seat to face him as he drove."So Glark, you were saying...you have a better idea for what kind of art to do?You're gonna.. 'save the scene'..is that it?" She chuckled at him and lit a cigarette.
"You can't smoke in my car." He imagined snapping at her as he lit his own cigarette. He saw her throw hers out the window,landing at the feet of a what looked like a prostitute.
Sometimes art bored Glark. He looked around at the people streaming in and out of their office buildings. The bookstores with all the neat books. He imagined the art section in the bookstore. The people and their jobs. Their families. Lives lived. Ilnesses recovered from. Sports events attended. Vacation funds.Regular work schedules. Regular faces. Dinner at 6pm. Alone or with others. Routine. How did art fall into their life? Did it at all? For some of them it did, he knew this.Just how?
Glark responded to the open air of his Subaru Outback,his answer to his imagined imposing question. "The environment we present the art in needs to be addressed before, and as we, present art into it. Until then, the art,regardless of its quality, will always fall flat.It should be self-referential and deliberately so.It should be critical and honest. It should be emotion filled and exposed. It should cause arguments.It should cause agreements.It should make people feel uncomfortable because of its honesty,but it actually strengthen real bonds through this. It should break things so that we can rebuild it again. See what happens that time around."
"And,that's not what is happening? There's a lot going on in this town! Have you ever been to..oh forget it. You presume to know what is going on when you don't know anything." The voice from beside him continued. "There are brilliant minds and talented people who have been busting their ass in this town for years,you know? You think you know more than anyone else? How naive! "
Glark tuned the radio to a college station and found college basketball playing.He turned off the radio. The sound of heavy base pumping from a navigator next to him in traffic drifted through his cracked window. Glark thought for a moment of the other night. A member of his poetry meeting had shown the will to be honest about everyone's lack of comment on much of his most recent work. He felt hurt and insecure,Glark supposed. Until then,he'd only seen his confidence and assumed much came from behind it. Apparently it did. It took beautiful intent. It took thought and confidence. It was a wonderfully awkward moment he had created,one that made things ultimately more relaxed and open. It was one of the most productive moments the group had experienced in months.
Glark found his thoughts trailing back to his imaginary argument. Alone was where this conversation belonged. In his head. Not to be shared with anyone. He figured he never would. It was difficult.
"I am naive." Glark thought."I could easily be not as talented as the next. But perhaps I will inspire someone more talented than me to recognize what I am saying. Yeah. That's it. It doesn't take talent it takes a will to call it like you see it. We don't do that with each other. It starts with us. I believe the people are here,and we could attract more! Flesh it out with art that disguises itself as something other,or better expressed thoughts. Trick even ourselves into comfortably observing ourselves. As far as those that have been doing it for so long goes...that attempt to validate them actually does the opposite. You're right. They have been here for a long time,doing it for a long time. Retaining a death grip on their insular isolated fortune of nothing. Wait five minute and I will here you yourself addressing a need for change or excitement in our art world."
"Why don't you go run with all those dirty Earink rats,then?" He imagined her saying that, even though her comment made no sense. It was a very Elchneck Trench thing to say and Glark smiled, thinking of her earlier use of the word naive.Thinking of this idea of unified thoughtsunifioed faction..imagining that it was this idea of Elchneck Trench vs. Jagalayne or Earink... actually against one another.Trying to define it. To draw a certain kind of quality. Even people aligned on the same team did not agree on the reason they were on the same team, or even really what sport they were playing. The premise behind being unified rendered nothing. But don't ever address that. Things stayed the same. The new struggle was to keep the illusion of struggle.
There's no telling. It was all a struggle for perception. It was supposed to be about the art, not the artists. Not friends. If you had the right perception, people flocked to you. To it. To the art. People talked about it. About you. People paid for space to advertise in the routine.To gain entry. It was gross when those that posed to be rebellious,were not.Why even bother complainig about Elchneck or those who are all about money? Anything extreme was extreme and real extreme scared normal folks off. Funny how many supposedly weirdo rebellious artists were actually just businessmen themselves. Will you bite the hand that sustains and poisons you? Is it killing you as it makes you live? Giving birth to you and aborting you in one motion?
"Look." Glark said. "I know in the end, nature defines what's good and what's bad. Intentions dont matter, to a certain extent. Sometimes somebody's perception or expression or idea is just boring or wrong. Or just crazy! I know this. The only other thing I know though, is you have to try. You have to retain a grip,relax, recognize when and where to do what. That's a major part of doing art. That is, if you're into sharing it with the world for some reason."
Glark bored himself with his inablity to whittle this one down to a palatable presentation.Even to himself. It required lengthy explaining and the human animal operates from base desires and feelings,he thought.
Parking his Outback, he hopped out and began walking up towards what he considerd one of two of the only conceptual commercial galleries in town. Kinetiglas Art Forum. It hovered in the air on steel girders and stocky reinforced angular legs.They looked like flying buttreses on an h.g wells nightmare. It was an architectural dream in itself. He always enjoyed walking up underneath it and peering up through the portions of its glass floor. Even during off businesss hours, one could view the art inside.Glark felt the painful conversation in his head begin to fade and felt foolish as he approached a small group of people crowded under the gallery. He imagined the reality of trying to bring up that kind of discussion. It would go nowhere and be received as tired and dull. His past attempts at doing so had been less than satisfying or productive, so Glark resolved to focus it into his art. His real self involved in the art.
