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.

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.

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.

..open, 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.

Moved into the Mountains

Upper 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.

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.

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.
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.

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.
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.
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.

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.