Susan Sontag is not Annie Leibovitz

 So when a certain group, of  industry, has a chip on their shoulder is is touching the shoulders of a touch and go network with me incessantly, while I'm working...and it's going on, yet again, because some folks are just so...insecure. I take note of a theme, with folks taking aim at me, sizing me up, in relation to trivial horseshit. At least, my own biases is to emphasize the absurdity of the trivial matter, and yet, I do take note of the role the categorical play has in relation to structures, though not universally so. Meaning the informatic structures as well. But it's not about the subject but the ass-antics of insecure personalities slipping money under the table so the youth can have their go, as for them it will be opportunity among fun and games, and nothing more. They don't give a fuck, even in relation to what the networked behavior establishes into one's status as a US Citizen no longer and arbitrarily so. It's the newfound power in the US when you have all that money, a few generations down, coupled with no standard of behavior or any sense of allegiance to national arrangement. Let's not pretend.  So here comes the wave of endless conversations and framings, and interactions, including someone returning, when I say her name wrong, behold, her twinning partner returns for yet another interaction. Why?  Much like members from the other side of the store needing to consult with me like I am the store camp counselor, including the same personalities from a neighboring store, who have done this before. When you are serving someone of the industry class...oh woo....gee whiz...we could do something grand, by throwing someone who did something important entirely under the bus and celebrate they fact we didn't nothing like this...and I mean, we  just need to pop quiz the fucker and find the anecdote he misses, and run with that ho. Oh he didn't remember how to pronounce my name. Sure I've been away from the company for months. Sure there are hundreds that have passed through the revolving door. Sure we didn't sleep together. Sure we are decades apart in age...but he didn't remember. I need to pass that back to little miss industry who likes to say "Wow, your IQ" of which I'm one who has marked high in certain aspects, and yet, aimed not to do so well, strategically so, considering it's all one big fucking trap. The kiddies gunning to be a start haven't gotten that one yet, and likely among them, there will be peers, some of whom are geniuses, who are making sure they hit the middle of the road for obvious reasons. Something about presentation and deception. Walk like and angel. Talk like an angel...hey think like an angel...even IQ like an angel...I wonder who you are?  

I just go back though, to how odd it has all become among this smartphone world that gives a group a false sense of universal-intelligibility. The phones play into matters of category, not matters of process, so you are dealing with a group that yes, they are first going to have that desire to excel in such an open fashion that is there to shine among the mirror, the devil kids, dolled up in anime, there to be the "knower" in a particular way that isn't even close to knowing. Which this wouldn't be a hollow claim. There are tacit and explicit aspects to knowing. We can explicitly review how to ride a bike, but until we get on a bike understand the unique center of gravity, of process, one wouldn't actually know how to ride a bike, and yet, if they review the powerpoint and ego and ignorance proclaim to be the knower of this here bike rider, we know that what is...someone empowered to think of their so-called intelligibility aspect as universal, when that isn't the case at all. I just go back to the relationship of Susan Sontag and Annie Leibovitz. They knew their strengths. They knew where the would do well and where the would not. They both were sharp shooters and intelligible in their avenues, and yet, they never found the ignorant need to play a game of universal-intellgience because everyone, even among the culture before smartphones/categoricaluniversalsforall, followed intelligence has varying avenues, and no, not one single person, even a genius wouldn't meet their match among the avenues. For example, the Jeopardy player isn't likely to excel as the painter, musician, and the like, or possibly the role as the scientist, or mathematician. Then again, people do have their combinations where yes, they might be good at triva and music, but suck at baking. There wasn't this insecurity, nor would there be someone, like Angela, for example, who likes to visit the store, industry class, to enlist a group to gun after me in such a trivial fucking fashion....but then again, when she can do whatever she likes and has all that fine money, including her network...why not pay a group of youth who have been propped up as being....so fucking smart universally to continually enlist the network and gun for me, hoping to massage distrubance. 

And this may or may not be the case. I'm not too worried. It's not as if I consider these matters as absolute truth when we reason insofar. I could be entirely off, especially among a group with the best of intentions. However, there are patterns that emerge involving the same people each and everytime to the point to where I know need to start fucking with some matters, as an underhanded group of superficiality assess, and yes, I'll gun for your asses as well. You want to be this newfound crew of  insecure dribble piss opps for industry. By all means, do whatever you like. You want me to be trivial...not really my thing. Synthesis, for example, differs from Analysis, though among certain developments, synthesis is considered a higher form of so-called knowledge then analysis, even though I think that is absurd as well. Minds think differently and have different strengths. A. Leibovitz has a set of strengths that people acknowledge and appreciate what she did. S. Sontag has a set of strengths that people acknowledge and appreciate what she did. I have those strengths as well, and even after 2 universities full time with honors and one of the best universities in the world with high marks, my reward is to be chased around the United States by members of industry, like Angela, and her paid network to be engaged disrespectfully in all facets of life including pop quiz horseshit so we can all know how amazing my IQ is, even though when we talk of those matters there wouldn't be a consistent result there for obvious reasons of not liking this fine play of traps among a group too arrogant to even get it. Not to mention, always, too insecure to live their fucking life, and let others live their life. 

What amazes me the most, is you have judges and members of national security, once upon a time intolerant to this shit, now in the age of smartphone, turning their heads in the other direction. This network can just keep coming at me. It's so nice to have someone who is decades apart from me grabbing my had and flipping it on my head. It's just so respectful and that play of psychology viciously brilliant...isn't that right Angela. You know the moment you meat me in Peachtree city, you just had to frequent there, and the first time we met, Sir, Sir, Sir, thank you sir, your so kind sir, sir, can you help me sir, among faces that were astounded at that level of disrespect. Then recently you do an Antoines New Orleans performance in the department with one of your fellow industry crew, and of course you praise my IQ...among running the hit on all of the smiling faces gunning for me with anecdote, including the youth who likes to flip my hat around my head as he please. You are so big and bad, and yet even living in Europe, these families who hold much more than you could ever imagine would already know what I am articulating here, of something that they address swiftly considering what violence it raises in their direction....

