pretty much done

I'm doing a 30 day challenge. I have to do a class of Bikram Yoga every day for 30 days. I'm on day 8. It's the only place I leave the house for. That or work.
I think of how i used to say it was important for us locals, what with our ignant suthern ways anne all, to just be honest with each other. collaborate and feed from one another. as a way to find ourselves. Of course even that is idealistic. It would never happen for individuated reasons as much as those that happen to have a common denominator beneath that, one honestly treating it as a business. and that's fine. so now i feel the honesty factor is pointless. it doesnt make it more community and raw or down-to -earth, or kept real. this city just stinks. everything always has to have been better 10 years ago. right now, the stupid shit will be mythologized later as soooo hip then.
i think its curious how work that requires the association with the south, goes and makes trails off of the need to perpetuate that very same association. it is not making any point. and this isnt even addressing the commodification factor and how it precedes its head crowning. turtle head poking out. squishing its way through a gilded frame.
and of course theres all the latest acts and 'tudes, the banksy shite to the thoughts of hughes in the mona lisa curse, and the barnes horror story in art of the steal. for the love of whatever. it is no longer relevant. i feel the internet has leveled us with a kind of immediacy and ability to further imagine our individuation.
We seem like tape recorders, playing marco polo. it doesn't spiral out because the continuity of belief in any specific myth flavor or connotation, typifying and encapsulating. fuck, i dunno what im saying. i just dont feel like trying to share specifically with atlanta anymore.
whatever. idealism or not. something has to mean something to somebody. and i know it does. but crap, man.
im gonna go do this yoga. none of that crap i just wrote makes any sense. im just feeling curious. chapters have closed for me. i know its relative to me. my experience here. theres a limbo or lurch i dont think i wanna linger in. i wanna explore. most things seem in stasis anyways. it's like a giant down time. like the power went out and we've busted out candles and cards on the carpet. by the fire.

BIKRAM YOGA

I'M DOING BIKRAM YOGA AND WRITING ABOUT IT.30 days in a row. GO LOOK:
HAVE A GOOD DAY, JERKS. BUT NOT TOO GOOD.

http://bikramyogadecatur.com/


the picture is a of a friend of mine that got me into doing this stuff. there he is at an eyedrum art and music gallery opening doing Dandayamana-JanuShirasana. that's sanskrit for standing head to knee pose, bitches.
the graffiti behind him is directly inspired by a game called Metroid. I played the heck out of that game on nintendo when i was about 15.
hes doing the pose pretty good here. freakin jerk.

zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3

zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3

sounding eggtooths

continuous past presents immobilized future

represents^reports
embodies^narrates
transforms^indicates
knows only a continuous present^looks back on a past.


Represent the report, the ratio represents an exchange.
It submitted a report. The ratio indicates while
the Other
knows more of return on, or has - beyond present sights
but only continuous.

Display the exchange.
Which within, of course, the report ratio is displayed.
The embankment made the report.
Ratio, besides the fact that it is between it, it shows. Or rather, shows it.
Having known many of the returns, or exceeding them- its present "vision continuation" just has it.

Used to,

"wernt nv'r nor shalt there be another wont'r" sed thee Consanguineous.
from The Time Socializerz III by Jert LaLangue


The last time I ran long in the tooth, at a distance from things, as much as I am at a distance from myself now, and the awareness of actions. Let's try to be a hybrid. Somewhere between the dialogue with the self and a fast paced newer than meta-wave perception of im-mediate.

The last time I ran
long in the tooth, at
A distance from things, as much as I am at a distance from myself now.
The awareness of actions.

Let's try to be a hybrid.
Somewhere
bet/ween
the dialogue
with the self
and a fast paced
newer than meta-
wave perception of
i'm-mediate.

Health traces an outline around time and up's the rabbits pace for the dogs to
knock over the neighbors' garbage
laugh, cry and excommunicate, separate from the objective
graffiti the telephone poles
and the stars.

the criticism of being sincere
and informed enough
and informed enough
and simply not the wrong face.


grafting a thought about art in Atlanta with
a person just like Atlanta
partially regurgitated and regenerating
on fire with money and traffic, a cat's tail transparent
(self-critical evasive) just a "what-if " thrown at yr feet
expectations don't have to explain themselves.

some idea of hybridization, contradictions, the grotesque, the collage, the pace of information and sense of self. Incorporating willful misunderstanding into research. The rates at which head-on collisions of information occur and are scampered away with to colonize by some slender fingered digit, and then wires and flesh snap

The Writers Exchange

Lit Guy proudly announces :

John Selvidge's
WRITERS EXCHANGE.

the art of being
in and around
situations that
involve
sharing writing
with others.

join us for relaxed pointers and inspirational techniques.
served in the form of creative writing.
this is not an actual self-help seminar.
come play with words and where the experience with them begins.

