Archive for the ‘Lovettsville’ Category

Latest New Dance Craze: It's Called The Bunny Hop!


26 Mar

meaningoflife

The Meaning of Life? Ask a scientist?

It was a bright day until someone asked the meaning of life, not in the form of a question, but in the form of a meme. Seems my good friend Mike Twigger, as is his way, reposted a rather humorous image with its own text superimposed. In other words, that image to the left of this paragraph. What follows next is a matter of interpretation of what seemed a fairly straight forward riff on scientists, what they know, and how they play it. Then out came the bunny rabbits one by one, doing the bunny hop.

I say, "Good One!"

Laura Waldron then pipes in, "So it's right to force unwanted pregnancies on women?"

Never one to succumb to tired old fiddlesticks, I retort, "Is it right to force unwanted hangovers on young males? Stretching an argument into something else is easy..."

Laura then has the audacity to relieve me of my sensitivities, "Yeah, what does a guy's hangover have to do with a woman's body? Stay on subject."

Now this was just plain vulgarity to my ears. Stay on subject? After she'd jumped from that image to forcing unwanted pregnancies on women?

But Twigger takes her bait. I mean, how long can one argue Laura's point? Argue it into the ground? It's already in the ground. Dead and buried. I have my view. You have yours. Nuff said. But Twigger weighed in. "I agree as a Christian [that] life starts at conception... therefore the baby should have as much right as the mother... although if it affects the mothers health then yes abortion should be available and safe. I believe there should also be surrogate mothers who could carry the baby to term if the real mom didn't want the child."

Well, that last point was interesting. Taking fetus from one oven to another. But that argument about saving the mother's life in a crisis over the life of the fetus has always left me a bit cold and unconvinced. However, Laura responds to Mike before I have the chance to build anything on that small piece of well-treaded ground, "Surrogate mothers expect to get paid. Unwanted pregnancies leads to the birthing of unwanted children which leads to said children being neglected and abused. Speaking from experience here."

Damn interesting comeback. I suppose she now prefers that she'd had been aborted. Now, that's a revolutionary statement, if truly believed by its speaker, which I strongly doubt. But I leave that alone for now. Instead I stay on my original course and her first point once removed, that is staying on topic, or at least the topic she wanted to rehash, "Hahahaha. Laura. I knew you would say that. You took my bait. So to recap. What does determining a living cell found in the womb of a pregnant woman to be life have to do with forcing unwanted pregnancies on women? You, Ms. Waldron, jumped the shark, first."

Her reply was simple. She was catching up. "Because of what the meme implies. Duh. And its so obvious that its a pro lifer meme."

Well, it was time to wrap all this together in a neat package before I could return to her most recent jewel. Is life more important than a wretched childhood, or is it not? That is the pro-lfe meme, my dear, and perhaps one day you will realize it. Oops, I'm getting ahead of myself. Here is what I said next, "I call that a bunny hop. Memes can lead anywhere. Like, uh, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar can lead some of us to think well, duh, sometimes, life is just life. End of story. Nothing about abortions or a right to choose or baby names or rapists or regret or sex with your daddy. Besides Laura. If you drink too much, just expect a hangover. Complaining about it or slicing and dicing about how you got that drunk doesn't change anything. You're stuck with the hangover. How you deal with it is the almighty gift of initiative. But then, sometimes bunny hops just get a bit off the beaten path, don't you think? THAT was my point to you at the top of this thread. The question wasn't guess a meme, it was about the nature of life versus the hypocrisy of scientists and media who should know better. That's a meme that begins and ends with the information as it was given. We now see where taking unauthorized bunny hops can lead.

Then Miss Liberty and all her tired, her poor, her huddled masses came a knocking with a link that is supposed to prove something to me, again having nothing to do with the original laugh track at scientists and the media. "Oldest, largest, and only statewide Pro-Life organization in Texas. I don't think I came to any false conclusions or BUNNY HOPS. I think you—however—are trying to be contrarian with me and it won't work as I'm the biggest contrarian I know. You may want to make the meme about the nature of life versus the hypocrisy of scientists and media and make it this deep thing but it was intended to be an attack on Women's CHOICE, on the rights to our bodies, and if women don't fight this attack on us, then what's next? Making rape legal? See you can say its an orange all you want but the truth is, it's an apple."