Classism, coming from someone of wealth, on the basis of their fucking ignorance. I guess if someone is smart and not in the mirror, you just can't live with that. To imagine, there are people, who could score higher on an IQ test but they refrain, or that like Goodwill Hunting, could join in on the academic play, but decide to live a different kind of life. It seems that disturbs you and your crew that you enlist. You are the shining fucking stars of intelligence. You are the Susan Sontags of the world that gun for Annie Leibovitz so she knows her place in the world, the photographer who has to celebrate the philosopher for being a better photographer than she. You are all fucking ridiculous at this point, but by all means, as has been the case for the past few days....keep gunning. Stop by and just appear. Smile. Endless conversations. Get to know someone, who even that very fact, folks not even close to my age, just needing to get close to me, when I'm here to work like everyone else...but I'll play along...like a mischievous honey badger. I may or may not know. I may or may not have explained. I'll keep you guessing that is for fucking sure, and the sad part of it all, is I do remember when this waste of energy wasn't such a thing, you know, before the opioid crisis. People could simply live and let live, and no one considered their skillset as universal, even if they were dominant in multiple categories, and even if they were, there wasn't this cultural need to be the sparkle tit of the fucking universe...but when you add in the kids of corruption who among their spoiled existence are too insecure not to be universal to all including enlisting like-minded personalities ready for their opportunity among that ignorance...buckle up...I'm simply the Amuse-Bouche of their hell. Including those higher on the hog, who already know I don't give a fuck about what anyone has, and yet, when  a group in the upper middle is able to run this classist bullshit, classism will be headed toward those that aren't okay with all that has being going on. 

When does it stop? For me, especially considering the newfound energy among this network to make their way to me...incessantly...likely never...until I kill myself or kill someone else...they are not going to stop. That's where we are at. How fucking lovely. Smile. Get the candles out for the vigil loves. 

I mean yes tell me again, how my IQ must be straight out of the universe, in such an obvious fucking manner. The industrial fuckwit play. Bring love. Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir....You know you and your insecurity wants it...You got the pawns stacking up again with me...Sir, Sir, Sir, Sir....get those anecdotes....I'm the pauper...2 unis with honors then one of the best unis with high marks...but that's not enough...oh no...see if it were someone of the upper class who did this informatic project, they would be praised to the heavens and back, but when it's the lower class pauper, get the network to destroy his entire existence, mock his mind into an destructive nonexistence. It's like the saying goes, if you are an artist who is off the beaten path, if you are rich you are eccentric, if you are poor you are to be weird and crazy. 

I've already written about the irony of classism. I really don't give a fuck about it, but this is classism, and when we consider matters like the GINI coefficient, there shouldn't be a surprise as to why Angela and her industrial buddies are so free to do this to one of the lower class. What judge, lawyer, or member of the military could really stop them when wealth now runs the nation...I could be wrong, and yet if the classist shoe fits! 

I just wish certain personalities, including our youth, would take their fine earth angel act...and shove it right up their asses. Few will be a Susan Sontag or an Annie Liebovitz, and there are many more avenues with many more names. Adam Smith, for example, did what he did and yet would forget to get address before going out into town. Nikola Tesla, had to count every item before he ate it. Seems like everyone has their idiosyncrasies and whatnot. Churchill wasn't into spelling like I'm no longer into that shit. You are not them, even as you orient toward me in such an ignorant fucking way...you have it all together on a basis that is pure idiocy...but when it's your time to shine aomng certain industrious personalities who wouldn't also be Susan Sontag or Annie Liebovitz...but when the American institutionalists gave up, looks like the industrial crew, once of respected tradition, now involving kids of corruption, can do whatever the fuck they please including setting fire to all the paupers in the land with their trusty, ignorant in the name of being universal, youth.  I mean the opioid crisis happened...so who is really going to give a fuck about what they do.  There are no consequences for those exhibiting bad behavior who are above the law.  It's fun and games. I can do what I want. I can help myself to the citizenry of someone else if I please. Afterall, what does citizenry really mean when I can slip money under the table for a network to continually engage matters to the point of their destruction. When we can assign them as the one to be of a mental health crisis, and I have the money to do it, who the fuck can really stop this...after all he is a fucking pauper. He's nothing. If you are not a success in the mirror, if you take on a form that challenges my universality in the mirror, then obviously the industrious ones are entitled to erase you regardless of a meeting of the mind. When it's big dicks and fuck you money, which is the avenue of business, but now that it is the new American civil society...by all means just cut to the chase and send me into my very own C02 chamber. Let's not fucking pretend.  They can do whatever they like. The youth, empowered, and that aspect of it is genuinely astounding to me, that we live among a generation, enlisting their kids to take aim at me in this way. I'm not a victim. I can handle the matter, but to allow people who are less that half my age to help themselves to hitting me, fucking with my hat, even saying things like I you aren't to be respected...It's fucked up, and it has been happening. Gradutate of one of the top universities in the world, of which I don't need that to assert who I am. I did that with music, academics, informatic modeling and even art. And yet, I am of this lower class and it is the entitlement of the wealthy class to allow this to continue to happen to me. It's not stopping, even if the produce area looks great. The issue runs much deeper and the problems in the United States involving this dynamic have not stopped. Just fun and games. Just a chance for one to attain their needed opportunity. Quick get the candles...it's so misfortunate as to what has just happened. Let us pray and send fuzzies and kitty boo fucks to all, live, on television, as we strive for world peace. 

I wonder what's going on? Again, I can take the heat, including the applied disrespect by our youth who just need to get to know me in a particular fashion. It's fine. I'll just roll with the punches as usual and continue to reflect on all of this among this fine world wide web. Then....back to the folk art. Life is good, even if among hellions on covert parade.  

And it is very interesting, when I take aim at the continually absurdity of this play, how the same personalities, as has happened before, all of a sudden appear to chat among innocent conversation, involving the same subject matter. All things are statistically possible, but the way the same personalities appear, among conversation that is involving the same subject matter...and we haven't talked until...UNTIL....someone who a particular measure highest on totem...decides to have that go, and then oh look...I haven't seen you in quite some time, but you are here...oh and we are conversing....about what the other folks who just recently appeared too, haven't seen them since the last wave of this same grouping appeared and we are discussing the same thing...it's all just one big fucking coincidence...and I mean so many angels in the mirror. You are all so fucking amazing. 