He joined the group and opened his mouth to speak when he noticed as he spoke he was becoming transparent. No-one heard him. His face smeared gaseous and drifted into the person next to him. Cheek and ear melted together. It seemed to go unnoticed. Glarks words felt like cotton candy and foam billowing.The choking dreaded purple water, the purple water was on his arms now, climbing towards his eyes. It burned as it entered the sockets, dissolving the network of muscles behind his white gooey orbs. An arm fell from his shoulder and shattered into 7 pieces. It slithered and scuttled, a little random group of things.Floating over to someone's foot,discorporating and drifting around it like a cloud,each piece following. The conversation continued and Glark tried to scream. Things seemed to carry on as he watched himself tear himself apart. Insanity everytime. It always happended and it never hurt more or less. He knew he would wake up again at home. Where he belonged.
at 9:51 AM 0 comments
Thursday, March 27, 2008
UNVEILED ATLANTIS: Intransient Actionosis
The cameras started rolling.
Breakit Brian walked up to the microphone and held the papers in his tingling hands. The lighght from the stage blinding him,he couldn't resist but to try and look directly at it.
Breakit Brian's mouth opened and the camera zoomed in. Fuzzy mustache from not shaving and thin weird lips.
Ruddy olive paper thin skin receives a close lense scan recorded. A string of saliva flickers between average to bad pale yellow teeth. Very poetic teeth.
Breakit Brian's tongue touches up and disappears into the roof of his mouth and he makes a sound, a symbol that everyone in the audience recognizes.
" Filigree with me on this. The symptoms in a kiln, a firey intent burns out and the night comes over. Roaming thought collecting transmitting sitting run. a death cookie aint so rad. Collecting sitting thought roaming running transmitter. a sombrero worn by francesco. Roaming thought transmitting running collecting sitter. He turns to the audience and says,
"" Funky magnet! To paraphrase Antigone, """And this one is for my homies.""" She says, pouring her three philosophers on the erf."" Running roaming thought sitting transmitter collecting. burying.
the words learned a thing or two about talking to furniture. "
Breakit Brian paused in the poem and took and audible breath in the microphone.
Speech pattern rapid even, killer of specific delivery. He had twenty minutes left. No. Excuse him. Thirty four minutes left. That's what Breakit Brian had left.
The man in the audience moved in front of the camera and stood beside it. He held up a white coroplast sign with a gnarly rusty H-stand sticking out of it. The sign read:
YR [sic] in a black fraktur typeface.
Breakit Brian's emotions were amplified,his heart began to actually feel the inside of his chest and for a moment there he literally thought he was going to defecate himself. Instead, Breakit Brian plowed in,reeling off his words.
"I looked into the audience, blind by the stage light and exposed, and saw myself. There was Breakit Brian. Patterns. Like mysterious field crop designs, they remained in front of his gaze, lacing his vision of the people before him. Breakit Brian felt as if he was going to lose his balance. He felt his skin begin to go transparent with disbelief. Or lack of interest.
A book snapping shut on his little imaginary image. Eggtooth craved for his porch light itch to be scratched. Never having known his friend could write so well, he looked down on her book, a bit stunned by its accurate portrayal of his art friend. Eggtooth gathered himself up, riddled with a strange unplaceable anxiety. He decided he wanted to write that night.
But first things first. Gathering his stuff, ambling towards the sliding glass door, the house doggie followed him. He was on his heels, tail just uh-waggin.
Doggie changed his mind when they reached the door. When it was actually open,doggie sat down and made a weird somber expression.This caused Eggtooth some degree of frustration, but he went outside anyways, just in time to get abducted by a beam of light from a low flying alien spacecraft.
at 7:57 PM 0 comments
Saturday, March 22, 2008
PORCH RAT CHUR-N-ATEL
"We're all connected and observing ourselves."
UNVEILED ATLANTIS: bringing breakit brian
Captain Grommet and Missus Kisses, the comic book in the gutter outside of Nebuchadnezzar Platinum Galleries actually contained an original print of what would be worth 986 million Euros in 2128. The rain poured through these streets just the same. Or as was the case these past few years, didn't pour through the streets just the same. It was going to be a scorcher on this mid-August afternoon. The dry white light of the day was giving one poor photographer a headache from squinting.
An artist named Whinnif Wilson fumbled with his lense filter. A scrawny recluse with a thin cyclic diet wincing in the heat,he used gangly nobby knuckled fingers to wipe sweat off his brow.
A rush of frustrated anger and his balding curly head popped out veins all over the place. His camera was off his shoulder and with awkward quirky jerks, was yanking the thing high over his head,prepared to smash the fucking bastard to bits!
But he did not.
He was in love with possibly the most amazing poet he'd ever met. Self-described as recently estranged from herself, she begged with a doe-eyed silence for his, he would pause at this part, friendship. Almost a hand on her shoulder and tiny moments,imagining running a hand through her hair. Even further out would be a kiss. But that kind of fantasizing did not occur to Whinnif. It never went that far.
He turned and whispered into the traffic streaming up and down Brasstown Rd. "What would you do?"
Snapping a picture of a group of artists picketing across the street, Whinnif looked for an opening in traffic to make his dash. He would be the only media coverage for this Big Deal to the Art Community.
"What is this voice you're listening to,Whinnif?" He heard her voice from the night before as he ran across the street and up to the crowd. Some of them gave him a glance of recognition, but he was chiefly ignored. At Whinnif's age, he was okay with this. It was perfect. His presence had the right amount of reason to be within and without effect, but outside of the situation. He snapped photographs.
Elchneck Community always made Whinnif aware of himself. An expensive shiny car of some sort slowed down. Greased back hair and a thin face with shades stuck out its top. The thing zoomed away as quickly as it had appeared. He looked up at the building in front of the picketers and had zero thoughts. He snapped photographs.
