Thursday, July 31, 2014

did u know

Did u know that if u talk to a chesterfield county deputy, and a
written incident report is made, your words, verbatim, and an account
of any known actions might appear in the cheraw chronicle? Use
caution citizens when approached by a deputy, and hope the new sheriff
changes that paradigm. Do vote for someone, anyone.

personal productivity, a protracted musing in the creativity essay

The world will squeeze out your heart, and inflame your mind, giving you, ultimately, the germ of your artistic endeavor, simply handing it to you, without the need for thanks. Out of the fog of cognition, a form begins to present itself, metaphors appear, grow, mutate, and the workings will have begun in earnest, not giving you a moment to pull away and say "I'm really doing it." Even a child learning to ride a bicycle will say he or she is doing it, really doing it; they will have that luxury. But creators rarely do. Follow the muse, and don't let go until the muse is exhausted, breathless, spent. The eccentricities will run freely, the stranger tendencies will come out and play and yes, there will be voices even in the still of night. These are a tableux of goats exposing themselves in quasi-erotic poses and other novelties that explode through the mind of a creator, and who else, but the humble creator can tame that weird torrent? It is like alchemy; the making of sense out of nothing is fully comparable to turning waste into gold, I say. Let the filth shine, part of me says, and then there are a few books I'd gladly burn, but we must be careful here. These are not fine distinctions, but instead are the broadest generalities, the supreme superlatives, bumping at the guard rails of art and decency on the edge, right before we all go right into the weeds and possibly put the whole everloving carriage up a tree. There go I, but for the grace of God, I says. Only the most fragile sentiments hold us together sometimes. I'm reminded of the passage in Ulysses when Bloom's wife decides she wants to get pregnant after she watches dogs have sex in an alleyway. Hold onto your dignity with both hands, but, by Jove, enjoy thyself! Inspiration comes sometimes when you least expect it, like me, when I'm washing my filthy bum, lost in thought, comforted by warm water and the scent of soap, standing nude in my most dispicable form, lips slightly parted in a posture of absolute stupidity, the brain crawls like a busy ant hill. If you thought my clothes were ugly, remember it could get much worse! You would not want to see me as God made me, for I have flaws, not good ones that glitter and gleam like the flaws in a gem, but dark spots and problem areas, like a reject egg. Things point in different directions, and things hang like they want to fall from the body, escape from me, as it were. That's the ticket, the rub: they want to escape, to be released from the ramshackle host being, and that is I; this is me. Ramshackle and haphazard, hanging askew like a neglected portrait, buckling like wood furniture left outdoors and collecting dirt, mold, mites like carpet that should be replaced. Such as it is. But oh friends, I got a nugget of energy in the brain, that lets me know, I'm superbad. It makes the quiet hours an opera, and then it shuts up when its not needed. It's a powersource that is unfailing, unceasing, and not necessarily clean. It so often drives people to err, doesn't it? And in spectacular ways. I don't fear it; I respect it, for all it's strength. I could glorify it, but I won't. I'd rather personify it and give the qualities of spector-a friendly one. It would never hurt me. It makes me strong, gives me emotions and thoughts, sometimes distractions, but sometimes epiphanies that shake me from the bottom, from the feet, where I'm usually firmly planted. I like so many have been through personal hell, and lived, surviving, wounded on the inside, seemingly normal on the outside, hoping infection does not set in on my injured soul, and it's a statement for me to just sit and stare, surviving still. But I feel one day the women will sit with me, feeding me grapes, tending my feet and brushing me with their love(whatever that means-you think about it a while). And until then, may the soft whisper of the leaves on the trees tell your story best.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

that indefinite space(between the ears)

once oh brothers i had an indefinite space between my ears a foggy
region where i destroyed the world in my lab i conquered women and
made men kneel before me in fear and respect respect and fear and
there was a worm in that apple feeding feeding and growing and there
was less apple all the time and more worm and my workshop moved gears
turned with mad energy made from something as simple as looking out
the window could you power anything so easily no you cant i know but i
can

Monday, July 7, 2014

the joy of making continued in schizm

The most interesting schizm of creators is when they deny their own work, sometimes humorously, in pretending it never happened. But they know. And we know. In these instances it makes me wonder what part of self lept into control of the creator to make them do what they did, and to feel shame after, knowing some infantile or degenerate or reverse-gender bit took the reigns and made them do something, like the actions of a blackout drunk. Ooh. Interesting. And everytime that creator is confronted with his or her own work, there is the reminder-the soft bit in the shell-poking at them, remember being at the tender mercy of psychic forces, advertising something to the world that lurks within, unseen, hated, loathed by the creator and ultimately denied. I take novelist Henry James as an example, because he denied his first published work the affection and recognition it deserved. He put down other works of his own, but this did not stop him from collecting pay on them-nay, nay. This did not stop him from creating, in a self-defeating manuever, slaving over papers in the gloom, making something he knows he will not like. Or did he respond this way after seeing the works' reception? A question I'd like answered. Was he so insecure to formulate his own opinion after gauging another's? I note that his own works that did not have his enduring love were fine efforts, worthy of his name, but there you have it: no love from the maker, doesn't want to discuss them, or discusses them in the resoundingly negative. But it was his toil that made these things he hated, so I beg to wonder what it really was about these works he hated so much. This leads us past communication, or the need for such, and into the need for therapy. "Venting" is the popular term, but initialing, punctuating and putting in order the issues might be a more accurate description. Sometimes defining the problem is the most important step, and could actually suggest a solution intuitively. If you speak the problem, you could, as if by magic incantation, disturb it's hold on you-partially dispell it. Catharsis is overrated, and usually symbolic of more problems, I says, and is a band-aid or dressing, not the cure, for the whole body may become infected from the wounded limb, despite the best bandage: that thing needs medicine. But by all means, I'm not stodgy; so let it out, I say. And be forewarned that I may not listen.