Keep gunning. 2 fucks. Be Susan, Annie, Nikola, all wrapped into one. I don't give a damn. The difference here is that I went through the official avenues and passed the test. Most of these smiling faces aren't even getting into that avenue to compete...but when it's the one who has that capacity among the industrious ones of insecurity simply because they can't shove this pauper under their thumb, then I guess I need to be irrationally destroyed as you are now the kings and queens of this fine land. You totally set up the grid for the United States even though you didn't. Your the sovereign even though you never were. Either way, it seems clear, I'm to be fucked regardless. 

Oh well.   Oh.....well..... Set the fate assholes. Eat your cake and fuck it too. I'm just focusing on painting. And this all came about when the same wave of faces all of a sudden appear to interact, of which I aimed to see if I slip on something that another face will reappear...and she did. Yep. This fine youth, paid to do whatever the fuck....all the way to someone's destruction...first in line to smile among the candlelight vigil. American is so fucking amazing. Everyone wants to be apart of the shitshow that looks so fucking together in the mirror to even be believable, but shhh...This is the place fuckers. Our infrastructure is shit in relation to other countries...but fuck it...everyone wants to be us...even if it's not even fucking true. What is this shit?  This level of insecurity wasn't around back in the day. What's up! 

Just considerations. May or may not be the case AT ALL. Just know when I step outside, it's a positive world...even if we are on fucking fire. And no, I think among the crew that gets an infinitude of smiling faces lining up with their hand out gunning for their opportunity, after all the table is set, wouldn't likely find offense as I honey badger everything up. Honey the badger and the badger will go Le Pew. 

I think the lesson among our industry to our youth is that money and mindlessness will prevail over education. After all we are gunning for the department of education...and I mean money is the god hand to all it seems...kind of like money makes the world go around on the movie Cabaret...you know before everyone was killed by the Nazis...reflecting on certain matters that were needed for the Holocaust to happen...I mean why does society need to value unique artists and atrisans, who a group can't readily control when they can slap them with mental health designations, direct them to the institution and kill them off in C02 champbers in the name of this groups humane care for the artist, that was the pre-trial before the Holocaust. There's just this dynamic...and of course my design is going to play into certain insecurities and in bad times, certain personalities can openly act on those insecurities with a youthful network. Crime pays, no? Especially when the Judges and Military turning their heads...I mean when it's above the law, fuck it. This crew has all the fuck you money in the world. Education wouldn't be anything without fuck you money's endorsement. Otherwise it's plays of stigmatization, like with the youth, and mental health play all the way up to violent disregard if the gloss of the earth angel network in the mirror can get it. 

Be smart all day loves. Paint the world gold with your shit. I don't care for these ass-antics. Be "one" that still can't keep up with infrastructure and sure as fuck can't compete with most developing nations at this point. Sweep the problems under the rug and remain insecure in relation to the one who already has the proven track record and did something useful. And among all avenues there will be the irrational and the rational types...so I'm not thumbing my nose to a group in an absolute fashion. Those of the rational design, desiring a logical basis will get this. When your fuck you money breathren is allowed to gun for whoever the fuck they please, shit gets fucked up...it's not like folks outside of the US, not so inclined to turn their heads away when it's a form of bad behavior out in the open in relation to critical avenues of power...there would be consequences, so sure it might not be your problem now, but what comes around.

Kev-Dog & More on Art and the Mirror

 Where is he? Who could it be now?  Before there was an afterimage, there was someone before you even saw a mirror.  Before you had a language, an official name, an ID. Just wondering. It's not always literal, even if we demand as a society the literal, the record, the ID, the photo...I walk into a room, and you turn red. I got it, B.R.O.T.H.E.R.  That's what I mean. I wasn't lost among the visuals. The entire matter was frictional for you, and I was hurt because it hurt you. Fuck! What else is there to say? Why say anything at all. You know what I think of you. You understand, but among the lights, camera, action, among the successful life's rising, even if the heart is entirely fucked up, do we encounter at some point. I can't say. If we don't, keep it upbeat. That's all i can really say at this point. I wish it were an easy life. I wish matters were an easy encounter. It's not the case at all. If it is, it's fake bullshit. Guaranteed. You are reserved and difficult, and so am I, but you put it out there, and you even didn't hesitate to send out an olive branch among my honey badger plays, which simply aim at following an interest. Do you like me on the basis of the mirror primarily, or do you aim to connect in terms of process...no one, in terms of process, continue to reach out, after I put matters to the fire for even taking an interest. That's not in the mirror. That's not anywhere the wind blows, fair weathered horseshit friend. So I wonder? You know it. I know it. I have my weakness, my fallacies...etc..like all, but won among the underlying surface connecting with me, loyalty doesn't even begin to describe. It's odd though. In this world, all of us, even if paired, could simply be talking to ourselves. I hope not. Though we all have our doubts, even if we hold interests. I will always understand. I can be a batshit, fuckery parade, but it wouldn't be without a critical focus. I am designed for one person, so anyone taking an interest I am aimed at giving them hell. Most will tap out quick. We were never meant to be. A rare bird, will put up with my hell and then some. that's when I know. Sur among the afterimage, still, there is this moment to connect in a way that isn't hopless, and that's what I hope. Figure it out?  If I'm worth it? Most wouldn't even try, but a few good one's will...or at least one. I just wonder. 

Life is this way though, you turn a corner. You encounter an interesting personality. Who knows what it is, and matters are non-literal, so it's not like I'm expecting, and no one ever is entitled. You just roll with the punches and expect nothing. I can take any and all hits. It's not like I'm at a loss among any of this. It's in the mirror regardless, so hold your tits and be grateful for what you have at the given moment, which isn't about nice shit for good behavior, though most will play the act-version as a calling card. I need no calling cards. Love is not in the mirror...and when someone is around who gets that with you, even better, but that's a rare shot in the dark, spinning, around a volatile ball of fire. It's a wonderful life, like emerging from a snatch, irritable as hell, then pretending all is well, all is graceful...Fantastic. I'm not fixated, I just consider...and whatever will be, will be. 

