I started another blog and I'll probably use mostly that one:
pattonmeat.blogpost.com
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
I see...
I see rattlesnakes eating tambourines and spitting out venemous swords of sounds.
I see jackrabbits wearing bandanas and eating the flesh of their kin.
I see deerhooves splitting apart and cowskulls shattering into pieces.
I see blood dripping from the mouths of wolves.
I see children dressed as bunnies hiding in caves.
I see old men sitting against cacti.
I see empty prairies remembering things.
I see feathers buried underneath gravestones.
I see cows grazing on sand.
When water is scarce there will be war. You think scarcity of oil is bad.
I see small groups hushed around campfires while coyote mate nearby.
I see owls fly away from eagles.
I see eagles and gazelles nestle on the tops of iceless mountains.
I see claws rooting around landfills for the juice of bugs.
I see women cannibalize each other.
Sharp teeth. Dirt. Soil. Fingernails.
Moon.
I see jackrabbits wearing bandanas and eating the flesh of their kin.
I see deerhooves splitting apart and cowskulls shattering into pieces.
I see blood dripping from the mouths of wolves.
I see children dressed as bunnies hiding in caves.
I see old men sitting against cacti.
I see empty prairies remembering things.
I see feathers buried underneath gravestones.
I see cows grazing on sand.
When water is scarce there will be war. You think scarcity of oil is bad.
I see small groups hushed around campfires while coyote mate nearby.
I see owls fly away from eagles.
I see eagles and gazelles nestle on the tops of iceless mountains.
I see claws rooting around landfills for the juice of bugs.
I see women cannibalize each other.
Sharp teeth. Dirt. Soil. Fingernails.
Moon.
Monday, March 31, 2008
My Art
is on display in the Bookpeople cafe right now (Austin, TX). I invite anyone to go look at it. I'm also selling the prints for a very affordable price, so if anyone is interested, LET ME KNOW!
patton.quinn@gmail.com
512.431.1059
patton.quinn@gmail.com
512.431.1059
Soul Food
Dandelions eat soul food and howling tongues ingest patches of yam fries. Otis Redding's microphone gobbles up his voice: an irrational sun harvest of hopeful liberation.
Home. Soul. Sounds. And filling the belly.
Sam Cooke's urgent intent to nest the bones, ignore the gritty songs of collard greens. Violent intonations fill Motown and the Temptations devour pork chops and savagery and desegregation.
Murmers break bread on the vinyl of the sad.
From the gut, horn heavy, sex songs suggesting attics filled with the temporal nature of all things.
Home. Soul. Sounds. And filling the belly.
Sam Cooke's urgent intent to nest the bones, ignore the gritty songs of collard greens. Violent intonations fill Motown and the Temptations devour pork chops and savagery and desegregation.
Murmers break bread on the vinyl of the sad.
From the gut, horn heavy, sex songs suggesting attics filled with the temporal nature of all things.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Assigning Meaning
Our money was, at one point in time, backed by the Federal Reserve. (In other words, the paper money represented a portion of gold at Fort Knox.) But long ago, that system became meaningless. The amount of currency printed now far exceeds the actual amount of gold in the Reserve. If a citizen (also oddly known as "customer" to some journalists) of the United States went to Fort Knox to exchange her paper money for gold, she would be rather disappointed when she found out that the exchange could not be made. The reason that might occur is if people realized the dollar is meaningless and someone decided to get the gold just in case the shit hit the fan. But what's funny is that if the shit did hit the fan, gold would be meaningless as well. Gold has no actual physical value. If water runs out, or food is scarce, nobody will care about green pieces of paper or shiny metals.
I'm not an end-timist. I don't stockpile canned food anywhere in my home. (Actually, I avoid buying anything canned.) I'm not even scared of that happening. Not because I know it won't, but because I think it would be fun if it did. An apocolyptic environment would bring whimsical flair to the droningly monotonous times we are living in now. (I admit that to be an exaggeration, but a fun sentence to compose.)
In the age of credit and debit cards, the meaning of paper money is obvious as well (it's meaningless). I rarely even write checks. I balance my account online. All of my "money" is a number in a computer. When money isn't even a physical reality, it's annoyingly apparent how much of an illusion it is. I don't mean illusion in the Hindu "maya," all the world is an illusion, sense of the term. I mean that the concept of money is something we all agree has value; you can't do anything without it and you can do everything with a lot of it (in that sense, you can do everything having to do with buying things with it). I don't know a lot about the history of money. But I do know that somehow we, at least in the U.S., decided that gold had value. And then paper money. And now a card that connects to a computerized account that literally moves a number from one account to the other. We all agree on this. We have assigned it this meaning, therefore it matters.
It is similar with other things. Take the diamond ring. An important SYMBOL to engaged girls in this country. (Or diamond anything: a grill that rappers might wear over their teeth or diamond collars you can buy for your tiny dog from Juicy Couture.) Or what about the car? Very specific cars have more value than others. We have assigned much value to these things, but as far as I can see the only reason a diamond has any meaning at all is because we say that it has meaning. Or because someone sold us a bill of goods and told us it had meaning and we kept on believing it. Some of the most expensive cars are so expensive because they go very fast. Which we have assigned a high value, for no apparent reason whatsoever.
It's almost as if very expensive things have value because of the fact that they are very expensive. The value in that is that other people will see your Mercedes, or giant diamond, or the Yves St. Laurant lable on your handbag and know that you threw a bunch of cash down and therefore are very wealthy (or are dating someone very wealthy). It's a flaunting of wealth that I find excessive in this country, and for some reason excessive in the city I grew up, Dallas. (Although this is, no doubt, everywhere.) We not only assign meaning to gold, paper money, and the objects that those things can buy (the more money put down, the higher the value), but we have assigned value to having a lot of money. Rich people are successful, and they can do anything, and on and on. Everyone wants more money than they already have. Period. Everyone I know wants more money than they have; I include on this list my upper middle class parents and my blue collar (but not factory-worker) friends.
Capital is the supreme symbol of capitalism. I stand somewhere in between admitting capitalism is better than socialism and admitting capitalism sucks and we should all become communal, socialist-anarchists. The problem I see is that many people equate the value of a dollar (which we have assigned) with the ability to accumulate things. Accumulating more and more things. Never being satisfied with what you have. The need to consume. This is a form of greed. Not your typical, "all the guy wants is money" definition, but greed--"I DESERVE more than I have, in fact I DESERVE anything I want" definition.
There are countless narrative themes in which people finally have all the money or fame they want, and they are surprised when there is no true peace or happiness there. We could all decide to agree that simply getting rid of things, the ecologically sound way, is of highest value. And then we will finally be happy. (Or not, but we can create that myth and see if it's true.) You see, in greed we can never be satisfied because there is always something else to buy, something else to consume: the new version of some tech device, a new spring wardrobe, a house that we can't afford. But in getting rid of things there comes a point when you just can't get rid of anything else. Except yourself. And that's a good thing.
A common conversation that comes up when my family eats dinner together is variations of answers to this question, "If the shit did hit the fan, what would your role be?" I come from a family of lawyers, and so the talents for foraging and instinct survival are little. Because of my gender, I can fall back on the answer, 'Well I can produce children, so that's a talent." But I can't do much else in the wild, where paper won't fill my belly, gold won't keep me warm, and a Mercedes won't drive me anywhere, unless I miraculously rediscover oil.
