Youth for Choice

A CALL TO CRAZIES! I need assistance gathering all the blogs from 2007, including the myspace ones into a word document or similar electronic form. A computer program munched my copy along with my notes. So if any of my 3 loyal readers (or 8, i can't tell) would so enjoy such a plethoratic stimulatic please email me with note of interest. yes.

Goodman and Main

parenthesis and dots

We go home

the White Hotel and bathing in cold studio

morning. facing east.

Precisional - for Sterz and his deer

The end of things is a haunting mess (for me). Some, as I understand it, can process events and move forward in health through grief or mourning or other significant human sociality and not concern themselves with it again. Mine drag along like molasses, seemingly stringing forever until the last molecular bond is severed and the two ends float like silk in the full daylight of open space. And even when the distant hope of reconnection is for all practicality impossible, even then I hope, longing for its return like some distant comet signaling a regularity, a confirmation, a usefulness; that my effort has been preserved and maybe even good (if good can be measured). Brutality (for me) is dealt most harshly through the hands of those closest to the skin and who’ve learned the weaknesses in the armor, those who have been entrusted to its secrets and protections. And when that precisional has been exacted, what is said cannot be unsaid, what is done cannot be undone and what comes to pass as a result of the attack cannot be erased. We can, at best, shift our understanding to accommodate what was missed or hope for the assailant that the error of attack will be useful for him if only in the realization that the attack did not produce the desired effect. Then the best we can hope for is the courage to face its product and the exactness of its trauma with as little self deception as has been provided the reasonable extent of our animal. And then maybe from that can rise a picture or a stone or a garden. And that act (the picture, the stone, the garden), is worth a lifetime.

The Bar, The Boys

American Staffordshire Terrier, Girl and Studio

Modal

The Park

Shortly before or shortly after (I can't recall which) I knew I was going to leave _ _ _ _ we made these videos in the Highland Park, near the hospital that strapped me into the psyche ward when I thought the depression of betrayal would end me. They were to be used as composites with the portraits we made a few days prior or a few days after (I can't recall which) for a video sculpture garden using the projectors and televisions. I'd been avoiding looking at them just as I avoid checking the myspace pages for fear of a cryptic message or public retaliation. For fear she'd break my heart worse than the reality of it already has. Tonight I looked anyway like watching the needle draw blood from my easy veins and put together these views. I wish I could share them with you, rich and full, as I see them here in the frozen studio on the coldest night of this winter so far.

We move on. I recall locking mouths with my lover in Glacier Park and sucking to feel the warm air from her lungs fill mine. I recall her teaching me to hum with my lips pressed to her vulva. I recall the feel of it like it was yesterday. Like the breadth of North Dakota heading east. Heading back into it.



apologies on compromised web video quality

No More, No Less

I’ve held back. I’ve held back because I don’t know what I’m doing. And once I do know what I’m doing then there’s no reason to do it anymore. This is how I feel. So I’ve learned to know what I’m doing by not knowing what I’m doing. And I can blame analytic philosophy for this. It’s the art of asking the right questions and seeking a counter-example then illustrating it. Like a pimple on my cock. Until I end up squeezing and irritating it until it forms a scabby pussball and puts it out of commission for a week. What a fool, for holding back and for squeezing. What a fool.
Holding back often means failing to say what I really mean. It also means hiding details for the sheer complexity of working them through. Details that stall otherwise good writing. And what is good writing? Saying what you really mean. That’s what makes good writing, any writing; academic, scientific, poetic, journalistic, biographic, science fiction, pornographic, erotic, a fucking letter to mom, is good only if one says what they really mean. No more, no less.

The Yard

Studio 426

Drummer Boy

Bar

Blue Screen Portrait with Mirror Fragment

Research in Studio / Sleeping Girl

Watching Football On Television Sculpture