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

hutchinson-bottled spirit

tonight i am imbibing from an 1800's hutchinson bottle.  i am attracted to certain things and this bottle style is one of those.  i've never seen this bottle before but it has many familiar, likable, tones that i respond instantly to.

i wanted to post this bit of stuff i wrote on the 26th but was unable to do so on facebooks limited "status" feature.  in ways, that is why i miss myspace as a medium for most of my friends and family.  i couldn't care less which of these mediums or methods worked, as long as the majority of those i intend to exchange with are subscribed to using them.

otherwise i could easily just write all these things down collect all the photos i feel to share and then find a nearby forest with arbitrary location and just dump it all there.  and then, only the really deserving of chance would find those words.  nonsense right?  indeed, how far does one take that line of thinking.

but for now here is what i wrote:

we are beings instinctually-tied to comfort, familiarity.  leap years are caulked in, calendars and week lengths are changed (maybe the 7-day should be reviewed?); time and association gifts lots of toys for everyone to play with.  arbitrary?  time is incomplete, it is a relative notion to provide us frames for expression of our observations and findings and statements of life.  space is likewise only relevant and not absolute as we'd like.  our earth spins as our latitudes command, all the while we spin about our solar neighbor, as we spin about our galactic neighborhood through an ever-changing address in the universe (tens of millions of miles displaced each day, x y z's never to be revisited).  but all the while we may have phrases and ideas such as "this was the exact location..." 
relative comfort benefits our shared knows of the lives we wonder in.  cherish, respect, appreciate, and enjoy the fabulous ingredients of existence; think beyond your do and do beyond your thoughts.


i believe i was responding to my frustration at the apparent lack of people who care to think things to any length of discovery.  maybe most people are too afraid of what they'll find.  but no, i don't think they are that aware, and only some of them do enough to find themselves too close to the edge of the world.  only so many learn that way "i'll never do that again."
and it's not just the meathead sports sorts that seem to be a cliche type these days(in commercials and around the lunchroom at works), i am disappointed in the intellectuals, or seemingly intellectuals.
i find that just because a person is "successful" published or "high achieving" does not mean they are a "thinker."  
it is incredibly frustrating!!  

to a certain extent you can only teach or explain something to someone, a human, so much.  humans have limitations to their biological(physical and mental combined) ability as any animal does.  to varying degrees we can employ our ability to learn a method or skill, to copy the actions required to do a thing, to get a result.  but even at that there are those who come up with less than satisfactory results regarding the success in the endeavour.

and i don't expect all humans to be able to be the same as all humans.
the abstract mind can think of things far beyond what reality can deliver - weltschmerz!  dang!
i just want my-sorts to get our crap together and find each other.  we are all out there in the world, time'sa wasting! 

words from m(my sil) somewhat about the above statement:  "those people, we people, we exist as certainly as the abstracts do. other people can seem to occlude us, in numbers and in seeming apathy, but we are out here." 

and regarding the people i am usually in contact with, that there isn't a sense that real communication is cared for, wanted, or felt - that most people ultimately act upon a want to "be heard" or to be entertained.  
also, that the way we think establishes reality. that sure, "it's all in our head" but then everything is in our head, even "given" concepts like time. so then, what is real and what is not? what is weird and what is normal? am i the one with the problem or is it the majority-else?
to that m said: 

"everyone has a problem, even if they don't recognize it, you know that.  comprehension, understanding, observation--all that good stuff, is an easy casualty."


my drink is done.  the night is young.  "my" night is young since i work the moth-shift(any customized shift that is neither a conventional "split-shift" or "night shift" but that still occurs in the darker hours mostly.)

most people don't seem to sense the effects of existence.  of perception and perspective.  of the world and it's prickle and tickle and meals of course.  "of course!"
i want thinkers and askers and those who demand "right" overeasy.  i want to share that breakfast we.
no more mournings spent with in/un-sensitive sorts who have better things to do than enjoy all existence and not just the blunt obvious artifacts.

 

accoutrement

shoes arrived just before christmas.  fortune, in a fortuneless time.  or a time with many failed endeavours.  but while the endeavours-failed, the experience is without value.  i have gained much observation and result.  i sense an enriched wisdom present.

if i failed to update this note, my eyeglass frames arrived and so soon i will fill the prescription.  money.  but things are on schedule or slightly ahead of.

fantastic sales at old navy netted some nice coverings for the coming chill(fortunately i know of certain locations that move my sizes and styles slower than others).  so far, the winter has been warm.  but winter is young yet and though the yield for snow may be frustratingly low, the chill does not care and will freeze our butts off just the same.