I'm not an end-timist. I don't stockpile canned food anywhere in my home. (Actually, I avoid buying anything canned.) I'm not even scared of that happening. Not because I know it won't, but because I think it would be fun if it did. An apocolyptic environment would bring whimsical flair to the droningly monotonous times we are living in now. (I admit that to be an exaggeration, but a fun sentence to compose.)
In the age of credit and debit cards, the meaning of paper money is obvious as well (it's meaningless). I rarely even write checks. I balance my account online. All of my "money" is a number in a computer. When money isn't even a physical reality, it's annoyingly apparent how much of an illusion it is. I don't mean illusion in the Hindu "maya," all the world is an illusion, sense of the term. I mean that the concept of money is something we all agree has value; you can't do anything without it and you can do everything with a lot of it (in that sense, you can do everything having to do with buying things with it). I don't know a lot about the history of money. But I do know that somehow we, at least in the U.S., decided that gold had value. And then paper money. And now a card that connects to a computerized account that literally moves a number from one account to the other. We all agree on this. We have assigned it this meaning, therefore it matters.
It is similar with other things. Take the diamond ring. An important SYMBOL to engaged girls in this country. (Or diamond anything: a grill that rappers might wear over their teeth or diamond collars you can buy for your tiny dog from Juicy Couture.) Or what about the car? Very specific cars have more value than others. We have assigned much value to these things, but as far as I can see the only reason a diamond has any meaning at all is because we say that it has meaning. Or because someone sold us a bill of goods and told us it had meaning and we kept on believing it. Some of the most expensive cars are so expensive because they go very fast. Which we have assigned a high value, for no apparent reason whatsoever.
It's almost as if very expensive things have value because of the fact that they are very expensive. The value in that is that other people will see your Mercedes, or giant diamond, or the Yves St. Laurant lable on your handbag and know that you threw a bunch of cash down and therefore are very wealthy (or are dating someone very wealthy). It's a flaunting of wealth that I find excessive in this country, and for some reason excessive in the city I grew up, Dallas. (Although this is, no doubt, everywhere.) We not only assign meaning to gold, paper money, and the objects that those things can buy (the more money put down, the higher the value), but we have assigned value to having a lot of money. Rich people are successful, and they can do anything, and on and on. Everyone wants more money than they already have. Period. Everyone I know wants more money than they have; I include on this list my upper middle class parents and my blue collar (but not factory-worker) friends.
Capital is the supreme symbol of capitalism. I stand somewhere in between admitting capitalism is better than socialism and admitting capitalism sucks and we should all become communal, socialist-anarchists. The problem I see is that many people equate the value of a dollar (which we have assigned) with the ability to accumulate things. Accumulating more and more things. Never being satisfied with what you have. The need to consume. This is a form of greed. Not your typical, "all the guy wants is money" definition, but greed--"I DESERVE more than I have, in fact I DESERVE anything I want" definition.
There are countless narrative themes in which people finally have all the money or fame they want, and they are surprised when there is no true peace or happiness there. We could all decide to agree that simply getting rid of things, the ecologically sound way, is of highest value. And then we will finally be happy. (Or not, but we can create that myth and see if it's true.) You see, in greed we can never be satisfied because there is always something else to buy, something else to consume: the new version of some tech device, a new spring wardrobe, a house that we can't afford. But in getting rid of things there comes a point when you just can't get rid of anything else. Except yourself. And that's a good thing.
A common conversation that comes up when my family eats dinner together is variations of answers to this question, "If the shit did hit the fan, what would your role be?" I come from a family of lawyers, and so the talents for foraging and instinct survival are little. Because of my gender, I can fall back on the answer, 'Well I can produce children, so that's a talent." But I can't do much else in the wild, where paper won't fill my belly, gold won't keep me warm, and a Mercedes won't drive me anywhere, unless I miraculously rediscover oil.
Friday, March 28, 2008
More things I like:
-Animals: Buzzards, eagles (forever and ever), hawks (and people named Hawk, but not Tony Hawk), and bison.
-Parts of animals: ram's skull and deer antlers.
-Material: denim, leather, pine, fur, feather, and human hair.
-Sounds: tambourine, harmonica, train horn and engine, bass drum by itself, snare drum by itself, whistling in the distance, typewriter, and all of these things together all at once but independent of each other.
-Flavors: maize, yam, flour, pork, and hops.
-Places: thickets, woods, ponds, forests, deserts, beach, jungle, mountain, Texas river, or swamp.
-Peculiar Behaviors of People in my Family I Like: Compulsive Hoarding, Obsessive Cutting of Hair, Overdoing it at the Bar (a euphemism of sorts), the Overwhelming Urge to Report Stories to the Paper (journalism), Praying over the Phone, Cursing to People you Should Not, and the Need to Attack and/or Put Down Scientologists and/or New Agers and their Fundamental (so-called) Belief System.
-Parts of animals: ram's skull and deer antlers.
-Material: denim, leather, pine, fur, feather, and human hair.
-Sounds: tambourine, harmonica, train horn and engine, bass drum by itself, snare drum by itself, whistling in the distance, typewriter, and all of these things together all at once but independent of each other.
-Flavors: maize, yam, flour, pork, and hops.
-Places: thickets, woods, ponds, forests, deserts, beach, jungle, mountain, Texas river, or swamp.
-Peculiar Behaviors of People in my Family I Like: Compulsive Hoarding, Obsessive Cutting of Hair, Overdoing it at the Bar (a euphemism of sorts), the Overwhelming Urge to Report Stories to the Paper (journalism), Praying over the Phone, Cursing to People you Should Not, and the Need to Attack and/or Put Down Scientologists and/or New Agers and their Fundamental (so-called) Belief System.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Patriotism and Shit
From the OED, here are some of the listings uder the word 'patriot'-
a person devoted to his or her country; a person (claiming to be) ready to support or defend his or her country's freedom and rights; a member of a RESISTANCE MOVEMENT (my caps) or patriotic front
From dictionary.com-
a person who regards himself or herself as a defender, esp. of individual rights, against presumed INTERFERENCE (my caps) by the federal government
Of the many vague words that get tossed around the political arena, these are the most offensive (not that the words offend me, but that the words are so misused and often people either cannot define them, or everyone has a different definition of the word): 1.) patriotism, 2.) fascism, 3.) communism, 4.) freedom, 5.) terrorism, 5.) zionism and 6.) individual rights.
I'm not starting in on a political rant. Just something to think about. Bill O'Reilly and people like that can easily rub me the wrong way. However, so can left-wing extremists. I'm close to being as left wing as you get. (I support science, I'm borderline atheist AND borderline socialist, I like the gays the ladies the blacks and the Muslims, I'm super-pro-environment, I like the arts, and I don't buy into the culture of fear.) The reason the far-lefters tend to annoy me is that they don't sound very smart when they speak. I mean, if you are so obviously biased that you will not listen to the other side of an argument, then you are sort of a hypocrite. It's like these far-lefters I hear are making a bad name for educated and reasonable liberal thinkers, just like the far-right thinkers make a bad name for educated and reasonable conservatives. On normal news shows, like Jim Lehrer or some other PBS outfit, there will usually be some sort of conservative interviewed for an opinion. They pick the smart ones, you know, that really chose to believe what they believe for specific reasons grounded in education and being well-informed. When I start to listen to the far-far-lefters, when they sound so angry and divisive and reactionary, it's like they are being played. They are being played and they don't even know it.
