(for purposes of scale)

and that guy's probably way over six feet tall

The Process of Painting (Illustrated)

I have a computer

prying at the floodgates

there was something wrong about it. it almost seemed too easy. whereas before there was a struggle for words, there were now too many. every word one could want and five shadows of each, pulling the meaning in different directions. It only made sense to keep it up, there had been nothing before and now there was something. and as the light moved over it, expanding as if spilt over the surface of it, it was again clearly nothing really. the same as it had been before, but now there was no ignoring it. A car crash, a cross-eyed babe, a squirrel with a bloody rat's tail, something's dead on the highway staring at a billboard with too many words on it to read driving at 85 -- but truly, that's all anyone ever wants. it's not what would say, but observe the effect of it. people need constant reminding they exist. once breathing becomes commonplace, it's difficult to hold onto the idea of continuity, but from the time you're first alive to the time you can't tell time again, there's something different about you, and only then. past the bookends, things look the same. they are empty page, they are the insides of your eyelids. there's something there still, but it's hard to broach the threshold of awareness, something constant, currents of air -- it's hard to hold it firm and have the focus to stare at it until it disappears, and to keep it hidden, and to not forget where you are. easy as breathing. there's no ownership, everything is appropriated. steal what you want, it won't make you happy unless you know what you're doing. you'll never know what you're doing unless you know why you do it. try something different for once.

the very tooth

it was always poetry to me. anything with words. poetry is the side from which you approach language -- when a word is more sound than meaning, when it's the shapes in your mouth, the pace is the speed you read it, and the mechanics are meaningless. we rarely attribute to words the degree of summoning strength that inspired their creation, the designation -- the transference of internal upon external.

When some living things look into a mirror, it's is an entirely seperate entity for them trapped in the glass.

anything less is technical writing.

wasting words

As it becomes clearer to me what I want,
I see it for others is unclear.
As I attribute meaning to the life i've let swallow me,
it possesses me that most people don't pay attention.

Really, though,

truth is relative, it is unique to each moment.
Anything in opposition to the sliver of present--
that splits through the dark like hallway light through
the slight agape of a bedroom door--
is not true. is contrived. breeds deceit.

These words aren't important.

definition

a god is a lonely creature
who surrounds himself
with that which fills him

shit-alchemy

I made something hideous today out of index cards.
It was not my intention. I wanted something surprising.


I'd like to be able to accurately draw from my mind, to be able to make anything out of anything, or to write (at all), but miscarriages of my imagination (such as the card construction) do retain significance. However shittily you can compose a fiction, image, or object, you must love them like the ugliest babies--your ugly children--and you must know they resemble you more than they do anything else.

You will dress them up like sailors and send them to the mall to have portraits; have their unnerving countenances made immortal over a baby blue backdrop; frame those glossy prints and put them up in your bedroom and see them every day.

(keep in mind that their younger siblings will be better looking)

(they usually are)

But you mustn't hate what your hand creates, these things reflect the state that brought them about. Anything less than an immaculate approach can yield nothing familiar to truth or beauty.

Alchemists ignore their success in the creation of the pursuit. Gold is only valuable to those aware of it's worth; immortality only valuable to those who know how to live. The idea of turning something into something more is what is worth a life's effort -- turning it to gold is something else entirely.


I wrote the word claps on an outstretched flap of the index card abomination and it gave up and fell to the floor a few minutes later. It was beautiful.

Hommes/Homies/Homos

the significance of the internet (draft)

If the presence of the internet serves man at all, it is most significantly the subtleties of its nature. Someone who uses it may not completely understand the path of technological progress, or the path of our culture (of which the 'net is composed), but they can attribute some meaning to the word -- internet -- and largely the trappings of the word are assumed to be generally homogenous among us.

The presence of this thing which cannot be completely mapped or visualized, is inherently in flux, relies on something as delicate or capricious as our sources of energy, something that allows communication between parties while maintaining something resembling solipsism in individual participants -- a presence which we cannot deny -- this is significant.

That people can appropriate such a concept lends to the capability in people to imagine similar abstractions that were prior inaccessible.

It's unecessary that people realize this, they're already deep in it, it has an effect, it will help considerably (as it is considerably a more convincing model of such a concept than most religions can offer without the employ of hallucinogens).