Friday 31 January 2014

Dr. Pepper

Just a bunch of streaming thoughts around the exterior of its skin, as if it has eyes. as if it has a voice. or maybe even invisible arms that give a hug; as warm as my idea of a steady morphine drip. but nope. i'm just going to eat it. im going to eat it raw. using it to cook with for flavoring other things seems a waste. i have one here with me right now. a red bell pepper. it isn't very big. but it has a presence. i can almost hear it talking to me, but mostly all i hear is doubt. and wonder.
 i can barely reach my keyboard right now. im afraid to move anything. oh technology. oh computers. digital print media. 3d print me a bell pepper, ha! as if. i already know what that would prove. bell peppers are more than just material, an idea, or even a thought. i used to be so scaredof bell peppers. im still scared of ketchup. but who isnt?
 i bought two mexican cokes today. the tall glass ones. but the thought of them makes my stomach bloat right now. i just heard my phone click or pop or whatever you call that sound, to indicate facebook activity. i almost reach for it, but look at my bell pepper in response to some notion it told me. it told me about bent fingernails. like in the movies. like that imaginary thread one holds onto. a bell pepper is more than a crawfish, or an ant.
 i want to remember why the bell pepper dreams of what is in store for it. earthbound and delightful, sharing this amazing experience. the edge that matthew mconawhatever however u spell it, his character in that hbo tv show about detectives, how it appeals but also seems tired and based on character traits we're supposed to be a bit freaked out by.
i call home a few times a week. only talk to my mom and her sister. this bell pepper gives me thoughts. i see atlanta like i see old high school hallways. im going to check my fb responses on my phone now. pictures of dogs. cute ones. i laugh. like this. this is a picture of a dog with a red bell pepper for a head. or it might as well be. c'mon. shock my senses. maybe i need to move on from you bell pepper. check out the trinidad scorpion.
 i eat bell peppers at work. in the big break room, the silence of the ping pong table measures the weight in the air. the mixture of peppers is colorful. like a happy cartoon of a moment, but healthy. not to say cartoons are unhealthy.
 once upon a time there was a forest. it didn't know how big it was. it thought, if it did, that it was the be all end all of everything. this forest was fuzzy. i mean fuzzy. its tops obscured the clouds with intertwining branches and strange plumage. not an allusion to lynching there, not an allusion to growth cycles, or akkadian scribblings still hidden in their deeper layers. bark. bell peppers. truth. hybrid curiosities and grotesque monuments to the texture of a vegetable. why am i so scared of that word. vegetable. i don't really eat red meat anymore. same reaction i get from the thought of that mexican coke. bloat. even tho it doesn't really matter.
i wonder if i could sneak a bell pepper into a bikram yoga class. i wonder if i will ever wake up every day with the same continuous plot line and conflict resolution path flowing. some say to heck with that approach to narrative. im sure when i eat a bell pepper, it winds its way thru dark odd paths. but, aaah. wait. the weight of it all.
 so now where do i go dr. pepper. i'm going to talk to somebody today. i almost want to just bring a sheet of paper, filled out with all the specs. indicating the perspective on the topics as well as the topics themselves. lets cut to the chase. right? fear and that from point break? maybe i should rent that movie. or simply acquire it a know. wasnt flea in that movie does he shoot his foot behind a door, flea..i read the other day about a shitty mid90's group that had a guy also die at 27. pff.
 we all love bellpeppers. i like coffee, as well. i despise unctuous conversation. honesty is nice. but it doesnt have to lather and yank. gimme a break. i like cookies. but i dont usually buy them. theres cookie dough under peppers in the crisper, the crisper that wont let the fridge close if i am not careful. if you know what i mean.

Thursday 23 January 2014

oh bell peppers! i love you so much! i want to give you kisses. i want to, first, feel your exterior with my freshly washed fingertips. a slight tap or maybe a squeeze. do i smell you? of course i do, you lil guy you. bell peppers are delicious. that's why this blog is about them. im going to tell you about bell peppers. not just my experience, but all the delicious truths that only a sturdy and dedicated tongue can discover. if you want nutrient factoids and health benefits, go somewhere else. i find that information readily available and often counter to the true experience of the bell pepper, because, as you probably know instinctively, bell peppers are about life.