It's very hard to listen to someone, like Bill O'Reilly, throw around a word like fascist (about liberals). For one, I'm guessing he never read George Orwell's essay, "Politics and the English Language." Or maybe he did, and he suspects his viewers never did, which they probably did not, thus he can get away with misusing the word. I mean the word is amost meaningless, just like the word 'freedom'; one is an appeal to fear and one is an appeal to emotion (both logical fallacies). Did you forget the logical fallacies class from college? (If you never had that one or didn't finish or never started college you can easily google 'logical fallacies' and find a list of fallacies that people, knowingly or unknowingly, employ in their rhetoric.
I guess my point is this: sometimes liberals get into trouble when they let the fanatical right stir up too many emotions. They want to fight back, they want to yell and pout and prove their point and be right. But the best way to prove that you're right is perhaps to disprove the arguments of the other side, subtley and with ease and confidence. It's so easy to deconstruct someone else's arguement once you see the holes in it. However, if youre talking to a super-smart republican, there may be no holes in her argument, perhaps just something to learn.
a person devoted to his or her country; a person (claiming to be) ready to support or defend his or her country's freedom and rights; a member of a RESISTANCE MOVEMENT (my caps) or patriotic front
From dictionary.com-
a person who regards himself or herself as a defender, esp. of individual rights, against presumed INTERFERENCE (my caps) by the federal government
Of the many vague words that get tossed around the political arena, these are the most offensive (not that the words offend me, but that the words are so misused and often people either cannot define them, or everyone has a different definition of the word): 1.) patriotism, 2.) fascism, 3.) communism, 4.) freedom, 5.) terrorism, 5.) zionism and 6.) individual rights.
I'm not starting in on a political rant. Just something to think about. Bill O'Reilly and people like that can easily rub me the wrong way. However, so can left-wing extremists. I'm close to being as left wing as you get. (I support science, I'm borderline atheist AND borderline socialist, I like the gays the ladies the blacks and the Muslims, I'm super-pro-environment, I like the arts, and I don't buy into the culture of fear.) The reason the far-lefters tend to annoy me is that they don't sound very smart when they speak. I mean, if you are so obviously biased that you will not listen to the other side of an argument, then you are sort of a hypocrite. It's like these far-lefters I hear are making a bad name for educated and reasonable liberal thinkers, just like the far-right thinkers make a bad name for educated and reasonable conservatives. On normal news shows, like Jim Lehrer or some other PBS outfit, there will usually be some sort of conservative interviewed for an opinion. They pick the smart ones, you know, that really chose to believe what they believe for specific reasons grounded in education and being well-informed. When I start to listen to the far-far-lefters, when they sound so angry and divisive and reactionary, it's like they are being played. They are being played and they don't even know it.
It's very hard to listen to someone, like Bill O'Reilly, throw around a word like fascist (about liberals). For one, I'm guessing he never read George Orwell's essay, "Politics and the English Language." Or maybe he did, and he suspects his viewers never did, which they probably did not, thus he can get away with misusing the word. I mean the word is amost meaningless, just like the word 'freedom'; one is an appeal to fear and one is an appeal to emotion (both logical fallacies). Did you forget the logical fallacies class from college? (If you never had that one or didn't finish or never started college you can easily google 'logical fallacies' and find a list of fallacies that people, knowingly or unknowingly, employ in their rhetoric.
I guess my point is this: sometimes liberals get into trouble when they let the fanatical right stir up too many emotions. They want to fight back, they want to yell and pout and prove their point and be right. But the best way to prove that you're right is perhaps to disprove the arguments of the other side, subtley and with ease and confidence. It's so easy to deconstruct someone else's arguement once you see the holes in it. However, if youre talking to a super-smart republican, there may be no holes in her argument, perhaps just something to learn.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
I Have Changed: A Current Event Manifesto
I don't understand how such a drastic change could occur inside the time continuum of one month and inside one person, but it has. For so long all I have cared about is myself. What am I going to do? (WIth MYSELF, with MY TIME, with MY ART, with ME, ME, ME??) I kept telling myself that I wasn't THAT selfish. That I wanted to do art to "help people and to help the world." That I have "good intentions and ethical motives." When really, it has been some time now that I have felt, creeping up from the depths of the darker chambers of the earth's core up through my heels and into my physical system, a drive for greatness, for fame, for popularity, for recognition and for respect. If I had all the success in the world in whatever field I wanted, but my intentions were for fame and recognition, I'd never be truly "happy." I put quotes around the word happy, because I'm not of utilitarian persuasion; happiness and pleasure are not my end goals, nor do I believe that success, even with the correct intentions, can bring happiness. That is a comparative equation that most Americans believe in: success = happiness. But I wonder if even happiness = happiness. Or if happiness might fail to live up to its expectations after the life-long pursuit of it. (A good bumber sticker, no? "Happiness doesn't even make me happy.")
I have wanted to be a writer probably since I was 12, around the time I attempted to write a children's story (titled 'Sara Silly')...but failed because I couldn't come up with a plot. (I vaguely remember tears and the tearing up of pages.) I have wanted to be a comedian since I was about 20. I did a brief stint in L.A., where I tried to "break into the comedy world," only to end up back in Texas. (For reasons that mostly include a suicide attempt that mostly had to do with perceived failure.) There was also the drumming phase; I quit because I knew I'd never match Elvin Jones, the drummer for John Coltrane. There was the art phase, which never passed. Oddly enough, I've never felt a sense of success or failure in the art world, perhaps because it's more of a hobby for me and less of a, "if I'm not the next Picasso I think I'll kill myself attitude." It seems that this idea of success has been on my mind for a while. I have understood for many years, or at least been frusterated by, this idea that success is very important to Americans, and this is very much defined in terms of how much money one makes in her given field. But it's not just that. It's how much recognition one has in her given field. (Tina Fey is a successful comedian because she makes money at it, everyone knows who she is, and she has been given numerous awards for her contribution to her craft.)
I have had conversations with others about questioning the importance of success, as well as the definition. (I.E. Maybe success is joy, or living life with confidence, or having a loving family, or perhaps just not commiting suicide.) The funny thing is this that opposite success is failure. Opposite any definition I create for success is always failure. If being happy is my definition of success, when I'm sad (with or without cause), does this mean I have failed? What about the impoverished child who grows up to never do a thing but deal drugs to make ends meet, is she a failure? There are so many examples of this, I feel like I've made the point already. It makes absolutely no sense to charge someone with "failing" at life. Unless, of course, you had every opportunity to have some kind of success--whether it be emotional, financial, spiritual, or creative--yet you refused them all. It's not that individuals fail, or that systems fail individuals, it's that we are born into a system of thought that defines "success" and "failure" and places emphasis on one more than the other.
Recently I have become obsessed with current events. I can't get enough BBC, PBS, NPR, Harper's, Seed (a science mag), and other websites and books here and there that I devote much of my free time to. I have a renewed interest in what's going on: politics, cultural events, globalization, technological breakthroughs, and the state of the environment; I think critically about all of this. It's like my eyes have turned from gazing inward to gazing outward. I spent so much time trying to express myself that I had nothing left to say. I spent so much time worrying about if I was ever going to "make it" or "find success," which made me very unhappy, which made me only think that success would make me happy, which turned into this vicious cycle of failure and regret and depression.