Writing about Monsters

Writing about monsters is a very sensitive subject. Most writers tend to veer towards the anatomical or entirely different routes involving the sarcastic truth. Animalistic implications and analysis of the human condition are abound. Take for instance the visceral quality that chords hold in the muscle memory after a scene from a particularly riveting situation involving teeth. Landis knew this. John Portman knew this. The naive of the elitist south converge on education and culture, like a buzzard with librarian glasses. going for the corpse's ass first.

What's acceptable?

"Today, we do not identify an artwork primarily as an object produced by the manual work of an individual artist in such a way that the traces of this work remain visible or, at least, identifiable in the body of the artwork itself. During the nineteenth century, painting and sculpture were seen as extensions of the artist’s body, as evoking the presence of this body even following the artist’s death. In this sense, artist’s work was not regarded as “alienated” work—in contrast to the alienated, industrial labor that does not presuppose any traceable connection between the producer’s body and the industrial product." -Boris Groys, Marx After Duchamp, or The Artist's Two Bodies. http://e-flux.com/journal/view/178

What is acceptable ? Today, I interact with Boris's text. ("Today, we do not identify an artwork primarily as an object produced by the manual work of an individual artist in such a way that the traces of this work remain visible or, at least, identifiable in the body of the artwork itself...." Yesterday, I went to see art 21's latest greatest on William Kentridge. Analysis of where an experience begins began, not today. Awareness of magic's tricks did not cease the magical sensation. In the bareness and even child-like awkwardness, it was on one, first level- endearing. The sum of the cute parts made an amazing whole. And within those manufactured parts, parts very attached to the maker, leaving the process exposed, I think of Not today, I'm sitting here right now. An extension of nothing because that itself simply is. Constantly in flux and refusing to light anywhere is the thing to present as art. So much for other conundrums. Like communicating versus expressing the self.
Attachments to individuals without definition of space needed. Distance and ambiguated connections blur an awareness of time. It is about time and history. Sentimentality has no future. It is, right now, happy with what it has. Almost to the point of there being no "has". No ownership or expectations. Or ...plans. The connection at its base source, its most primary importance is in sharing creative needs. Reaction to this life is what is alive. Public Art is important.
As a phenomenon that operates in tandem with political messages that also necessitate means of communicating. Symptoms of art's needs remain separate from the space between the work and the creator. Examination of the experience becomes the space to attempt to attach anything to . Occurrences happily sprout under the banner of art, inspired and funded and sacrificing. And they happen with a vigor that is heartfelt, as much as it is banal. Or rendered banal by the strangest blur of opportunity. Information availability and the pace of the city, be that in automobiles of internet phones. The context or the muscle punch strength of a feeling is as much a blur as any extension from anything. It's all taffy made of ions now visible, like icky little bubbles compartmentalized from each other. A reason for sharing art. Now the process exposed, like Kentridge or in these words by ol' Boris.
I went to see art this weekend. I've erased references to any specific city or gallery within it. Neither experience counted on awareness of even their own process, not as curators attempting to frame their own perspective, they simply didnt satisfy the right fucking questions in the first place. I didn't even make it to the maufactured work. The person or artist, in some disembodied way was all I sensed. All I saw were their actions in the product. A human body requesting material shit.

Speaking of material shit. How about plain language ? No need for flowery bull? Let's see if i can come out from behind the bull.

Daughter of Beach

A giant dreamed about a guy who was a sleepwalker in Norway. Far north under rainbows, the giant lived in a fractured castle made of glass and ice. The aurora bourealis and polar sunset-less horizons scooped and turned upside down expressions of apathy. Daylong haze of mauve and purple gave everything a passive angst. To the edge of a cold shore, a bizarre inlet catching angles of light, one could almost make her out under the surface. Down there - to her, he dove. A statue of a women with a permanent peaceful gaze and stone rivulets of flowing hair. Every night and not on clockwork odd and stumbling this lanky graceful alien, to himself was pulled through invisible and turbulent passages of crisp coolness. Kissing skin and transferring dreams.
The giant would toss in sleep and crack all that shit beneath.

whatcha makin?