And she really thinks she's clever, parroting these threadbare statements. After all, apples and oranges in her arguments would be the same because they are both fruits, or to her point, designed to keep women away from the authority over their own bodies. But I press on, "You want to know what's next? Simple. You framed it yourself, in so many words. The question stated: is your own wretched childhood more important than the non-existence from which you were spared, or is it not? That is the pro-lfe meme, dear contrarian," adding, "I refuse to fall for retread handbook. You stretch a simple question about the origins of life into a parade of boogie men without once mentioning the predominant track of using abortion on demand as a high dollar, high risk prophylactic."

"I also refuse to accept you binary proposition. Death is all around us. I can do little about any of it. I take no religious or political position on abortion except to dig further for the truth wherever I find it. But I do find its current practice vulgar and self-serving. If you, Laura Waldron, are so wise as to assign policy binaries on every swirling detail you are fortunate to be able to observe, I dare suggest that you are indeed better off having been born even though you may have experienced a shoddy childhood, rather than to have been neutralized as a thriving embryo. Frankly, this is a tiresome and well-documented argument you make. I found freshness in precisely the point that the image and caption Mike posted made clear, and nothing else, since as I say, if I want an abortion debate there are infinite other places to find one that an ironic Facebook post. The fact that you ran in to make it something else on the basis of a tired meme was your prerogative I suppose, but it certainly isn't the only meme attached to the meaning of life that makes stellar commentary useful and exhonerating. In other words, I write for my own reasons, and you and your transitional memes have nothing to do with it. Lastly, I trust my sarc has not exceeded but merely equaled yours towards me, tat for tit, apple for orange, squeezed or simple peeled, for I would never want to make you feel stupid."

To be continued, if Laura Waldron has more to add. With kind regards to its awesome powers of community, nevertheless King Facebook is not my home. There are reasons for that, also, but I'm sure the usual meme would not suffice, but for sake of shortness of breath, let's just agree that it does (whatever that might be).

Zoology Students, Zingers & Pick Ups: Sidewalks of America


12 Nov

revenge-nebulous

Revenge of the Nebulous

samplex

Sweet is the revenge that lies low for a quarter, just to halve the impact and doubleth thy forgiveness one fair apple to the next. Then we can talk of oranges, the P.I. and the azimuth of the infamous cirling return, where even the unlearned know a straight line when they see it...

...yes, when they know it, touch it, smudge it, recycle it, mix it, integrate it, nix it, bury it, junk it, kink it, mash it, describe it, lick it, hunt it, nick it, favor it, spoil it, suck it, trash it, pool it, race it, fake it, bend it, skirt it, agitate it, arm it, highlight it, track it, sack it, flatten it, extrapolate it, measure it, seed it, keep it, check it, click it, whack it, pop it, finger it, poke it, register it, forget it, erase it, seduce it, increase it, grab it, market it, nuke it, appeal it, loop it, win it, clear it, educate it, irrigate it, irritate it, masticate it, sweat it, drag it, report it, support it, post it, float it, flavor it, torque it, jack it, pack it, surprise it, smote it, stab it, crack it pull it, push it, smack it, suggest it, sink it, disarm it, flag it, rip it, emasculate it, rewrite it, tighten it, choke it, read it, slap it, cut it, slice it, nose it, lose it, wipe it, kick it, steal it, inflate it, climb it, hold it, rhyme it, blow it, soil it, give it, charm it, choose it, hack it, wing it, wag it, squeeze it, eat it, work it, confuse it, compute it, type it, stereotype it, punch it, forsake it, repeal it, threaten it, reject it, trust it, hose it, wreck it, portray it, smash it, betray it, emphasize it, peg it, chuck it, supersize it, navigate it, inhabit it, feminize it, pirate it, save it, swallow it, juice it, hook it, shelve it, salvage it, handicap it, buck it, book it, articulate it, swear it, love it, color it, marry it, flip it, seize it, raise it, break it, police it, kill it, mark it, rule it, school it, fool it, outsource it, voice it, match it, hang it, swing it, fuck it, verify it... so that we each get a taste of the good life.

And we understand that we have no need of extenuating concrete or abstract nouns, when we know all the action resides with the verbs no matter what nouns exist, or don't exist. The most common metalanguage to name this concept is nominalization.

