TOLSTOY

Point: one
It was without provocation, that the human mind entered into and made love, a grappled complex of reflection.
To this very day, we make and make and from which angle we look, is entirely new. Today, tomorrow, knows not and it doesn't really matter. The reflection that falls off the wall and shatters. The tent that we bought and sold our souls next to snacks and familial chatter.The art street that gleems while we stare and blame those that do not matter. If Removed, presume there is such a thing, the wall would appear flat and deep, something to dip our fingers into and smear. Unending, wraps around us and soaks us. we run in circles making patterns like children, aged we run into ourselves..trying not to think. Constantly looking for another, another to stand up and roar.
Even if we do not, a simple puppy tail wiggle caught forever and preserved for you to admire.Timeless. It is not due to out rapid perspectives, our pace does not blur what should be a blur. Plugged in and Determined.
A person utilized by technology becomes an artist. a shifting foetus with text strung from a mother's cord. only given so much length, but connected. hardwired into society. Listening, some absorb what they already know. some regurgitate and look back at eyes, look back with a fatal politeness. Now is removed.
If removed, we would be able to see the myriad cords.Mother's blood. the fluid of our times slipping flat, on the surface. The new gallery is not a holy place. it is not! the new gallery exists when we are not looking. it is part of the pace, the steps on our path of communication. the unreachable undescribed width. it is not written on a screen or on an announcement card. stillborn is unavoidable. Alive and writhing hands of an auto-erotic clock. get yourself off all over someone else. rolled over and woke up to another dream. where you stuck yourself. In yet another room with white walls.

High theory. You become inspired by the times and past publications. A walk in the park or the coffee shop, another opening, another dance, waiting for they that look to look in on you. from every angle. all at once. the reactions slip through. Wasted on human problems, we still revolve around... like color. so peculiar. Issues specific are just that and fall flat at birth. the new experience cries to happen. like advertising will have to, when it can not reach us through patience. new experience does not cost anything in the physical, it is an unavoidable experience.a reaction, the unbelievable Now.
it is not a thirty second spot. it is not a pop up. it is not a holding pattern, or a billboard. in fact, it is not even a solid building to compartmentalize you. There are no streets to take it to. you standing in front of who are just as real as the cords connected to you by now. with fingers and hands, you are still real. the reaction is against pace. the movement is just that. a movement.

Book review: ( or should i say, short story.)
By Jeff Dahlgren
What Men Live By
by Leo Tolstoy
The use of an Angel to describe the nature of Man's existence. tHree lessons.
man lives by God. Love, says the story, is God, and it dwells within us and does reveal itself.
Man does not know where he's goin' to, dont know his "bodily needs". could die tomorrow while planning for today. it is about what ALL men need. alone is an illusion. there's no such thing as "you gotta be doing it for yourself". we are connected. dagnabit.
it is not selfish and can not be so. it is by Love, so it says.
Love! Love! Love!
and in so doing all deeds done are done by this. what we do, what we make, lives by this. an Angel illustrates this. the idea of an Angel, to my stoney heart.
so... i guess I Love you guys. and I go forward with this in mind.