Community and Art

December 21, 2007

Today was the last day of school for my old high school of which my sister is now a senior. I being an alumnus snuck myself to watch this winter tradition. I bring it up here because I think that it so perfectly describes the power of art in education.  The performance was one hour long and consisted of different acts by different grades, for example some 6th graders read their own poetry while the first graders performed a procession and high school groups both sang and danced. The most memorable for me was what the fifth graders did; the sword dance. A highly choreographed performance involving swords that are incorporated into a star by the intercrossing of the dancer who are marching in a circle, sounds complicated, looks complicated, but as being once a fifth grader who did it, it isn’t that hard to pull off.


Regardless of what was performed, the performance as a whole brought the school together, from kindergarten to twelfth grade, from students to faculty, and my push will be to get alumni there as well. What I am trying to say is that it helps connect that community; it removes the boundary of age, of position, of background and allows us all to enjoy something together. Even better is the fact that there was no one dominating medium of artistic production, we had costumes, dancers, musicians, singers, writers, and of course an audience interaction and response (which I count as a whole other medium).


Sorry I don’t have much more to say just yet but I guess I want to add this one final thought.


I talk about art and write about art and produce art because it is fundamental to community.




State of the thesis

December 21, 2007

Twenty books to go

There is no snow

NYC may distract me

So thesis let it be

Just let it be

Twenty books to go

So so so so so

Why? well that didn’t answer anything.

December 12, 2007

Literature as literary wraps the literal world literally


M stands alone when faced with glass and polyester


Granite and skin soft lotion knows not facsimiles


Carbon copies of derelicts and saint nicks


Rapture sings true, chanting that tune in time with paramount


Capture that innocent


Plug the hemp into the corner oval office connected to that clamp


Shoot that down


Umpire whispers the wrong paper’s name


Plastics of a vermillion appearance


Paprika is honing its own textual understanding


Judge humorously


Queue in burrows and bombastic fortitude


Vicariously notice the limestone yoyo


Tear the underside of imagination


Grim and grip


Gyrate in unprecedented motion


Eradicate unintentional limitations


Irradiate nothing less than blistering creativity unquestionably




Cough for curious connotations


Sample slanting ceremoniously surmounted singularities


Underline the word black


Draw arrows back


Plug in the computer


And download the straws


Ring Ring Rhyme


Notice the wrappers around the table


Cringe at the sound of their voices












Allocations call for bases




And I surrender.

The 20th of November dreams of the 16th.

November 22, 2007

– An experimentation in the combination of automatic, creative, constructed, poetic, and prose writing… by Huysmans

I met a man sometime after the 16th of November who reminded me of a time long ago where there was a guerilla sitting on a hump that looked like some string from the fourth of July parade back in August. What then was the meaning of these jumbled months looking like moths? I say, if they go after the light one more time I swear that I will write down every god damn candle that looks in on itself. Calling upon my previous knowledge I now must admit that I know nothing, or is it something? I can never remember, maybe that is because I know nothing. WAIT that’s it, that’s the answer. Oh Socrates you’d be so proud of Walter, only if you knew that he and Surrealism never really got along.


