| HOPE & FEAR • TERROR & CHANGE |

On my cave walls I'm codifying this hiss, inflicting drama and neglect, allowing sorrow and apathy to unite and fight the audacity of hope and all those hopemongers. Empty promises. Although I dig the language, I can't help but equate it with terror and fear. What I really mean: it's been cheapened in the hands of lesser patriots.*

I can't escape the fuzz but at least I don't falsify my chains. Or maybe I do. Maybe if you stare long enough into the fire you inflame your brain. Maybe I spill loose spit to spike people to speak, only it's awful hard to hold a conversation with a parrot.

All I'm really saying: is: this. Hear it?


* See my book "The Field Guide for Lesser Patriots," a knockout work by and for desperate and perverted artists.

Everything Blown UP

out of proportion, unrealistic, a tab bit crazy

Critique of Critique of Critique

Yes, to dwell! Having spent the majority of this week reliving said events, speaking nonstop into my radio spot, I have come to the awareness of depth in disease, especially mine, type E, and am stating for the record: I no longer harbor any ill-feelings towards my numerous detractors and morale enemies.

Yes, to dwell! Paranoia is a bitch especially when your biggest fear isn't death's crushing hand, but the ceaseless circling Strawmen and the perpetual parsing of ill-initiated and sounded human syllables.

Yes, I'm free! Speaking relatively glib, I have located the currency and await the shockwaves, although I'm sure you've all forgotten how to identify a metaphor of a metaphor.

Yes! This is the best we have, yet no one speaks of that!

Notes On Infinity

"A circle is just a line with a hole in it." -Jonas Holdbeck

The days were spent reading Susan Sontag's On Photography, a book published in the year of J. Holdbeck's death, the year of my birth, 1977. Like Holdbeck, the book has been described as quaint, a once gale wind force now blown innocent in an overexposed generation. Holdbeck himself has been blown dead, while I have become the full, lone, *veyor of his work.

In this post, I spend a fair amount of time polishing yellow glass filters, rubbing wet lens tissue in a circle until it reflects a pure disc of light. I'm in love with that shine, that yellow halo that promises unknown depths and memories encased in glass.

I've been stuttering the word praxis, dreaming up strawmen to dance on film, placing my thoughts abstractly in dark areas, dark rooms, live inside mysterious concepts.

I'm unable to communicate directly with words, I use them solely for myself, little codified symbols that suck me inside the screen, causing little to no disturbance in those around me. It's a funny thing to write this situation, like shooting fish in a bazaar.

It's not nonsense, though it's not sense either. It's the paradox, the space inbetween the one and the oh that disintegrates when I blink and trip the shudder.

* con, pur, sur

My Drug-peddling, Mickey-slipping Strawman and Me

ProFoundFootageLongLiveMirrorEffect

In Defense of Any Nutritious Substance That People, Plants, or Animals Eat, Drink, or Aborb In Order to Sustain Life and Stimulate Growth

I am divulging secrets spanning the noise of oblivion, stuck words stick, I'm envisioning large piles of food on all the world's plate, let's not get too radical.

bababbabelellabababbblbabbababaalaibalinng

NEW POST BLOGGER • THIS IS THE LAME EXCLAIM • IM HOT SPOT SURFING • ONE MILLION SHARDS OF ME TODAY • WELLCOMEON • THE EMOTIONAL WRECK HAS LEFT THE BUILDING AND IS NOW BABBLING ON THE INTERNET • ONE MILLION COMMERCIALS BEFORE I WAS FIVE • THATS ONE MILLION COMMERCIALS I CANT REMEMBER • UNIVERSITY OF IOWA MAIN LIBRARY STILL SMELLS FUNNY • TAG THIS AND UPLOAD MY PACKET • PUFF ON TEMPLATE AND IT WILL ERASE • SUCK ON SCREEN AND PUBLUSH • EVERYONE IS ACTING SO HUMAN • MYSTERIOUS PROFESSORS GET IT • TECHNICIANS ACT SO PUT OUT • SEAN HANNITY IS GOING TO BLOW UP • AMERICA, R U W/ ME? • SAVE NOW

Critique of Critique (REAL LIFE VERSION)

Hhmmnnn... my bad ideas intensified. I should have kept my mouth shut. The beauty of the idea disintegrates in the questioning. Or too many questions cancel themselves out. I set myself up. What is my problem?

Mystrious Prof. One: "Watch out for the Strawman"
Mysterious Student One: "I've gone to bed with him."