There are people dying in different places, for different causes, in wars and in unjust practices. I need not say where, because it's everyhwere. Pollution, population growth, and urban expansion threaten the biodiversity of the world. There are inventions helping people who are blind to see. Access to information is as easy as touching a button (if you are so lucky to own a computer or live in a villiage where there is a computer). I'm not writing this as some sort of, hey guys, let's change the world manifesto. Nor have I given up my "art" to read the newspaper. I have realized that if I don't know what's going on the the world, it will be impossible for me to express anything, it will be impossible for me to create anything of any real meaning, and it will be impossible for me to relate to anybody else on the planet. I have this urge now to constanty know what's going on on the planet. It's somehow very important. As I read and become more entrenched in the modern world, this sense of failure somehow slips away. Maybe because I feel like I'm connected to people or a that I'm part of something. I'm participating in this grand event that will one day be history, but I can also take part in it. I may not ever publish a novel, but I CAN vote. I may not ever be on T.V., but I have the opportunity to travel, to learn about other cultures. I can be a representative of my culture (and possibly build bridges between people). If I'm so busy making sure everyone knows how great I am, will never be able to see greatness in other people (especially if I judge them according to my own measure of personal success). I suppose though, that this sense of failure dwindles as I read more about what's happening in the world because I begin to understand that's it's not really that important. That I might make a some sort of masterpiece, but that masterpiece will never break the Chinese control of Tibet, that masterpiece will not feed the starving child in Kenya or the homeless person down the street, that masterpiece will never change the rate of climate change. All that masterpiece will do will feed by fat, massive ego and make me very unhappy.
I have wanted to be a writer probably since I was 12, around the time I attempted to write a children's story (titled 'Sara Silly')...but failed because I couldn't come up with a plot. (I vaguely remember tears and the tearing up of pages.) I have wanted to be a comedian since I was about 20. I did a brief stint in L.A., where I tried to "break into the comedy world," only to end up back in Texas. (For reasons that mostly include a suicide attempt that mostly had to do with perceived failure.) There was also the drumming phase; I quit because I knew I'd never match Elvin Jones, the drummer for John Coltrane. There was the art phase, which never passed. Oddly enough, I've never felt a sense of success or failure in the art world, perhaps because it's more of a hobby for me and less of a, "if I'm not the next Picasso I think I'll kill myself attitude." It seems that this idea of success has been on my mind for a while. I have understood for many years, or at least been frusterated by, this idea that success is very important to Americans, and this is very much defined in terms of how much money one makes in her given field. But it's not just that. It's how much recognition one has in her given field. (Tina Fey is a successful comedian because she makes money at it, everyone knows who she is, and she has been given numerous awards for her contribution to her craft.)
I have had conversations with others about questioning the importance of success, as well as the definition. (I.E. Maybe success is joy, or living life with confidence, or having a loving family, or perhaps just not commiting suicide.) The funny thing is this that opposite success is failure. Opposite any definition I create for success is always failure. If being happy is my definition of success, when I'm sad (with or without cause), does this mean I have failed? What about the impoverished child who grows up to never do a thing but deal drugs to make ends meet, is she a failure? There are so many examples of this, I feel like I've made the point already. It makes absolutely no sense to charge someone with "failing" at life. Unless, of course, you had every opportunity to have some kind of success--whether it be emotional, financial, spiritual, or creative--yet you refused them all. It's not that individuals fail, or that systems fail individuals, it's that we are born into a system of thought that defines "success" and "failure" and places emphasis on one more than the other.
Recently I have become obsessed with current events. I can't get enough BBC, PBS, NPR, Harper's, Seed (a science mag), and other websites and books here and there that I devote much of my free time to. I have a renewed interest in what's going on: politics, cultural events, globalization, technological breakthroughs, and the state of the environment; I think critically about all of this. It's like my eyes have turned from gazing inward to gazing outward. I spent so much time trying to express myself that I had nothing left to say. I spent so much time worrying about if I was ever going to "make it" or "find success," which made me very unhappy, which made me only think that success would make me happy, which turned into this vicious cycle of failure and regret and depression.
There are people dying in different places, for different causes, in wars and in unjust practices. I need not say where, because it's everyhwere. Pollution, population growth, and urban expansion threaten the biodiversity of the world. There are inventions helping people who are blind to see. Access to information is as easy as touching a button (if you are so lucky to own a computer or live in a villiage where there is a computer). I'm not writing this as some sort of, hey guys, let's change the world manifesto. Nor have I given up my "art" to read the newspaper. I have realized that if I don't know what's going on the the world, it will be impossible for me to express anything, it will be impossible for me to create anything of any real meaning, and it will be impossible for me to relate to anybody else on the planet. I have this urge now to constanty know what's going on on the planet. It's somehow very important. As I read and become more entrenched in the modern world, this sense of failure somehow slips away. Maybe because I feel like I'm connected to people or a that I'm part of something. I'm participating in this grand event that will one day be history, but I can also take part in it. I may not ever publish a novel, but I CAN vote. I may not ever be on T.V., but I have the opportunity to travel, to learn about other cultures. I can be a representative of my culture (and possibly build bridges between people). If I'm so busy making sure everyone knows how great I am, will never be able to see greatness in other people (especially if I judge them according to my own measure of personal success). I suppose though, that this sense of failure dwindles as I read more about what's happening in the world because I begin to understand that's it's not really that important. That I might make a some sort of masterpiece, but that masterpiece will never break the Chinese control of Tibet, that masterpiece will not feed the starving child in Kenya or the homeless person down the street, that masterpiece will never change the rate of climate change. All that masterpiece will do will feed by fat, massive ego and make me very unhappy.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Birdhead
SO--I'm showing some art at Bookpeople starting on the 29th of March. You should drop by and see!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Things I like. Ode to Sugary Love.
Twittering heartbeats and smacks on the lips. Orange peels and lemon zest and kiwi frosted moonbeams. Sopping papaya blood.
Sugar plantations raining clouds of polluted skittles and smooches. Horny winds catch dark chocolates and guzzle cinammon buns and wrap sweet hugs around pretty people. Beach sand imbibes the organic fruit smoothie of the lunar tides and munch on little hermit crabs who wallow and plunder under maple syrup like foam of waves.
Asteroidic peppermints fall on planet earth and people smile and hold hands and the preserves hold peace in its pocket for just a second.
And Jolly Ranchers, and Mambas, and Laffy Taffy and delighted three-year-olds ruining their teeth, but laughing anyway.
TCBY was my favorite place to go when I was eleven. With my girlfriends. And we laughed. And my Dad took us there. I got chocolate and vanilla swirl with oreo cookie toppings. I wish my Dad would say to me now, "Hey Patton, do you want me to take you to TCBY?" But he's diabetic now.
And I ate lots of candy with Anne, and now she's gone. She broke my heart into tiny little M&M pieces.
Nothing melts my heart more than a plate of mustard greens and kale. And then a dark chocolate bar for dessert.
Sparkles and shiny things and glitter and my remote hope to taste a Coca-cola on a road trip while holding a guitar and a bandana. Just like America...right?
Jelly bean disasters and the chaotic decision between Gummi Bears and Gummi Cokes...or Gummi Worms? Too hard a choice.
I liked fruit roll-ups, but I was much bigger on grape popsicles. And I knew my mom loved me because there was some popsicles in the house.
Hot fudge---say what? Yes, I want nuts; yes, I want cherries; yes, I want whip cream on top; yes, I want hot fudge. But the best was all of that combined and put into a waffle-cone bowl. (Shout out to Willow Brook Country Club in Tyler, TX, and to my Grandmama who actually let me eat that.)
