Friday, February 29, 2008

Sleeping with the TV on




BLUE ELECTRIC SNOW

COVERS THE TV SCREEN

THE MOON ASCENDS SO SLOWLY

MY MIND IS RACING NOW

MY HEART BEATS JUST LIKE A HUMMINGBIRD

TRAPPED INSIDE A CARDBOARD BOX

SOMETHING’S NOT RIGHT

NO EVERYTHING’S WRONG

WHY CANT I SLEEP WITHOUT THE TV ON?


LATELY I WONDER WHY

MAYBE I JUST CAN NOT BE ALONE

AT TIMES IT FEELS IMPOSSIBLE

THE VOICES PUT ME TO SLEEP

BUT I STILL AWAKE IN THE NIGHT

GOD DAMNED COMMERCIALS

BUT I’LL STILL BE LISTENING COME THE BREAK ON DAWN

I JUST CAN NOT SLEEP WITHOUT THE TV ON


I DON’T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT THE BRAND NEW SEASON

JUST GIVE ME TAXI AND ONE MORE RE-RUN

OF MARY TYLER MOORE

I’D TAKE PILLS IF I ONLY HAD THEM

THERE’S NOTHING SADDER THAN THE NATIONAL ANTHEM

AT 4 A.M.


BLUE ELECTRIC SNOW

COVERS THE TV SCREEN…

Friday, February 22, 2008

Steven Pippin


Steven Pippin (born 1960 at Redhill, England) British artist. He was a Turner Prize nominee in 1999. He works with converted photographic equipment and kinetic sculptures. His work shows a strong interest in the mechanical, which he has said stems from an early childhood memory of seeing his father surrounded by the wires and tubes of a television set he was repairing.

Pippin's early work was based on converting furniture and everyday objects into makeshift pinhole cameras which he then uses to uses to take sympathetic photographs. This sounds simple but often involves a significant amount of planning to overcome the practical problems posed by the chosen object. Pippin typically has to plan and construct a significant amount of supporting equipment in order to achieve his pictures.

Frequently the resulting photographs are distorted or otherwise compromised by the manner of their construction, but the imperfections are seen as an important characteristic of the image giving a link back to the object which was used as a camera. The photographs are always shown along side an image of the converted object and later much of the equipment used in the conversion along with supporting documentation.

So for example his piece 'The Continued Saga of an Amateur Photographer, November 1993' was based on converting the toilet on a British Rail train on a journey between London and Brighton. This involved designing an aluminum plate housing the lens and shutter to fit into the top of the toilet bowl and sealed with an inflated bicycle inner tube. The photographic paper was cut in the shape of a semicircular fan to line the sides of the toilet. When making the photograph the paper and lens have to be mounted in the toilet under darkroom conditions. To do this, the artist removed his trousers fitted them over the top of the toilet and put his arms down the legs in order to manipulate the various components in light safe conditions. Once assembled, the trouser were removed, and the photograph taken. Then the photographic paper was developed in-situ, pouring developer then fixer into the toilet cistern whilst flushing. Since the train journey takes less than an hour, Pippin found it a little tricky to complete and document the process within the time available.

In 1999 Pippin was short listed for the Turner Prize at the Tate Gallery in London. His entry was based on the work 'Laundromat – Locomotion' in which he converted a row of 12 washing machines in a laundromat into a series or cameras triggered by trip wires and then rode a horse through the laundromat to recreate Eadweard Muybridge’s The Horse in Motion from 1878.

Again the doors of each washing machine were fitted with a lens and shutter mechanism. A circular disk of photographic paper was loaded into the back of the drum, protected from light by foldable plywood plate which could be made to collapse by pulling a string from the outside. With each machine loaded, tripwires running across the aisle of the laundromat were attached to the shutter releases. Riding the horse through the laudromat triggered the cameras in sequence to give a 12 frame movie of the horse in motion (unfortunately Pippin didn't have the space to ride the horse at a gallop). The papers were then developed, switching the washing machines to their rinse cycle whilst adding developer and fixer into the detergent drawers. Once complete it was safe to open each washer and dismantle the apparatus.