"Blah! Blah! Blah!" Screamed the crowd. Whinnif heard the net results.There they were. Laying in a gutter next to a comic book a few months from now. An old write-up by a local artist recounting the event in detail. Perhaps inspiring impromptu musical performances in public. Whinnif cared about recording the bond of the art community.
"Blum Gee Blum! Boo! Hiss! Blah! Boo! Hoo!" They screamed in a strange faltering sort of clastic polyphonic unison. They seemed like they were having fun.
Whinnif snapped a picture of Pentagram Boy giving the finger and then decided he was finished. He walked away,imagining himself as the last frame of a movie. A scene that pauses as the hero walks into the distance and maybe goes black and white before the credits roll.
Pentagram Boy glanced the phtographer leaving and almost said something, but decided it would be a buzz kill. The photographer's head was down as he went,looking at something on his camera.
"Lets go to get some tea,man." Pentagram Boy said to Breakit Brian.
"Tea? Oh. You mean at that joint where the poets are reading their stuff ...is that tonight?"
"I don't really know." Pentagram Boy knew that the poetry was that night. He was going there to see a friend. Things would be getting started later, but he knew they were setting things up right now. Practicing with the sound guy. He was wanting to set some things up himself for this evening. Say howdy and perhaps make a few introductions. Bringing Breakit Brian was perfect.
"I hit my thumb with a chisel today" Breakit Brian smiled and offered up his thumb for inspection.
"Jeez, dude. That looks nasty. Shouldn't you go get stitches or something?"
"I dunno, I kinda enjoy it when I'm physically impaired. If I ever find myself on the fence about wanting to do something, it makes it easier to decide to just sit on the couch and watch some television. You know? Something to give me an excuse to relax. It helps. I end up doing some of my best stuff later."
"I guess that sort of makes sense. As long as it heals up okay, anyways."
They walked away from the picket crowd unnoticed and hopped in Pentagram Boy's car. A few hours later that were still sitting in the teahouse. The tiny door bell rang and they looked up to see Whinnif Wilson come in.
"Hey, dont look right away, but that photographer from earlier just walked in!" Breakit Brian whispered. " I see him around every so often, but not usually twice in the same day. Kinda weird,huh?"
That was when she returned to the table. Bored. She sat down between the two artists and popped out three varying sized orange bottles of pills. Staring at her,they tried to decide what,if anything, to say. They watched her throw back two pills,then one, then another one. Putting those away she then adjusted her head on her shoulders and quietly muttered, "And this last one is for fun. " She popped a pill from her coat pocket wrapped in tissue."You wouldnt happen to have any weed would you?" She looked at Pentagram Boy and Breakit Brian hopefully. They looked at each other and shrugged.
" Juudia" said a voice from across the teahouse. It was Whinnif. Juudia swept the bottles into her purse and gave the two a look.
"Hey, Whinnif. How are you doing?" She waved a long pale wrist that ended in frilly colors." This is Pentagram Boy and Breakit Brian. Have you guys met?" They all nodded, grumbling terse polite sounds at each other. Face familiarity on the scene made recollection of specifically meeting certain, but vague.
Music began from the other end of the building. A violin. Then a kazoo joined it, folllowed by a tambora.
Pentagram Boy watched as Juudia balanced between Breakit Brian and Whinnif. She kept a conversation going nicely. Brian was showing off his injured thumb and Juudia was acting grossed out. She then decided to take a closer look at it out of sheer fascination.
"You should go get that looked at. Soon.You could...lose.uuum" She hesitated and added, "Your thumb." Her eyes got nervous and danced around. The swimming sound swished around in her head and she noticed the sun had set outside. Her reading would be soon.
Juudia's dream began as a floating walk through an imaginary crowd. Voices seemed to require responses and she offered up what seemed appropriate. Somebody said something about an opening at the gallery across the street and talk of an exterior designed house paint job took place. Juudia sighed.A long silhouette passed across the wall and spread out over the ceiling as she watched. Tea steamed from a cup in her hand and started to asphyxiate her, so she moved the billowing cloud to sit underneath Whinnif's nose. He seemed oblivious. The loving tingle on her spine appeared and she sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. On the stage behind her now, was a poet reading words into blinding lights. His discomfort seemed amplified by the brightness and as Juudia watched, a pool of purple water crept up the man's leg and his footing seemed to slip. She noticed a frog peering off of his shoulder at her. It winked. She winked back and then pursed her lips nervous and self aware. No one seemd to notice.
The poet flipped to his last page and shifted his footing. The water was now all over his shirt and in his hair. It swam across the surface of his face, slinging bits of itself with certain syllables. They became little purple notes and glowing moths as they hit the air.
He finished reading and the moment came. The smiling face saying her name into the microphone. It found her in the audience. Her feet moved and her body stood up, gripping her poem. She found herself reading:
Dot the path. Equal to a connection.
Equal to the little dots of the crowd.
Faces dot the way. Dashing past criticism, the critic fidgets and shuffles.
Exasperated from giving.
Dash mark slash mark, an ugly part from the end of his colon.
Semi-swinging his poison pen leaking. Across the street right now.
The black curtains have a station they observe.
I see myself there doing what I deserve.
I see me and into a bleak infinity
an internal rhyme scheme
filled with viral holes that bleed. the moon is made of these.
Estranged from myself, I scribble about disease.
Creative to share a plow, stuck in the ruts of a mummified oxen carcass slumps.
Birds like words dash and land on sun bleached horns.
Dot marked little toes and a small pointed beak.
I do this now.
It is happening to me. It is happening to you. It is happening to us. It has happened and it is over. The night ends and you are at home.