At least then you would have only one woman in the family aiming for your head next time they pick up a Louisville Slugger. You’re outnumbered buddy, and this ain’t China…
That brings us nappily to the "n" word. In a process called juncture loss, the "n" has wandered back and forth between the indefinite article and words beginning with vowels over the history of the English language, where for example what was once a nuncle is now an uncle. The Oxford English Dictionary gives such examples as smot hym on the hede with a nege tool from 1448 for smote him on the head with an edge tool, as well as a nox for an ox and a napple for an apple. Sometimes the change has been permanent. For example, a newt was once an ewt (earlier euft and eft), and in the other direction, a napron (meaning a little tablecloth, related to the word napkin) became an apron, and a naddre became an adder. The initial "n" in orange was also dropped through juncture loss, but this happened before the word was borrowed into English. Props to Wikipedia for juicing the jam I was having on toast with Richard Nix, the pirate flag and number twenty-two...

Okay, dude, say I, “Let’s hope she doesn’t become so bright she thinks she’s an artist…”
With a beating heart ancient cold to starry eyed zoology students, weather-crunched cracks in the sidewalks of America, and all this dead language I still must bury, I suppose this concrete noun is as good a dump as any. This writer has nothing but the utmost respect, and can boldly admit to hoisting a torch for well-placed zingers and pickups of nearly every load I can carry, although I'd be hard pressed to name one outside the '84 Chevy Scottsdale monster block, all-black & chrome short bed Mauler I steered up and down the I-95 corridor for about six years until its transmission finally cringed out, needing an obscene over-priced overhaul for such a shiny truck, bleeding me dry. Voices in my head now school me in strange German accents, "You've only got yourself to blame." Laughter, my response, laughter borrowed from another era, another purse I used to have. Nice touch—that personal Airplay technology, my own 18K track streaming like magic through high-woof Pioneer speakers scattered about Die Librahausen on InkFlower Hill. I am indeed never alone. And just in the nick of saints everywhere, into my depraved decaying eardrums the secret programmer comes, this time as Rotersand, and I have nothing but instant amusement for that lyric—You've only got yourself to blame—but I don't dally to dissent. "That wonderful machine was programmed to fail," I retort. A mere 78K on the odometer, never went four-wheeling. Never clocked her out. Junker, whore on lemons. Loved her while she clawed my road, my straight-away road like an iced-out black-lipped steampunk, DRI and Motorhead slamming naked eardrums and tapedeck against the walls of the leather cab like homeboy sailors about to trade life for a watery grave, but I ain't sentimental about static scrap metal that refuses to scream down the naked road, that won't buck the screaming naked wind, that won't deliver the screaming male naked, the same naked, naked as he came in, ink optional, and now it's high naked time for her to meet her maker—the spirit of the whale, naked. Sentimental. I could be, but I ain't. I'm no seized up gearhead. Get the drift?

  • Nothing is a very important aspect of our concept of something, anything, everything, and the lines of demarcation which separate us all, bring us together, ignore us in the end, so don't fear, just don't neglect to trace one's own importance back to nothing. Have a good day, Robert.
  • I think this could have been more strategically written, "Good thing Regan turned out cute, or Ita would be in BIG TROUBLE right now..." At least then you would have only one woman in the family aiming for your head next time they pick up a Louisville Slugger. You're outnumbered buddy, and this ain't China...
  • You say when you read stories about how some children are not going to be very bright adults, you think, "that's less adults my daughter will have to compete against and it brings a smile to my face." Okay, dude, say I, "Let's hope she doesn't become so bright she thinks she's an artist..."

Soup's boiling on the glasstop. Slice, then dice the leftover roast into rosy chucks, making a tomato-vegetable based brew, with lots of juice, always lots of juice. I can't seem to drum this "lots of juice" meme into the wife's head. She's clearly no cook, will tell you that herself in an English Fog, nearly completely illiterate in the kitchen even as she's about to reach retirement age. Lots of juice. That's why they call it soup, silly. Best part of the soup, if it's done right, I tell her. That's what my Pops always said, and I've lived long enough to realize how right he was about that one thing, at least. Yes dear, that's cabbage. And potatoes, peas, corn, carrots, okra, green beans, onions, oregano, black pepper, and a little red to curl your toes. Carrots? Oh come on, baby, it'll put hair on your chest, as the Pops used to tease my sister when we were growing up. Illiterate. What can I say? She's not really a literal bean counter, only a metaphorical one, a bean counter more comfortable shoveling numbers and slinging hash about whether her company, Always & Forever, is currently still in the red or in budgetary black. She'll be home soon. I'm surprising her. Always love to catch her off guard. Love is that way. Always spotting the cracks in the sidewalk. The potholes in the street of any relationship requires everyone to lend a skill, apply the requisite pitch, and mix in some jolly good cement.