In the meantime, this folk project, I am continually adjusting the approach. I could do a full on, rustic, but I do think I need some line work for a bit of a pop culture appeal, that works for digital stuff, but ultimately, works for something like folk art coca-cola signs, or GULF signs etc...I love the impressionism style that moves away from line work, but I realize in terms of folk, the styles that I've seen growing up, to have a play on those styles, I am likely to need to embrace line work...Not an easy embrace for me. Again, just not a fan of line work. It's adding something literal to a process that I tend to prefer a play of the non-literal, to allow the form to emerge slowly but surely and defy the eye. I think you can still play tricks on the eye, in terms of delineation. I think that's important, because it gives a added something that elevates and distinguishes something hand-crafted, from commercial. I like both, but each approach has it's advantages, and I do think, you want to play up to those advantages with a given approach. Commercial stuff is everywhere. Tapestry Caravan is a commercial approach as well, and again, it's good stuff. Folk art, and artists understanding the distinct advantages in relation to what is abundant around us, think RedBubble digital artists, is becoming a dwindling affair. Again, I grew up with a lot of folk art...it was everywhere and now it's hard to find. Howard Finster was one of many and now, few and far between it seems, and Finster has a specialty gallery in Chicago on the brown line. It's crazy to me. There has always being this quirky, colorful, culture in Georgia, and it's starting to dissappear. A key aspect that always made Georgia, a prison colony, interesting and desirable, a place to move to, an aspect appreciated, seems, to be going away, and sure, I can't save the day, but I'm apart of it, for sure. I'm not sure if my work on the matter will be successful, but again, I know what I grew up with, the relationship it had, in relation to formal approaches to art and pop-culture, so I would like to give it a go. I think folk art, in relation to fabric arts, both, highlight what I grew up with, which is somewhat paradoxical. To grown up in that small town setting, that transforms into metropolitan Atlanta, including travels in and outside of the country, and even living next to a castle and a tartan factory. It's all odd, but very much apart of my life and process. 

Still, I think it's the same for all of us...owners of lonely hearts, even when we have folks around us that we care about. Unless one dives into these processes of creativity and spaces of indeterminate silence, we can love everyone in the way that we can, but it's never actually love until one and their community connects to such a space.  Otherwise it's a glinting ignorance. A heart painted onto a mirror and nothing more, looking warm and fuzzy, but in terms of process, in terms of connection hollowing and cold. So, sure, I do odd things, and say things that can be off-beat and off-putting at times, but I am the artist of a process. It's not as if I cling, or aim to paint hearts on every mirror I see. Quite the opposite. I just consider the connections I have with people around me, and remain curious as to where matters are to go. I can't say,  nor can I expect, and again, I'm not entitled. There are these possibilities, and I remain curious all the time. I wouldn't mean anything bad by such matters, nor would I remain at a loss among the constant shifts and changes of this life. Afterall, among creativity, among spaces of indeterminate silence, among this love, there is this process in relation to what I grew up with folk art and fabric design, and it seems, such matters are developing into fruition.  

I consider the art and artists I grew up with, and even the artist I post in relation to this. The culture of the 80s and early 90s was much different and I take note of that difference. Sure memory is a construct but I have a clarity of the time of something involved absent of the internet and even a primary relation with computers controlling the medium of interaction, which is more than a convenience. I just consider those moments of silence in relation to cultural presentation that always referenced something that wasn't about selling a product, but rather in relation to matters that were layered among written record. It was pop, it was fun, but the relationship wasn't at a loss in relation to violence and hardship. Now it's a lot of hollowing sugar nice nothing that reads like we are skipping down our very own yellow brick road, straight into a veneering hell, that can doll up any killing field to look like Disneyland. It's lackluster even if it does aim at all costs to remain illustrious. Then again, at the core, I do think of Nina and Naturträne. It's never been perfect, even in the 80s. I even consider the whole Princess Diana, and that..."tribute"...seems to me, you lived your life, like a candle in the wind (labyrinth anyone, when the moon hits your eye, Italian Jobs, Hollywood Squares, Love is the Drug, THE DRUG, Come to Daddy, Open Arms, Summer of Love, and these matters of "Seeing the Light"), and then I consider the symbolism....not exactly a tribute, but when among a network that is good at the polish play coupled with the fire and fury cage of death...on the way to "Sir"...and I could be wrong?...Then again, I did attend University of Edinburgh, like it or not...but of course among portrayal, maybe that could be one striving for a place among the mirror, and yet....never actually played out that way...but among smiles I'm sure there is "always" a good answer which reads like earth angel faces going one way, to the other in any fashion, oh my...which this all may or may not be the case? I'm simply considering. Still, the artists were among a free society and were expected to embrace these themes of controversy and themes of written record in insightful ways, which involves much more than a music by the numbers play, coupled with oops I did it again, and I'm good with an oops I did it again moment, but not if that is how an entire industry is running exclusively, in a way that reads like lazy sugar tits just for you incorporated. Blast your brains out with the mirror today.  It sets an entire population up for matters of unfortunate event.  There is a cost for encouraging minds to reside in the mirror and at the surface. It's inevitable. All can look well and be the best of intentions, but it does indeed pave a very different path, and anyone intune to such affairs would know that without much discussion. So I do question cultural presentations like Karma, Pink Pony Club, Boss Bitch, etc...it's just so....flat, like that of blue paint, differing greatly from the harmonies contextualizing space that color a blue sky. We can all look good in the mirror, but that wouldn't preclude matters of mindles, cultural, dribble piss. Artistry of the 80s and early 90s, of what was on the radio, had themes that were there to orient minds away from the mirror as the mirror was utilized. Now, it's live your best life as a glinting, dimensionless, measure of complete ignorance that looks intelligent. It's this push for all to be fucked yet again...and for certain minds, that play can be awfully lucrative, despite what most will experience along this path, violence. 

