tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31413970663302361842024-02-06T19:53:48.296-08:00EGGTOOTH thebellpepperblogbabyeggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.comBlogger309125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-85190183906305381592014-01-31T11:30:00.000-08:002014-01-31T11:30:26.927-08:00Dr. PepperJust 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.<br />
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?<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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 desire..is 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.<br />
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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-91774197724145202802014-01-23T11:27:00.002-08:002014-01-23T11:27:52.922-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijpnEHyhfGnoVfs3pbKluRTBzJORXLr_C-0wyPw_1Rs5WXAQuyNHXf1e6D0PvYXamTlvXrvwC4-emoejygLXaDTSNKI4IPLVAvvP0SpntCPRKxAvK86hQdZC5njhNgq4KaRBnIWgIDRs/s1600/GreenBellPepper.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjijpnEHyhfGnoVfs3pbKluRTBzJORXLr_C-0wyPw_1Rs5WXAQuyNHXf1e6D0PvYXamTlvXrvwC4-emoejygLXaDTSNKI4IPLVAvvP0SpntCPRKxAvK86hQdZC5njhNgq4KaRBnIWgIDRs/s1600/GreenBellPepper.gif" /></a></div>
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.<div>
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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.</div>
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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"..do 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. </div>
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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.</div>
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Pepped Belping in your travels my friends!</div>
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See you soon, Eggtooth.<br /><div>
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eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-801632916988557482013-05-13T22:28:00.001-07:002013-05-13T22:44:51.216-07:00the 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.<br />
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, <br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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make music machines man made man, no longer blue on the computer w electric friends moving in stereo. <br />
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<br />eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-22046064012411912362012-09-09T21:04:00.000-07:002012-09-09T21:04:17.763-07:00Intense w Xanaduwaht was i going to say?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
but isnt that the common denominator, to be a martyr on an auto-pilot <br />
<br />
that is also its own language, saying the same thing as others. trying to connect and relate. to feel a sense of place.<br />
<br />
theres def. a north american realization <br />
has to be presumed in this. or rather, recognized consciously,<br />
so as to better, hopefully/maybe, weigh that against<br />
<br />
or not even relevant to some ideal of affirmation.<br />
is it about recognition <br />
of helping people communicate.<br />
how much is there a need for discussion versus action<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
a stopped watch is right in action<br />
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shit thats relevant to now, oh that causes a weird mood, oh thats how i feel now. or whatever. welcome to austin.<br />
