Category Archives: literature

The Queen, The Prince, and The Fool

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Spring and the little flowers start to bloom all over. Sometimes the rational side of our minds has no idea what the crazy, dream making, creative side is up to. But long ago those pagans gave us a day (today) in which to let the old mind unify in a happy, jokey, festival of foolishness. Remember the fool is always the wisest one in Shakespeare. Speaking of The Bard, there’s a nice post on a blog called Bardbox about an old video of mine: My Dinner With André The Giant.

Delicious Delores Haze

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A document of the week so far using a broad brush mash up montage concept. The music is from Richard Young’s Saphie and was sent to my by my friend Dan the day we put my dog down. We listened to it during the last hours of Bailey’s while lounging and time lapsing life until Sly screamed: “What is this music you are playing!? Does it have to be so FUCKING sad!?” I think I put the Beatles on. They are good for most any occasion if currated properly: Across the Universe…. was the last song she heard from S.’s iphone, while playing fetch and rolling in the grass…. but I digress.

Anyways the Poem is actually Vladimir Nabokov himself reading Humbert’s Love Poem to a rapt audience… Boy can that fucking Russian read. He sounds like Welsh poet. To think that English is maybe his third language? I found it somewhere online and there’s a clip from an Italian dubbed version of Kubrick’s Lolita with James Mason (youtube)… I was looking for Mason’s reading of the first page of the Novel. There is a recording of him that I used to have on cassette. He did it brilliantly. Titles abound: Lolita 2000, Fire, Catch A Fire, Bailey’s Building and Loan, Humbert’s Butterfly, Kubrick by Brick…. I could go on, but in the interest of brevity a shall relent.

Red writing is from Paris 1998, in a cafe, trying to remember the opening page of Lolita… and failing.
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When I Paint Over My Masterpiece

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Took down the Reading Room show on Tuesday. It was the end of something and I carried the whole show in two hands like a Salesman with Samples and got home to see the beginning of something else. Death of a Salesman, Birth of a Nation, etc.

Rim

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hubmap5.jpgwheelhub.jpg I’ve finished the first four spokes and the hub of the wheel. Now I am working on all the periphery stories: the rim? Of Hub…. goes well. I think it’s a nice idea to sit on a story for a decade… you get a good sense of what matters and what doesn’t. Here is a video from about two years ago. I thought I’d upload it again, now that I know how to make it look good.

Hanging Myself

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Not funny really in this time of Infinite Jests, but maybe it is really exactly how I feel. I mean in the sense of eternal return, or Metampsychosis, or however you spell it and whatever Joyce was talking about…. I’m hanging the show. I feel like a worker… in the Marxist sense of that word: working on the ladders with the back into it. I mean to say that hanging a book is a physical act. I’ve been training for it like a boxer at the gym.. but my fucking thumbs are still weak for the push pins and the map pins and the pins and needles and needles and pins…..feel like a carpenter… feel like Christ crucified… stigmata on my thumb. LOL. music here is some odd Brian Wilson post Smile mid mad period song. Fucking lovely and perfect fit for my raw time lapse. More to come…

The Dark Side of the Loon

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darksundry.gifThere was a rainbow around the moon tonight at ten and I ran up to the roof to watch the lunatic clouds flowing by all back lit in a Pink Floyd prism and I was thinking about Rick Wright dying and David Foster Wallace hanging himself from the end of an infinite jest and the stink of sepsis fills the house from the necrotic tumor of my slowly dying dog and it was another day at the vet with free falling finance and the threat of reemergent Republicans buzzing in my ear from my little A.M. radio I use to keep my self from going insane, or it’s opposite. So I thought of the Organ opening to Us and Them from the Dark Side of the Moon and decided to share it with you. A little memorial service from the cathedral of cold front clouds.