In the end is a dot."
at 5:39 PM 0 comments
Eggtooth on a throne. Isolated and wandering out of context. High in the atmosphere of the low $500,000 to the mid 900's. The ElchNeck Trench off of Underground Road. Next to the new lofts. There he was. An anomaly amongst others of his own kind. They were also feeling like anomalies, looking around at the strange opportunity. The honest cultured absence of a sense of self, allowing for a certain kind of openness, but still incapable of escaping, always finding associations unavoidable. Finding highly intelligent and skilled people forced and still reduced to only doing a never-ending dance. The proper thing to say. The proper thing to attend. The ability to definitively advance,and defend if necessary, the rationale for its existence. The purity of its value. While trying to attain value for your fellow represented individuals. For what they say. For what they do. For what they create!
Eggtooth walked out of his own passage. He stumbled down a path of letters and keys, semi-permeable and filled with intent. He became no longer words. Only human. Standing there exposed."How would you have it different? What are you doing here? Where is your mind? Where is your Art?" Eggtooth mumbled and pulled on his hood. This fourth skin appeared a few months after the affections began to wear off. A couple of characters from his own mind walked up. People he now wished he had never met. Breakit Brian flipping a yo-yo and chewing his gum."So how was last night, eggy?" He nudged Eggtooth and gave Rachel a look. Rachel patiently smiled and took a nurturing halfstep forward. She began to speak.
"Mr. Tooth! So I see you've been tagging the Glerg Tunnel." She gave him an approving tight lipped nod and continued." That's sooo wonderful! You know, you should start using more of that green color. I loooved that green in the piece by Broos from his Excurciality Sessions. Do you know Broos? Oh! I love his work! My friend Junius Alexandrous, who just got here from Pittsburgh and is a wonderful designer and photographer, he and I were discussing Broos for about an hour over coffee. I went to my shoot and he came with us, Deekah Simones joined us, and she had seen an exhibit by Broos. In Pittsburgh! And the funny thing was...Junius had not seen it! He was so mad!"
Eggtooth's thoughts trailed beyond his own control. He looked to Breakit Brian and saw he was now talking to some young 80's punk girl he didn't recognize. The building they stood outside of looked unassuming enough. Three years from now it would be torn down. The entire area leveled for the construction of a large lumber and tool supply store. Eggtooth smiled and asked Rachel to repeat the artist's name she'd mentioned,when his gaze was distracted by something moving in the shadows on the roof of the art gallery. She said his name again and the words hit the air and became a patterned web, a grid that enhanced the old shadows of the wise and friendly little building. Zoom lense and infrared text searched,the evening light made transparent and revealing a truth about something. Words took Eggtooth away and brought him back. Rachel giggled.
The figure of the young,rich, and handsome owner of Jangelayne Gallery stooped in the darkness of the edge of the roof like a gargoyle. A piece of burnt mahogany in his left hand, scribbling down names and flashing a tall winning smile down at all of his friends. He lit a purple candle and they all began to merge beneath him. Somewhere a flute began to whine in the crisp air.Breakit Brian snerked and looked at the majority of the crowd. He found himself standing beside Eggtooth and no-one else. "So...again." He smiled quietly." How was last night?"
Breakit Brian took off his yo-yo and examined the temporary maroon groove around his finger. He shook it out and looked at Eggtooth.
"Oh Jeez. It was horrible,man. I can't stop trying to figure out what the F it is I'm doing. Always so aware of myself. I mean... it's so strange how I got to this freaking point anyways. I just wanna go run and hide. There I was though. Addressing the moment. Like right now. These people are just us, I know. But. I just find myself not caring. Not to say I'm not trying,in fact I am doing...I guess. I like to think it is just me knowing what I like, keeping a constant point of reference... while nobody else is! But then I think, okay, this isn't possible...""Dude." Breakit Brian interrupted,staring over Eggtooth's shoulder at what was taking place on the roof. It now looked like a naked girl with a couple of sawhorses doing balanced stretches. "I'm sorry Eggie, I got distracted for a second there...so how was the art last night?""Oh..the art. Oh yeah." Eggtooth was about to respond when Pentagram Boy appeared and dropped a knee into the side of his thigh.
"Cripes, aaagh!" Eggtooth feigned injury and turned with a silly hostility on Pentagram Boy. Pentagram Boy was high and the evening became drunk. The sensors overloaded with old memories. His mind weighed down his body and inspiration was waiting for him in a cave back home. These people he needed- also did some sort of opposite to his own internal commmands. Necessities flipped inside out, resembling mirrors and pages of books with words he had not read. A repititious automated conversation left the world and left an echo. The sound of a song on the road back home called to him. A snuggly corner and a weird silence. The hum of others in their own world. Home. The word home. Eggtooth pulled his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them together. He was about to speak when Breakit Brian announced plans to head to Iddy Fifth to check out some photography. What words left Eggtooth's mouth contrasted sharply with his body language and the thoughts behind them. He rationalized,in one way or another, and decided in an instant that trying is better than not. A vague definition of open-mindedness glazed over his eyes. Instinct braided with the tease of the idea of the new uncomfort zone. Learning and sharing. Having a life experience.
"Wasn't there yet."He heard himself say from out of nothing.
"What?" Somebody asked.
A voice told him to turn right at the next street. Then another next to him spoke.
"So now..tell me about last night's art."
But Eggtooth was driving and his thoughts were of a visit to Mr Cool's studio the other night. Allowed entrance and made aware of what an honor it was to have so, of course only by nonverbal communication. The lanky truths were put down and all present were picking them up. A face. The snerk of assurance lurked across his memory. On edge and afraid to speak, Eggtooth had been inspired and stripped of reality in their presence. The politics of friendship and art. Closer to the heart of it all. At least, from the perception he was defined in at that time. It seemed reasonable.