Sugar plantations raining clouds of polluted skittles and smooches. Horny winds catch dark chocolates and guzzle cinammon buns and wrap sweet hugs around pretty people. Beach sand imbibes the organic fruit smoothie of the lunar tides and munch on little hermit crabs who wallow and plunder under maple syrup like foam of waves.
Asteroidic peppermints fall on planet earth and people smile and hold hands and the preserves hold peace in its pocket for just a second.
And Jolly Ranchers, and Mambas, and Laffy Taffy and delighted three-year-olds ruining their teeth, but laughing anyway.
TCBY was my favorite place to go when I was eleven. With my girlfriends. And we laughed. And my Dad took us there. I got chocolate and vanilla swirl with oreo cookie toppings. I wish my Dad would say to me now, "Hey Patton, do you want me to take you to TCBY?" But he's diabetic now.
And I ate lots of candy with Anne, and now she's gone. She broke my heart into tiny little M&M pieces.
Nothing melts my heart more than a plate of mustard greens and kale. And then a dark chocolate bar for dessert.
Sparkles and shiny things and glitter and my remote hope to taste a Coca-cola on a road trip while holding a guitar and a bandana. Just like America...right?
Jelly bean disasters and the chaotic decision between Gummi Bears and Gummi Cokes...or Gummi Worms? Too hard a choice.
I liked fruit roll-ups, but I was much bigger on grape popsicles. And I knew my mom loved me because there was some popsicles in the house.
Hot fudge---say what? Yes, I want nuts; yes, I want cherries; yes, I want whip cream on top; yes, I want hot fudge. But the best was all of that combined and put into a waffle-cone bowl. (Shout out to Willow Brook Country Club in Tyler, TX, and to my Grandmama who actually let me eat that.)
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Little Creatures Like Me are not of this Earth
This is a recent illustration of mine. More will be added later.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Soul Food
Dandelions eat soul food and howling tongues ingest patches of yam fries. Otis Redding's microphone gobbles up his voice: an irrational sun harvest of hopeful liberation.
Home. Soul. Sounds. And filling the belly.
Sam Cooke's urgent intent to nest the bones ignore the gritty songs of collard greens. Violent intonations fill Motown and the Temptations devour pork chops and savagery and desegregation.
Murmers break bread on the vinyl of the sad.
From the gut, horn heavy, sex songs suggesting attics filled with the temporal nature of all things.
Home. Soul. Sounds. And filling the belly.
Sam Cooke's urgent intent to nest the bones ignore the gritty songs of collard greens. Violent intonations fill Motown and the Temptations devour pork chops and savagery and desegregation.
Murmers break bread on the vinyl of the sad.
From the gut, horn heavy, sex songs suggesting attics filled with the temporal nature of all things.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Things I like. Community.
-Shamans exorcise imperialistic logos from Ugandan children wearing Disney tee shirts.
-Psychonauts smoke the soil from sustainable hookahs and profit from heavy exposure to the sun.
-The thought patterns of the marshland offer rebates for stale trees and sunken animals.
-Commune members trip through decades of at-risk children who speak in tongues and worship polymorphic green paper.
-The totemic masks of corporate slugs advertise disaster management training programs for commuters and conglomerate optimists.
-The eco-anarchist's world view brands products and like eco-tape and eco-boxes and eco-ideas and trendetting green core members plug eco-retail stores in magazines like Real Simple.
-Identify yourself as an gay ashram or a Christian survivalist or a psychadelic actress or a globalized minstrel.
-Medicine men wait in stark white rooms to give birth to a new major metroplitan hub.
-I saw omens in the food supply and in the traffic lights and false idols targeted me as a possible new buyer.
-I smoked salvia divinidorum and the spirit of the public space around me manufactured billboards with avant guarde art.
-Cooperatives plan population density parties where they chew ayahuasca in sales rituals.
-The desertification of self-expression pollutes our water access streams and we are all thirsty.
-Cooperatives of people measure the market economy via the solititation of recycled thoughts.
-I am a lucid dreamer in a strategic mind machine.
-The nature of existence bombs non-profit hedge funds that squat in urgent disbelief.
-Naked hippos in the North Carolina gulf stream hide in thickets and as I swim by my heart beats uncontrollably.
-Processed foods have finally eliminated the need for breath and we can all ingest carcinogens happily.
-Hedonistic throngs of public realtions firms attend over-comsumption picnics and select sites for the new infanticide mall.
-While there is a frenzy of frozen fish at the corner store down the street, I bury an old self in my back yard and hope for the new one to come soon.
-Psychonauts smoke the soil from sustainable hookahs and profit from heavy exposure to the sun.
-The thought patterns of the marshland offer rebates for stale trees and sunken animals.
-Commune members trip through decades of at-risk children who speak in tongues and worship polymorphic green paper.
-The totemic masks of corporate slugs advertise disaster management training programs for commuters and conglomerate optimists.
-The eco-anarchist's world view brands products and like eco-tape and eco-boxes and eco-ideas and trendetting green core members plug eco-retail stores in magazines like Real Simple.
-Identify yourself as an gay ashram or a Christian survivalist or a psychadelic actress or a globalized minstrel.
-Medicine men wait in stark white rooms to give birth to a new major metroplitan hub.
-I saw omens in the food supply and in the traffic lights and false idols targeted me as a possible new buyer.
-I smoked salvia divinidorum and the spirit of the public space around me manufactured billboards with avant guarde art.
-Cooperatives plan population density parties where they chew ayahuasca in sales rituals.
-The desertification of self-expression pollutes our water access streams and we are all thirsty.
-Cooperatives of people measure the market economy via the solititation of recycled thoughts.
-I am a lucid dreamer in a strategic mind machine.
-The nature of existence bombs non-profit hedge funds that squat in urgent disbelief.
-Naked hippos in the North Carolina gulf stream hide in thickets and as I swim by my heart beats uncontrollably.
-Processed foods have finally eliminated the need for breath and we can all ingest carcinogens happily.
-Hedonistic throngs of public realtions firms attend over-comsumption picnics and select sites for the new infanticide mall.
-While there is a frenzy of frozen fish at the corner store down the street, I bury an old self in my back yard and hope for the new one to come soon.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Things I like. Body, mind, world connnection.
-Sternoclavicular schizo stratification.
-Umbilical cords are depersonalized when marginalized.
-Bipedaling bulemic middle class system taunts the liver through alcohol detox.
-Bipolar agression stems from tight toe nails and hegemonic states of oppresive control.
-Coup d'etats wrestle the colonized body through austism and the bastardization of body language.
-Delerious ribcages deploy power to a patriarchal brain.
-The breastbone is in a constant class conflict with severe depression.
-Placentas prostrate themselves under anxiety ridden dictators.
-Insurgents uprise through oxygenated blood from bone marrow.
-Nonviolent revolutions spontateously decombust in amniotic peace addictions.
-The panic attacks of the millions, the crowds, and the masses reproduce in a congested coronary circulation.
-We, the conditioned, organize social movements and reject the over-dramatic tactics of power-mongering cerebellums.
-Lips, skin, hair, teeth, and nails express the democratic voices of narcolepsy and tired knuckles and toes.
-Eye sockets and the roots of plants speak with tears from salivary glands about the burden of socialization.
