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.jpgI 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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