J O U R N A L / B L O G


Monday, September 26, 2011

[From my personal journal, September 12th]

Ken Kesey’s infectious rot of a novel is leaking over me, a liturgy of literature, a damnation and dirge of a distended tale to be sure, blasted moments and swirling snotty thick embraces of places and particular poetry. Infectious indeed, thou straining and stumbling man. Yet radically my easel stands in the center of the room, wonder how long that’ll last, radically it stands with the canvas I’ve worked for over a month now, far too long and yet not nearly long enough. I could say I but only have to add a golden snag, but no, what I must add is something like a golden snag, but no metaphor should be suitable, for otherwise in this haze of horrendous and perfect words Kessey has sunk me in, I would simply write it… right?

Well, I might try. But the point of paint is its face and edge, its lampoon only hits you in the heart when its subject is only its own, a mess from the start and yet reason sinks his teeth in there too, otherwise, there’d be nothing but blue. But in the blue of a canvas that captured it, references spill not in random association, but in powerful solitude, as a chill reminder of the tiny hole through which a most delicate needle must be woven if we wish to spike the power of individuality up in an image without losing also the cavalcade of interconnected associations which hover behind it purposefully, or at least to us, pillaging our memories and showing us that this, this is it, this is something to see before us and bring within us at once, not a façade to interpret, but an interpretation to test in our combustion engines, our fiery modern souls. What does this chewed form suggest? What haunting moment of being, what any conscious mortal craves to create for itself, might result from it? In through our eyes, inciting response, when we feel it there, our call, our simple bliss in a closed system of satisfaction, a dream that is worth it for itself, as we know all of life to be, but cannot see without the right view of the world… that is what I hunger for and relish the taste of, apples of transcendence, fruit with no flesh, a core with the question that feels better than any answer. That is why I wish to open myself to pigments and images.

In vision there lurks the “meaning”, which undoubtedly dips its fingers all over us, but in vision I can focus on it the sharpest. click click click.

Why these words, reverberating with the power to sate a slew of my hardest longings, will not be everything to me, will require me to jump tracks like a schizo-amtrak, over to the dusty hills and big inferno sap-dripping maw of the of painted canvas, spewing crags and pulling out emerald life in strips like a stretched candy bar, mixing it all like bugs caught in a dryer filled with melted amber and curtains... and even more distant horizons bleeding thunderstorms. Those lands I await with eagerness as well, and if anything moves about in my clunky motivations, I will not stay myself from them! No! Not for too long!

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