-The balancing of the brain in the corpus callosum occurrs only in well-adjusted citizens of socialist regimes.
-Paranoid spinal cords purge postcolonial blabberings in an anorexic catharsis.
-Shoulder girdles are appeased when the claivicle fits in perfectly to its scapula...the appendages of winged of angels.
-Sleep terrors wake me up as human rights activists seek justice for dying ovaries and mammary glands.
-The indigenous rants of homeless deviants crater beneath the ids and egos of white blood cells and slowly beating hearts.
-Umbilical cords are depersonalized when marginalized.
-Bipedaling bulemic middle class system taunts the liver through alcohol detox.
-Bipolar agression stems from tight toe nails and hegemonic states of oppresive control.
-Coup d'etats wrestle the colonized body through austism and the bastardization of body language.
-Delerious ribcages deploy power to a patriarchal brain.
-The breastbone is in a constant class conflict with severe depression.
-Placentas prostrate themselves under anxiety ridden dictators.
-Insurgents uprise through oxygenated blood from bone marrow.
-Nonviolent revolutions spontateously decombust in amniotic peace addictions.
-The panic attacks of the millions, the crowds, and the masses reproduce in a congested coronary circulation.
-We, the conditioned, organize social movements and reject the over-dramatic tactics of power-mongering cerebellums.
-Lips, skin, hair, teeth, and nails express the democratic voices of narcolepsy and tired knuckles and toes.
-Eye sockets and the roots of plants speak with tears from salivary glands about the burden of socialization.
-The balancing of the brain in the corpus callosum occurrs only in well-adjusted citizens of socialist regimes.
-Paranoid spinal cords purge postcolonial blabberings in an anorexic catharsis.
-Shoulder girdles are appeased when the claivicle fits in perfectly to its scapula...the appendages of winged of angels.
-Sleep terrors wake me up as human rights activists seek justice for dying ovaries and mammary glands.
-The indigenous rants of homeless deviants crater beneath the ids and egos of white blood cells and slowly beating hearts.
Things I like. The weirdness of things put together.
Rooftops and chimney sweeps.
Collard greens, buttered rice and kidney beans.
Caves and cave-dwellers.
Anthems.
Riverbeds, swamps, and haze.
Droning bananas and hopeful hellos.
Drum lines, marching bands and American core.
Robust hollers and fragmented sweet guitars.
Ice cream man songs behind sirens. It.
The itness. Terrible coldness and water wells.
Chewing on raisin bran popcorn and bravery.
It be known she wonders about things.
Creepy hollow wards of dark people staring.
It goes that way; it just goes that way.
Magic of hand on keys making word music.
Formation of fonts and berry gum electric light bulb space.
Pulling forth one paintbrush hair after another dragging hopeful scissors apart.
Reaction delayed; post partum depression.
Gillsides exploding.
Measured fork-combs dragging along hairlines and such.
Collard greens, buttered rice and kidney beans.
Caves and cave-dwellers.
Anthems.
Riverbeds, swamps, and haze.
Droning bananas and hopeful hellos.
Drum lines, marching bands and American core.
Robust hollers and fragmented sweet guitars.
Ice cream man songs behind sirens. It.
The itness. Terrible coldness and water wells.
Chewing on raisin bran popcorn and bravery.
It be known she wonders about things.
Creepy hollow wards of dark people staring.
It goes that way; it just goes that way.
Magic of hand on keys making word music.
Formation of fonts and berry gum electric light bulb space.
Pulling forth one paintbrush hair after another dragging hopeful scissors apart.
Reaction delayed; post partum depression.
Gillsides exploding.
Measured fork-combs dragging along hairlines and such.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Things I like. Fun with Science and Religion.
Ectoplasmic morphine grace. Kinetic theory confessions. Rosary beads of common descent. The homeostatic chastisings of Trappist monks in hell.
Interstellar cosmic mind dust with zen's steady exhale. Spectrums of Shiva, waves and particles of Athena's raw delight. Molecules pray to subatomic nuns. High priests exchange heat with high priestesses. The planetary motion of ascetic Brahmans. Red giants cause tidal waves as God's fierce anger settles on the earth. Ions suffer in chaos theory. The cosmic inflation of Christ.
Cosmochemistry bows on ritualistic prayer mats. Vishnu and his extragalactic reconciliation to protons. Neutrons bond chemically to lotus sutras and animistic isotopes polyatomically release from the illusion of this world.
We are evolving gently into the oxidation state of nirvana. With samsara behind us, moksha evokes our organic compounds into a sufi's love dance to eternal life. While Bodhisattvas shift with the solar wind, the preachers erode atmospherically into oblivion and supernova elements take communion from Episcopalian priests.
White dwarfs devote their prayer beads to fossils while kneeling on ancient burial grounds. Ribosomes gather at gurus' feet. The Messiah appears to people through magnetic resonance imaging. Kali's pilgrimage ends at the Wailing Wall with 6 Hail Marys and the dynamic equilibrium is maintained. Indians read the Bhagavad Gita and dream of the Milky Way at night. Endless metal complexes anoint the sick and raise the dead. Pulsars push the crucifix into nonviolence. Jihadists disappear into acid-based reactions and plasmic neolithic men. Chakras exist in the animal behavior of ecosystems and the large scale structure of the cosmos. Dark matter dharma. Pantheistic electrons swim inside the continental drift. Volcanic activity erupts and the earth is baptised with fire and thermodynamic sweat.
Black holes swallow prayer mats and divide pews and nourish celestial alms-givers. Cataclysmic proteins eat hatred and the DNA of mercy becomes apparent inside the laws of centrifugal force. The entropy of the divine speed of light transmogrifies into a hymn in this heliocentric solar system.
Trance dancers emit photosynthetic radiation. The hands of African bushmen slap drumskins and evaluate the psychiatric state of their ancestors. The nervous systems of Sherpas on Mount Everest expand in glacial acceptance. Copernicus blesses Newton atop Mount Sinai. Yogic walkabouts stretch fascia from limb to limb; the dexterity of yogis' yolk-sacs are made stronger through sacrum lifts and pelvic thrusts. Skeletal structures that were once corpses lie in decomposing tombs. Sediments and seafloor spreading reproduce the Big Bang over and over again. Species adapt to extinction. Algae and slime molds enlighten all of us at the Conference of the Birds. Ecstacic atoms are located inside the biology of a tree. Wine transubstantiates into blood as alchemists invoke images of the sacrificial lamb.
Interstellar cosmic mind dust with zen's steady exhale. Spectrums of Shiva, waves and particles of Athena's raw delight. Molecules pray to subatomic nuns. High priests exchange heat with high priestesses. The planetary motion of ascetic Brahmans. Red giants cause tidal waves as God's fierce anger settles on the earth. Ions suffer in chaos theory. The cosmic inflation of Christ.
Cosmochemistry bows on ritualistic prayer mats. Vishnu and his extragalactic reconciliation to protons. Neutrons bond chemically to lotus sutras and animistic isotopes polyatomically release from the illusion of this world.
We are evolving gently into the oxidation state of nirvana. With samsara behind us, moksha evokes our organic compounds into a sufi's love dance to eternal life. While Bodhisattvas shift with the solar wind, the preachers erode atmospherically into oblivion and supernova elements take communion from Episcopalian priests.