We dig animals here, too.

GT

Authorized Personnel Only


07 Nov

Afraid of demons with scratchy voices,
eat your vegetables, carve your meat,
take your vitamins, drink your success,
I see you've eaten everything on your plate
except Yahoshua pushed to a corner
sanitized, sold with lies,
what a simple shame
this incubus of your hate,
this collective example—you cheat
from bank to bakery to butcher to color
making your choices, icing on your cake,
never the twain to meet.

Cross-breed my gasoline my corn, fuel donkey
bake your bread, your cherry tree disguise
working in office of twelve daughters
a day, long hours in point, bigger
higher, longer, thicker, richer,
faster, smarter, safer—
meaning it's not this way
but that, unauthorized tongue, you say
what you read is authorized and perfect,
but you, still armed, RU authorized,
made perfect just because someone else
unauthorized and not perfect
broke a crowd long ago?

Pick up tree to follow me,
prepare, verify gnosis to name
the claim, the value, the power
ride, sit, walk, fly, win, thin
must be a better way to stalk
barely sure you can cut it
that shame you claim you lost
generations ago, look it's back
got the knack, took me back
moving from palace to shack
better to be seen not heard
in lion's jaw, days of old
breaking dove, the bird
the very meaning
of my word...

[ 2013, Lovettsville ]

O Fly, There's A Waiter In My Soup


30 Oct

urge may take or leave dot women
drunk before malicious identity
essential pedestrian shakes
against pagan blue vision
rock shadows beat to boil
burn and beauty shock
black rust dream lilies
old men crowded minds
cancel this stop
a spoiled fuss

two years ago free agency
she sweats as she pockets
below the previous rail
to standardized poverty
a typographical error
the deliberate cinema

we can't discriminate, silk
soft asphalt, hard styrofoam
reloading ten eligible goals
not on my highway says Ned
just easier leaves eyeball
rolling upscale bouncy
seekers without likes
to cowering experts
drowned in fact

an addiction to friction
abundance of ordnance
always in the airspace
progressing past pulse
overnight overtime
draft free weight
spend up girls
pigskin mash

purchasing resistance care
vague trust critical zones
education irreducibly slow
we digital tongues
ignore the door
root volumes
they wait
we go

[ 2013, Lovettsville VA ]

The Sporting Clues Of Walt Whitman


12 Apr

Crisp despair churns nightly, Virginia reels—
assisting so far (with the stern comfort of law)
knotted leaves of deciduous scale die brightly...

dancing the continental congress,
daring to forsake the soil,
a few handsome reviews
begin bubbling up.

Spring wheezes its way across western granite
due north of sad nations, but we praise
only the worst of it. Time's gunpowder
charm, the cracked chill of a lingering
spiked but righteous scrit.

Forests as dense with deer as these lines
climb trick mountain trails of a simpler age
where decay was just another quickening stage
where delay was just another sickening cage
mimicking the sting of death
drawn along party lines.

Roaring past juiced effects of American score,
feted wheels of justice properly seen
melt against fumed highway heat,
each grain hard throttled hubris
a philanthropic ride unto
the scarlet whore

where greatness is measured in cycles
where frankness is buried in game faces
where self-crucifixion is lost to wealth

and this sorry battleground, where art and politics
beat each other up, is cleared of all integrity,
and few are they who appear the wiser...

[ 2013, Lovettsville VA ]

The Critique


17 Oct

experience

Experience

samplex

THAT'S A KEEN INSIGHT into the poetics of good metaphor, Paige, by insisting the "tree" is neither happy" or "unhappy", but rather merely exists within the framework of its own inanimate kind.

However, as if I were Ezra Pound dancing with a pronoun and you were Thomas Sterns Eliot sipping a cup of Earl Grey, might I suggest, without airs but in an uncompetitive spirit of respect, changing the rather inactive choice of "Withstanding" which is repetitive of the earlier uses of "standing" to the deeper, richer word "weathering the elements" if the poet's style insists upon a common vernacular. And in that sense, one might also write:

              Yet there it still stands
              Rain or shine, sheet or snow,
              an ornament to the elements.

