Thoughts on a hostile evening

Hostile towards benign happiness, the Rutherford Rothchilds, nefarious Others, delirious dilettantes within the frozen shell-shocked sanctity mirrored only by a false-hearted antiquity whereby all heroines face tragic designs upon their imagery of persona, a nebulous False Face Society bound by fraud & misdemeanors, mandated from above while beyond, a calculated nothingness waits, patiently nihilist-loving stalwarts of the absurdist's version of surreal surrenders & ancient history. Conundrums of cowardice we all play our hands at, caustically measuring the comparative weights of significance & regret, the starlight & the lake's laying reflections from the crater-scarred surface of our one and only Moon.

The narrative, ongoing:
Venus & Mercury are still lovers; Jupiter carries a mistress almost the size of this earth, a polygamous arrangement; that asteroid belt forming ring around the rosies, a gated community that downgraded Pluto, segregated
Mercury-Venus-earth & mars;
Then, placed a
Chastity Belt
between us-
Jupiter Saturn Uranus Neptune & the planet-formerly-known-as-Pluto, reclassified due to an oval orbit combined with the perhaps less powerful ingredients of
ice & rock snowball [habeous writ] whereas all others from said planetary plane share common goals & thusly, properties--made of metal, dirt, flowing water (they say only in the summer on Mars) or raining a sulphuric acid mist on one side, then across the great divide, gaseous anomalies who body block asteroids the size of Europe, on the other side of farthest away.
Our telescopes are now
reading the Suns, to detect what's revolving around that fiery ball of nuclear reaction to see if they're (the grand & loyal-to-no one 'they')
anything
like us.
400 newly found, resemble ours. Choice of Orange, red, or blue suns. Take your pick.
No neutral colors. Until a black hole.
I think that was the eons, the wind reverb, outside the city
On a cold last day of
February.

-Notes on Bukowski in my studio about a block from his favorite bar, where elbow marks seem worn into the wood.

Collective Conscious Time Capsule

Ingredient #1: sugar, love, sprinkles of multi-colored joy;
#2: good deeds for all;
#3: turn the other cheek unless you find yourself amongst money lenders in the temple.
What would be in your time capsule?
Art, music, poetry, Einstein, Powhatan tribe, a photograph of earth's beauty.

Mikko Kuorinki - Wall Piece with 200 Letters
'From march 2010 until february 2011, Kuorinki formed one new text on the wall of Kiasma museum every week. my favorites are these Infinite Jest quotes.'

source: http://yunzi.tumblr.com/post/17647086096

The Cost of Creativity

So you decide to pursue a life of creative manifestation, and it leads to much pain and suffering amidst moments of sublime satisfaction and joy. It is for those moments (when finally, through synergy, picture+sound finally come together, or fourteen 'practice' shots result a la dolce vita capture) that we, as creative types, live.

And, it is, sadly, the persistent, reminiscent lack of ability to thrive on a purely contract basis, that causes one to desire discontinuing. There is nothing deeper than the despair of not being able to find work, despite being exceptional, it beckons an ending to the suffering script. 


Stop fantasizing that the right fit exists; broken by the sham artists and backstabbing lunatics), there is only so much poverty a person can take (despite being in the wrong place at the wrong time -- starving on a desert continent -- or having fallen into the treachery of art for art's sake -- being The Hunger Artist is no fun).

Unemployment, wrangling of Skid Row, sending the proverbial resume, one fruitless endeavor upon another. Sisyphus is alive and well in my soul. Oh, Saint Bukowski, how do I get a job at the Post Office?

Dark side of the Newt

Dark side of the Newt