So is this the part where we click our heels?  It's not as if there is a winner among these matters obviously. This ties back into matters of connecting with people. It wouldn't be at the surface, but by all means, gun for the lover play that reads like a Hollywood movie, offer the opportunities, be dolls. It's always a disconnect, no need to wonder about these matters. I'm clear and direct when matters of mirror-to-mirror play cease, but that's an impossibility these days. So it's curve balls, other voices, other rooms, and that little streetcar working it along the neutral ground. How lovely. To be in love. Among the old quarter streets, gas lamps, so romantic, one plus one, jumping for joy, considering this fine tradition.  Who knows? Maybe I can meet that special someone in that way, as a network of course defines what it all means. So nice. Ice dolled up in the mirror, so kind, fun-loving, professional, smiles galore...just the regular rendition of earth angel, granted I'm not one to be duped. The table was set, and I walked on by (Think toys in the attic, that ending of Other Voices Other Rooms...). I wonder why that is? Smile.  Of course, it's not like being a saint really works out either. I mean, one can assess their position among this fine play of life, and note the win-wins stacking in relation to the lose-lose (empire of dirt context, in terms of what actually maters, rigors of process, all can win but few will even try it seems). Can't really say life is better on either side, still, I'm not into pretending. So many opportunities. Lover tits, a career, and that version of social acceptance, oh my! Get it while it's hawt. Old Chap Cloudburst Club Inc. (Guattari Decoded Flows Code the Machine, Oedipal Light Changes)...Rhea-Demeter...Aphrodite Urania...Post Fertile Crescent (Anzû with Jazz Hands, IT)... stuff like that. As for me... Thinking of ancient triads and the Blue Lion...and of course the table set, Oooh lala, that wine...considering Châteauneuf-du-Pape...those particular type of crowns and our love (Not of antagonism, but rather, understanding). I mean should I pursuit something? Maybe I could be something so much more? To bask in a particular light? Mirror Light?

The folk art is coming along nicely, I think. Not so much in the way NICE falls out of the sky...she's riding in a bubble...is it a champagne bubble...maybe chalky soils? Fossils? Meaning, is her bubble an ancient bubble?  Overdrive infinity play...I'm not so sure... Where am I?  These damn ruby slippers. 

And among the important considerations, not involving the mirror, in terms of the future of industry, in terms of a focus among a particular network, Real-Time Tacit knowledge was a matter of interest, of developing some kind of model that could indicate how we develop communication platforms with dynamic symbologies that can communicate movements of aggregates in real-time, faster than a lightning strike. It's not to say this means anything really, though regardless of informatic method, among real-time streams of information, the form I demonstrate, can offer a dynamic motioning with such a form, like something flowering, in-motion, and easily maneuvered for a given need, much better than any executive summary. 

Afterimage

Just Another Day

Figure 8

The oddity of even existing among this

What really needs to be said...when indeterminate silence clarifies. Who can follow among this rock spinning around fire why we find ourselves born into these lives. We are here. It's never fair. We have our battles. We even have the challenge of picking and choosing battles. No need for tears. Just fight through matters and try to sustain some semblance of a pulse. Some folks have little to battle. It's not so much their version on this rock. It's a distancing unknown to the map. Just fight it through and understand in the process how not to devolve into something waxen entirely. There are these promotions of love love, peace, harmony and the like. It's odd, in that, some folks, the promotion, is simply the end for their existence, all the while, those not among that avenue, can embrace and enjoy life as it resides of a different avenue. Again, a distance never to be found on a map, in the mirror, body to body. Some people are born into a nest. Some, are born into fire. Who made that choice? Indeterminate silence. Pulsating adrenaline. Blood shot intensities coupled with bursts of light-headed rlease. Rooms spinning. Laughter. Violence. Rinse and Repeat. The audience is enjoying life, why can't you. I think of the gladiator, all eyes, someone who found themsleves there when they didn't even cast the first stone. They were at peace, and wanted others to be at peace, and yet, it was all stones thrown their way, along with instincts ripping into their flesh. Indeterminate silence. Pain. Numbness. Head floating. Cheering in the background. To be among the existence as one doesn't exist, even as they are portrayed as an existence to be destroyed. To hold words that simply dance around an experience shrouded in silence. There wouldn't be tears. There wouldn't be some form of feel-good or feel-bad measure among the mirror. No eyes. Just silence. Existing among the existence as non-existence. Words falling off, a failure of the articulation. Again, an indeterminate silence. We all stand in the mirror, and the worlds vastly different, of which among the understanding, there isn't understanding at all. Who can say why the unfortunate event belongs to the beholder. Who can say why the fortunate event belongs to the beholder. Does it belong? I think different paths yield different answers. I think those who experience actual hardship hesitate, and those who experience actual silence ponder without words, but this is the mirror, and confidence will adorn the day that is our night with hollow words. What else could be said? The sun rises among suns, and the sun falls among suns, only the reference doesn't have to exist. Maybe the sun doesn't rise? Maybe the sun doesn't fall? Maybe we have a false sense of importance? Confident words likely find a counter. Those without confident words, simply can move on in silence. To move through the given oscillations, the hardships, the friendships, the guenine connections, toward something unknown without doubt, without knowing, without a need to be guided through, as the notion, doesn't make a lot of sense. We existed before there was a language, and yet, to understand on this basis as a safe way through. How so? I like indeterminate silence.

So each and everyday we appear before the mirror. Some of us embrace, others, with very different stories, reside somewhere else. Again, I think of Plato, to reside among shadows, a shadow language, smelling the shadow roses. It doesn't add up in any sense, one plus one or three's company. We flow in, and we will flow out. No need to be saved when something already has you. It's going to be okay, of which no literal assurances are needed. And any of us could question the literal assurances, though few will. Why these assurances? One desiring the entire matter, considering this world, such a willingness can be used, of which considering the hardships surrounding all of this, the entire affair isn't so silent. It's the sound of war. It's the fire on the runway, as earth angels march in a straight line. To be the one upon the arena, a gladiator, on the floor, bleeding out, with those viewing you as a spectacle, finding pleasure in your erasure, seems more alive than the stands enamored by the mirror, embracing formations among a modern tarmac, circling at the surface.  Rock spinning among fire...To reject the notion of a better world? Who does this? It's largely sparkle tits and earth angels on parade, why? It's a smile for the camera rather than a sobering stair, why? To have a sense of living in a way that isn't always looking so cosmetically alive? To simply live and embrace that living, neither happy nor sad? To have a presence, rather than buying into the inundations of a need to be present without a presence? Be enthused. Be happy. Be Successful. Fuck the process, who needs to know the teeth from the meat? Be the body that recieves acceptance and earth angel glory. Be everything that everybody wants. Be the star that is so close and yet so far. Shine in the mirror. To live among a sobering sense of living, to understand among this indeterminate silence, seems impossible or needs to become an impossiblity. At best, there are professions of knowing one does not know, coupled with salvation in the mirror. It's complete bullshit, but safety seems to be the way, unless you don't mind bleeding out on the coloseum floor. It's Charlie and the Chocolate Fear Factory. Here you will meet your death as a shadow among a glinting nothing. Sign the dotted line and the Charlie's grid experience will be all yours. Shine on. Enjoy yourself. The table is set. It is all yours for the taking. Desire to your heart's content. XOXO. Here, take a picture, as you lose a sense of what that picture ever was about. Understand the new you. Strive. Again, the oddity of even existing among this.