Or better yet, a rebuke to the elements:

              Yet there it still stands
              Rain or shine, sheet, or snow
              a rebuke to the elements.

Thus avoiding a third usage of "stand" in so few syllables. And adds a function to the existence of the tree.

But it's a wonderful poem, Paige. Just take my comments as a persnickety old poet who himself is constantly seeking a more compelling poetics from which to put matters that strike a chord in himself, or better yet, in others, as well.

The tree, a noun, of course, is a living thing, unlike a firelog, so a better choice of words than "inanimate" would have served the argument better, but sense the difference between using an adjective like "happy" or "unhappy" and the device of the active verb "rebuke" to better reflect the context of the "thing" in its apparently subdued and hampered existence.

Gabriel

I Went To School With Bonnie Jones (White)


23 Sep

big-brother-bully

Big Brother Is A Bully

samplex

Always...but never, Bonnie.

Let's not be coy. I regret I have but one life to give for my country. As I now understand it, this statement, once attributed to patriot Nathan Hale who was hung by the British as a spy, has now been reclassified as apocryphal. Rubbish, I say, but ultimately it doesn't matter. Slogans are only wordsuck. Language itself is mere alphabet dirt, but from healthy soil we rise, and survey all that nature confers. But yes. These are perilous times. While I wish to remain strong, to steer my family through what I feel are dangerous and rough times ahead in a land of strangers, much like you described, I am not afraid to put it all on the line if the occasion calls, but until that hour I am just a writer, a poet, a painter, a husband, a farmer, and a friend to the friendless who seek just one.

Chin up Bonnie. I also hail from a family of shrimpers. I never knew that about you. I just observed you as a cute little blonde girl who was nice in class, and had all the right friends, some of the same ones I had. Seems I recall you hanging out with Colleen Kane a good bit, and the Anderson sisters. Your own daughters seem wonderful. Job well done. So indeed, let's continue to reach out. I am real. That much you can expect of me. Big Brother is a bully. I have faced many a bully blocking my path. Damn the stories upon which we as unique individuals are built...

Again, thanks for your kind words. My life gets very busy at times, but personal outreach is very important to my daily stamina, so have patience, be assured that I am never far away, but I will think of you often, and in turn, am always delighted to hear from you. If you have a solid email address, perhaps we can move our conversations off Facebook, for privacy and organizational concerns, if only a niche or two more secure.

Either way, I wish you the very best you can muster in your day to day. I have a few health concerns myself, so can empathize as a peer. Thank you for making me your friend. I still have to laugh that you thought I was homosexual, although I understand. I was quite flaming in high school, still am in many ways I suppose.

Also, have several siblings in the Stone Mountain area...

Truly,

Gabriel

Death, Where Is Thy Sting?


03 Jul

52-o-street

52 O Street Studio

samplex

The following is a thread that Facebook captured, the only thread of its kind in my spotty career, a very special thread to me, for obvious reasons—I am being praised, harangued, and supported by several important women in a fury of words I have never experienced, before or since, in such volume or impact. Thank you, all you funny, sunny, honey girls. You're my blistering awesome public. There are a few others, but they were here for these three days. Now, go, don't be a distraction. I have much work to do, most of it far away from a paint brush or canvas. But I trust, yes, I trust one day most of you will understand more fully what I cannot say today.

I debated taking out the timestamps, but decided to leave them in rather than create a story out of whole cloth, when most of social civilization recognizes and respects the Facebook model, and willfully shares its information with the Internet, despite the periodic outrage of privacy and intellectual property rights advocates. Show here goes. Chances are I will frame in a bit of ad lib, but I think that the time stamp may make that difficult for both format design and creative considerations. So be it.

  • Shannon Koehler Fleming at 7:18pm July 1
    No goodbyes to the art world, your art is amazing, and has to keep on coming, the real estate is just a side project, one that I hope will fund many more paintings, oh and pay the bills...
  • Char McNair Bafalis at 7:55pm July 1
    Bullshit...the Gabriel I know will never quit...come on...keep driving everyone crazy!! love ya...but hate quitter's.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:10pm July 1
    Thanks Shannon, but I'm a bull in the china shop gone berserk. Can't fathom under what skies I'm doing in real estate, but yes, it's about money. Nobody's buying my art these past couple of years and the irrational optimism vanished. I've sunk tens of thousands of dollars into a means of observation and expression which earns me at best a small peace of mind, a mere fragment of what's left of a failed or perhaps recoiled intellectual, but in the post Warholian world, if it doesn't sell, it ain't art...