A song on his truck's radio played what normally would have been groovy complex layers of tribal pleasure, but was now merging with the forceful question in the now, coming from Breakit Brian's mouth.
"Okay!" Eggtooth declared. "Last night's art was neat and fun! But it felt set in an environment that demanded more than that. Maybe it was just me, dammit! I dunno! I mean, I suppose I enjoyed looking at them..."
"At what?!" Breakit Brian screamed and turned down the music.
"It doesnt matter, it was just neat stuff..neat to look at. It was sculpture,okay? Little organic sculptures and some paintings. And a movie about butterflies or something. I didn't watch the movie. You see...that's the thing. I know I can only bring me-myself to the experience, but crap. I can't stop now. I'm not smart enough or dedicated enough to try and go the path my thoughts are going." Eggtooth huffed. "And I have another question G.D. it!" he declared,even though no question had been posed prior to that. "What's the most,or i mean, the highest number of elderly women with short cut stylish grey hair and "funky" glasses you've ever been in a room with before?"
Breakit Brian had remarked that he knew the artist at the show and found her to be very nice. He went so far as to saythat, in the past he found her work "brilliant".
Eggtooth paused. When he began again it was all a thing of the past. Right now, the distance from the creative process is at a point where it has achieved a releaving kind of apathy. A sort of irreverance and a sense of freedom. Eggtooth's truck was parked and the floor of his room scattered with papers. Free local art publications filled with good intentions and words from friends and fellow writers.He had fielded Breakit Brian's convenient liking of fun and neat art with a neutrality that bored them both instantly. Even though he himself had no problem with the freaking things."I had no problem with the freaking things!" He said aloud to himself.Listening to guilt rotted messages in his recordings. Plugged into a fake reality. Trying to express truth from that. Trying to use two negatives to make a positive. It was supposed to add up. There was supposed to be a purpose. A body of work to represent,rather than just a body with an idea of work. As Art.The Jangelayne Gallery owner came to mind. The further somebody was from him, the easier it was to create an idea of them. This is why those closest never appear. They remove themself from the story by proximity. In the backyard was a dank small room filled with paintings. Creeping of memories longed for while abhorred for their naievity at the same time. Even further removed from the reality. These very physical things now invisible to Eggtooth because they were too close Even closer was he himself who he liked to believe very gracefully and technically, did not exist. As Art.
Eggtooth conversed with the wise tired Mental Giants, watching their gears turn in their eyes. Realizing the gaps in his speech. The reason. He sighed and later would cry in a fast food parking lot.He spoke what he wrote. What he wrote became real.
"He fell into a sleep and dreamed the rest." Spoke Eggtooth from his throne.
A long necked swan with brilliant colors shooting off of her graceful movements. Strange and displacing his depth perception, a delerious dilemma. Secretly at home, the pull of the art of it all started to slip into his bloodstream. His metabolism for creativity hardening. An excitement, confused and nothing but written scribbles of his rapid eye movement. Inspiration drugged and dragged his dream through murky forgotten swampy trails. It was all the wearing of it on the weeping sleeves of a wilting messianic phoenix rose. A lure of very human desire. A little wooden sign described the enterior of a unique woman's front door. A wolf from a children's story painted on the side. In the backyard, a shed full of paintings and another woman,this one much older, was picking herbs under moonlight. Tarot cards falling from her back pocket into the night's tall dew cool grass. "The Gods of Rock Forever In Her Sky",written in the clouds overhead.Grinding his teeth and twisting. The art passed from him,only this time telling him to be patient and remember.The phase went on and passed through all of them,said a voice.
He woke up during an image of Breakit Brian's Border Collie flying through concrete public art with little fuzzy wings,like dog ears, only bigger and coming out of his shoulders and flapping.
Eggtooth had to go to work.
at 10:27 AM 0 comments
Thursday, March 20, 2008
PENTAGRAM BOY (a walk thru Ohchree Town)
Breakit Brian didn't show up to EarInk on Thursday. His emotional energy balanced at distances between that of his body and his own internal drive. Desire. The desire to get out of bed. From under his unchanged sheets to the front of his neighbor's yard across the street, Brian yawned and moaned. He then sat up. Stretching and yawning, the snooze alarm suddenly went off again.
"Last night in Ohchree Town, the wind damage wasn't as measurable as it was this morning. You can see here the tragic reality..."
A long calloused hand slapped down on the off button, relieving Brian's poor aching ears. The animated anxious reporter blurting it out about the usual bull. At least it wasn't the latest watery version of honestly angry music.
That coaxing warm cloudy thought demon presented a comfortable looking side to his pillow. He eyeballed it, feeling out and fantasizing the urge to lay back and just stretch for a second. "I'll just gather my thoughts. My plan of attack on the day." He thought this and started to lay back when the door to his room nudged slightly open. About two feet off the ground a dog's nose poked into the room and stood there.
"Here, Jaap!" He woke up a bit more and smiled. Offering a happy clap, the happiest Border Collie in the world zipped over to his feet and nudged him once on the knee. Jaap trotted off to the door and turned giving Breakit Brian a "get off your butt" look. Breakit Brian's cell phone rang.
"Yo. " he answered, knowing all ready who it was.
"Dude!" Screamed Pentagram Boy."You should come down to Ochreetown and check this shit out. It's total mayhem."
Breakit Brian followed Japp downstairs and out into a backyard filled with iron twisting sculptures. Concrete structures looped strange passages and filled the space between earth, trees and the sky in a strange way. Japp knew the course well and took off immediately. He ran is morning routine while on the crumbly concrete mottled patio, Breakit Brian learned about the tornado.