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eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-11883619730844077302011-06-05T11:05:00.000-07:002011-06-05T11:10:41.827-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8icbf3OCSbh_bRlI11P9sfc6J8qkASYRRRaGGj2844Rf95mrq9-bA0s0ofgX8ovYHro83bCx2M_lsEfLN9pJwRdJ8wW_UltKU-d4CyLfNskyLfPp-2wJjBob_qQEUaNmDB8xVjfoOoI/s1600/P1011860.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8icbf3OCSbh_bRlI11P9sfc6J8qkASYRRRaGGj2844Rf95mrq9-bA0s0ofgX8ovYHro83bCx2M_lsEfLN9pJwRdJ8wW_UltKU-d4CyLfNskyLfPp-2wJjBob_qQEUaNmDB8xVjfoOoI/s400/P1011860.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614799628165784098" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfDu3supnbl-4jTEh1rXUq-rlDpHLp6DYiSuv84m1vvFRFVjTq2gOSKPHgu4nqh6b3mw0F0DUp0kQsr1V2ED_8oID3-QiDHe5D3-l6H3r-3F8cWhkqJYhrtOpesAwzYijWytnb9tSUvQ/s1600/P1011880.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 352px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfDu3supnbl-4jTEh1rXUq-rlDpHLp6DYiSuv84m1vvFRFVjTq2gOSKPHgu4nqh6b3mw0F0DUp0kQsr1V2ED_8oID3-QiDHe5D3-l6H3r-3F8cWhkqJYhrtOpesAwzYijWytnb9tSUvQ/s400/P1011880.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614798803447216690" border="0" /></a><br /></div>eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-1042911085271974712011-06-05T08:05:00.000-07:002011-06-05T10:34:05.115-07:00Tracking My Movements<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK8wM3syQ2pOof_bBrHkmFl9rXTk-Pn50O8rI8ZqOOK3Xi2cZcnJem6jeeQAipEZ1JS7QlMln2XBh56ZLkARVzPLd1WBmKJJxJhvHE6psztBkL8vZTIUXYb5W195QSho6GVRKe_DBwZU/s1600/P1011895.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxK8wM3syQ2pOof_bBrHkmFl9rXTk-Pn50O8rI8ZqOOK3Xi2cZcnJem6jeeQAipEZ1JS7QlMln2XBh56ZLkARVzPLd1WBmKJJxJhvHE6psztBkL8vZTIUXYb5W195QSho6GVRKe_DBwZU/s400/P1011895.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614782093366755234" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But I knew I wanted to.<br /><br />Heard about Big Medium around the corner.<br /><br />Jamie Panzer<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQvVo7SDTMGaYpL1wAN1u-Hy7vhgPWc2roAo2j2wtyGH3qi-kFUCmPrUWn285C5_PyE2i03NZRhb4Bndfo7eCKlOSmk1OQmbsGEowQkbVqUU2TUvypT000c11Jybk7523aQ-qQi5x614/s1600/P1011892.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQvVo7SDTMGaYpL1wAN1u-Hy7vhgPWc2roAo2j2wtyGH3qi-kFUCmPrUWn285C5_PyE2i03NZRhb4Bndfo7eCKlOSmk1OQmbsGEowQkbVqUU2TUvypT000c11Jybk7523aQ-qQi5x614/s400/P1011892.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614782521756911762" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To the left in a corner are more <span style="font-style: italic;">things</span>. Find myself wanting to attach associations with others with regards to meaning and intent and end up floating on a child-like surface.<br />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.<br /><br />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 w<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsyt0uJmRX7w3YzrHyZ7EHRbE84fEbAVjpZN6iu6dIUbx8i1pfXZpdpJ64UzKXS6pDWB3X2GNwGAuy1M6LtPkabCvE3fjVZauFv4x4ZASTEsmOO_8I8Zcl2fhDjX7OsnA7UMQyx8A-Fk/s1600/P1011893.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJsyt0uJmRX7w3YzrHyZ7EHRbE84fEbAVjpZN6iu6dIUbx8i1pfXZpdpJ64UzKXS6pDWB3X2GNwGAuy1M6LtPkabCvE3fjVZauFv4x4ZASTEsmOO_8I8Zcl2fhDjX7OsnA7UMQyx8A-Fk/s400/P1011893.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614782290670765954" border="0" /></a>ith 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-45460577497446021292011-06-02T19:52:00.000-07:002011-06-02T20:20:26.452-07:00..open, ended.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIirekON1_wy0EizfswTO7cEWCOY11Np7iHI-Hf0IbtNvqZsM9VYtdipGj08bSzc5fdio1QqHdz1C2GvCpAhm2YMuvolnpTDkEdxU8eT9LOWfrgfQw8JNBgCL8UEAmD-Y5CrvFx2Ecj9g/s1600/aafound+cd+044.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 317px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIirekON1_wy0EizfswTO7cEWCOY11Np7iHI-Hf0IbtNvqZsM9VYtdipGj08bSzc5fdio1QqHdz1C2GvCpAhm2YMuvolnpTDkEdxU8eT9LOWfrgfQw8JNBgCL8UEAmD-Y5CrvFx2Ecj9g/s400/aafound+cd+044.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613828107511903874" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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)<br />What had happened there that they was cleaning had not even happened yet 10 minutes ago. like they were fighting. Horror bull.<br /><br />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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-57997328117275593282011-04-10T17:08:00.000-07:002011-04-10T18:01:33.461-07:00Moved into the MountainsUpper plateau of another's dream, with ladders made of veins. It's his dream. Not one in which he invented white-out or scotch tape. He's walking across the classic wind-blown grassy field, but it is somehow different. He realizes the grass is fake. Long plastic blades making rustling sounds. Convenience store black plastic bags are the foliage on squat trees. Their grey branches are slimy and refract weird colors in the sun light.