Without anticipating anything, a blank slate in a larger dirtier terrain,

he squeaked his feet
through the sand.
Trudging happily to the edge of the water

and then standing there. The wall of the room shimmered
and lightning bugs spilled into the room
with all the style and frenetic turbulence of angry wasps.

The ocean scene with its distant oil rigs


on the horizon splashed up and creatures lapped coarse tongues into the air.
Capturing lightning from their glass wings.
An icicle with rainboid transparent smears coating the room.
Something to appreciate, an idea- to travel on from. Or with.

He enjoyed what he had and didn't expect anything more. And that was what made it suggest a vaster range. Mostly it just made creating that much more intense.

So much going on, and it seems like a bunch of nothing sometimes.

god! you're such a planner!

JOHN OTTE TO REPLACE BRIAN DETTMER!

In light of a severe oversight on the part of Brian Dettmer, The Experimental Writer's Asylum has found easy adjustment in the form of one of its artists already proudly being featured.

John Otte, long known in Atlanta for his highly informed, strange, & experimental approach to art-making and curating, is going to be shedding light on one of the many entry points into his processes. This one is specific to his handling of books. Eyedrum and especially myself (eggtooth!) are very proud to have the opportunity to work with and host John.

Come see John Otte present his Angel of History book treatment series.
September 4th from 6-7 pm at The Seen Gallery.

And of course enjoy the rest of the Decatur Book Festival while in the area!

Super Studies for The Inhuman

So I have this perspective I want to grip.
Knowing full well the lineage, but I'm not going to. For obvious reasons,
gracious enough.
Abrupt declaration of a need for, at the very least a break.
Through the backdoor, sit down politely, they are a bunch of sausage squares, well, then I guess maybe I will look in the mirror.



The Inhuman.
First and obvious, non. Lexical, imagined, and sounds.

Of monsters. Monsters are Inhuman related to human. Land monster being hairy. Even their mouths filled with hair. This is their poetry:


Grying troof grinds ouch rooted future tooths.
Iss loose fork nub moon
under her soon.
It wiggles lowf.

So many grow row bull locks wow
timeless weaving for mind coffins.

Of luke socks.
Tramble fift system.
List trinit grimble cragged
and silently bindery glue and glock.
Stuck rotten occurance blocks.

Trimble grinit gravid, grinit ragged listed ratchet.
Muffit slough moribund lump.
Grying ragged troof.
Facks brequalcome fick rendition.

So mow be won fork flit sis n' shoe gross sober moss soppy,
roped optics sought text ops for shunned.
Categories of labored over thoughts.


Sea Monster's :

Turks, coys, and drew. Hooks.
Frish slash n wangle, is lasting in a half truth, real.
Slap slobber grey flapping. Padlock deep and rethinking.
Angle blau, anger's lapse a bloop whisper bubbles, weed sleeking
and why worry.
Swindles wires way hauled and longing lolls.

Slipped flapper waah shhhh sklale,
rakes and scales.
Stillborn short fathoms
call bee con clink. Rusted dendrite,
wrinkled sheath,
ankh slink train pink.

Nattered waah plaffer pilshed
inside hermes hurt and ball key.

Link bloat words squirming murk
collosum tremble bridge legs
under trollganger mere or you beacon


Air monsters: groar woah flu woah snow poof waif slaw bloof sue woohoo bruise most sose brie pillow flast dried wow sigh wide wee
know won hiss blind or than knee...

The Inhuman

we. seeking around this outside of meat that surrounds me. need. isn't it soaked in nonsense. stacked treading viscous globs in stasis. anxious jumps the skin. dreamed but grids strangle the made possible. oh well. in pods uncommon talk and babble hand in hand then compartmentalize the feelings. saturated wracked and then moments of outside the self. in humans are the unshared made into shadows, and sometimes rainbows. maintaining is metal flavored sweat and rung out asphalt check accounts. words fail the desire to jump and feel alive. and so it goes.

jessica blinkhorn: my life with the thrill kill kult tribute

jessica blinkhorn. my friend maxwell sebastian has painted her portrait and used her in larger compositions repeatedly. all to strange results. i have no idea why this text is hyperlinking and to where i dont know.

jessica will be reading at the seen gallery on sept 3rd at about 10pm. her work freely discusses the sexual desires of a person in a wheelchair and any specifics that might occur because of the fact that a wheelchair is involved in the action. evidently shes very frank in her handling of the topic.