                                                                        A long pause was then taken by the author of the above text as he contemplated the ridiculousness that he had found himself in when dealing with such creative processes. Was Breton on to something grand or just on to something, something like all the other somethings that never amounted to something in their lifetime? The author thought this over for a period of fifteen seconds and a handful of milliseconds only to then start writing about writing under this process of thinking. He began by stating the obvious, “a long pause was then taken” (see above). He then moved to discuss how this writing was being produced in his mind, or at least that is what he thought as he wrote, “the ridiculousness that he had found himself in while dealing with this creative processes”(see above, but not the first above reference). Following this she moved to compare her work with that of Breton, presumably Andre Breton, the Surrealist of a century ago, while not exactly a century but a long time at least. This didn’t get her anywhere and eventually she had to begin looking back on looking back. She first calculated the exact amount of time it took for that pause, she had to estimate the milliseconds. After stating this time, “a period of fifteen seconds and three milliseconds” (again above, but again after the last two references to above statements), she moved to talk about how she responded to the writing exercise. This discussion did not last long as the reflection did not match up with the quotation, “this writing was being produced in her mind” (see see see see see above see). So again Breton was brought up followed by a clarification of who Breton really is, Andre Breton the great Surrealist. Funny enough thinking about Breton brought the writer back to nowhere and the process began all over again. It had to look back on looking back and assume responsibility of cataloging everything one more time. Beginning again again with the pause and a reflection on the exact account of which the pause took, this time stating the amount of milliseconds it took. Again following the “four millisecond” (do not see below), it lost its quotation abiligy, yes abiligy, not ability and definitely not agility and found itself back at Breton. Oh no, not Breton, my apologies, Andre Breton the Greatest of great Surrealists. The account here begins to get confusing as variations in the reflection process caused a fourth return to the original but this time going straight for the incalculable millisecond count that brought out lost quotations, “abiligy, yes abiligy, not ability and definitely not agility” (I think that came from somewhere). I eventually found myself again at the great Surreal, Bretonist and again nowhere. In this final review of for the twentieth time I noted the variations, or at least I referenced the fact that there are variations and then the confusion with the milliseconds and quotations. Abiligy became a word and Breton became a movement. So with this textual procedure going nowhere I looked in the text for the answer, there I found the symbol, oloioloi., I found the symbol. :765893094. So in finding this I asked it what it was: “Are you a P, but backwards?” It rudely didn’t answer. However the seven did, it said that we all had one chance to talk and that it didn’t want six or five to share anything. But while it was decreeing its decree the double dot mark spoke out and said that it liked the backwards P and wanted to be friends with it. Here is where everything went BLACK,


well except for the B, A, and K that is. These three formed a new work: BAK, to always be preceded by the double dot mark.


