Critters in My Head

Wednesday, 30 June 2004

paranoia.jpgI might have talked about this be­fore, lord knows I’ve thought about it enough times. I don’t re­mem­ber. This could be nor­mal for­get­ting, un­sure­ty of whether I’ve dis­cussed this be­fore, or some­thing sin­is­ter and hid­den. This sort of gives me the willies. Thinking about it that is. It be­gins, like so many oth­er things, when I was lit­tle.
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The Space Between Thoughts

Tuesday, 29 June 2004

nerohead_coin2.jpgI read a folk tale, years ago, where a boy re­ceives a purse that al­ways con­tains a gold coin. This handy source of in­come helps him on his quest, which I can­not re­call. When he takes out the coin, there is still a coin in the purse. Always. Magic!
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A Taste of Delany

Sunday, 27 June 2004

“There are… two con­cepts of the artist. The one gives all to his work, in a very re­al way; if he does not pro­duce vol­umes, at least he goes through many, many drafts. He ne­glects his life, and his life tot­ters and sways and of­ten plum­mets in­to chaos. It is pre­sump­tu­ous of us to judge him un­hap­py: or, when he is ob­vi­ous­ly un­hap­py, to judge the source of it.

Be thank­ful for him, he lends art all its ro­mance, its en­er­gy, and cre­ates that ab­solute­ly nec­es­sary ap­peal to the ado­les­cent mind with­out which adult mat­u­ra­tion is im­pos­si­ble. If he is a writer, he hurls his words in­to the pools of our thought. Granted the ac­cu­ra­cy of the splash­es, the waves are tremen­dous and glit­ter and flash in the light of our con­scious­ness. You Americans — not to men­tion the Australians — are ex­tra­or­di­nar­i­ly fond of him. But there is an­oth­er con­cept, a more European con­cept — one of the few con­cepts Europe shares with the Orient… the artist who gives his all to life, to liv­ing with­in some sort of per­fect­ed ide­al. Sometime in his past, he has dis­cov­ered he is … let us say, a po­et: that cer­tain sit­u­a­tions — usu­al­ly too com­pli­cat­ed for him to un­der­stand whol­ly, as they pro­pi­tious­ly jux­ta­pose con­scious will with un­con­scious pas­sion — they some­thing-be­tween-cause-and-al­low a po­em. He ded­i­cates him­self to liv­ing, ac­cord­ing to his con­cepts, the civ­i­lized life in which po­et­ry ex­ists be­cause it is a part of civ­i­liza­tion. He risks as much as his cousin. He gen­er­al­ly pro­duces few­er works, with greater in­ter­vals be­tween them, and con­stant­ly must con­tend with the pos­si­bil­i­ty that he will nev­er write again if his life should so dic­tate — a good deal of his civ­i­lized en­er­gies must go to­ward re­sign­ing him­self to the in­signif­i­cance of his art, in­to the sup­pres­sion of that the­atri­cal side of his per­son­al­i­ty of which am­bi­tion is on­ly a small part. He stands much clos­er to the pool. He does not hurl. He drops. Accuracy is again all-im­por­tant: there are some peo­ple who can hit bull’s eye from a quar­ter of a mile while oth­ers can­not touch the tar­get at ten feet. Given it, the pat­terns and rip­ples this sort of artist pro­duces can be far more in­tri­cate, if they lack the ini­tial ap­pear­ance of force. He is much more a vic­tim of the civ­i­liza­tion in which he lives: his great­est works come from the pe­ri­ods art his­to­ri­ans gross­ly call ‘con­ducive to aes­thet­ic pro­duc­tion.’ I say he stands very close to the pools; in­deed, he spends most of his time sim­ply gaz­ing in­to them. Myself, I rather as­pire to be this sec­ond type of artist.”

Dhalgren Samuel R. Delany [pp. 391 – 392, 16th print­ing: 1982, pa­per­back]


Saturday, 26 June 2004

fig.jpgI was a nude mod­el for Spencer Tunick’s lat­est in­stal­la­tion this morn­ing.

And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
Genesis 2:25

Several thou­sand oth­er folks fol­lowed my lead and were naked too. My Defective Life was prob­a­bly there as well. I did see her car. It was fun, apart from cold hands and feet. 

Let me just say this: Cleveland has lots of girl-fla­vored eye can­dy. My grand­moth­er thinks this was pr0no­graph­ic. My ma don’t know what to think. No, I was not em­barassed to be naked in front of peo­ple. They were in the same boat as I am, which makes things eas­i­er. Also, though I’m not some sort of Adonis, my body isn’t hor­ri­ble.

The first shot had us all line up along the 9th street pier up in­to the city. I was in ap­prox­i­mate­ly the third row up on the Cleveland side. It was quite fun­ny to watch cars dri­ve by, slow down, get yelled at by the po­lice and then tear out of there. It was al­so ridicu­lous­ly cold. There was an amaz­ing­ly at­trac­tive girl right in front of me. I was on­ly slight­ly dis­tract­ed by the string from the tam­pon stuck in her buttcrack.

Yes, I looked at girls, and they looked at us; and de­spite it be­ing a sort of ‘check­ing out’ it was some­how much less sex­u­al, I think, be­cause the on­ly mys­tery left is what the per­son is ac­tu­al­ly like.

The two oth­er in­stal­la­tions he did were gen­der spe­cif­ic, the girls went first, by the lin­er that was docked, and then the guys had the in­stal­la­tion fac­ing the Browns sta­di­um. Apparently girls pre­fer the back­sides of men to the front sides, judg­ing from the cheer that went up when Spencer had us turn around. As a man, I would like to say that girls look good from all sides.

Being naked in a large group of naked men was quite bor­ing. It re­mind­ed me of a lock­er room on­ly re­plac­ing get­ting snapped by a tow­el with hav­ing ridicu­lous­ly cold feet. Then I spent 200 bucks get­ting new tires on my car.

Everyone in Cleveland has a tat­too, ap­par­ent­ly. The ti­tle of this post will most like­ly re­sult in thou­sands of new hits look­ing for nudie pics of that Aussie guy with my name.

The Block

Thursday, 24 June 2004

Frustration1.jpgI can’t seem to write stuff any longer. Ideas are few and far be­tween and when they do ap­pear, at­tempt­ing to make some­thing come of them is al­ways abortive. There are many pos­si­bil­i­ties that could be caus­ing this. I’ve thought of a few.
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Tuesday, 22 June 2004

joker.jpg I once knew some­one in col­lege who used the jok­ers from decks of play­ing cards when he left notes for peo­ple. Unfortunately, he was the most bor­ing per­son I have ever met. I thought the jok­er was the on­ly cre­ative idea he ever had.
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