JIMMY LO & letters from Hong Kong

The womb, ancient wriggling scales, through water or air, a luck dance clangs through the giant origin of all, through a market place capturing a very common place, a feeling of careful observation of the every day. As a hybrid beast, a dragon dancing, and then what looks like maybe wing chun being observed in a circle of humans, so accustom and comfortable with tradition as to allow a practitioner to swing a blade within inches of their face. The dragon dance trails away, setting up for a strange subtle kind of touch Lo seems to have. For a split second, after seeing a band of animated talented performers, we see a trailing follower or shopper, just somebody -anyone in a frumpy daze of their any day of their life, an odd looking shuffle and an endearing gate this straggling weirdo, and then the glimpse is gone.
The scene cuts to another careful moment of nothing, one that recognizes a specific beauty in the moment, and almost is part of it, were it not for the delicate involvement, the awareness of an eye picking and framing this scene. It is the perfect "barely enough" and often seems to catch interesting quirky happenings.
Often obvious throughout the soft visual journey is the realization that it is from the perspective of a member of a group. Following family members. A person part of something quite normal. It is the choices of moments- and keen awareness of color. In one scene, we see from over a boat railing, a smaller boat, a sort of slate grey junk ship hustling against misty waves and fog. Looming behind it, buildings with colors matching that of the little boat's sail seem to be noticed by the person filming. In another a funny faced man smiles as he slurps up noodles that match the color of his shirt exactly. Background warm reds, just a part of the environment, cannot be orchestrated but are there perfectly.

review aint done like it wld seem the film continues like normal like i am writing this. im going for a walk and will finish this later for whoever notices. hope yr having a good evening. i love you.

jeff d

SEEPAGE at Whitespace gets a formal structured shit smear.

everything comes to the surface eventually. everything always has to make some kind of acceptable sense. doesn't it? the final presentation of something that is specifically drawn attention to. I see grids on top of shit. I see the shit- unminded with a life of its own- seem suddenly that much more interesting. and then...what happens? i want to draw attention to it.
the things we present to ourselves as givens, as ways to exist and the necessities of life. The shit built on top of shit. The beauty that effortlessly rumbles to the surface in its unkempt and perfectly unfettered way. Ignored and insignificant, time shows its measure, it is a form of truth that is not anything anyone can dodge.
we requests pretty packages and punctuation- and bows and ribbons, frames and price tags. the need to make something valuable, all the procedures and processes and proper faces to say phony scary cash-cow phrases, and paperwork- ultimately rips the floor open and out come all the thick endless shadows, a never ending trail of our exact pattern. our footprints and echos. we clean the lives up and edit on the fly. while money'd man thinks because it is unseen and beyond others they control, it itself becomes cocky to that which is even bigger.
Grids command a weak veneer. see them network across a surface. seem them with their mitered edges and pretty ways.
Cute is the way into the face of the senses of our collective selves. Even in moments of honesty, in places that can only be reactions to life anyways-like art galleries- the art itself jabs crudely and filled with hypocrisy at commentary. jabs at life and then finds a need to hide it if it does create a clunky raw setting of a kind of refreshing real. that kind of investment that only time passing over not the neglected palaces in life, that presumes a sort of consciousness of activity, but in ways that truly are hiding in plane sight. the fundamentals, like a stretch of road with graffiti and palimpsest weathered scratches and stains of layers of those no longer present. rotting memories and marks. put it behind the seen because why? it's just too damn real.