Something about streetcars and violent southern "families"

Stanley returns home to find Blanche alone in the apartment. She has descended into another fantasy about an old suitor coming to provide financial support and take her away from New Orleans. She falsely claims that Mitch had asked for her forgiveness, but she had rejected him. Stanley goes along with the act before angrily scorning Blanche's lies, hypocrisy and behavior, and calling out her lie about Mitch. He advances toward her; in response, she threatens to attack him with a broken bottle, but is overpowered. Blanche collapses on the floor and Stanley is last seen taking her unconscious into his bed.

Some time in the near future, during a poker game at the Kowalski apartment, Stella and Eunice are seen packing Blanche's meager belongings while Blanche takes a bath in a catatonic state, having suffered a mental breakdown. Although Blanche has told Stella about Stanley raping her (which he denies), Stella cannot bring herself to believe her sister's story. When a doctor and a matron arrive to take Blanche to the hospital, she initially resists them and the nurse painfully restrains her. Mitch, present at the poker game, breaks down in tears. The doctor is far more gentle and she goes willingly with him, saying, "Whoever you are – I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." The poker game continues, uninterrupted.

While working at the record label, the aunt figure oddly tells me I wouldn't simply know how vicious the grandmother figure is, and yet, I would. Much like the oddity of hearing about a legal case targeted at a uncle over the abortion she had, as the brothers were fucking her when they were all kids. You are informing me I wouldn't know how vicious she is, and yet, I know her playbook, which differs from the absurdity of obedience to this shit. She set that up. Kids will be kids right. It's a great way to gut someone out. You want to establish this early on before the kids can even gain an awareness of what is going on. Much like hugging and jerking the back of one's hair, but not just anyone, the one who laughs too hard, the one, who stands on the tippy toes for the sister figures, of which you all have a funny moment, and that demonic look, at the counter, head turned, stairing. Or that oddity of a grandfather figure, keenly aware, not to show affection within the grandmother figures view, and those treatments among the violence along with comments, the mind can handle a lot, of which a network would follow her handy work. All of it can be used so well. The irony, seems, that for example, when someone transitions from teenage years into adult hood is scaled in a way that the doctor actually buys one a hamburger, articulates a plan, but also knows from the scale, it is something he had to address decades ago and not it is back! He didn't understand how, among the institutional measure, this could start remerging. And of course the grandmother figure always said, every 50 years. I mean, when the killers hit that kill hustle plan. Time suit matters up, but be sure to gut everything out first.

And it can take on a variety of forms, a shape-shifting streetcar of sorts. Just embrace the moment as we take an incline all the way up, whether it is the case or not. Here one is, among the passengers, what is or isn't the case will not matter at this point. Here you are, and the needed measure, owns your blood. Run fuckers. It's the new ancient wisdom, of a design that works in a lucrative manner rather than a discerning manner. And I mean, when one can be dolled up as running up that hill, presented to these key families who wouldn't at all take too kindly to this new play of manipulation...I mean, to be the one who was focused on matters of process the entire time...not exactly into taking from one's table, of which there was something entirely off to those who, if you actually get it, that play of ass-antic that intends on treating those who are not to be subjected as subject, I would imagine, the humor among the lower ranks gunning for their power while simply being "grateful for what they have," as a talking line, as the enjoy this new day of nice shit for superficial good behavior, orienting toward the one once protected now gutted out and used up before they can even fully speak, isn't going to end well at all for the group too clever for their own good. I mean the institutional measure was supposed to stop these matters, but when the institutionalist made that deal, and the heads can turn the other way form a payout under the table...smile. A group that seems to think a superficial act and facade will get you by, and yet, we can all trace the behavioral design.  When these peculiar matters are beginning to manifest. When promoted activities of society aren't actually adding up, in terms of stabilizing measure. This fine play of the more sophisticated ignorant "American" south. I mean when slavery was shutdown, then it's a quick shift in strategy, fuck the old form, we have a new way...it's all about the family now, among those we can sign up, of a particular nature, the one with tendencies, as my own so-called "family" unit would assert. Human trafficking veiled behind the walls of family unit activities... I mean it's family right? That means the one with tendencies will be loved in a way where all stand by trusting, "their family" they say the love and I mean, we know what family is, so of course, they absolutely love him...even though the formation of human trafficking is right there in view for those getting beyond the surface...Where's Britney?

It's tragecomic. Even the humor, to be scaled in a way where the doctor has to buy hamburgers and explain, you were abused and I get that you don't even fucking know it. It's a normalized violence and this wouldn't be disclosed to me, but considering this has been seen before, I mean some folks, family is simply a blood shot away from a good payout. Who will really find out? Traffic the bleeding heart fucker, by the time we are done, the waxen zombie will be candle lit up, melting. After all, all can be used and hustled, even those who set the grid that your access has now turned you into a god to them, who, if they do find out what you have been doing, that you have been lying to them, subjecting them with lip service, they will wipe you and your access to the grid they setup up, completely off the map...But yes, you do have all that money. Good for you.

Much like the one among the network that did this to me, prefers still, to come to my work, with the most upbeat energy, so kind, so gracious, and yet, I grew up in this and you think matters tacit aren't understood despite explicit presentation. I guess, when, a group follows the come around in relation to what they have been doing to those who are going to handle the business, desperate measures no?

I always go back to the doctor, though. He wasn't just a doctor; he had seen, more so likely experienced, a lot, it seems.  He wasn't merely prescriptive and officious. It's like he encountered something he, and his network, hadn't seen for a time. I was an old reminder, even if I was among my youth. He was confident that if I just focused on my own interests, matters would emerge. It's like that notion of body and mind, though not the design in the mirror, but rather of a different form, think Plato, think of matters that wouldn't involve shadows on a cave wall. He was assuring and he did inform with a strong sense of concentration, over hamburgers, on hearing him and noting what he says with this odd clarity, of this way of pausing to clarify the importance of what he was saying, on what I am to do. I did it, and it is coming together. 