my beard continues it's journey, now - since the second week in october.  i just let it be what it will be. i try not to get in the way of it's nature.  
i find that i am a bit repulsed by decision and fuss of purpose and, well, basiclaly the human state of "me" and "mine" and "what i want"
i make do and tolerate this since i have the same feelings of "me."  i am "human."  we all have that state.
but i  don't feel so aligned or "easy" with  the emotion i observe versus the one that feels right or "easy" to me.  instincts such as emotion or breathing are not ones we struggle over to create.  we may influenece them after a time, learn their science, but for me when it comes to choice, i have a troubling layer.

jewelry.  i don't wear it necessarily.  hair styles?  not necessarily.  if i chose to cut then i am self-ish.  self-serving.  sure it is instinct to groom, to be healthy, to survive, etc. etc.
but there is a sense, a reaction, an emotion in me that does not like the sensation.
that i "like" something almost seems a choice.  a "me"ness.   
i live and sense, "liking" something is an observation of what one is familiar, attracted to, comfortable with, is conducive to or that brings positive results for the individual or what the individual assigns importance to.

some things, humans react negatively to if the nature is altered (piercing) while other things humans react negatively to if the nature is not altered (shaving).
and these ideals or ideas or associtions or whatever, are so fleeting.
i look at the "costumes" of the two last centuries.  i look at how we associate periods and times and romanticize stories by those costumes, those looks, periods of time now complete abstracts to all those living.  well anything 1930 and older.  only the living currently can express or appreciate the cosmogony, their bracket in time.  as they die, those brackets disappear.  recorded history even in the detail we have today cannot capture, for the new individual or the one existing outside of the bracket, the course of that context, that "personal bracketed cosmogony."

times change.  time is an abstract, it is relative.  we detect the changes assigned to the effect of time.  our perception of the indication that time exists.
words change meaning, clothing changes...  trends.  choice to subscribe or not to subscribe.

what a mess, i think.  so much fuss, i often say.  but it is the "way" of the bracket is it not?
and i'm continually in joy of it.  i sense it even when i cry out against it.  maybe i don't feel it is all right. it all often feels incomplete, failing to really capture what is going on.  or maybe it's that i'm surrounded by people who don't care or realize what is going on.  that they don't care to ask or question or search or discover.
maybe i'm  suffering rough edges from not enough like-minded rhythms around me.  no oil for my motors activity.

but somehow i persist.  not "somehow" because there is no question to why.  what i know is that "i work"

i am this way, that i am.  how far, how long does one question that?

am i questioning it now?   no, not really.  i am curious though.  but that is inherent.

i am material.  atoms perhaps.  bits.  stuff.  the same as what i observe.  

we each have this brain, this  "entity" physcally bound or enabled.  it exists amoung the mass of matter we call the human being.  the "body."

i move my hands each day and it is frightfully amazing. i can feel my pulse, i sense the movement of the universe.  i around it, or it around me?  science may prove all it wants, but what is science?  what is real?

does the continua exist regardless of our crap?  or does it all exist because of our crap?

i turn to share these happening thoughts with someone, this stuff of oddly-hidden pulses of the brain.

not until i take action, that is tangibley receivable, is any of it revealed, but revealed in wholly different ways - for the written word is not the way it originally appeared in my mind.  that stuff in the mind is unrecordable - for now. 

i must speak or write or record so that these thoughts may be shared.  because even at that, i have no one around me to receive these interpreted bits when i turn to phrase.

painting helps. drawing helps. finding mediums of expression. maybe that is why some of us become artists.  or display "artist" behaviour.  we just "need to" - it is a side effect, one could say, of the biological state or evolving genetic line that is in effect. 

this blog is labeled "exhaust" because it feels like that is what is happening.  expression in whatever form is an exhaust for the abstracts experienced in the mind. 

and once expelled there may be direct or indirect influence but the exhaust becomes static regarding it's existence in the mind - mainly , because it is no longer "in the mind" but "in the world" and separate from the mind's physical workings.  i tend to call exhaust "crap" or waste or trash, etc.  it is a statement of situation and not personal commentary.

so i will continue to express these ideas from my mind.  put them to tangible situation.   in whatever forms i am able to.

white noise

the "artist" i hope to be,

that i always have been

a hueman
is one that does not learn to paint
does not learn to be "artist"
does not have any singular purpose
but rather a purpose entire.
to live, and share, and reflect, and connect
and communicate and disseminate
those collected and experienced moments
of the abstracts of the mind
in the past, of the future, and with the present
-
to do so, utilize the surround to articulate
tangible currencies for exchange between the realms
of each of us. . . and whole of us.
whatever means to mean whatever needs.
-
a hue man "is" because of why? of what?
because they are published? represented?
raise high auction or attention?
because word or phrase exists to classify?
because they are known at all?
indeed, the artist makes quite a disturbance
even bereft of audience.
that an audience is enabled notice at all
is ultimately benefit to the audience, not the artist
-
an artist is the pearl no matter the beast
they are caste by

thus, it is the already-connection that benefits the

artist,  a benefit not sought - already ingredient felt

and known