So we apply structure in the form of clean lines and two by fours. and silly as it may seem and insignificant and sobering, a saturation that was once flush with tilted life-drunken intrigue. is now a cloth of happy and the pretty, covering vomit with a thin tissue that soaks thru. -i saw a corpse covered in the road after a traffic accident one time. the haunt of its truth it hid was just as powerful as the visceral reality of what caused an end. was to the biology of consideration that direct route to the sense-of the flesh, versus that fantasy or creative or imaginative rambling giant cloud that is so much bigger. try to cover up the truth. try to make it decent.
a month ago, new orleans for the first time since 1996. even in 96', a seepage from beneath was as much a truth in physical swampy bedding as it was in the phantom idea of unseen influence. of powers ancient and lush with memory, coming out in sounds and rhythms and tastes and desires, pushed through the flesh of bodies existing there. they writhe and celebrate.
a place for actual observations in this. it finds no place and is shoved out. importance pushes and contracts the bowels, it produces and then polishes and pilfers for nutrients, restructuring their own standards for so long as to be a double blind study of their own single blind game. the value of an art experience.
a maddening fractured massive presentation of the automobile perspective. mechanized and broken down, powered by the logo and the pretty color of its exterior. the fossils fueling what we call pure intentions and simply accepted as part of the day to day routine. faux smoke is actually a pattern left by the real thing. a useless endeavor into stabilizing that stank black smear. it becomes a cute thing to have.
its not any city its in the satellites and ocean floors and pipes and wires. the organic globs are colorful and charming one day and the next they are ill, seeping dank and sour death. it knows of neither and doesnt have partiality to its phases. the passage of this thru human bodies and the actions it reveals. fuck art. it's a big damn lie. the only position is in this idea that editing is not about intentions. it is in constantly reacting to now without definitions. without expectations. and without senses of investment. seeing what is healthy and pure in that desire and that moment.
reality has a darkness unleashed in a very raw physical form now. it circles a weird beacon consistently from our southeast. the art here in this particular area is so silly in its freedom, and so careful to try to turn that freedom into a thing of expectations. and those expectations try to create myths while beneath it, slippery shit soaks the souls and slithers up the leg.
walking along with itself now, sentient and attached to art, it finds a way- ultimately. certain humans' minds become burning unstoppable conduits for transferring and staying in that place. seeking constantly a generalized open feeling to- what the fuck is going on. it devours from within and warps as it churns out a perspective so needed. it makes artists who come as close as possible to pointing at a life source and observation of ourselves and now without doing so. fucking artists. they're so full of shit. and the perspective shit itself has- as it rests soft and cooling on its personally owned and stained floor space, it has an endlessly intriguing kind of perfect observation.

that show at whitespace

i think the damage done to the art on the beltline was an inside (the closet) job.
it seems to me that those inclined to know about the art on the beltline , care enough to go see the art on the beltline, bring what appeared to be a weapon/tool..looked like an axe to me... (premeditated? and requiring a return visit?) why not just destroy the whole thing? --it just seems to uuum...appropriate, convenient- reeks of desperation for discussion. which is sorta great, but in this case it's like the rejected nerd kid that tries to start selling drugs so he can have at least a partial conversation with the assholes he thinks are cool. the assholes in this case are an imagined audience..the reality is "we" as artists are the audience- so spare us the empty gestures to "them" let's play to each other. we know the parlour tricks. the theme is important, the technique is about original as anything on tee vee at 8pm. moving on, okay?

im all for discussion of art, tho. i just find the art on the beltline thing to be kinda funny. it's more about the path than the goal itself to me. meaning, screw the beltline itself...whatever. if many of the artists scrambling for a funded opp and supposed attention stopped and looked at the deal itself (the "affordable workforce housing authority of it all, the crock of shit that this thing is, if they were truly principled about their art, many wldnt want shit to do with this giant liposuction recycle gesture. we'll see it in 30 years or whatever. the beltine. meh.i dont think many of the artists gave a shit about it itself. i truly do hope it helps the layout and connectivity of the city, so far, i see miniature arch de triumphs and mock brownfields turned into sets for plastic fast paced sales lifestyles that are reinforced by big glowing billboards of useless self-images. mirrored buildings crammed between curved lifeless asphalt roads braiding into bigger expanses of interstate. one way frenetics adorned with beige concrete. keep moving. homeless people. stretches of industrial boring business blocks of gook interpolated into interesting places effectively fucking both. ikea. little fucking orphan annie? greasy ghetto meat for 8 bucks in yr gut and the wrapper rattles down the street... on the beltline itself tho, of the art ive seen..the piece by mensoff, cipcic, drouett..is the most amazing. it truly is a beautiful balnced delicate thing. being loosely aware of all three's work,the combo itself just seems enticing. i saw it and liked, it stopped me, and then was told who had done it- and just stood their enthralled.
as an artist i am paying attention to what other local artists are doing. on a local level, it's fun to isolate that focus as much as it is to ..well, not. to consider the entire planet. i just get a kick out of all the local saps thinking they can and need to educate "the public". all the starry-eyed kids with their 8th grade health book definition of community. all the washed up old-timers strutting around with their imaginary paths of glory behind them. some of them do inspire and carry a myth thats worth floating on, tho...
i love how local grassroots organizations get lost in the details, get lost in The Idea they bring of something good to meet with others' Idea of it AND SILENTLY NOT BLEND AND NOT CREATE DYNAMIC ENERGY, allow scary shallow evil fucks to plant themselves in the middle of a situation and rot while they cockroach rattle on and on about what a bunch of gold nuggets they've planted in nothing, and gosh i know its necessary...but... money. i'd like to dream that ART can find a place to actually experiment and focus on each other as friends and artists and thinkers, without egos and care on that level enough. to be free of worrying about straight up kuhniving bullshitters without a creative bone in their body, no ideas, all of its intentions (tho they dont matter) reveal shallow thought products incessantly slathered on gallery walls of vanity -with thick knee deep willpower that pushes their hideous face into stubborn firm place, hustling out a shitty yawn of an unimaginative no originality addict's living, with a nasty sneering raunchy gross humored base-level laugh and a warehouse redneck's bravado- and compromising the whole damn thing while everybody sits by and watches. free us of board up the asses bored meetings for meetings. free us of well-intended pc'ers thinking they need to not be themselves and suck every art events asshole clean just to be the nice face on the scene. is there a common denominator?
i was going to write about the show at whitespace. maybe next time. you guys need to go see it.