<br /><br />Higher up now. One significant level up; he keeps climbing. The earth's surface is now made of books. They're torn fat hardback books, coating the scene at odd angles. Pages fanned open to the horizon, wrinkled and puffy from rain and powerful drying heated gusts. Sand mixes in the pages and crevices. It's now in his eyes. He itches. His bare feet crunch across the books. Paper cuts in the webbing of his toes accumulate rapidly, each cut a surprise. They begin to itch. And sting. His eyes squint and he shambles in a pulsing burning darkness. The sand feels heavier and stings. Blood pumping in the darkness of his eyelids radiates and spells letters.<br /><br />Down below, just a couple levels, there was a sense of comfort and familiarity. Boredom. He wasn't really doing this. He painted pictures from places he had not been. A scene in a many- times-told story from a friend: Adolescent angels sitting on a beach, talking to everything. Hitting on the seagulls as well as the seashells. Couch-potato angels in one cove. Television wires lead out into the ocean and tangle, forming webs that catch a sample of everything. The angels cackle and some of them energetic and beautiful, decide to surf, opening their veins in the water for the fun of drawing sharks. Winging out of reach as the gaping mouths breech.<br /> An angel, a particularly cruel and spiteful one, cocky and talented at all the convenient things, uses a burning sword on one of the sharks. Puncturing the center of its head with a thrust and quickly removing, the shark sinks into the ocean, its body on fire inside, glowing as it descends.<br /><br />Time sits around. Tree house walkie-talkie style communication across mountain tops. He's up there, with...a bunch of automotive mechanics arguing in front of an overhead projector. "No." That's all they can say. Pulling on half-baked theory, one of the auto mechanics tires and tries to break the din. He tries to explain why brake pads begin to squeal. And why they stop.<br /> Silence grinds into his rotors up here. His means and intents worn thin. Barebones. Who he really is. Who he really is loses interest in the automotive scene and turns himself 180 degrees.<br />A thorough intricate path lined with careful angles, sharpened and jutting dirty needles and black scary fragments. Everything is black & white. Patience and breathing, as he exhales and walks the sharp objects recede. Colors blend in, and suddenly there it all is. Relaxed and lush living things. He feels a nice silence fill everything.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-19270701843602668982010-11-28T17:03:00.000-08:002010-11-28T17:51:00.481-08:00pretty much doneI'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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /> whatever. idealism or not. something has to mean something to somebody. and i know it does. but crap, man.<br />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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-73963227671277667942010-11-22T16:43:00.000-08:002010-11-22T16:52:06.224-08:00BIKRAM YOGA<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gNyK70CncezUVJgz4L9Wpm0JhMJJgiQ0oLM6t9xzZqGZB3VKm_1oiLFOUXYQ5ElAgr-XbN4mX415YQbfH-VgmzMToRdaNG-lWFiob5YqGnJ7nAdlH2px-B4s5liZGlBSnuThpZoebVI/s1600/aaeggtooth2+017.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gNyK70CncezUVJgz4L9Wpm0JhMJJgiQ0oLM6t9xzZqGZB3VKm_1oiLFOUXYQ5ElAgr-XbN4mX415YQbfH-VgmzMToRdaNG-lWFiob5YqGnJ7nAdlH2px-B4s5liZGlBSnuThpZoebVI/s400/aaeggtooth2+017.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542540313500427986" border="0" /></a><br />I'M DOING BIKRAM YOGA AND WRITING ABOUT IT.30 days in a row. GO LOOK:<br />HAVE A GOOD DAY, JERKS. BUT NOT <span style="font-style: italic;">TOO</span> GOOD.<br /><br />http://bikramyogadecatur.com/<br /><br /><br />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.<br />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.