Thursday, July 07, 2005
addictive relicking
I am just back from the relic shack. There is a parallel universe out there I am tying to hop into - gateway is the relicking. This search for the port hole is a constant and if denied its power then direness and dread creep into the psyche. The relic time is less judged right now. I am just seeing. It is a pain, but compulsive. To do something which has no value, no purpose, to create the mediocre or bad or good is paramount. I am channelling the kittens and their hopes and dreams, surrounded by color swarms and bubble gum ice cream, soft clouds, polka dots, and failing land masses. There are sores too and ick. Brown. Brought together in a jumbled alchemy to just see. In this search and find there is a feeble freedom, addictive. I speak only my own language but do not care. The relics must be turned out - the voice of the kittens and the hoots and the swarms and such. Much must be covered up too. This is why I am un-employable and must persist in my hidey holes. Always under the radar, invisible, watching and waiting. Fake droning until I let out the meows.
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17 comments:
Butler, please assist up onto thistle mountain. Bring your jam box. Fabeebles, I will need your protection tonight. Grant me a krunkism, a cold one perhaps. Have you met my butler?
Fairy I have returned late from the shack. It was strange and impenetrable, a language of multitudes accumulating slowly. I act as though each line is a matter of importance - yet forward-moving portions of the real happen like race cars around me, their skiddish quick circles unaffected by my teeny marks. Oh well. I flounder and am gleeful in my windowless mouse-trap.
MM, to flounder gleefully is key. I hope my second act today can contain this kind of beauty. I truly do not know a thing.
The hidey holes are calling to me. Why do I only desire life beneath the slabs? Hiding always.
Sounds like you are rocking the relic shack FB.
MM, floundering gleefully is the only way to flounder.
I like salmon myself.
I made the terrible mistake of reading the NYTimes art review on summer group shows. stultifying effect of the craft-party line something something.... if you read you will know what I speak of.
that's it. I can't take it anymore. I am putting on the lavender sweats and my tuxedo top. My armpits are hairy and full of nits. Fuck em. I will spray all baddies with urine streams flecked with blood.
Oh no, not the tuxedo top! Don't forget your red, white and blue wrist bands...
FB I read that too. I felt hurt but am deciding to forget. Your feral ways are always an inspiration. Go spray and I will spray too. It is time to be underneath and lacking of smarts. I hate reality and am attempting to become numb.
mm, i am trying not to think of those pointless words also. honestly, I just want to work on my time machine in private. I don't care about much else. Trends schmends, right?
i am off to hide with the relics. trying to quell rage within and go back to the more productive emotions now. life confuses me always.
what are you guys reading? I looked at the Times online and did not see. I want to be pissed off too.
It's the Holland Cotter article on the group shows. It is farty. Also because he fails to mention Uncle Fritz's beautiful show. Sadness.
Ugh! Yes I see now. As far as Uncle Fritz's show....everyone I talk to loves it and I saw a great review somewhere (but can't remember where).
Mr. Kot-ter needs to focus on the sweathogs.
So true, so true! Credit was not given where it was deserved, for such a delicious and carefully crafted show as Fritzy's. HC has his head all the way up there.
You're a poet. So beautiful.
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