The finished photographs were then displayed along with the 12 lens and shutter mechanism presented in a wooden chest.

Pippins more recent work also includes kinetic sculptures.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

COLD OCTOBER DAWN IN SILVER BLUE




SOMEONE KICKED A JACK-O-LANTERN IN THE FACE AND LOST AN EXPENSIVE SHOE

A BROKEN BIKE LOCK AND A SLICED UP TIRE WET WITH MORNING DEW

THE AIR LIKE CHRISTMAS TINSEL FROM MY COLD AND BLEEDING MOUTH FLEW

COLD OCTOBER DAWN IN SILVER BLUE

A T.V. GUIDE SHAMELESSLY PROCLAIMS THE RISE OF ONE MORE CHILD STAR

A WOMAN WITH A RADIO AND ORANGE JACKET DUCKS INTO A BAR

I FUMBLE FOR MY WATCH AND WONDER HOW I EVER GOT THIS FAR

SOMETIMES YOU DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE

I SEE MY FOOTPRINTS UP AHEAD WHERE I SWORE I’D STAY AWAY

I CLOSE MY EYES, ROUNDING THE CORNER LOOKING FOR ANOTHER WAY

I CONVINCE MYSELF THAT YESTERDAY WAS COLDER THAN TODAY

I’D PRAY TO GOD BUT I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO PRAY

Monday, February 11, 2008

Donald Judd


Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

Thomas Moore

Deep asleep I lie in flagrant slumber



My father would kill me if he knew where I was…where I have been this whole time…kill me with his own cold white hands.

All I had to do was open my eyes, and I’d be back there, dead asleep beneath those old wooden pews, chewing gum hanging from their undersides, like tumors or hemorrhoids. I knew that all I had to do was simply look up and I’d see the fat swinging legs of my baby sister Ruffles, who was obviously unaware of my presence just beneath her, otherwise, she would have blown my cover, she being the princess stooly of all pigeon girly-girls! All I had to do was look straight ahead, and see amongst the dirty heeled boys and lavender varicose, all the other sleeping darlings, some appearing now strangely morbid and old like dusty sarcophagi. Mother’s little angels fallen far from grace, like myself.

I wondered if they too might be dreaming.

Dreaming like me now, still here, so many years later.

One filthy little scab of a boy, toward the front row, closer, particularly brave…brazen! Did he not know how easily one can be spotted from behind the pulpit? Nickel-sized stains from red licorice on his cheeks, like dried blood from the pocks or scarlet fever. Did he not know that if any preacher were to see him there, slumbering beneath the seats, it would have been considered a direct affront, assault and insult to him, to his sermon, to his family, but worst of all…to his God?

But I did not look up.

I did not look straight ahead.

I did not open my eyes.

I stayed right where I was…and have always been. Underneath those old wooden pews. A slightly fat kid one day, a full-grown man the next. My eyes bitterly tightened down like presses, the lids pulled shut, closed and locked up like one of those old roll-top desks, hiding away all its contents.

And of course, during those more than just uncomfortable years, when I was becoming a typically dirty and deluded teenager…(later on you will learn that at this particularly treacherous point in life…that escape was clearly the act of a truly desperate human being)…even then I was here. Though some, including myself, considered it downright embarrassing! I was not, however, altogether without shame. But even the deepest felt shame can be dreamed away…if not at least…for a little while.

And so my body grew. And I had to pull my legs up tighter, closing myself in so that no one could see me. Or…so I told myself. Or were they, as always, just ignoring me? My father…my mother…did they see me there?

“Worthless turd!”

The half-crazed preacher running rampant down the aisles, polyester thighs rubbing together, hell-fire hot! Making this zzzzinging sound, foaming at the mouth, spit sometimes dripping down on me…(but I daren’t say or do anything…dare I lose asylum!)