<br />hes doing the pose pretty good here. freakin jerk.<br /><h3><br /></h3>eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-62753105543079973682010-11-19T18:16:00.000-08:002010-11-19T18:16:09.872-08:00zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3<a href="http://www.zshare.net/audio/82904965440b5a3c/">zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3</a>eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-72913726619500183082010-11-19T18:13:00.000-08:002010-11-19T18:14:19.700-08:00eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-47095348879215117732010-11-19T18:05:00.000-08:002010-11-19T18:07:45.124-08:00sounding eggtoothseggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-42174512017774529722010-11-19T16:22:00.000-08:002010-11-19T16:47:37.618-08:00continuous past presents immobilized future<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRugMr-VOFffOfo6golVHza_YBAh7v9VQWoIS3pDCDvPRPPpI867lIq76BmovYoBfVajAiKmGslJXJYukXKZ3ZFHa0GMsjUm7xOYREaR1bpsxOrKTjZ9ceGyytJ9o3HHv8bTVhHQw3iY/s1600/xxzzsuper+124.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLRugMr-VOFffOfo6golVHza_YBAh7v9VQWoIS3pDCDvPRPPpI867lIq76BmovYoBfVajAiKmGslJXJYukXKZ3ZFHa0GMsjUm7xOYREaR1bpsxOrKTjZ9ceGyytJ9o3HHv8bTVhHQw3iY/s400/xxzzsuper+124.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5541427135381141410" border="0" /></a><br />represents^reports<br />embodies^narrates<br />transforms^indicates<br />knows only a continuous present^looks back on a past.<br /><br /><br />Represent the report, the ratio represents an exchange.<br />It submitted a report. The ratio indicates while<br />the Other<br />knows more of return on, or has - beyond present sights<br />but only continuous.<br /><br />Display the exchange.<br />Which within, of course, the report ratio is displayed.<br />The embankment made the report.<br />Ratio, besides the fact that it is between it, it shows. Or rather, shows it.<br />Having known many of the returns, or exceeding them- its present "vision continuation" just has it.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-14303191020202462832010-11-15T17:16:00.000-08:002010-11-19T15:24:57.487-08:00Used to,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAe_qPglv4HkjfOj-ADRZ-_ieDJ8D-UO4-xvbEDQJQCnBNuo86zQejITjRWCQ9F2WootorgApkbcyHA76m9hYdQKWA1dqSBQ-1OerJc8h-BXHvEn_34MBHb4N_y0LyNVy2ZfgKhP8Usfc/s1600/xxzzsuper+181.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAe_qPglv4HkjfOj-ADRZ-_ieDJ8D-UO4-xvbEDQJQCnBNuo86zQejITjRWCQ9F2WootorgApkbcyHA76m9hYdQKWA1dqSBQ-1OerJc8h-BXHvEn_34MBHb4N_y0LyNVy2ZfgKhP8Usfc/s400/xxzzsuper+181.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539958241611619010" border="0" /></a><br />"wernt nv'r nor shalt there be another wont'r" sed thee Consanguineous.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">from The Time Socializerz III by Jert LaLangue</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>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.<br /><br />The last time I ran<br />long in the tooth, at<br />A distance from things, as much as I am at a distance from myself now.<br />The awareness of actions.<br /><br />Let's try to be a hybrid.<br />Somewhere<br />bet/ween<br />the dialogue<br />with the self<br />and a fast paced<br />newer than meta-<br />wave perception of<br />i'm-mediate.<br /><br />Health traces an outline around time and up's the rabbits pace for the dogs to<br />knock over the neighbors' garbage<br />laugh, cry and excommunicate, separate from the objective<br />graffiti the telephone poles<br />and the stars.<br /><br />the criticism of being sincere<br />and informed enough<br />and informed enough<br />and simply not the wrong face.<br /><br /><br />grafting a thought about art in Atlanta with<br />a person just like Atlanta<br />partially regurgitated and regenerating<br />on fire with money and traffic, a cat's tail transparent<br />(self-critical evasive) just a "what-if " thrown at yr feet<br />expectations don't have to explain themselves.