 The Bell Pepper. I think of Sylvia Plath for a second. I think of her husband. And then I think of Natalie Wood. And how creepy Christopher Walken was in The Dead Zone. Bell Peppers float. They have vibrations around them. And mystery. Often what we find happening in and around the details of our lives, the breath on the air, the yummy value you coat your jowls with, that pink inside of your face is a special place Which brings me to the first chapter of this long journey. It is called Bellping.

What is Bellping? Everyone does it in some way or another. Have you ever seen a movie where the central character is the shunned, the rejected, and she goes on a journey, becomes the hero, that whole archetype? I want you to go pick up a bell pepper right now, like a momento mori of sorts. Put it next to your computer, maybe carry it with you. Belping happens at some point with you. If you recall what I said a moment ago about "that pink inside your face is a special place" you? I know you do. Well, I want you to close your eyes. Put one finger on your bell pepper and stop reading this for a moment. Use your tongue to draw a bell pepper around the interior of your face. 
Did you notice I said "face'? You are drawing a fully dimensional bell pepper. What color is your bell pepper? This is a good place to start. Spend some time there. Do not eat your friend the bell pepper today. I want you to abstain from bell peppers for now. I now this may seem strange, given how short life is, but trust me. I will see you when it is time. The pepper will find you as well. Maybe in the shower. I will let you know about my experiences with bell peppers. I will eat them today. But this is about your journey as much as mine. Ours. We share.
Pepped Belping in your travels my friends!
See you soon, Eggtooth.

Monday 13 May 2013

the 3 brained robot (in this instance)

saw something tonight, had as much to do with a distinctive voice and catchy beats and rehearsed material as it did with a will to be honest. the 20 something guy with the mind on fire, ideals and ideas and something that probably doesn't have to do with sheer will, probably more to do with let's just say, here we are, at a place in time, saying what we are saying, a beat comes on, a feeling needs to be loosened up. a sense of place and experience and how i got there. the performance seemed to love this particular environment. out in the woods with electrified structures built from pallets, stages into the trees lit up and pink, mounted keyboards to branches and shadowy legs swinging with lit cigs from high up. a rather unremarkable and regular creature, elbows and tassle of hair and shiny processor eyes, writhes into a process, a place. sometimes in a dress ( a cheerleader uniform?) or boxers, awkwardly and perfectly stalked by his feminine god buddy, chant tribal bedroom teddy bear escorts - thru the magic it summoned just enough of - to tweak the entry point to the experience.
 addressing that he simply is pressing a button, a voice effected, responds to and dialogues with itself, a biafra tonality and innate sarcasm reminiscence made plain for localized language and immediate understanding of some idea of friends together sharing. relaxing. observing,
this act did seem to want to respond thematically to hot political oppressions, usually relating to extreme nationalism of any sort, of christianity, of the south. our performance duo hails from greensboro NC. some guy named sam and dam if i didnt get his last name or the other performers name. you can google the 3 brained robot and find videos like i just did, realizing the person walking into the street as an extensionof the stage act, the situations that involve the crowd billowing a sheet under strobe lite, the clubkid context can blend to this or psychfolk necessity for skin and rainbows and animal masks does occur. tribal repetitions and conversations during the shows i talked to somebody during the set before the 3 brained robot, about what i dont know, some sort of art drama over cigarettes, and then 3 brained robot came on, partially obscured from my view, the intial reaction to (the talking)-"he likes to talk to you about things", this and that, personal experiences and observations about travels, revolving around observations of the south, tonight he did, remarked about effects of too much caffeine, was intrigued hovering on annoyed, but realizing this was part of the rehearsed pace, or carving a needed meditative space, i felt conversed with directly. as a button was pressed, in this instance there was no street, in this instance there were no other musicains, as he sometimes does, a bare chested drummer with neighbors across yards cheering him on, to darkened disco globe clubs, and now a ramshackle treehouse odeon called the space tower in east austin tx.
explanations of activity, about the process, playing a song, now positioned as a warm up, to re-approach after pissing inthe woods as if now was the beginning. explaining he needed to loosen up, sharing a vibe that all present could possibly relate to. it felt part of and owned in its presentation. suggesting that the boundary of awkwardness was involved, as much as a po-mo need for contextualizing, as it simply was the fucking truth. self-aware. where to go with it. showing art what is allowed, even if the magic is in techniques, the magic is in themes everyone handles in their own fingerprints, this one knew itself as much as it felt tapped into undercurrents and weird denominators, the pattern is one of no pattern. and it is recognizable in that it makes as much sense to throw it all away as it does to keep all of it, praise the spirit blindly, take it to the immediate share-level, address the audience and yrself with an outsider's idea of confidence, individual juju and ownership, a hug's inclusiveness. so it is great when something tweaks the moment and 3 brain'd robot kinda totally did it.

make music machines man made man, no longer blue on the computer w electric friends moving in stereo.

