Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Naming Rage, Boldly Pushing the Boundaries of Confessionalism

A Cloud in pants, or, the naming of the parts. Or.
Where/ can I go without you?
Yeah, yeah. So, I'm told that
comrade Mayakovski spoke Georgian at school, and with friends,
but that his family spoke a ton of Russian at home. Vixi duellis
nuper idoneus et militavi non sine gloria.

Da, I gotta tell you-- it's all Greek to me. Like Orinoco flow,
or the Great Vowel Shift that took place in the south of England
between 1450 and 1750.
Now, that was a sight to see. Yeah! I mean, rilly, like Orionids popping.

Okay, it’s just a little bit past the ides of October. And it's, like, truly paradisal to be near you like this. However. Due to the angle of early morning sun falling over mid-western highways-- the long bitter flare giving off that early morning shimmer has seen, or possibly caught, that very angle in its own gravity, and, yet-- the light from that sparkle may not transfigure only the blinkered and discursive effects of this dynamism in the manner of a sensing bough, but [just] might also contain the candlepower to elevate this "energy" above the echelon of skewed-allure, unleashing, then, an already maniacal lust to unravel those forces: to re-evaluate an intermission of the withering arrangement of sense in order to ensure the reproduction of an altered and innocent order which appears to carry an unconcealed, but obscure, faintly-visible juke. (Jive.) Sheesh! You got to move.

Yeah-- Skop. Gu. Recover. Re-assess sunlight fanning out in every direction away from the sudden view of acclaimed architectural design dancing across reflectorized hoodies. Windshields glowing. Brake lights repeating the second chorus.

And the sun also rises to an almost colorless, but precipitous modular grid embedded in a multi-lane parallel flash of metal. Traffic slows. And all lanes begin chanting “Man-i-fest-o” in a harsh, insistent rhythm, but --and, this is quite odd!-- they are, all of them, every man-jack-- thinking “Minn-ee-ap-oh=lis”.

O, all that glitters is not celestial. Or sagebrush. The problem is a matter of misleading labeling of data, rather than inaccuracy within the data itself. The trick is to learn to enjoy the ride. Jumble, tumble. Inalienable right.

Right? To come to love the angle. The chant. The clash. Yet.
My heart. Pants for you. Know I'm sayin'?

Oba, oba, oba! The story/ is in the feint.

Monday, October 12, 2009

He said, she said...

O, To Heat a Hamster Frozen in Yesteryear
Now & Again/ That [or as] Summer is Nigh

& zo, she asks:

Without tail nor head, DOTT reports the history of two tentacles (!) become intelligent under the influence of an experiment of an insane professor, which to save the world sends to you in time through temporal toilets... Result, one buys a diamond for the poor gift in premium, one paints oranges in red "to create" a cherry tree, one adds the advertizing "any citizen must have a Marty vacuum cleaner in his tiny room" with the American Constitution and one filled dry a linen of parts so that it functions 50 more years in order to have a hot sweater later to heat a hamster frozen in the past...

he sez:
the Marty vacuum cleaner. A early sculpture I made
that was so elegant in design that, well, heck!
it was, like, a no-brainer for the damn suits
to make a functional copy & market it to the masses.
I mean, i was young & it was summer....

and-- here's the story to date:
Sans queue ni tête, DOTT relate l'histoire de deux tentacules (!) devenue intelligentes sous l'influence d'une expérience d'un professeur fou, lequel pour sauver le monde vous envoie dans le temps à travers des toilettes temporelles... Résultat, on achète un diamant pour le cadeau minable en prime, on peint des oranges en rouge pour "créer" un cerisier, on rajoute la pub "tout citoyen doit avoir un aspirateur Marty dans son réduit" à la Constitution Américaine et on rempli un sèche linge de pièces pour qu'il fonctionne encore 50 ans plus tard afin d'avoir un pull chaud pour réchauffer un hamster congelé dans le passé...


he sez:
This is a prototype I made during my undergrad years
which I sold to French industrial barrons for a Big Mac
& some fries. Large, mais oui. The photo is a little blurry
as it was taken with an old Brownie in my dorm room.

& she sez:
Didn't they market that with the slogan
"tout citoyen doit avoir un aspirateur Marty dans son réduit"?
Hey, it's a fine piece. I mean 60 million Frenchmen can't
be wrong. I sure hope you got some percentage in yr deal.
p.s. Here's a mound sculpture which might interest you:

and the beat goes on.