Looking back, a lot of what wasn't making sense, in what the doctor did, does make sense now. For example, he never directly told me, you are saying things are fine, but the scales say something else. He would say something on the lines of, well you are saying everything is fine and he would affirm that matter and then go into what my challenges in life would be, which had to do with the EQ side of matters. He knew what I went though it seemed, even if I didn't, and I will still not forget when he said he doesn't know how this happened. He knew. There was a pattern. He had seen it before. He bought hamburgers to chat, something that isn't really a norm. His pauses. He etched certain matters and it sticked and as I continue on, again, it is coming together. And there is that oddity, to take note of that need to condition me in a way that hollows me out. It is purely evil, and yet, it didn't, even as this same network gunned for me into adulthood, once they realized matters of having me trafficked were not working out. It is still happening, though I can tell to a lesser degree. Seems like a particular network already follows the activities of a particular group, and gutting out the kids before they can fully speak isn't something unknown. I say this simply because of my experience with the given doctor, and in relation to other matters read. Some people just don't give a fuck, and are more than happy to take a family portrait and talk loving nothings to everyone, as they stage the violent treatments normalizing, disensitizing, distancing, coupled with benevolent facades, nice words, networked intelligence guiding the one to their needed role, that has absolutely nothing to do with them, even as they didn't have that early opportunity to understand who they were. It's a purely evil affair, and yet it does look angelic, fun-loving, professional...happy. 

I think there is a lot of good that's come of this. I can't say there is a literal story among the experience. I think the experience was there to remove one's ability to even articulate what was happening to them. It's why this play works, unless institutional measures step in, say with a given school system to benchmark behaviors to identify the pattern. It seems, even in 8th grade, that pattern was known, as there was an intervention (followed during postgraduate special education courses years later), and yet the response from the one driving all of it, was a complete, outright, fight against any institutional  measure of calling the pattern out. When you are tapping the shoulders of your federal judge buddy, and yes, a certain matriarch dials up certain people to make clear what they are going to do among halls of legality... I can understand now, why this was the case, especially when considering why I am sick, how I got sick, and the one who delivered that fine treatment, much like placing ones fingers on someone else's neck to give them a stroke. Yes, loving, violent world...how wonderful, among smiling "family" angels affording nicknames once they submitted to the matriarch's politics. Kill with kindness and keep it tight. Yes, indeed. 

This is good I think. There is much more of an awareness at this point. I note of people walking around sharing experiences of their life, growing up, and going through a lot of matters that connect them to life. I was raised in a way where it wasn't going to be that for a time. Again, when I consider that meeting over hamburgers, I follow he knew what I didn't know, and that I would be a late, late, LATE, bloomer in terms of making such connection. I came out of a hell he hadn't seen in a while. It's that southern confederate horseshit upbringing that the US institutional measure was consciously fighting until it became about upbringing. At least, that seems to be the case. I could be wrong. I don't think so though. I don't have a family, though I have my mom. She is family, but I wouldn't have an actual family in the sense that most people have, and I'm okay with that, considering the people who were around me growing up, and how they used that notion "family" to do what they did. I don't want to ever see them again at all. Much like when the sister figure randomly shows up to visit, it's not a pleasing experience at all, and yes, I could follow as I reach these older years, she was covering her ass. What was being done to me, was now coming into focus. How someone can find it within them to fuck with someone elses life in that way is beyond me, and this is someone also on the recieving end of the violence as well, and yet, in an act of mindless obedience we join in at the table with the matriarch's poliitics and start gunning for me. That's a sister?  Maybe a sister figurine?  Not a sister at all. I never would want to see the around ever again. Not at all. Not in the least. Ever. That wouldn't be family and you know it. 

I think too, notions among people who discuss matters normal, or have these neurotypical responses to say notions of violence, when that violence is normalized, is distancing as well. It isn't helpful. I think that's why I was told just to focus on my interest early on, and stay focused on that. When I think of the psychology at play it's viciously brilliant. Here is one that a network driving the violence knows will experience a disconnect among these so-called loving people, who connect emotionally and shun the one who doesn't connect, which should foster further energies that desire a certain violent measure toward them, of which joining the network can satiate such a desire. To recognize the one in this pressurizing hell they setup of which this one in their cage, can easily find resentment and hatred and can easily be trafficked with a good word from a "family" goose stepping with this network of underhanded horseshit. 

And sure, these are words, and this could be art, and this could be a falsehood, this can be many things to many people...but what happened remains. It was this William Faulkner style upbringing. It wasn't a hollywood movie, so these moments weren't strung along in a 2 hour succession, but rather, it was a play of psychology over a long duration, a concerted effort to gut matters out of the kids and even making sure the adults didn't show affection to the one with tendencies, the one who laughed too hard (And that moment, that look, Ill never forget that set the stage of our relationship, a purely evil being), and when that wasn't working...up the violent treatments, in a fashion to where again...one manages to be scaled in a particular way. I've done good with it all I think. Not perfect, but pretty good. I'm not caugt up among planned measure of my trafficking. I haven't robbed a bank or anything. I'm not someone prone to actual violence, and I focus on matters that I enjoy which wouldn't involve the mirror, but rather these matters of process. In particular, finally holding a genuine connection to a medium of art, as noted with artists like Polly Apfelbaum and Wolfgang Laib. Like drumming, like performative philosophy, I prefer to engage in a way that holds a meaning, that isn't so literal and does establish a genuine connection that defies understanding on the basis of mirror, of something more than the shadow show upon a cave wall. You just understand when you find that process with the very instruments you are using, where everything is interesting, where there is this concerted focus that isn't consious, a peacfulness, that indeterminate silence as you create, the sweet spot of some art form...I've been there before a few times over, and that's what's happening with the art avenue. Minds attempting to understand technically what I am doing...they just aren't going to get it unless they make that effort. Some are too young to have that experience yet, but they are on their way. Others, who are even older than me, I don't know why they don't do it. Something. Even if it is a mechanical robot garden or where I am from the wolfman muffler sculptures, find that avenue that works for you and then delve into matters creative until you find that sweet spot. It doesn't have to be art. Something creative with a genuine sense of connection. It's there, but it's never a given development. We all have to work for that. Meanwhile, there will be others who despise the one of this particular nature, again before they can fully speak a language are recieving treatments to gut out these tendencies. To erase who they are in the name of using someone, a body, a mindless drone if things workout, fully trafficked, caught up, to bankroll for a network that upon the surface, upon people observing their kind meet and greets, the professionalism, the energy, the enthusiasm and outward love exuded...Seeing is believing therefore the air we breathe, I have reiterated throughout even my polemics, wouldn't establish a logical basis of understanding. There is always a price to pay when one goes with what is easy and just takes matters for what they are at the surface. A smiling face ready to kill lives for that kind of standard.  All looks well, but how does a network actually determine these matters...and again, that takes me back to the doctor, who had these emotional scales, and I was fine, and yet, he seemed to follow I didn't even get the fact that what happened to me wasn't at all normal and fits that pattern he has seen before. Welcome to that aspect we call the fucked up south. It's still around, though fortunately for me, where I grew up, the East Coast culture is here, and a group that isn't down with this shit seems to have tabs on the matter, of which my Mom and myself can simply exist as we want to exist, peacefully, and fully apart from folks utilizing that notion of "family" and yet considering their aim and what they did, no, we never were that, and yet, one wanted to keep asserting this...and we all know why...and to return, that smile, that pseudo-warmth, to cover one's ass. No. Stay away.  