From the first, I knew it would be no easy task to achieve, when I came here seeking sanctuary. Each Sunday morning, my family would arrive. I would see that dark crawlspace, eyeing it like a thief’s prize, my eyes narrowing, knowing it to be my one and only, and true salvation.

But I had to wait for just the right moment. Opportunity is a hole to be filled.

And then, finally, the chance came. And when no one was looking, I bent and crawled underneath, my heart beating faster…and I lie here still.

Still on the soft red carpet, which through the years would become so hard and rigid from so much deceit and drool.

And the truth is you know, I don’t know if I’ll ever come out from under here. For I have, through the years, grown to like it. It may be true that one day I will be discovered here, or some stranger…some fool might point me out and say, ignorant, toothless mongrel, “say! What is that there…underneath that seat?”

But until then…until then I’m fine. Just…fine. And in fact, if they want me out from under here, they’re going to have to pull me out!

And of course, if I should one day…die under here, undiscovered, an old man held together by too much knowledge and bitterness, then and only then, take me out…and take me away, to a place where I don’t have to hide…to a place where I can finally sleep…in peace. But until then…I’ll be here. Dreaming in the house of God.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Thursday, February 7, 2008

ambien


a new pill. a new sort of magic. everyone else is getting rich from them, so why shouldnt i have a little taste. trembling and covered with a cold film of deepest regret, i feel like my head is an exact match of the monitor right in front of me, glowing half as brightly. it makes a gesture by a slight cocking of its head, this, the monitor i stole from an old job. only, everything is very wavy and im becoming part of the actual machine now. cuboid i think is the word. cuboidal. my neck cranes lazily favoring my right shoulder. my nose is capriciously draining a warm liquid and my lungs are kittens trapped down at the hateful bottom of a burlap bag in some bog full of merry myth and assorted detritus . this is my new life now. chronic masturbation and sleeping pills are all that get me through the night, would that the night would forgo rub burns that look more like chankers by morning. now only, i got this fear that says my hearts gonna explode while im drifting off, the glow of the plastic skull stretching out into a square of no charming proportions. after all a square is always a square. that would be real shitty if that happened. fucks sake i at least want to be conscious when i go. then there's a sudden shift to a low shelf of books. that turk writer with the Swedish gold in one hand still twisting his turban is coo coo coo cooing me with his hidden, oh so very sharp sabre at his side swathed in red silk, while suddenly saul bellow sniffs the white carnation in his lapel yammering on about Roosevelt and his intellectual prowess and social talents to cajole and thrill people with his mock semite acumen. my head is swaying to and fro now like those awful thanksgiving day balloons i once almost froze my scrotum off trying pathetically to partake in that sappy brand of good old fashioned. my legs were covered in shingles as striped as a barber's pole by the time i gave up and ditched in for a ice cold vodka. these pills will do me in real good one day. i do so love them.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Black Fiction

Glenda Jackson


Away, melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

Are not the trees green,
The earth as green?
Does not the wind blow,
Fire leap and the rivers flow?
Away melancholy.

The ant is busy
He carrieth his meat,
All things hurry
To be eaten or eat.
Away, melancholy.

Man, too, hurries,
Eats, couples, buries,
He is an animal also
With a hey ho melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

Man of all creatures
Is superlative
(Away melancholy)
He of all creatures alone
Raiseth a stone
(Away melancholy)
Into the stone, the god
Pours what he knows of good
Calling, good, God.
Away melancholy, let it go.

Speak not to me of tears,
Tyranny, pox, wars,
Saying, Can God
Stone of man's thoughts, be good?
Say rather it is enough
That the stuffed
Stone of man's good, growing,
By man's called God.
Away, melancholy, let it go.

Man aspires
To good,
To love
Sighs;

Beaten, corrupted, dying
In his own blood lying
Yet heaves up an eye above
Cries, Love, love.
It is his virtue needs explaining,
Not his failing.

Away, melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

Stevie Smith

Gordon Matta-Clark