Salvador Dali - A Soft Self Portrait - Complete

first, due to blogger's recent interface update/improvement i have effectively been blocked from blogger.  this is due to my points of access.  for one reason or another i cannot access the interface windows, which means i cannot make new entries or even access my profile.
i can only post entries through roundabout convoluted ways like you see here (from flickr or youtube).
so until futher notice, i am on a inconsistency-based hiatus. i'll have to see how i can circumvent the current update-and-resultant-block situation or find a way to move all content to another site/blog.

[now for my post-exposition]

why am i even sharing this? hmm, because i must sate one of the cabinets in my brain that is bellyaching about it. because those that "know," know. and those who don't, don't care/seem to care. though, there is that small small small portion of human specimen that actually will wonder where this has been all their lives up to the point of discovery. so that is a good reason to share this.

foot dough

foot dough, a photo by sr. mzocoxito on Flickr.

foot dough

t’ximi

we sit opposite mountains
at our knees,
playful cardboards,
and electric crumbs
we do

skies apart, skies together
tin clouds we wear
behind our ears
for each other
we do

she and i,
we talk away colid cants
through teacup
and board
she do
my ear ~
close to that leaf
close to that knot
i do
to hear,
in hope,
her whisper of horizon

i do
with nook
and nickel
and future scrapes
across the shadow of see and saw

the blacks, our tigh.
her seconds are my firsts
a hundred horns my wig wanders by

lessons on the half shelf

children and their art - fourth edition.

pg. 5
. . .art’s reputation must be due to the fact that it helps people to understand the world and themselves, and presents to their eyes what they have understood and believe to be true.”

pg. 8
“. . .art is an expression of a person’s reactions to experiences in his or her life, given form through the use of design and materials.”

pg. 9
“many innovations or movements in the modern era of art history began in revolutions against accepted artistic tradition or, in many instances, academic dogma.”

pg. 18
“the current scene in art is not dominated by a single style or movement, but exemplifies a pluralism that includes contemporary manifestations of nearly all that has gone before.”

pg. 19
“there is a time for children to focus on their attention on the external world and there is a time to honor their own dreams and inner desires; there should be opportunities to experiment with form; and there should be situations wherein the modes of one medium can borrow from another.”

pg.28
“since art is very personal, creative people must control the activities that engage them. to be in control of their work, artists must have freedom to choose both their subject matter and their manner of expression.”

pg. 29
“the freedom necessary for the success of an aesthetic act cannot be separated from the freedom of thought and action that is the prerogative of the individual living in a democracy. a fact generally overlooked is that art educators have been among the pioneers in developing a pedagogy compatible with democratic practices. what assisted them as much as anything else was their understanding that art could not be taught successfully unless it was presented in an atmosphere designed to develop individual and, in a sense, nonconformist expression.”

pg. 95
“art does not lend itself readily to rules and regulations, and any statement concerning principles must be outlined with caution.”

“should learners come to rely on the principles they have developed from their experiences to such an extent that they cease to look for new, deeper truths in art, their thinking will become stale. whatever universal beliefs we may hold about art must, it seems, be subject to continued revision and further inquiry. general truths about art, in short, must always be regarded in a pragmatic light. a principle may not be adequate when we have enjoyed new experiences and gained new insights into design.

the current attitude toward honesty in the use of materials reflects this idea. if we are still to hold to the idea that artists must respect the integrity of their materials and work from the accepted definitions of painting and sculpture, what are we to say of george sugarman, who paints his sculpture, or of marisol, who adds drawing to the same combination? should we adhere to the “rules” and reject their work, or should we keep ourselves open to the element of surprise and amusement when confronted with such combinations? obviously, today’s children should be prepared for the art of their time, and there is no reason why there cannot be room in their life for both the “integrity” of a fresco by michelangelo and the multimedia combines of robert rauschenberg. (we must bear in mind that in the opinion of many of his contemporaries, michelangelo violated the integrity of the human figure by distorting human proportions.)

each learner arrives at a personal statement of principles that reflects personal experience and its resulting insights. . .
. . .no matter what principles one may formulate, however, they should be employed only as temporary working hypotheses.”

glue

though few, the bonds i enjoy are absurdly dense and immeasurable. though, perhaps not entirely accurate to compare - my bonds are somewhat like a black hole: very attractive, lots of matter absorption, dense-like properties, infinite with no detectable beginning or end.  love is made of this kind of thing. an existence thrives on it.

shoulder over the shoulder

consistently often, i have chills of sorts. they are not apparent, and i'm not boisterous; sometimes i'm overwhelmed and i'll articulate more directly/physically,

if it's not the realization of how many hearts are beating at once, how fast the earth spins round itself(the sun, the galaxy, the universe), then it's how many blades of grass i'm seeing, how they all look like one, feeling all the itchy sensations in the skin, internal organs, cartilage movements, hairs blowing, sounds floating, colours trembling, things being

and i can feel the atomic presence - the connection. it's vibrant. it's tart. it glows. it blinds.
it says "there is no end to one thing, no beginning."