<br /><br />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 snapeggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-39398072061870068142010-10-31T09:58:00.000-07:002010-10-31T10:04:24.231-07:00The Writers Exchange<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9e9euXSviMjUstvTBEVca6n58kaWuZ03ihOUvFp5MujGwHwEukNk4Ma1kiB01uV-xaoaexBPY-ALFB9WjwvMbi0M45498ImYwAxMC-N7TQ1r-X3o1ggaYqP9dcgQrMfxJn6Y-Ziy93Y/s1600/aaaaaaamazing+016.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja9e9euXSviMjUstvTBEVca6n58kaWuZ03ihOUvFp5MujGwHwEukNk4Ma1kiB01uV-xaoaexBPY-ALFB9WjwvMbi0M45498ImYwAxMC-N7TQ1r-X3o1ggaYqP9dcgQrMfxJn6Y-Ziy93Y/s400/aaaaaaamazing+016.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534257141356072354" border="0" /></a><br />Lit Guy proudly announces :<br /><br />John Selvidge's<br />WRITERS EXCHANGE.<br /><br />the art of being<br />in and around<br />situations that<br />involve<br />sharing writing<br />with others.<br /><br />join us for relaxed pointers and inspirational techniques.<br />served in the form of creative writing.<br />this is not an actual self-help seminar.<br />come play with words and where the experience with them begins.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-3686007703648742012010-10-17T11:52:00.000-07:002010-10-17T12:02:09.399-07:00Writing about Monsters<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqNLc188RKM-JIDfkx6itsJQm4THk88KQcbU1ZvQXrOipy6tV3PNztn9YXIevLzAD_6nY69_5OrWHH6iCzNKq0hobRoXMA_i8Zt-C6IWClwDD5r9QRXmmJJdk0znG7SCBA9VhoUwgzDc/s1600/xxzzsuper+186.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEqNLc188RKM-JIDfkx6itsJQm4THk88KQcbU1ZvQXrOipy6tV3PNztn9YXIevLzAD_6nY69_5OrWHH6iCzNKq0hobRoXMA_i8Zt-C6IWClwDD5r9QRXmmJJdk0znG7SCBA9VhoUwgzDc/s400/xxzzsuper+186.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529092292962175314" border="0" /></a><br />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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-82994499428079167902010-10-17T07:54:00.000-07:002010-10-17T11:46:49.326-07:00What'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<br /><br />What is acceptable ? Today, I interact with Boris's text. <span style="font-style: italic;">("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...." </span>Yesterday, I went to see art 21's latest greatest on William Kentridge. Analysis of where an experience begins<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">began</span>, 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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br /><br />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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-55142982279422201572010-09-20T16:40:00.000-07:002010-09-20T17:12:06.515-07:00Daughter of Beach<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdbp2rPUU3hbRkM3hUdCqjjtxqPRC9VWVqqdgf552qw6Q3lWqhckS8Df9eBStsrH1V3wNH1DhSsMGyIXkPAOsisNayQ7QQRtCN6-iU3ao2g6f70FXbCdG5EK_Y0a_snZrfY2q1tCEx9Pk/s1600/agodamnrainbow.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 673px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdbp2rPUU3hbRkM3hUdCqjjtxqPRC9VWVqqdgf552qw6Q3lWqhckS8Df9eBStsrH1V3wNH1DhSsMGyIXkPAOsisNayQ7QQRtCN6-iU3ao2g6f70FXbCdG5EK_Y0a_snZrfY2q1tCEx9Pk/s400/agodamnrainbow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519152557335612050" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br />The giant would toss in sleep and crack all that shit beneath.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-77831351421725713032010-09-16T19:53:00.000-07:002010-09-16T20:11:30.806-07:00whatcha makin?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8EhklpraOCJ2BhlQC7zBFlVXtC4CTI2fERy7Xa72r-iFd5vAQFxwLXkfhCRhje5HVXUixst0dNNDvbX9me0ld018afUVo4ql9pRYx9aODpTfjGh8BunECHUHC92oBjyxh_QNTt-q5flc/s1600/jihamoondaltonnight+059.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8EhklpraOCJ2BhlQC7zBFlVXtC4CTI2fERy7Xa72r-iFd5vAQFxwLXkfhCRhje5HVXUixst0dNNDvbX9me0ld018afUVo4ql9pRYx9aODpTfjGh8BunECHUHC92oBjyxh_QNTt-q5flc/s400/jihamoondaltonnight+059.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517714733162570658" border="0" /></a><br /> Without anticipating anything, a blank slate in a larger dirtier terrain,<br /><br />he squeaked his feet<br />through the sand.