"You've gotta be kidding."
"No sir, I aint.There's a tree the size of a building thrown across two houses on either side of the street."
As much as Breakit Brian was interested,he didn't want to be on the phone and was about to say he was on his way when Pentagram Boy suddenly said "I gotta go" and hung up.
Breakit Brian went back inside while Jaap solved the problems of the world. The house smelled of coffee as he shuffled into the kitchen.
"I can see this is going to be one of those days with no conclusion." He picked up the latest issue of the free art publication,Dispensational, and headed for the bathroom.
Pentagram Boy stood toe to toe with the tallest human being he had ever seen in his life. A heavy wide forehead shadowed two light blue eyes. He craned his neck back and then took two steps back.
"Hey, man." It said and lumbered off as quickly as he had appeared in his face. Pentagram Boy had started to respond but it was too late. The weirdest local sound artist was halfway down the street.
shoot. i have to go. Thought eggtooth.
at 7:49 AM 0 comments
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
PENTAGRAM BOY & BREAKIT BRIAN
The Adventures of Pentagram Boy & Breakit Brian
GRAFTSTRADDLING WITHIN THE CONTEXT OF ART
"So, I heard about this art show they're having over at City Hall East....whats up with that?"
Brian spun a pair of scissors on his finger,chewing a piece of gum. He stared at Pentagram Boy for some sort of reaction.
Pentagram Boy looked up from his measuring tape and let it retreat, making the "whiiizzzkuhflack!" sound. Soft spoken Pentagram Boy only gave Brian partial attention.
" Brian." He muttered, "They have shows all the time.You know, I saw the one with that guy,the mexican or whatever that did that shit with the racist american flag about pigs or some shit."
"oh Hell yes. I heard about that. That was so dope!"
Pentagram Boy picked up a piece of molding and gave a look to Breakit Brian that said Move Out Of My Way.
Brian moved and leaned against a work bench,self aware and cautious to stay out of his work path. "Hey, Pentagram Boy...so check it out. I was over at Rachel's place with a few other folks the other night and that dude that does those carved books fucking showed up!"
Pentagram Boy silently raised his eyebrows."You're kidding?"
Internally doubting the credibility of this account, Pentagram Boy looked for a piece of sandpaper.
"What part of town were you in?" The question came walking the other direction and barely over his breath.
Brian paused and spun the scissors again. "What the fuck does that matter?..so listen,dude. it was so awesome..."
Pentagram Boy fired off his mitre saw, drowning out Breakit Brian's hyper high voice. He let the noise wind down and then turned to face him.
"Seriously. What part of town were you in?" Pentagram Boy posed the question again.
"We were at Rachel's. Pay attention."
"Okay, Brian. Look. I've heard you talk about Rachel. I've of course heard of Rachel. I've seen some of her writing and photography, but I can't say I personally know Rachel. Muchless where she fucking lives...so pardon me for not being as hip as you"
Brian shuffled his feet and set the scissors down. He decided then and there that he did not like Pentagram Boy.
"Look,man. I've got shit to be working on, so I think I'm gonna get out of your way." He moved for the door. Pentagram Boy watched with a tiny bemused smile. Inside he was let down,he wanted to plea for him to stay and hang out, but his ego wouldn't allow for it.
"Hey, you coming out to EarInk this Friday?" Pentagram Boy offered.
"I dunno,man... that chick with all the stuff everywhere?...I like her work all right, but all those friends of hers really suck. Besides, isnt it going to be pretty much the same shit we saw at a few months ago at that other place?"
Pentagram Boy just wiped off a hand and extended it to shake goodbye.
"Well..I might come out there Thursday night to jam..so maybe I will see you there."
at 8:01 AM 0 comments
Friday, March 14, 2008
chroi bull in Wack Wack (atlanta's sunset)
"You know, if you wrapped these in aluminum and kept them in a dry place, they would last you a great deal longer." A cross expression on Mother's face as she stepped down off the ladder. The bathroom tile let the ladder shift a bit.
" I know!" Daughter responded impatiently. "It's just that....when im thinking about it, I'm wanting to be done with it. It's not the kind of thing I wish to linger over, you know."
Mother wore noisy shoes and her hair had always sort of bounced when she shuffled. Daughter had inherited a heavier version of the same walking pattern. Neither the Mother or the Daughter could make a pair of sneakers last. She watched as Mother gently stored away the strange oblong aluminum package.
"Mother...the bus is going to be here in about five minutes!"
"Oh, shoot!" She looked at her watch and sighed in acceptance of the fact.
"Well, don't you fret none about nuthin,okay?"
"Okay, Mother" Daughter watched as she hurriedly gathered her things. She gave a quick kiss on the cheek and headed out the door.
Daughter watched as Mother went shuffling down the driveway. A purse the size of a beach bag distended and overflowing off her hip, she moved quickly for a woman plowing into her sixties.
The house shifted on its foundation as the door to Daughter's house closed. In the living room an open book fluttered furiously, gathering dust on the far corners of wet fingertipped pages. A storm was coming at the same rate Mother was leaving.
Daughter jumped and her eyeybrows raised as high as they could. "What was that sound?",She thought. Something in the basement went clink and then shattered. She heard it and looked aay from her frantic flipping book.
A broken window. A skipping record. The swinging tripaneled bathroom mirrors and the strange aluminum oblong object.Daughter turned her inner eye back to the outside.
She stepped away from the coffee table and the fluttering book. A pare of large road atlases costing close to fifty dollars a piece came to mind and Daughter decided to look for them in the Kitchen. All these thoughts were too much
"Can I help you with something?" Asked The Kitchen Attendant.
