Look. I know my blog sucks right now. The photos suck, the writing sucks. I am not stupid, just egomaniacal. Truly. . . I know this. But I don't have any support for what I want to do now. What I want to do is walk the streets and talk to people and take pictures and make stories. But that is not what I am supposed to do. Right now. And I'm getting old. I know that, too, and it is true. I don't have the same access I used to have. Who wants old people around? Right? So. . . I am struggling.
I don't know if it will get any better. It might. There are factors. I mean, I love this photograph and would let it represent for me anywhere. It is film, and I took art just the other day. And maybe I need to figure this out. I mean what I photograph. I could still do street, though I might get my teeth knocked out. But I don't have the time or support for that. I don't have a studio, to those photos are out of the question. And again, the things I want to do. . . well, I just don't have the support. If it were just me, I would do things that even you, my friends, would run away from. When the world turns the way it has, then it is time to portray the weird. Fascist times call for strange art. On my own, that is what I would and could give. But I have to look toward the future, just like many of you who do not have to face or admit it. The future is coming on full throttle, and it ain't pretty.
I'll give you an example. One of the things that has caused me trouble in my life is a trip to the ER that kept me from going to New Mexico this summer. Don't worry about that part. The bill for that one visit was $14,000.00. Seriously. The Catscan they gave me alone was $9,000.00. Really? The hospital says I owe them $1,000.00. I'm not going to pay it. My attorney tells me that I must, but fuck that. If this were a just country. . . .
But I have a job and fair insurance for which I don't have to pay. What do others do? Fuck me in the aortal cavity. . . or whatever. Some days I think I am just ready to die and get out of it. But then, I don't. I mean, I still have a very good life. Comparatively.
And yet I scream, "SAVE US, MELANIA, BE A HERO! SAVE US!"
I am a rough guy in some ways, but the roughness is fading. Still, I love me a cowboy. I don't mind a cracker or a redneck. There is more good in most of them than bad. And who doesn't love a cowgirl at the beach in a bikini and cowboy boots driving an F-150 with a surfboard in the back, blasting country music? I sure do. Cowboys are cool, I think, compared to us who don't have to do what they do. Bust their ass, I mean. And for the most part, because I am respectful in my ways, they don't beat me up. They even listen to me sometimes.
Now those asshole dime store cowboys and front porch crackers are another thing. They sick the dogs on black folk who just want to vote, and I will fight them (and get my ass kicked) any time or anywhere they stand for cracker evil. But there aren't as many of them as you might think.
Especially where I live.
But I have strayed. I am writing this tonight while I am alone, waiting. I have had some wine, and I have had my dinner, and I have had some scotch. I have watched some photo porn on YouTube and have seen the daily Trump misery on the news. I have to say that Trump is right. He has made the news very, very biased. But I don't care any more.
* * *
And so it goes.
This is a poem written by a poet. I've posted his work here and there before.
ReplyDeleteHe is a balm to my spirit always. Just knowing he's out there making these things.
Truth be told. I miss your studio too. And remember how I was sick of your naked girls? - I think because they were too safe. Most of them. Give me some - L'Origine du monde ---
I agree - it is the time for art to be upsetting the surface of our TV lives.
Instruction to Ghost
Wander in shroudfolds, billow wide
Like the blanchest fleece.
the pieces reel and shatter smaller
than when we were failed to breathe;
For we are doomed to squalor,
And not intended for peace.
hold to dirt and grave,
grip song and the bleating collapse
of night’s last dawn. Do not go back
for every pull unperceived
matters less with the circular clang and
stop of each stopped clock.
They speak of two spirits, but there is a third
imprisoned by ink, raindrop and sand.
Reflection poses inward
Indecipherable by epoch or land,
perceived only by madmen,
and often not even by them.
in more than darkness we dwell,
from no heaven, and toward no hell
through no existence but this singularity.
We are of no matter, and so we remain;
All the rattling chain and noises unexplained
Will not pierce this limbo's hide;
Neither fog simmered graveyard nor
Flickering candlelit, ragstrewn bride.
Perhaps just a tremor sense,
some inaudible note of dread,
But to them you are nothing,
not even dead.
'They will not, because they choose not,'
That is our crede.
Recede like tidefoam to before the first veil.
To shadow, masonry and attic exile-
Revenant, sheet, you're a campfire tale.
Drift among them, bear every brutality,
weep, and eavesdrop on every lie.
Then go your solitary path,
but part always, without goodbye.
by mushika
I could send you some. I was only giving your delicate sensibilities due. :)
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