White dwarfs devote their prayer beads to fossils while kneeling on ancient burial grounds. Ribosomes gather at gurus' feet. The Messiah appears to people through magnetic resonance imaging. Kali's pilgrimage ends at the Wailing Wall with 6 Hail Marys and the dynamic equilibrium is maintained. Indians read the Bhagavad Gita and dream of the Milky Way at night. Endless metal complexes anoint the sick and raise the dead. Pulsars push the crucifix into nonviolence. Jihadists disappear into acid-based reactions and plasmic neolithic men. Chakras exist in the animal behavior of ecosystems and the large scale structure of the cosmos. Dark matter dharma. Pantheistic electrons swim inside the continental drift. Volcanic activity erupts and the earth is baptised with fire and thermodynamic sweat.
Black holes swallow prayer mats and divide pews and nourish celestial alms-givers. Cataclysmic proteins eat hatred and the DNA of mercy becomes apparent inside the laws of centrifugal force. The entropy of the divine speed of light transmogrifies into a hymn in this heliocentric solar system.
Trance dancers emit photosynthetic radiation. The hands of African bushmen slap drumskins and evaluate the psychiatric state of their ancestors. The nervous systems of Sherpas on Mount Everest expand in glacial acceptance. Copernicus blesses Newton atop Mount Sinai. Yogic walkabouts stretch fascia from limb to limb; the dexterity of yogis' yolk-sacs are made stronger through sacrum lifts and pelvic thrusts. Skeletal structures that were once corpses lie in decomposing tombs. Sediments and seafloor spreading reproduce the Big Bang over and over again. Species adapt to extinction. Algae and slime molds enlighten all of us at the Conference of the Birds. Ecstacic atoms are located inside the biology of a tree. Wine transubstantiates into blood as alchemists invoke images of the sacrificial lamb.
Things I like. "America: Generations of Cool."
Flappers sipping on gin fizz. Whiskey swillers. Jivers, jokers, pranksters pulling shennanigans late into the night. Gamblers, betters, teetotallers. Card-sharks, winkers, nudgers, and people in disguise. Comedians, tricksters, dopplegangers, detectives, and inspectors of all kinds. Cheapskates, vagabonds, carpetbaggers, anti-prohibitionists. Schemers, swindlers and deal-brakers. Newsies. People who pull fast ones. Mongrels, thieves, bandits and swashbucklers. Grinners and nodders. Scapegoats, criminals, and mischievous Pucks of all varieties. Fools and buffoons. Masterminds who pull hijinks and meander when questioned by cops. Magicians. Cointossers. Well-wishers.
Gold panners and grave diggers and ghost-towners. Fortune telling, mind reading, crystal ball psychics. Dice throwers and dimestore fluzies. Pool hall hustlers. Carnival caravans, gypsies and scalawags. Brothel harlots and bordello broads. Supersticious den mothers and whorehouse regulars. The antics of the junkyard dogs and the alley cats. Boozehounds and winos and voodoo queens. Saloon sitters and showdown gunners and stowaways on board. Jig dancers and merrymakers. Ransom note writing lunatics, bible verse spouting heathens, and Americana folklorists.
Outlaws and runaways. Hooligans and riff raff.
Beatboxers, breakdancers, generations upon generations of cool.
Wandering hobos who carry switch-blade knives. Aimless meanderings of poets. Stoned hippies in vans searching for the truth. Hitchikers and heroine junkies. Zoot suit parties, tequila-filled rumblings in barroom brawls.
Zigzagers, drifters and gallivanters. Roamers, strollers and traipsers. Fancy-free bums. Dumpster-divers. Panhandling moochers. Vagrants and wayfareres. Rootless, rambling teenagers and prodigal sons. Nomadic journeymen, their footloose children, along with their idle wives. Globe-trotting voyagers. The destitute and the dirty. The derelicts and the dispossesed. The down-and-outers. The abandoned the forsaken and forgotten and the forlorn.
Madcappers, earth-shakers, daredevils and charlatans. Rogues, killjoys, filibusters and corsairs. The rebelers and the discontent.
Underground railroad participants singing their way to freedom. Protesters. Uprisers. Rioters. Freedom-fighters. Freedom-riders. Grassroots organizers.
Ex-pat writers gathering in Paris. Beat writers washing away the stale words of yesterday.
Anti-disestablishmentarianism believers.
Jukebox survivors. Punk musings and rock'n'roll stripped to the core. Tired hours of drugs and drink and music. Rappers Delight, gangstas, and coast wars. Hi-fivers, hand-shakers, butt-slappers and head-butters.
Cheap beer. The working class. Union members and strikers and whistle-blowers.
Jazz, man. Soul, brother.
Rhythm sections and reed instrumentalists. Accordian owners and harp specialists. Ragtime piano buffs. Trombone blowers and flute whistlers. Harmonic accapella screamers.
Bell-bottoms and denim. Skinny ties and Chuck Taylors. Skinny jeans on skinny people. Grandpa sweaters and thrift store knee socks. Oversized bags and tiny clutches. Cat-eye glasses and aviator shades.
Crafty bitches: sewers, knitters, crocheters. Friendship bracelet making, zine-hoarding comic bookstore employees.
New wave. Soft-rock. Vinyl not CD.
Abstract expressionists, graffitti artists, taggers, conceptual photographers and tattoo wearing illustrators.
Swingers, greasers, and rockabilly boys. Hip daddies and daddy'os. Head bangers and metalheads. Rockers. Scenesters. Motherfuckers. Lushes, speedfreaks, tweakers, and potheads.
Country-time lovin' red-headed strangers. Dolly Parton. Rocking horse riders, cattle ranchers, bull horn collectors and rodeo clown jockeys. Just like Waylon Jennings said: old five and dimers and honkey-tonk heroes like me.
Folk rockers like Neil Young and Woodie Guthrie. And hidden Tennessee guitar legends and backwoods Alabama myths and sad Kentucky banjo circles plucking in the backyard potluck. Ghost story tellers. Harmonica jammers and ukelele masters.
Freaks, geeks, dorks, nerds and Hallelujah choruses. (Forever and ever amen.) Could I get an Amen? Pioneers. Pilgrims. Shakers. Puritans. Peacemakers and pacifists. Prophets and mystics.
Sweat Lodges in Savannah. Trail of Tears hikers. Buried Indian chiefs.
Generations of cool collide.
Synchronized swimmers, wild gymnasts, and Mercurial little girls.
Gold panners and grave diggers and ghost-towners. Fortune telling, mind reading, crystal ball psychics. Dice throwers and dimestore fluzies. Pool hall hustlers. Carnival caravans, gypsies and scalawags. Brothel harlots and bordello broads. Supersticious den mothers and whorehouse regulars. The antics of the junkyard dogs and the alley cats. Boozehounds and winos and voodoo queens. Saloon sitters and showdown gunners and stowaways on board. Jig dancers and merrymakers. Ransom note writing lunatics, bible verse spouting heathens, and Americana folklorists.
Outlaws and runaways. Hooligans and riff raff.
Beatboxers, breakdancers, generations upon generations of cool.
Wandering hobos who carry switch-blade knives. Aimless meanderings of poets. Stoned hippies in vans searching for the truth. Hitchikers and heroine junkies. Zoot suit parties, tequila-filled rumblings in barroom brawls.