"Yes..I'd like to have my road atlases. I'm planning on going down to the markets of East Southern Mountainland."
I'm afraid you can't go there. Big artists convention going on today.Roads are jammed...and they say we got a big storm coming." The Kitchen Attendant looked like a butler. Strong jawline and heavy brow. A stiff proper spine and a monotone delivery. "Perhaps you should check on your fantasy basement?"
"My fantasy basement?"
"Well....." The Kitchen Attendant looked away indifferent,pretending to examine the security of the refrigerator door. The refrigerator let out a hum and jiggled as the house's foundation shifted again.
Daughter gave the stuffy man a look and stomped one of her tread bare sneakers on the linoleum.
He gave her a silent directional nod in the direction of the basement.
"My basement is not some sort of fantasy, asshole." She glared at him, provoking only the slightest shrug.
Mother was right. She thought of the oblong shape in the bathroom. The aluminum package.
The parade of artists thru the market,keeping her from going down there today.
Daughter went into the bathroom and stared into the mirror for a long time. The sounds of shattering things drifting up from the basement. Squirrels scampered across the roof. Little hurried feet going this way and that. Daughter let out a scream.
"I cant see myself anymore", she muttered and slumped down beside the toilet.Something of substantial size was now thundering across the unfinished concrete floor of her basement. It was actually cracking the floor in places. Daughter bit her nails and stood up.
The artists downtown had to be confronted.
She had her map all along. and the truth about the aluminum package was that it was never there in the first place. Daughter would be her own Mother soon enough.
She ws her own person with her own purpose.
at 7:45 AM 0 comments
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Fantastic day today. the D.O.T. has a new resin in its roads. It shines even more.Refracts even more. Good ol' Ponce and the roundabout way thru til morning.
365 days out here, on a little skiff held together by a torn up life vest. In the heavy massive darkness, a speck, fragile and barely balanced in the lolling expanse of undrinkable depths.Nighttime Hearing splashes coming from off in the distance,over by charles allen.
and i sit up. bolt up right. iss you-ing from the surface of the street, a breeching white killer whale. tattooed from tail end to teeth with images of the city. moving pictures and moving mouths.
Atlanta's trends have it going on and on. don't they? ya gotta love em'. battle not. tiresome aint it? intentions have me bunged up.
oh jeez. should i discuss specific atlanta artists? how about Chuck Wolberey.I think I spelled that right.
Now, many of you out there like Chuck. Many of you love his work. Personally, I find Chuck to be a master of convenient speech.and conveniently enough, convenient art. what exactly does that mean anyways? This is not to say he's being something other than himself, it is just saying that part of our very nature as humans is to be duped away from evolving, or even cultural growth. And what's worse, is all we can do is wait. and be ourselves. This kinda thing isn't done consciously. It isnt an intentful event. one that undeniably swipes over everything. with excitement,mind you.
but ah! what exactly does this thing the internet have to do with creating experiences? the generalized involvment vs. the individual . the nature of communicating and sharing. the reason behind creating and sharing.
and it continues.as inside, the thoughts tumble and realize- i wish to hurry things up,to pile up words in a pulsing streaming heap of expression. letters and images forgotten because they are indelibly printed on the inside back of your skulls. in the shadows,in reverse, seeping throughout the juices of your brain. suggesting this and that.
and then you walk into an art gallery. yr blood stream is balanced and yr eyes roll forward into an art experience. ears. the ears shut down for this one. they allow everything in as a blur. and you wish now that you did not know these faces. because there's no point in their knowing yours. you wish to see art on an opening night, when the light works just as well the rest of the duration of its exposition.
the art jumps off the wall and trots over to its mnaker. the man himself. Chuck Woreley. Chuck chuckles and,gripping his wine glass in one hand,shooshes the art away with the other,a low fluttering gesture behind his back. Cutting his eyes,Chuck smiles at Lucy Kuhlgiek.
"Oh never you mind that!"
ya gotta love everything. every aspect. the things that seem useless end up one day not being so. so ya kinda go tno choice bu to shoot how ya feel from the gut. that is of course, unless ya dont know who you are. Then it's fine to be erratic. right?
at 7:58 AM 1 comments
Labels: art, eggtooth
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
THE BEST PERSPECTIVE IS NO PERSPECTIVE
Isn't that right, mike? operating without a mic. the regular flat echo of inaudibility. only yr friends in the audience can hear and know exactly what (you think you) mean. for better or for worse.
I've been thinking about the last art experience i had in Atlanta. ayep.
and suddenly! insecure meandering distraction makes me want to chase after that rabbit of definition. when, lets be honest, any interaction with art seeks to define it.(and blah blah blah) be it in yr head/body- or if you open your mouth. that's why many don't open their mouth.(and blah blah blah) it's a continuation of the experience. the act of defining. trying to declare some sort of verification. doing it with art itself is fun and blah blah blah- challenging enough to scratch the reason. and all that stuff. that irrepressible origin of desire. and so on and so forth. i see you reading this.
so i got on the phone with this guy i will call Dwiggit. and now im back. hello Atlanta Art Scene. Just wanted to drop by and say- we did not discuss Hemingway and the florida keys. or signmaking. or the brand atlanta campaign.
here's a poem. since i feel i owe something:
you think you
these just us and these just us
like right now
like right now
like right now
like right now.
like right now.
a door thrown open during a tornado
slumbery wet chunky wallops of thoughts
and color field paintings of electric coffee argon
sarcasms flabbergasted attraction to the emulsified
denial's lugubrious water well of trapped rotten ropes dangling.