<br />Trudging happily to the edge of the water<br /><br />and then standing there. The wall of the room shimmered<br />and lightning bugs spilled into the room<br />with all the style and frenetic turbulence of angry wasps.<br /><br />The ocean scene with its distant oil rigs<br /><br /><br />on the horizon splashed up and creatures lapped coarse tongues into the air.<br />Capturing lightning from their glass wings.<br />An icicle with rainboid transparent smears coating the room.<br />Something to appreciate, an idea- to travel on from. Or with.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So much going on, and it seems like a bunch of nothing sometimes.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-78607657511297653572010-09-07T20:03:00.001-07:002010-09-07T20:07:57.792-07:00god! you're such a planner!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfe9n3aulo6LzketTdxj_fCNQHvV3a8x69tVpNdziWTr8wtjCfGeuBRfgDPkSKSr0MxxyRx_-NhyphenhyphenCSRbOteoOdM40Jbj9OfpPjFyf2TbrUS8l1wiQ0gav9xdR6g49GiH9cn-VaSBN6FXE/s1600/eyedrum+bathroom+phase+5+010.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfe9n3aulo6LzketTdxj_fCNQHvV3a8x69tVpNdziWTr8wtjCfGeuBRfgDPkSKSr0MxxyRx_-NhyphenhyphenCSRbOteoOdM40Jbj9OfpPjFyf2TbrUS8l1wiQ0gav9xdR6g49GiH9cn-VaSBN6FXE/s400/eyedrum+bathroom+phase+5+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514373745009883346" border="0" /></a>eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-21284752615478301022010-08-26T17:08:00.000-07:002010-08-26T17:30:06.896-07:00JOHN OTTE TO REPLACE BRIAN DETTMER!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NCBjpyHO92ygjU2yPW20XMj3V60GZ2hHzvv-i-mGEmrSCAGokXCkWbIc3Qf55yeTLMy1QjSs64r5L5AK3wSMclH8_WSTg43tiU9-WI5rUjayGlcwr1KsI82WRXGJUTwCNlAgksbJhRk/s1600/asylumotte2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1NCBjpyHO92ygjU2yPW20XMj3V60GZ2hHzvv-i-mGEmrSCAGokXCkWbIc3Qf55yeTLMy1QjSs64r5L5AK3wSMclH8_WSTg43tiU9-WI5rUjayGlcwr1KsI82WRXGJUTwCNlAgksbJhRk/s400/asylumotte2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509880230692167858" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCTNIAbmPIyPWRXm3mBaseynSiDuAA8HRZqRmD7p0w8EB1POD8ZcOToy3lI60gNQMbjSREwF-zdhoZalcItiEfV5pKIcBtZkmq19-ZIZXleD0mEIGTqz37SNhCWdHxVk5usLNVMeJEAgQ/s1600/asylumotte1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCTNIAbmPIyPWRXm3mBaseynSiDuAA8HRZqRmD7p0w8EB1POD8ZcOToy3lI60gNQMbjSREwF-zdhoZalcItiEfV5pKIcBtZkmq19-ZIZXleD0mEIGTqz37SNhCWdHxVk5usLNVMeJEAgQ/s400/asylumotte1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509879743161572114" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Come see John Otte present his Angel of History book treatment series.<br />September 4th from 6-7 pm at The Seen Gallery.<br /><br />And of course enjoy the rest of the Decatur Book Festival while in the area!eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-44108965981315125292010-08-03T17:51:00.001-07:002010-08-10T19:57:57.491-07:00Super Studies for The Inhuman<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzgAryUhksAKOh_bG45Pgz2I7afGlPbMaIuNM0rXQYkrpBsZKDcy3YJaosTBKsJ-DxMd_0Yqx_F16MHlD1auKJ0zzKfXKOlWURH7vpRSb_ER8EIaXKTDuSeXMCtQVe-nKplyv6MflnrA/s1600/austin+098.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJzgAryUhksAKOh_bG45Pgz2I7afGlPbMaIuNM0rXQYkrpBsZKDcy3YJaosTBKsJ-DxMd_0Yqx_F16MHlD1auKJ0zzKfXKOlWURH7vpRSb_ER8EIaXKTDuSeXMCtQVe-nKplyv6MflnrA/s400/austin+098.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503980153575975538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So I have this perspective I want to grip.<br />Knowing full well the lineage, but I'm not going to. For obvious reasons,<br />gracious enough.<br />Abrupt declaration of a need for, at the very least a break.<br />Through the backdoor, sit down politely, they are a bunch of sausage squares, well, then I guess maybe I will look in the mirror.<br /><br /><br /><br />The Inhuman.<br />First and obvious, non. Lexical, imagined, and sounds.<br /><br />Of monsters. Monsters are Inhuman related to human. Land monster being hairy. Even their mouths filled with hair. This is their poetry:<br /><br /><br />Grying troof grinds ouch rooted future tooths.<br />Iss loose fork nub moon<br />under her soon.<br />It wiggles lowf.<br /><br />So many grow row bull locks wow<br />timeless weaving for mind coffins.