Sunday 9 September 2012

Intense w Xanadu

waht was i going to say?

like a somnombulist jesus, the meter runs hot when out looking for things to stir the brain. lots of maybes. lots of abstracted ideas and expectations that are partially fulfilled.

but isnt that the common denominator, to be a martyr on an auto-pilot

that is also its own language, saying the same thing as others. trying to connect and relate. to feel a sense of place.

 theres def. a north american realization
has to be presumed in this. or rather, recognized consciously,
 so as to better, hopefully/maybe, weigh that against

 or not even relevant to some ideal of affirmation.
is it about recognition
of helping people communicate.
how much is there a need for discussion versus action

having no point seems important. sharing , theres the nature of the intangible, the thing positioned so that only those in the that moment activate the meaning, etc blah...

wandered down cesar chavez the other night to an art opening. realized i dont necessarily stare at the ground when i walk, but that i must not usually look UP. blazed through the crowd of faces, at once relieved to not know them as i was categorizing them based on past categorizations. probably just some product of selfish social anxiety, but it didnt really get in the way of experiencing the work. at an opening.

at an art opening. i took one picture. it was as i was leaving. the top of the building, two stories up, was extended with soft internally lit fabric peaks. quilts billowing mountainess and cathedral shapes. suggestions of entrances and dwellings. of possibilities.

i should probably just move to porlock and get a business degree. in someone's shed in their backyard. inside the building w all the awkard but not heavy art: a couple of solid stand-alone moments. thru a bleary smeared window was a view of some soft chamber, inaccessible, but having signs that it had been relaxed in. beer bottle lids. experience from outside the art as a teaser, or part of the installation as an afterthought. living life. quilts sewn to coat throughout the entire room made it seem a place for a non-sexual orgy or a really laid back ruler's hall of entertainment. too cozy for anything other than honesty. keep yr socks on. work was by chris whiteburch.

also enjoyed panzers spinning heads. 2 white painted beauty parlor head, mounted, spinning on motors. i like you you like me at any given moment.
 a stopped watch is right in action

shit thats relevant to now, oh that causes a weird mood, oh thats how i feel now. or whatever. welcome to austin.

Sunday 5 June 2011

Tracking My Movements

Went to Eco Lab & Big Medium last night. 1st art openings of Austin since arrival in town. I had been counting the days since arrival, using a sketch I dated as occasional reference when I forget.

But I've let somebody borrow the sketchbook to collaborate with me. So I'm guessing I'm on day 42. Fun facts. That could be false.

Neighborhood drives. Neighborhood art experience. Texas unstained picket fences around big picnic yards. A barn. With the white walled space inside. I'm suddenly reminded of Houston & Rothko Chapel. The Menil. Set in a neighborhood environment. Eco Lab is, too. Playing new Cold Cave on the way there and not really liking it. Put on long black pants for some reason. Eco Lab is a hot box. I decided I wouldn't write about any of the work in this place.

But I knew I wanted to.

Heard about Big Medium around the corner.

Jamie Panzer

At the end of a long dark driveway, past docks and roll-up garage doors. Entrances to curtained off studio spaces. Another wood fence, half open, comes into a back concrete patio area. Big warm light coming out of a big ol' garage entrance. White walls. Sculptures and wriggling colorful things. Photography. Tiny things on the walls. Various corners to examine. Is a burst of color. Purity and primary in an almost carnivalesque way. Fun things to go and experience.

At my feet are giant replications of what appear to be Jacks, made from bowling balls mounted to vase turned column posts w heavy chrome gold veneer. Sturdy funny things. There are a few of these about. Strange and fun and impossible to play with.

To the left in a corner are more things. Find myself wanting to attach associations with others with regards to meaning and intent and end up floating on a child-like surface.
Sitting on a squat bench plinth-ized thing is another thing. "Mother Hen". A blatantly fake uniform grey tree branch, in the shape of a shambling alien bug. A headless stripped bare rib cage of a creature, almost creepy but too funny to be so. It's various angled branch tips end with grey human fingertips. Perfectly ending. And beginning where it starts to feel. Organic blends with organic, the human kind suggesting supposed controlled logic and expectation, tho. This set of branches appears to coddle and protect little plastic rings beneath it, stacks of colorful toy parts that remind me of avoiding the noid from domino's pizza in the 80's. Silliness that can't be because of some unspecified heavy undertone, but ultimately disarms with it.