              We have to take back the page. Cried We. But who could we do it? All we was was just a two letter word that indicated the presences of the plural first person, the many I, if you will. Well in reality we couldn’t do it. It failed miserably because it was undefined. Who was this we? How did it get there? But one could argue that it had one, the page was being taken over once again by the typed words. It all came to ruin once again when Berlin Sans FB Demi came into the ring.                                                                                     This font couldn’t hold out against the paper.                                      It kept loosing ground.                                                                                                  Eventually. No we need to…                           Finish the stor………………….y…………………………………………….   Comic Sans MS came but all was already lost. What a stupid font I am.  Good bye to all that, Franklin Gothic. I don’t want to hear it anymore Mr. Graves.             I have thought long and hard over the countless nights how I was to avoid capture. I hid beneath the sheets of yellow and white along side a fish named Bob, he was a likeable fish except for the fin he was sporting on his back thigh, I thought it looked rather pretty but ugly at the same time. You know how that goes, an object of unbelievable mystery that intrigues you to no end except with its unmistakable ugliness that outlines this mystery. What contradictions these objects maintain. I frankly hate it. But sadly I had to deal with it and the fish named Bob under the sheets of yellow and white.             So there we hid, hoping not to get captured by the love birds, those sick hate filled lovers of dysfunctional generation scared of the fishes. I felt a great need to bring them back to reality. I tried, in vain, to introduce them to Bob, it didn’t go well. They hated Bob and everything he stood for, happiness, prettiness, ugliness. They hated him so much that they turned into great big monsters with “Love?” printed on their chests. This was the sign I had feared, they turned evil and sought to kill us. I grabbed Bob and ran for the yellow and white sheets, they were the only objects that could repel the evilness that was this questioned love.             Well audience I have caught you up, please allow me to now give you an idea of what the dialogue was like between Bob, the fish, and myself, the writer:  BOB (a fish): These sheets make me visibly ugly.  Me (a writer): Trust me, we need to hide.  Bob: I know but I am a fish.  Me: But I am a writer. Bob: Are you not a fish?  Me: Why can’t fish write? Bob: Because fins can’t hold crayons.  Me: Is there a crayon store where you live?  Bob: Why would there be one?  Me: Don’t you people eat crayons?  Bob: Why does it always become a reference to my people?  Me: What would you like it to be?  Bob: Why does it have to be anything?  Me: Don’t you think it has to be something?  Bob: Why do we have to bring something into this at all?  Me: Why not?  Bob: Do you really have to persist on this issue?  Me: And you don’t think you are being just as persistent?  Bob: Are you suggesting that I am trying to manipulate you?  Me: Are you suggesting that I can be manipulated?  Bob: What then are you suggesting if not that?  (Before I could answer the fishes redicoulous question the sheets of yellow and white were removed and the lovers entered the scene.) Lover 1 (a boy): Are these the two?  Lover 2 (a woman): Who else could they be?  Me: How did you find us?  Lover 2: You really think sheets can hide a fish?  Lover 1: Who’s a fish?  Bob: Are you sure one of us is a fish?  Me: Are you guys looking to eat fish?  Lover 1: Do you know any good fish stores?  Me: What kind of fish do you want?  Lover 1: What kind of fish do you recommend?  Lover 2: Are you seriously asking these questions?  Lover 1: Am I not supposed to ask him questions?  Lover 2 (to the fish): Where is the fish?  Bob (remember, the fish): Did you lose a fish?  Me (to Bob): Can you help them find the fish?  Bob: If I help, will you eat my friend here (points to me, the writer)?  Lover 2: Why would I eat your friend?  Bob: Don’t you think he looks like a fish?  Lover 1: What’s a fish?  Lover 2: If he is a fish then why do I need your help finding one?  Bob: Don’t you think that I just helped you?  Lover 2: Did you just help me?  Me: Has anyone else noticed that we are only speaking in questions?  Lover 2: We are?  Bob: Why are we?  Me: How do we stop?  Lover 1: What do we do to stop?  Lover 2: What do you think about killing the person who doesn’t ask a question?  Lover 1: Is that fair?  Me (to the fish): Can you say a statement?  Bob (also a fish): Why? Do you want me to die?  Me: Didn’t you try to get me killed?  Lover 1: Who killed who?  (Following this last absurdly appropriate question Answer came wandering on stage and took a very predictable position to stage right. Why predictable? Because he answered it.) Answer (to all questions): This is no play.  

                                    And in predictable fashion that had overtaken the play, the play ended. The writer paused to reflect on the loss of control he had endured these past few pages. It was as if he was automatic, but that’s not the case according to Breton.


            I watched on the television device in my room the other day a program discussing the conquests of Alexander the Great; he had big machines that were capable of launching an attack from water on island fortresses. While this was on the television device I was unaware that bug had entered my room, not just any bug though, an invisible imaginary one.


                                                            Later on that week I put the Disney Channel on while attempting to pass into the dream world that occurs only when eyes are shut and sleep entered. The channel continued until it was turned off automatically by the sleep feature already programmed into the television device. So this device operates outside of human interaction but based on human interaction. Breton, does this sleeping television enter into automatism? Or are we blind. “Great Men” he replies in French as if that means something to anyone but him.

 If we were in England at an older time this is what this document might look like. Or so Bill would have you believe…

Certified Morally

Do not engage the public in this way. Coke is only coke.  We’re fresstyling now. I can’t read script because it isn’t English.                                                                                      Sign Here please._________________  Do not look here for any kind of intellectual debate, we hate those.

Ideas of S p c e

November 15, 2007

The art of writing is more than just the words. Yes it is how they interact and create sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and texts but it is also how they physically relate. For example:

This is a very striking relationship.

On that would get you thinking of why they are spaced that way, mostly because it is not a traditional alignment and one that doesn’t fit into traditional rules of grammar. Well, who is more important the writer of grammar text books or Mallarmé?

Okay okay that isn’t exactly fair but still, what makes art art is its ability to break that norm and challenge that which we take for granite, that which we come to expect.


So b re a k th e r u l e s a n d c r e a t e so me th in g n e w