    Matt Sesow sells. Gabriel Thy does not. So it's off to the gristmill for me...

    Working real estate paper will not come easy for me, at this point in my life when I am so preoccupied with other projects, and there are no guarantees there either, but I will give the sector all the muscle and energy I've got left after sinking heavily into debt chasing the paint and the word only I can define as my own.

    Individuality of imprint seems to be my driving force. Bittersweet doesn't begin to describe the pain, but it's all I know...

    Or the words I left out of this response.

  • Gabriel Thy at 8:27pm July 1
    Who's quitting? You bought two pieces at my very first show. Thanks. That was fab. But I haven't seen Charlotte's Harlots at a GT show or studios since. Can't paint AND put in seventy hours a week hustling up listing leads, something that frightens the hell out of me, by the way. Char, my dear beautiful bombastic belladonna, I haven't QUIT anything. But I've been stonewalled plenty. Life is tough, that's all. And I'm getting too old and too harried to keep throwing Sue's money down a drain...
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:28pm July 1
    Part-time painter? hah!
  • Shannon Koehler Fleming at 8:48pm July 1
    oh god i hate that shit, true expression and creativity, can't put a price on it, but that's the point you need to get paid....so, ....but you know the real estate profession may inspire some new artistic ideas or things to write about, lord knows people and their ways can inspire, haha, or infuriate, or drive to the depths of insanity, a good start in the art world...well keep on keepin on or just fuck it...happiness is underrated...i want it no matter what the price.
  • Gabriel Thy at 9:14pm July 1
    Yeah, Shannon. You nailed it. So did Char. And guess what, so did I. Who knows what form the future will present? You both know I'm just stressing about this new direction. It's damn scary, right Char, me? Real estate agent? In what parallel universe? But here I am, licensed, affiliated, and erect with marching orders, supported by a team of great new people. What more could I possibly need?

    Good grief, Charlie Brown.

  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 7:51am July 2
    very black and white of you gabe, extremely dramatic.
  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 7:57am July 2
    oh gabriel, you will continue to paint, not because it makes sense, but because you must, it will quiet your mind, and drive you. very few people make enough money from their art to become rich. also, having a day job (which is scarey) doesn't unmake an artist. this economy is the pits though, and thats just the way it is. Art and real estate will make a comeback when the economy does. until then, let them eat paint.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:24am July 2
    Well said, Marianne. But you know I'm know dilettante. I'm in all the way or I'm not in at all. And dramatic, yeah, I'm either stoic on the diastolic and ruthlessly dramatic on the systolic with no middle ground, beat me with a feather. Comebacks may not be in our future from what I read, but it rarely hurts to be salt and peppered by folks with a nominally cheery outlook, despite their questionable math skills. Thanks.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:28am July 2
    Truth is both careers are full time full body contact sports. Half ass is as half ass does...
  • Char McNair Bafalis at 12:14pm July 2
    I so agree with Marianne..your art defines you...so now you will make real estate your muse...who doesn't need art on their new, freshly painted walls? As for Charlotte's Harlots..touchet"....one can lead a horse to water.....when can you have another viewing.
  • Sue Hedrick at 6:04pm July 2
    Gabriel is and has always been an artist since the very day I met him, and I am sure he will always be.
  • Erin Murphy at 10:51pm July 2
    Gabriel - as Sue says, you will ALWAYS be an artist (you can't help it) and what you do for a living is irrelevant.
  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 12:51am July 3
    well, i don't have any math skills, but i do have a day job that puts a roof over my head, and i am a fucking artist. but sometimes i feel stuck in the talking heads song, once in a life time, but what the hell aren't we all walking contradictions. and sue is right, and always has been.
  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 12:52am July 3
    i disagree with the idea that real estate could be your muse, architecture perhaps, poetry, painting sure.
  • Gabriel Thy at 8:21am July 3
    Was Arthur Rimbaud still an artist long years after he penned his final line, then running guns and slaves in the African desert, losing a leg to cancer, mad with death at the ripe bloody age of 37, found in bed clutching his money belt like a whimpering child with rag doll?