Mounted on the wall near Mother Hen is a little device operating a slow turning roll of camera film . Loaded to a mechanism that almost imperceptibly scrolls the negatives of clouds past a little light bulb. The entire gadget, titled "Invention", is awkward stained wooden parts, mounted and held together with nails and thumbtacks. Examination of nature and the clunkiness (uncontrolled/randomness) built into our bodies. Our intentions. With a sense of self being the most important thing in experience and discovery.

Photography, a series behind glass and pixilated grey scale wheat paste. Beautiful images of clouds becoming cubes inna man vs. nature/ logic vs. emotion timeless tumble.Water and fire get the same treatment. In another area, paper prints of atomic mushroom clouds stacked on themselves to heaven, glued to the wall. I am become death and I am become death becomes it's turtles all the way down. or up . to death. without a God. But funny about it.

Panzer enjoys interacting with his audience. A box with paper and pencil asks for donations and suggestions. A fresh tomato sits on the box's corner, maybe an allusion to throwing tomatoes at bad theater performances. Two slots for either type submission lead to the same place - of course. Panzer stalks the opening with a bullhorn, at random blurting thoughts to those hanging around.
I was invited to "use the horn". The piece, titled "Horn" - for what reason I'm not sure, was a horn from some unfortunate animal with a handle added. it sits on a tiny shelf. The artist photographs you interpreting yr consideration of and way of "using it" with a friendly almost hidden smirk.

Meaninglessness is a loaded thing. Reminding one of simple pleasures seemed to be what came from this experience. Odd colored objects twisted from human anatomy mounted high and low. Little tiny ledges jut from the walls in places. On examination, these tiny ledges suggest craggy mountainous plains, aerial jetties like weeds in a gallery. They have little people meandering about on them. Tiny people that require leaning in real close to almost make out. They're just people. I wanted them to be toy soldiers from a distance. But no. They were just people. Looking around.

Erlenmeyer flasks full of what can't be Kool-Aid but sure looks like Kool-Aid. Or maybe the yum juices from freezer pops. Or water with food coloring. But it isn't. It's important studies. Processes are taking place in these flasks, to be certain. Classic fun with contradictions, served up light. We've walked into a scientist's lab. And if he came around the corner he would probably resemble a living cartoon.

There's more things hiding about in Jamie Panzer's show, "you see...thing is..." Even though I spent time, wandering in and out and around and back in, doing the re-approach, I bet I still missed some things.

Thursday 2 June 2011, ended.

suck you chasm. cold and wet. I went for a walk the other day. beside a book i didn't end up giving. writhing- but not too much - branches. mostly happy. can't be anything other here. leaves that sometimes drop little bits of water for no reason. two points for the half price, in the back, unguarded and lost. hard back down a manner, reminded of spring. reminded of my uncle. space opens up, a metal canister made to house a robot, filled with soap and dead skin cells. flesh wrapped around cold gravy, wanting to sell you something. covered in mosquitoes.

nose sit able. around rockin what the fuck mall wart bar stucks sprint soar. past yr eyes sing the blues. abominable blue snowless women. tilda swinton meets ziggy stardust at tea seas with weezy on the tailgate. blew me. softened up and down with the dog. rilke nipples and pink triceps fear no new possibilities. coffee hypereality wizz by blur of elle angels pretense and laptop coffin, for the creamless conversation.

god in a web -or vile intersections designed for the generation of blind. dreaming through a sea of deaf communication. literally. makin' the big bucks. strobe weight of paper rolls and light weird dreams from about 530 to 8 o'clock. icons n recordings -that start off with good intentions. they distort their mirror or reaction or map anyways. the big cover up happens next. (commerical break)
What had happened there that they was cleaning had not even happened yet 10 minutes ago. like they were fighting. Horror bull.

Read reverse comb all yr quads and loops to ate back that way. Plankton tummy signs the sun, 3 dollars for goggles out of an opal goblet rotten in 80's dirty sock options. burn a good bloody mary. level an old standard with lebanon or illinois green salsa, engineered by some kid later in his life. a flying shark. hairless. not a mammal. never even saw milk.


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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