This is a blog where bad language is used. I just use ‘fucking’ and ‘bullshit’, a lot.
So this is a re-do of the post that has been here. I have not been blogging, though always writing, with those pens, on that paper stuff, always. Not blogging because I don’t know why. School has started. Being an ex anti-institutionalist, it has been a transition. But I’ll say it. I love school. I was really scared of failing, thats why I was against going to school. I have been getting published on a regular basis in the underground art and poetry scene, and even at universities, for ten years, and if I would have been through art school by now, I would not still be a no-body. This inspires me, to be honest, and gives me the conclusion that maybe I should share some stories that have been the times that I believe were signs telling me what to do with my life, or no, letting me know that I wasn’t crazy and to hang in there. And I think if some of this shit happened to you, art would be your religion as well. And also, let us not forget that experience, living life, is the ultimate teacher. And holy shit. And I have been a vigorously studying motherfucker of art, literature, music, sound, culture, psychology, and poetry. I am here for good. And I have something new coming to the table, like being through with having an “I’m sorry for writing/composing this” vibe. I don’t do anything artistically that another artist did not do to blow my mind and make me want to do the same. Fuck this boring explaining.
I have recently read an article in Poets and Writers Magazine that was in support of literature having more of a connecting quality. In a way that is human. Because no one is. Being real. In magazine articles, the paper, shit like that. I hear that. A place to get a breath of fresh air is in the Zine world. No bullshit there. And I have lost my ability to bullshit. Get what you see. I know and practice manners. I am not an asshole. An asshole is the one bullshitting.
Being native to a town that was blind sided by everything hep, causes within me the most jaded and burnt-out and also, territorial thoughts and responses as an artist. A kind of “I was hear first fuck face/hell yeah, my home is the place to be to do what I love” kind of dynamic.
The first half of that dynamic much less than the second. Only when I am being a prick. I become a prick sometimes. And very stubborn. Absolutely.
the river, listen, I am always by it in the morning, had a stillness the eye could not even detect tripping balls every thirty seconds, the morning had a breeze until around 11 and the rush of lunch frustrating the flow of natural nature’s plan green yellow red lights holy shit they are only now red, politely laughing sidewalk cracks stroke the same color with nude models placing distinguished energy that was mist like if you heard it, and these days, ears are cheap dates, and a lot of nights settle the sun in a half cigarette cradle found following a kind dollar placed in homeless palms, marvelous confusion neglects any correct notion regarding any search for your spine during that moment, language sifts flower still good for baking bread used for bomb sandwiches, a bomb is spicy, and quite a treat dipped in rose red paint of that truly broken heart, and also, and also what? also nothing I guess but if I guess I am full of shit, obviously, memory has walls for the thought train to just fucking pummel into disaster, to prevent a breakdown I suppose, chimes hang chiming under a bridge, and through the power of who the fuck knows you can um, whatever. you have the tornado in the bunker, with the bomb calling estates in the south with the minsters cell phone, fire his ass, how disrespectful to make even a slightly clear blood cell round and red, the heart already has fallen for the white cell, which ques my being given the demand to flip her around and well, hear the loudest most convincing “yes” ever screamed, the time when after she says I love you, my heart becomes wet and leaks though the eyes, so call an ambulance, episodes romance sings the sirens a wave in flat lining night. The hotels of love are never low on any finance because I’m always there alone hoping sitting on the edge of the bed that knocks situate my door on the outside. The unfaithful never long for their loss. And what a boring ass bunch they are. I happen to be the most interesting human to capture any cowboy’s attention. So how bout those buckin bronco’s and beebop collaborating cash handlers? I beg your pardon.
Listening list(its mine, you cant have it, but I strongly suggest any bands you havent heard of):
Otherness Comp (Sonic Arts Network)
Tired and Tickled Trio
Steven Jesse Bernstein album “Prison”(Sub Pop 91′)
Oneohtrix Point Never
My Bloody Valentine
Meat Beat Manifesto
Burnt Friedman & Liebezeit
Teargas & Plateglass
Art and Film by Schnabel
The Art of Noise
Art, Knowledge, Self
Everyone Loves Our Town
Noise Music: A History
Legacy of Mark Rothko
Dada: Revolt of Art
Manifestos Of Surrealism
Flowers Of Evil
Verlaines 101 Poems
Hopkins: Collected verse
The Art Of Joseph Conrad By Charles Simic
Collected Verse of Giocomo Leopardi
Perfecting Sound Forever
Patterns Of Culture
Silence by John Cage