SEEPAGES @ WHITESPACE this friday 7-10pm

Potential image from a potential piece, constantly in fertile motion. Delicious in its rot, its growth. Its history. We find it when we aren't looking, in those places so real and turned open, they can be nothing else. By-products of disaster and disasters themselves. Events continue to occur and spiral off. Taking root in the most conspicuous places, hiding while seeping, generating, and multiplying various spores and windows, a sort of cut-out looking into a truth. It references itself and examines itself, showing the raw compost of experience express uninhibited. Breaking through everything and then raking it into a fermented faux-bedding, suggesting that randomness and awareness do abruptly collide to create in their destruction.


Caroline Lathan-Stiefel curates a show opening at Whitespace this Friday: Seepages.

(above image of work in process by John Otte)

thirst knows no season

ostentatious

His bare taut belly, sunny side up, pressed against the side of the boiling red machine. August heat and not too many hours after sizzling bacon, inertia still bright and versatile in his blood, the crescent wrench refracting chrome light in the yard. He couldn't figure out why she was running hot. Sixteen crushed cans around him in the yard. A cold one almost finished- before it vanishes in his brother's hand.
Frank crushed the empty one with a smirk and sauntered back closer, leering under the hood with his clean original business jawline. Carpet bagger and Freemantle, he calibrated rancid meat in a processing plant for a living. Drove an Audi and listened to pop R & B a pretty good bit.
Frank spoke with a stutter. He somehow perfectly incorporated it into his manner of being as animated and excited.

so frank says
to his brother
still smirking


"You shoulda never divorced her in the 1st place, Bob." Only Bob knew he was talking about the overheated car. Frank pretend to be basically unaware of the car while he discussed the fact that his recent ex-wife had, of all things, gone out and decided to take up some new form of electric yoga. Done virtually, but requiring nudity. It all sounded suspicious. One of the nose pieces was missing from Bob's glasses and in the sweat of the day, the bare coarse metal gouged into his red tender flesh. He stared under the hood, pretending to not let on the that he realized what was going on.
"Frank, have you ever seen The Two Towers ?"
"No man, aint my thing."
"How 'bout Slingblade?'
"Ain't even heard of that"
"The Shining?"
"What? Brah. What ARE you talkin' bout? No. I aint seen no shining."
Bob didnt stop.
"An American Werewolf in London? Rob Roy? Saving Private Ryan? Aguirre, the wrath of god? Walkabout?
When Frank continued to be oblivious,
he picked up a wood splitter (fly swatter)
leaning against the car and
struck him in the sunshine with it

while he gawked at a woman walking by.

Then they laughed and chased puppies and giggled all day.