    Besides, it not about labels. And contrary, Marianne, to your comment that not many make it rich, extreme wealth I do not seek, but crawling out from the depth of debt we have sunk into giving this old man an identity muster is important as is a name of mild intellectual regard in the field, always a thing of vanity, but rarely as stiff as it sounds. As a kid nearly universally acclaimed most likely to succeed, I frankly have failed rather miserably as a human achiever, and let's also note that it is those damned early expectations that make us who we are, that inform our passions and our hurdles, that color our landscapes and number our fixations. And haunt us until the end of our days.

  • Gabriel Thy at 9:28am July 3
    Thanks for all the LOVE guys. You know I could drag these discussions out forever, but there's no real point to that. Yet, one last blow. Each of you have MADE my point. How can I possibly devote the kind of time and disciplined sprints I am told in prep classes it will take to succeed in the world of real estate, even if I had the energy of three ballyhoos, when my natural need to write and paint and politik and shove aside the world - as an artist with severe notions of what it takes to succeed on his own terms in the art world - will not be easily suppressed?

    And believe me, I would like to succeed on both ends of this candlestick...

    Don't believe art is an attitude. Art is knowledge executed in such a way as to profoundly effect the senses and knowledge base of those experiencing it.

    Punk rock thrived on attitude, but how much of greater PR perspective was genuine ART and not just simply an exercise in celebratory decadence and costumed alienation?

    The same with so many of these peace, love, and understanding movements. Nothing but artificial constructs made up of lingusitic and jingoistic chants, charms, and spells meant to jiggle the curtain of reality just long enough for some petty transaction to be conducted.

    My intellectual demons run long, they run hard. Will I ever be able to overthrow them long enough to carry off some mainstream industrial-stength service professional racket?

  • Marianne Royals Wynn at 10:11am July 3
    life is just so damn hard sometimes, but you are magnificent.
  • Gabriel Thy at 10:28am July 3
    Aw, gosh. You're still that sweet and sour artsy hippie chick you always were, dear Marianne. Thanks for maintaining that flair and swatting me with it...

Tweaking The Multiculturalist One Mistake At A Time


10 Jun

twins

Home Of The Twins

samplex

I CAN'T HELP MYSELF in picking up Charlie's theme of inclusion, even though I am alert to the fact it's not the original thrust of the thread. One of the many stupid ironies of the multiculturalist enforcement program, and I do know something about these false realties first hand, is that ancient myth that we humans are actually all the same, or should be. Well, if we are all indeed the SAME, why the great push to make sure we test that theory by coercing all this sameness together? And yet when given the choice of aggregating freely under generally open conditions, we notice the tendency that real (or superficial) likeness does indeed TEND to gravitate together, that is to say, segregate by race, by gender, by levels of achievement, beauty, class, fan base, school matriculation, et cetera, but not EXCLUSIVELY. This obvious predilection is seen everywhere; in nature, in human society, on the periodic table, in a dust bunny, and in the laws of logic itself. Some may laugh, snort, guffaw, chortle and quiver in calling this an over-simplication. I'd agree, and then I'd ask, an over-simplication of what?

Storming The Vacation Emphatica (For Shannon)


02 May

dunaway

Faye Dunaway as Bonnie Parker

samplex

COME TO THE COUNTRY, sail upon a fetching horse, swoon and sing private lullabies with the dazzling song birds perched keenly outside your colonial window, enjoy the friendship only nature in the natural can bring...

Stare, smirk, and draw forth the nostrils. Might I say without embarrassing either you or me fair Shannon that your face in this photo is quite strikingly one of the most nuanced philosophical statements I have written today. In that 1960s Faye Dunaway mold. From one artist's eye to his mouth...

The above sentimental ditty was composed for a social media friend soon after she discovered some of my work online. We swapped several dozen messages over the next couple of months, and my poetic lapses repeated above were inspired by a particular photo of Shannon.

Her cheeky resemblance to actress Faye Dunaway was striking, well worth mentioning. Seems her brother was in a local band, and she was a creative director for the group. If mem'ry serves, I also believe she was a single mom, caring for a son, a toddler of three or four.

GT

S A M P L E X

"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""


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