Zigzagers, drifters and gallivanters. Roamers, strollers and traipsers. Fancy-free bums. Dumpster-divers. Panhandling moochers. Vagrants and wayfareres. Rootless, rambling teenagers and prodigal sons. Nomadic journeymen, their footloose children, along with their idle wives. Globe-trotting voyagers. The destitute and the dirty. The derelicts and the dispossesed. The down-and-outers. The abandoned the forsaken and forgotten and the forlorn.
Madcappers, earth-shakers, daredevils and charlatans. Rogues, killjoys, filibusters and corsairs. The rebelers and the discontent.
Underground railroad participants singing their way to freedom. Protesters. Uprisers. Rioters. Freedom-fighters. Freedom-riders. Grassroots organizers.
Ex-pat writers gathering in Paris. Beat writers washing away the stale words of yesterday.
Anti-disestablishmentarianism believers.
Jukebox survivors. Punk musings and rock'n'roll stripped to the core. Tired hours of drugs and drink and music. Rappers Delight, gangstas, and coast wars. Hi-fivers, hand-shakers, butt-slappers and head-butters.
Cheap beer. The working class. Union members and strikers and whistle-blowers.
Jazz, man. Soul, brother.
Rhythm sections and reed instrumentalists. Accordian owners and harp specialists. Ragtime piano buffs. Trombone blowers and flute whistlers. Harmonic accapella screamers.
Bell-bottoms and denim. Skinny ties and Chuck Taylors. Skinny jeans on skinny people. Grandpa sweaters and thrift store knee socks. Oversized bags and tiny clutches. Cat-eye glasses and aviator shades.
Crafty bitches: sewers, knitters, crocheters. Friendship bracelet making, zine-hoarding comic bookstore employees.
New wave. Soft-rock. Vinyl not CD.
Abstract expressionists, graffitti artists, taggers, conceptual photographers and tattoo wearing illustrators.
Swingers, greasers, and rockabilly boys. Hip daddies and daddy'os. Head bangers and metalheads. Rockers. Scenesters. Motherfuckers. Lushes, speedfreaks, tweakers, and potheads.
Country-time lovin' red-headed strangers. Dolly Parton. Rocking horse riders, cattle ranchers, bull horn collectors and rodeo clown jockeys. Just like Waylon Jennings said: old five and dimers and honkey-tonk heroes like me.
Folk rockers like Neil Young and Woodie Guthrie. And hidden Tennessee guitar legends and backwoods Alabama myths and sad Kentucky banjo circles plucking in the backyard potluck. Ghost story tellers. Harmonica jammers and ukelele masters.
Freaks, geeks, dorks, nerds and Hallelujah choruses. (Forever and ever amen.) Could I get an Amen? Pioneers. Pilgrims. Shakers. Puritans. Peacemakers and pacifists. Prophets and mystics.
Sweat Lodges in Savannah. Trail of Tears hikers. Buried Indian chiefs.
Generations of cool collide.
Synchronized swimmers, wild gymnasts, and Mercurial little girls.
Things I like. Part 2.
Mythological beings. Horse-fairies, gold-dusted pond fronds, magical lightning bugs, and cream colored amoebas. Glow-in-the-dark plankton, sugar bugs, Motown singing bumble bees, and operatic locusts.
Horseshoes and glittered junipers. Radiant dewdrops glistening inside the bellies of timid beasts. Silver sparkled teardrops. Imagined unconscious unfurling with strange winds and guitar rifts.
Scatters. Crooners. Beboppers. The blues.
Harpsichords in Icelandic rhythms. Theramins in creepy jungle tunes.
Fireflies at dusk's edge. The falling of nature in and around itself.
Diamond bedazzled smiles and Egyptian necklaces. Black pearls lost at sea. Maritime adventures of canoe lovers. Bright waves. Gentle waves. Blinding seafoam at water's edge. Holding hands at dawn.
Demonic ice toads and bumbling crickets. The banging of the ants against the earth. Soil's flesh lingering till the light of morning.
Dreamtime solice. Tickling the tired donkey. Wilderness explained. Savage palm trees against sand's swirl. Unleashed. Tubas slowly dying into the voices of confused women. Letting go of the breath into the colorful heaven of the unknown.
Chains that disappear. Delighted lemonade and porchswinging summers with magestic duets.
When we all get to heaven in the Southern afternoon we will meet.
Whispering into the ears of children. Holding on to forever because it still sort of hurts. Choking on seasoned zen-ness. Crowded railway passages of glistening, halo-ed heads.
The timid beasts falling asleep until the apocolyptic hour of symphonic grace.
Horseshoes and glittered junipers. Radiant dewdrops glistening inside the bellies of timid beasts. Silver sparkled teardrops. Imagined unconscious unfurling with strange winds and guitar rifts.
Scatters. Crooners. Beboppers. The blues.
Harpsichords in Icelandic rhythms. Theramins in creepy jungle tunes.
Fireflies at dusk's edge. The falling of nature in and around itself.
Diamond bedazzled smiles and Egyptian necklaces. Black pearls lost at sea. Maritime adventures of canoe lovers. Bright waves. Gentle waves. Blinding seafoam at water's edge. Holding hands at dawn.
Demonic ice toads and bumbling crickets. The banging of the ants against the earth. Soil's flesh lingering till the light of morning.
Dreamtime solice. Tickling the tired donkey. Wilderness explained. Savage palm trees against sand's swirl. Unleashed. Tubas slowly dying into the voices of confused women. Letting go of the breath into the colorful heaven of the unknown.
Chains that disappear. Delighted lemonade and porchswinging summers with magestic duets.
When we all get to heaven in the Southern afternoon we will meet.
Whispering into the ears of children. Holding on to forever because it still sort of hurts. Choking on seasoned zen-ness. Crowded railway passages of glistening, halo-ed heads.
The timid beasts falling asleep until the apocolyptic hour of symphonic grace.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Things I like. Part 1.
Searching for bandanas, leather, turquoise, beads, unique boots, and disctinctive/antiques guns. Peyote trips, singing desert songs, campfires, old guitars, moonshine, the Mississippi delta, burning copal, walking on railroads, the huntering and gathering of thoughts, distilled ideas.
Bone-hides, meat carcasses, framed elephant tusks, raw meat injections, blankets dipped in honey. Cactus eggshells on peyote trips, long shadows before nightfall. The smell of sweat dented in sand. Bloodhounds that harbor fear. Rancid pockets of dust and sin. Sinewy genuflections of pity and hope in one wink of the eye. The crucifiction. The resurrection. The assassination of the modern man.
Ice pangs in summer, fallen moons in winter, the skeptical device of questioning the hidden. Things hidden. Things hidden. Things hidden.
Stews of incandescance and modernity. The meaty pulp of humanity ticking away every second. The hatred in the eyes. The sadness in the eyes. The hidden things. The hidden things. The hidden things.
The marriage of salt to earth.
Bone-hides, meat carcasses, framed elephant tusks, raw meat injections, blankets dipped in honey. Cactus eggshells on peyote trips, long shadows before nightfall. The smell of sweat dented in sand. Bloodhounds that harbor fear. Rancid pockets of dust and sin. Sinewy genuflections of pity and hope in one wink of the eye. The crucifiction. The resurrection. The assassination of the modern man.
Ice pangs in summer, fallen moons in winter, the skeptical device of questioning the hidden. Things hidden. Things hidden. Things hidden.
Stews of incandescance and modernity. The meaty pulp of humanity ticking away every second. The hatred in the eyes. The sadness in the eyes. The hidden things. The hidden things. The hidden things.
The marriage of salt to earth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)