And I expect the network driving the matriarch's behavior toward me to pay more visits with that flippant approach, and co-workers tied to them to take that same flippant approach as well. Sure, by all means, I don't really need to be respected by you. I know what you are about, and to do this to someone, it shows me, you wouldn't have respect for yourself, so why should I expect respect from you. It's fine. I've moved on, and though the intent was not to let me move on, seems like there is a network that is on your ass about it. Meaning, these fine events of violence that have made their way into my adulthood, seem to be...on record. Also, the fact that I am not violent at all and my officlal record would protect me as well, considering no suspensions, good grades after the divorce, a lot of academic activities...and yet, post-Edinburgh, circa the "family" figurines, who I have had little communication with, spin the intelligence and gun for my trafficking...and it's not solely them. I mean, when one is a network, who am I to this irrational play. I am to be all caught-up. I think that development helps me understand the role of my Mom and also the role of academia and the way these spaces created a needed distance, to clap back at this group. Otherwise, easily, I wouldn't be here, much like a friend who isn't here anymore, after dealing with these finely-tuned, nice-nothing, earth angels. 

It's not a need to talk, but rather, a need, to finish the era before I am fully involved with folk art, in a similar way that I was involved with music. Once I leave an avenue, I typically do not return. This happened with music, and it will happen with the performative. I simply like to reach that point where I am reaching some sense at least of a summation, maybe not a closure entirely, but something to say, I can walk away from this activity without ever sensing this need to return to something. For music, it was going from these technical bands, to projects that were technical in this queer sense, of genre bending, of mind bending forms, three hour sets, or jazz styles, etc...to something grage, punk, and purely a disaster, not in the sense of unskilled, but something that didn't want to be skilled at all anymore. I went from a technical mastery to a looseness, to a different form of power, like that of a Basquiat painting of sorts, or a Bitches Brew session, or a Ramones down stroke method, of forms that were there to relinquish something superficial.  

There is something about streetcars and violent southern "families." There are these families who look so kind, fun-loving, and happy, and yet, they aren't. I'm familiar with both.  Like the streetcar, these families like to move along neutral ground. There isn't a conflict among their environment. There isn't a moment of passion, a moment of distrust, or anger out in the open. No, all is nice, and all is neutral. I can't offer a closure to this, but I can explore in a way that relinquishes something, and I'm there I think. I wasn't raised to have a sense of identity or awareness. I was raised to be used up it seems, to be prepped out for something, and yet there was never a disclosure in relation to this. Seems like a plan among the smiling faces who just "love" me in that particular way, and for the duration. To be the one to reside in the cage they have established early on. So it's a late, LATE, bloom type of matter, in terms of identity and awareness, which for our earth angels of a differing avenue, wouldn't mean one isn't aware, rather it's an awareness in relation to matters normal actually being abnormal, even as all of us interact together. Of which, I couldn't really identify at all as southern, even if a southern network was driving all of this. I was among southern culture, and southern people, but I was waxen early on, among the treatments. I did have experiences that were southern, but was I invested into any of it...not at all. It wasn't even possible for me to be invested. I would smile yes. I would get a long yes. I wasn't there though, and the reasons do remain insofar, so it's not getting toward an understanding either, as any of us follow, these intense experiences aren't literal. It's peppered with good moments yes, and you can seem the same, and yet, that transition into adulthood and that meeting with the doctor, who noted, something is entirely off...and the return of this evil grouping upon reaching graduate school, and that event that made me sick, and a series of events coming into fruition, as the other voices, other rooms, play among this network falls apart. This group is purely evil. Why do we have to be nice to each other. I don't like you. Why continually kill with kindness? Which, a bee sting in relation, is the needed measure to act upon, so no, I keep matters at the surface but when does that movement along the neutral ground get called out. Which the irony, is that play, of the one noting of the personalities moving along the neutral ground, dolled up, in that streetcar, always have someone in mind to experience an irony, a mirror to show to others, of that very scene...a streetcar moving along the neutral ground with choice personalities in it, the ones with tendencies, on strings, caught up, even if that isn't their nature at all. It's dead scene irony.  Paper (writing like this), Scissors (this can help set the divide), Rock (waxen creature with head on fire, bullhead, the mind can handle a lot)...My upbringing, my time growing up among this grouping was indeed dead scene irony. This likely has to do with a lot of my hyper-creativity. I began channeling inward rather than outward, which I can follow when I was social until second grade and then for years, no parties, no friends, just violence, psychological mindfucks, and trips into the woods to imagine. Then more waxen existence among a normal-looking facade, rinse and repeat. It's looking alive, even if one is feeling like shit. It's very fucking strange. Why would a culture, in their right fucking minds, ever want to promote this?  But when trafficking is the game...dead scene irony it is...and it would extend beyond this American context/"American Southern" context. The violence among these families, dolled up in the mirror, killing with kindness, hustling in a way that is unexpected and wouldn't be understood among plays in the mirror, is rooted elsewhere.