<br /><br />Of luke socks.<br />Tramble fift system.<br />List trinit grimble cragged<br />and silently bindery glue and glock.<br />Stuck rotten occurance blocks.<br /><br />Trimble grinit gravid, grinit ragged listed ratchet.<br />Muffit slough moribund lump.<br />Grying ragged troof.<br />Facks brequalcome fick rendition.<br /><br />So mow be won fork flit sis n' shoe gross sober moss soppy,<br />roped optics sought text ops for shunned.<br />Categories of labored over thoughts.<br /><br /><br />Sea Monster's :<br /><br />Turks, coys, and drew. Hooks.<br />Frish slash n wangle, is lasting in a half truth, real.<br />Slap slobber grey flapping. Padlock deep and rethinking.<br />Angle blau, anger's lapse a bloop whisper bubbles, weed sleeking<br />and why worry.<br />Swindles wires way hauled and longing lolls.<br /><br />Slipped flapper waah shhhh sklale,<br />rakes and scales.<br />Stillborn short fathoms<br />call bee con clink. Rusted dendrite,<br />wrinkled sheath,<br />ankh slink train pink.<br /><br />Nattered waah plaffer pilshed<br />inside hermes hurt and ball key.<br /><br />Link bloat words squirming murk<br />collosum tremble bridge legs<br />under trollganger mere or you beacon<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Air monsters:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">groar woah flu woah snow poof waif slaw</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">bloof sue woohoo bruise most sose brie</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">pillow flast dried wow sigh wide wee<br />know won hiss blind or than knee...<br /></span>eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-70778571132456084452010-08-02T18:39:00.000-07:002010-08-02T19:04:55.460-07:00The Inhuman<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVjh1t6z8RxlieDAuSizhMehQcxUboeol1hpapcOokel6myBnnnjlukmeui9zDxBTXn_t6VE0SnTnEdyEUlzBfGSjk58oLz3YykdbSmQdLM7R_pQ22A8Co8nJsYeYO57Bd-t4kyjL-2I/s1600/ayetiotte+057.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 187px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXVjh1t6z8RxlieDAuSizhMehQcxUboeol1hpapcOokel6myBnnnjlukmeui9zDxBTXn_t6VE0SnTnEdyEUlzBfGSjk58oLz3YykdbSmQdLM7R_pQ22A8Co8nJsYeYO57Bd-t4kyjL-2I/s400/ayetiotte+057.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500996998005457698" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUbPrxhtf3t7J2DKTDPag0zMKlpEcLMZIWX3SA8lcR-Og1R-wZ8zEjv-EnP7975FgbndY4LHDbtk797u-76iwZZlV2AlMr0P9pXzMVbVjx_RAbGr1WHRdm6GIvpmKuAWN0Eh7zD0yXz4/s1600/aamichael-jackson-e-t.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUUbPrxhtf3t7J2DKTDPag0zMKlpEcLMZIWX3SA8lcR-Og1R-wZ8zEjv-EnP7975FgbndY4LHDbtk797u-76iwZZlV2AlMr0P9pXzMVbVjx_RAbGr1WHRdm6GIvpmKuAWN0Eh7zD0yXz4/s400/aamichael-jackson-e-t.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500992418876620002" border="0" /></a><br />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.eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3141397066330236184.post-56566261026433972692010-08-02T16:44:00.000-07:002010-08-02T17:04:57.215-07:00jessica blinkhorn: my life with the thrill kill kult tribute<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhds2Uqup8E6kBBcsBJQxL4ISmX2KiLZE8eQ11-r7oEA6uFUjgr7OW-KeeFpoMHtdLbpGS0TspDQVG9cSDBwnvucMFkGnXgVQaamB9-lxUOqTDcVnGNYb33-S8iah_ucRV5MW3SHNIfB0s/s1600/jessicablinkhorn--insidejacket+copy.JPG">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.</a><br /><br />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. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhds2Uqup8E6kBBcsBJQxL4ISmX2KiLZE8eQ11-r7oEA6uFUjgr7OW-KeeFpoMHtdLbpGS0TspDQVG9cSDBwnvucMFkGnXgVQaamB9-lxUOqTDcVnGNYb33-S8iah_ucRV5MW3SHNIfB0s/s1600/jessicablinkhorn--insidejacket+copy.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhds2Uqup8E6kBBcsBJQxL4ISmX2KiLZE8eQ11-r7oEA6uFUjgr7OW-KeeFpoMHtdLbpGS0TspDQVG9cSDBwnvucMFkGnXgVQaamB9-lxUOqTDcVnGNYb33-S8iah_ucRV5MW3SHNIfB0s/s400/jessicablinkhorn--insidejacket+copy.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500962920603980706" border="0" /></a>eggtoothhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04014799824702826732noreply@blogger.com0