(image above is from discovery village in austin texas)

MECHANICAL MEANS W/O ACTS

satisfaction to him was another kind of labor. she connived and had her own highchair to dive from. a toy of herself. did he remember to bring his drugs up from the basement? his bald head twitched. sandpaper and cattle calls and small blades. an electric mower for grass he doesn't want to cut.

she gave him the unholy stinkeye. bangs and eruptions from his stomach, a shutter,the slats and shadows of her veins in his face. charisma shuffles its feet and peaks through a free publication. liars dance and pantomime while partial-psychosis partially serves as a conduit for an entire truth.

micromanaged thoughts and personalities, a lack of a notebook. scheduled pleasures turned into a middleman, a silly fool- and lazy. won't frame a picture. the lost and lonely bathroom detached from herself, it reeked and moaned about most of the day. a lichen or two in the urine stench. friends that make art.

consciousness of surroundings at all times. a fixed preparation and sort of tension. she needed a birthday present on the 30th. she wanted to schedule a time to show the venue. she wanted a waiver of arraignment. she needed her art to sell. she needed a microphone. she needed me to come get my art. he needed me to come get my art. he wanted to come get his art. he wanted me to submit some of my art. she doesnt trust my art. she doesnt care about my art. he inspires my art. so does she.

his mannerisms had grown so subtle; feedback had begun to disappear. treasure my ancestors and a day when black and white left more. we filled in, tried not to lie, while she read from her fantasy and held it together- thoughts somewhere in the room almost cried, happy and so supportive. afraid of a different kind of loss. she wasn't just moving away. they'd shared the craft and it led them to


sentient cavern that fills and then drafts, so warm, then so apathetic. a container. non-reflective racing thoughts and a roof, a sort of business that's delusional. busy-ness like prayer, makes thinkin' do more or less not much more than half of fragmented ideas. a thorn in the mood, rotten cayenne hourglass with a wart nose chuckle. permeates and stains. trashy multi-tasked fingers cramp and sleep, to wake up and do it all over again. oblivious or so it would seem.

bathroom love

and somewhere overlapped thought bubbles of ed hall (cryptic invisible mixed in is also whoever else,such as be that as) it may john otte and praps' eggtooth and then geof huth is the head of this tireless frozen meteorite trailing notions into all of it.
still life of fruit from the collection of unisa asokan featuring waterjug "off-hand abstractions" and the eyed of the hurricane again-topel with part of the Living Point to the right of image.
just some spittle.
see that soot collecting from the volcano, from the oil across the sea floor, in the grit of natural mediation's pop, the filter clogs. and makes pretty patterns.

bathroom sand and cloud phase

notice john moore williams lIIght poem in upper right corner
John Otte's contribution to the most recent phases come from an undertow that has been pulling and digging for the torque for over 2 decades now. His hand and eye have saturated in a way for so long now, they are rotten with a fertility that is beyond me. There's a sense of vision I enjoy relating to and it is very much, to me, about the humor in points. I'ts covered in and rich with awareness of so much before it. I relate to what is held on to. To come to now, and the desires that art will always have. The need for work to breathe. The necessity for this kind of environment. To play.To look for ways to gouge- and to be quite relevant and quite serious.


one chance detail.
andrew topel's work serves as a sort of twisting eye. the sanded back details surrounding it are what Otte calls anthropological finds. im reminded of geological references to laws of superposition and inclusion.and playing chess by myself. is strange the balance of this process. the creamy yellow-ish color is bothering me. i want to react directly and swiftly, but then i do not. been feeling a great deal like this bathroom is just simply gross. and just a bathroom. a sort of remorse and self-doubt turn into a renewed affirmation,tho. so much at play. the understanding is bigger than me and shifts in many parts. this public space that has no claims. is so roughed up and tilled, ready to be attached to with no right or wrong. experimentation teases me. so much to do.

VISUAL POETRY @ EYEDRUM may 1st through may 15th

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_eyb02nLqbs&feature=channel

the above video in the foreground can be viewed at the link to youtube provided. video "rains hard' by nisa asokan
melissa johnston
steve dalachinsky framing one of 30 stills scrolling thru a video made by nisa asokan.
carlos m luis
nico vassilakis (pieces anachronistically displayed from his "american fossil" series
Reed Altemus (primary colored pieces on wall) in case features parts of satu kaikkonen's work on left and christian hamrick"s book on right
satu !
christian hamrick, zacc denton, and geof huth
andrew topel. this piece was used to seem as tho' it were a key to the exhibit.
nisa asokan's statement regarding the practice of burning books.
john m bennett
andy martrich
pilar martinez
ashes from burned book night of opening


geof huth from his "waxwords" series
clemente padin, caterina davinio, john moore williams, allison rentz, john m bennett, mara hernandez, reed altemus, nico vassilakis, steve dalachinsky
john lowther, melissa johnston
andrew topel on screen in background (framed by steve dalachinsky's work)