movie: repulsion

A right cute girl, and sympathetic, but it was when I saw her sleeping naked on the bedroom floor that my heart fluttered. I became a fan in that moment, not just a disinterested spectator. This is a tight work, keeping to what could be called a bare minimum of detail to advance the story of this woman's decline, despite marvelous detail, and dreams, and the delusions are marvellous, too as they dominate the story. No back story, no tales of childhood torments. No blaming the parents or the indifferent community. The walls, oh dear, watch the walls.... I've debated in the course of preparing this bit, whether or not I would like to be in her bedroom as the midnight bell's chime, when the unseen fun begins, and I've decided I would indeed want to be there, if for no other reason than see what she does, for this is when she is at her peak of insanity, driven mad by the bells, seeing dangers that aren't there, and yes, she winds up naked on the floor. It's interesting, a minor milestone in cinema, to watch a woman's psyche degrade over a short period of time, but is it interesting to see something on film that happens around me in the neighborhood Wallmark every time I'm there? Then of course there is the glittering Fordist bit where the neighbors come over and find the deadwood. Not a fan of that, but it is a post-mortem, a damning bit for the little lady, putting daylight to her insanity then looking at it in it's uncomfortable splendor, under the eyes of a cross-section of society. That's Fordist, I say, in a film written and directed by Polanski. Fine performances and a modicum of quotable dialog. I've retained the bit where the landlord says "it's the trashbin for you, my lad" to the cooked duck or chicken or what-have-you. That bit has been stuck in my head ever since, long after I stopped wondering what Catherine Deneuve was doing after those midnight bells. Talented and tightly controlled, but perhaps longer on promise than anything else. 8/10

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

the joy of making part one. a short essay.

It comes from a foggy region in the front of the brain-this impulse to bring forth something-a ditty, a playpurty, a katydid-and hold it up as your own, perhaps as a child, shiny in birthfluids, in the air, before the community, begging it's acceptance, lest it should be cast aside as a common five-pound stone in the backyard. And in the early stages they all have such interesting potential-why, they could be, could do, anything great or small-and then it fades as the bright future becomes the dull present then marches further behind into forgotten history or rather, as their true characters come into focus from through the haze of the unconscious-there comes a grain, pockmarks, and naked pores that were smoothed before. "Such interesting potential" I muse, every time, like Charlie Brown running to kick the football, quixotic, not caring about the looming disappointment, only in the now riding a wave of that shiny future, driven, if somewhat dumbly so. It comes and must be lived with, sat beside, cajoled, befriended, and at some point, understood. You will one day understand yourself, and hopefully you won't be too old to care when it happens, or perhaps too young to care either. How many of us have the experience of understanding when the dirt of the grave is pulled over us? But to say, I did this and now I must grasp fully that which I have done is the next step in that one's destiny. Imagine the horror of the mad scientist with a monster-sized hole in the wall and the words on his lips: "what have I done?" Indeed. It comes soon, the regret does. Like a blackout drunk who has awakened in a strange place with bloody hands does the creator inevitably feel the tugging of doubt about what he has accomplished. "What was I thinking when I did this horrible thing?" And do think that way; don't ever let anyone talk you out of it. Be a pessimist about yourself and your own works. Trust me, it will look like humility. It turns on the chicks(kidding: if anything this is probably inverse). As they say, live with it, stiffen your spine and bear it, because you cannot put the toothpaste back in the tube once you have let it out, and to try to do so is a true waste of time and talent. Comes also the time when one's work is released into the world, innocent and defenseless, to stand on the unsturdy legs of it's own merits. This is a tense time for creators, for they usually have such high hopes, whether these are buried deep within or kept closer to the surface, and only disappointment results, for no work is an earthquake, a champagne shower, a light of truth for the world. Of course, appreciation is appreciated, but, again, usually never up to the expectation of the creator. But every monster-every creation-has its time to roam the hapless countryside. And I say, if you can't change the world, at least shape it in a positive way. Let there be some sort of moral or lesson for the audience to walk away with. Let there be a silver lining for a cloud, or a nice bit of frosting for a big cake-something to be enjoyed later, so someone can look back and say, "yes, that was good" and mean what they say. While the beast roams free wreaking havoc as it will and truly should, some creators hide underneath the bed covers, while others stand before their picture window and marvel, thinking of what his happening because of his or her own actions. We already know the ultimate outcome is disappointment, but this is the climax of the ride-not the slow stop at the end, but the fast paced excitement-filled culmination of artistic effort. "Did you see?" screams the authors soul, for to see is part of the equation, to understand another, and to sympathize or relate is the true goal, but these are all mere stones of a castle, a fortress built by the ego and swept daily by the creator, in darkness, quietude and cold.