SOUND ADVICE FROM MYSELF TO MYSELF: Stop going halfway. Be deliberate. Quit fucking the Strawman.

Mysterious Student Two: "We all have these questions."
Mysterious Student One: "I feel like I need therapy again."

(I CAN LAUGH ABOUT IT AND DO)

Mysterious Prof. Two: "Asperger's?"
Mysterious Student One: "I literally take that as a compliment."

So I wanted to bring on the critique of the critique and that happened although I completely fucked it up with my thought impediment. I got plowed through, my words failed, I failed to set things up correctly and I took the bait when Mysterious Prof. One sunk his line.

I gained a nice shelf. Thank you Mysterious Student Eight.

We can just eat and hang out. That's what I thought... but then I threw everything out there. How can we eat and hang out when I throw all this shit out there? and during a scheduled critique?

It should have been just chili.

My thoughts are so porous. What did I truly want? I wanted to show. I always want to show. I want to show everyone everything... and and and the loopholes, the applications, the paperwork, the procedures, the critique: I don't make time for or lose control of.

Mysterious Student Three: "What is it to guide critique?"
Mysterious Student One: "No one really said that."

Mysterious Prof. One: "There are problems here."
Mysterious Student One: "The problems are mine and I shouldn't bring them up in mixed company. What am I doing?"
Mysterious Prof. One: "Do you have the Audacity of Hope?"
Mysterious Student One: "Yes. But more importantly I'm in love the ether."
Mysterious Prof. One: "How does your family feel about this?"
Mysterious Student One: "They're unaware of the affair."
Mysterious Prof. One: "So you're John the Art Student?"
Mysterious Student One: "I'm not banking on the archive."

WHY DID YOU FEED US? WHAT DOES THIS MEAN? The chili has not been laced. WHY WOULD YOU BRING THAT UP? There is something wrong with me. WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS SAYING THAT? I believe in nothing so much. WHY DO WE WANT TO CRY? I want to cry to. This wasn't supposed to happen like this.

The real life version was transcribed and convoluted as mentioned by Mysterious Student Four who also poignantly referenced Professional Artist Thirty-five (these arbitrary numbers).

All this is denying the point completely, a thing I tend to do. There is nothing wrong with "railing against" things in fact it must be done. But to second guess that, destroys that. I could romanticize it and say: It was too much love. Trying to give so much it jammed the lines.

The scary thing in all this is the implications. This poses some serious questions concerning (beyond surface shit like career, social interaction, exhibitionism): how do I even talk seriously about this anymore? I can't seem to spit beyond my body, I'm drooling all over myself.

Mysterious Student One: "What's become apparent is my lack of being able to talk about my work."
Mysterious Ghost One: "Just say what it is"
Mysterious Student One: "It's scratches on the surface of time and I love them and I love the decorations but why can't it be whole now?"
Mysterious Ghost One: "It always is. Why do you bring up death so much?"
Mysterious Student One: "Sumthin wrong with me"

Critique as self-destruction. Surfing the surface into bad areas. Losing the language beyond myself. Making no sense, stronger and more likely than ever, to be lost.

I'm starting to believe my own rhetoric. These words, as always, a poor excuse for failed actions.

L•I•S•A• In Defense of Righteousness •F•O•O•

LISAFOOLISAFOOLISAFOOLISAFOOLISAFOOLISAFOOLLISAFOOLISAFOOL

The problem with dealing in nonsense and I coin the new term acidwires

Hi and this is the problem in dealing in nonsense for lack of a more sophisticated term this is the problem in dealing with the inability to penetrate desirable depths and arrive at a conclusion that can be disseminated on the surface I E the title of this blog about blogging and after all a more consuming problem in the fact that you cant live on hallucinogenic drugs no matter how hard you try or allow yourself the pleasure of that ride. This being said then begs the question of questions what exactly can you live on? If it were not for ecstasy (and here now I am not referring to the drug but the state of mind) where would we roast our toes on those dark winter nights?

OK you see I have done us here a great disservice by referencing certain topical tropical substances when I need to be discussing the means at hand given one a fixation on faucetry and two the swelling of disaster.

I know not what you're thinking nor what I'm saying, I'm writing to fill virtual space with my virtual language from my virtual mind although I know the final output has no choice but to fall flat again this may be a great metaphor for my art or just a chunk of really terrible writing.

The longer I dwell on this the less I know. Kind of like a conversation on acid and now I must confront the fact that my blog about blogging has been substantially impacted by multiple nods to psychedelic drugs.

ACIDWIRES: a new term.