i may nod and whisper~

"it's fantastic and continually distracts me. . .  thank you."

poored

i'm poor, but i'm not dumps.

i continue to develop my ideas for these pieces i must somehow figure out how to build.  i talked about this with my friend "gold" at one point.  and just in that one talk i formed alot of structure for these otherwise ambiguous pieces.

through experience they (these pieces) have clobbed together into their own form of choice (it seem - it feels).  but they are currently beyond my skill to build as well as my wallet.
i've suffered a financial blow but my mind remains strongly on track.

in the meantime of repairing my broked wallet, i'm reading up on the various techniques it may take to build these pieces.  french carving styles, glass or plastic shaping resources and methods, mosaic tiling, lathe and plaster, wall papering, basic carpentry, etc.
additionally there is some historical methods and visual reference research i have to do.

the hardest part is the peripheral element.  i call it "peripheral" because it is an aspect of these pieces that they are familiar, "recognizable," but not upon close inspection.  not when you take that second look or get close.
"peripheral familiar" incidents is what i currently call these beasts.  "incident pillar"s are what i call their form.

my experiments continue.  sketches, research on real world occurrences of the "pf" factor; perhaps i should just call it the "pif" factor (composite shortening of peripheral incident familiar), experiments.

things are tough but i'm focusing on these expressions.  not just the pif, but all expression.

action packed.

three arms crossed awkwardly

‎"find me," it read.

waiting.

somewhere in the breaths of all air in the world with everything between the fingers; eyeless, foundless.

waiting.

a familiar skin much too silent on the cheek.

waiting.


for you.

bye product

i take pictures

so that maybe


i’ll time travel



and be able to answer the question i had




behind my back

ajar full of simple need

what should i say when you are amazingly entire

the words that would reach you
crush from their own wait

i am the social whisk,

you are the batter

without a boll

silver naïf

we need to see each other

somehow beyond

what we each think

or know



we need each other

too much



when you are all

i am



we grow

spooky knuckle

i’m too happy to be sad.
no, correction, i’m too appreciative to find rest at any polar end; any end.
the way i see it, there are no ends. birth? death?
not: “in the middle,” “gray area”;
“all”
concepts, not beginning, not end; abstracts we arrive at to situate ourselves and make nice the continual congress held with instinct, intellect, intuition, wisdom, and the rest of the insinuate parties present.

my fragile outward crust gives fragile outward abbreviations
inept needles poking about exaggerations
trying to find the stitch in time to rhyme
along lines that cut the dime in half

my left nickel
upon a spooky knuckle
can be worth the whole of sentiment quilted in our nuclear present
its value sticks on the keys of our xyz’s

correction in the white out
noise of the clack and clack

the stable
where all rest just fine

and i’m screaming, “hay!”

tantrum epistaxis

i was crowded, and thought the world a bit tight. and right when i was getting ready to rip the mantle, my nose started bleeding. what timing!
my grays were so obliterated to black and whites that i stripped the threads and the earth reset.
just like that!
and i was all like "well shucks."

get your halo off my affect

haphazardly stitched with wine.
a vague brightness from my own scratches against the sky.

what can i say
when the breath to say it is hair as hog
and spoils everything else like carthage

airs become the roll, spinning
and curled
with sugar on top
and cinnamon to disguise the noise.

montage

back when i used to swim in the rug, casting the sheets as my blurred cloudy friend,
i was conduit
i was invincible.
the crumble has been fierce. the ‘brades are tight, but i had never forgot this one thing
something i thought i forgot because everyone else had
but i couldn’t shake it loose even if i tried.

singularly
familiarly
strangely
apart-ley
i keep losing what i knew
and finding what i forgot

in you.

and i must thank you for your struggles
the panes you mend with reflection
with every little verb~
a mason of my foundation

and you’ll never know it
because the walls are too thick
the distance, too far.

and i’m much too determined
to honor what you’ve given me
not to let it go
and spill invisibility in my pockets
where your change still rattles my heart.

derivative of experience

the inflated planet above rolls around my brow; my lunatic infinite sil.  it happies my wig. shakes the knits in my knots waked - furious pans to sizzle the math of confusion; the hocks of nonsense. -to mix the stubborn real into my temporary excited calms.
enable is my palm, upended, to grab the ladle in the blind spot.  all amazed.  all at rest.  the rest.  of days.
i play my flute sharply-puncturing the 500-second flood into flat speed that flows and knows no frame.
it is my silver belt. for safety. for the sky.

the zero breath

had we remained together
we could have become a silence.

-yehuda amichai