cranky shaft in the sticks grinds a wrinkled hard hand in the cold.
frozen bucket of nuthin but love.
comes up out of your face without thought
at 8:04 AM 0 comments
Labels: art, eggtooth, performance, poetry
Monday, March 10, 2008
MIRRORS AND TEXT SOUP
hey you, sitting there with your face. icee you. so you can just go . stumbling through the numbers- along a path, an accidental trap door.. a trace of massive art damage across yr veins. i know yr slipstream antogonizes you with curiousity and happinesss. morbid. unfurling always and always ignored, reduced to a joke, the visual was. so you held it up to them!
and now im talking to you. and i say with a warped cold silly smile, " totum nost you found em."
or something like that.
i can't breath it's getting rather tight n here and i want to grow eyes in the backs and sides of my head. skin like a stretch mark and a sun white light sting. and a shallow high heave. panic and more.
for words to say in what slumps into
call it what you will you wandering crowd of art gazers. this here's graffito. there snow wayman. like,
okay. a succintified snippity snap shot that solidifiies the jabber, the purpose the..uuum..so what is your art about? what the flip would mine be. im thinking a televesion screen ripped from its box. or a mirror with vinyl letters saying something about "now i can see them" or something.
i pokerhand with some set of cards. dendrites. trees. thoughts, lost. escapism. afraid its gonna fade,even though it always freezes up anyways. in permanent motion you know.
at 7:20 PM 0 comments
Sunday, March 9, 2008
iF YR mEMORY SERVes you well
Night time coffee fires up the shadows of the spirit. fires up the engine. a thoughtful spark. Art's black pick-up truck full of migrating thoughts captured in the single solitary skull of a single strange night rolling mode. This end of town. The Remembrance Boulevard swerves by the dead fish eatery,flanked by lost long rows of corpses under religious symbols. Every so often a stir on the side of the street by some intent filled ambling individual. pick a side slip or turn at the foot of the bar b q beat. dog leg or zig zag what have you. martyroad upslant into a gravel plateau and you see there is some action. the art gallery priceless. cast across its white wall across the way a projection of human scribbling shimmers bright. giant blue hands irridescent pick and manipulate into the night's cold air. smoke trailing thoughts behind tinted windows catch a cross breeze of music around love and rocket's express album. kill the art engine, silence the virus that kills art and get out of the black pick up truck and crunch a way across to the image up close.
should he be spoken to in admiration or left to work. left to work is chosen and then noticed a theatre theater attendant. a white shaw is that you,huh? a performance artist drifting in and out and all around. stationary for this moment.
"hello...how are you doing?"
Pretty well..watching this art happening i am"
I think it's...." eye contact like a suddenly jolted camera (characters everywhere) spinning knee buckling mass of an odd gruff exterior presents a boldness with a delicate talent in there.
Eyes massive burrowing excited down with laughter the art is its prey. and a thing to rough it out from the gut. contour lines snake between illustration and individual 3-d. gritty portraiture.
the walls are vibrating with a light filled atmosphere. bright movement a sizeable square of sky blue ocean-ness with little lost details drifting swimming. see a comforting swath of blue.
and something going on back there,too. if it was edward gorey meets richard adams in an entymologists microscopic blown out ringmasters pinstripe puppeteer inspection.the little glasses inspector of little tiny glass killing jar-esque frames. under glass. shomen uchi. tilted forward and looking inward and wondering about physical details. like who is standing near me.
onegai shimasu? and the eyes tell it all. we play the game of smiling nod and talk as a simplified version of honest respect. and it means well and feels good and is not unbearable in its removement. speaking of removement, a person slumped looking awkward and resolute in the shadows. a metal folding chair and worn care fingers keeps warm and quiet. wondering now what is important. art. the stage seeming far way behind him eerily lit and empty. no crowd and energy over there, almost so lonely,were it not for all the weaving energy of art making.live action painting and drawing. bring it into the light
wander through the bodies smiling and mouthing the word "howdy", "hey", or "hi" and realizing why this particular place is so unique. the stenciled giant winged lingering clean image was beyond drawing as it all was.you look out and then in and think no other place forces you to realize it is your will alone that defines the context. a mass hysteria could conceivably ensue given the right concoction of moonlight music and visuals. vocalized with flat text or what. color? sound?lyrics spoken and pyramided down directly thru the figureheads. and the walls answer you with whatever is there. it does. it matters. but it's the most unimportant thing to point a finger at.
on her being called the martha stewart of the art gallery: because you open your thoughts when others save theirs for an opportunity to call you what. as stated, being able to speak of the art is as important as the art itself. sometimes. so talk about it in the moment,when is an art experience happening? when is honesty wrong is honesty when it is wrong wrong is honesty when it is honesty wrong when...the ever-shifting amalgam defined by its parts shuffles the rubix cube exterior.
action that happens described with pseudonyms and fantasy: this isn't really happening. this never really happened. at the draw-off.
A ghost drifted thru the gallery. happy. it looked over the painters' shoulders and watched. "dont worry about the folks wandering around gawking" it said in presumption. but its glee was irrepressible and naive. patience for the spirit. sowing its oats in the act of being seen as art. the people of the city of atlanta came in from all over.
spoke to an abstract painter drunk on whiskey and beer. small feisty and articulate. concern for language discovered and layered in narrative process. intentions drive it with importance but are ultimately released when delivered beyond the door of the studio. and so on and so forth. let the art say the rest.
i left and drove home feeling somewhere in between. realizing the right now of right now of making art that feels good and matters. to me. i want more.
WHAT WILL YOU DO?
If you think you think you should heed the warning of your mother and sister and not risk uncertain sorcery,turn to page 25
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