Sunday, November 23, 2014

From "Out of Sheer Rage"

graffiti by the inestimable Jim Owens
Writers always envy artists, would trade places with them in a moment if they could. The painter's life seems less ascetic, less monkish, less hunched. Instead of the austere mess of the desk there is the chaos of the studio: dirty coffee cups, paint-smudged cassette decks, drawings of the artist's girlfriend, naked, on the walls. - Geoff Dyer

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Friday, September 19, 2014

A veritable tour-de-force of tartare sauce

I set out on the morning of the 14th of September. The air is cool and fog hangs wispily around the treetops. 
A very good morning of a very good month, I say, for I am alive and in good health. My destination is Central State Hospital, formerly the Georgia Lunatic Asylum. I intend to observe architecture festooned in ruin, while frolicking in the pecan grove with the squirrels. My push bike, a hybrid fit for an old geezer, nearly plops into a ditch as I am cut off by a white sedan who fails to indicate they are turning and there almost goes my very good morning.


I am standing in front of the circular driveway now and the dried-up fountain between the white hospital and the pecan grove, the center of a vast quadrant of brick edifice all gone to seed.  Water-damage is visible on the fa├žade, as are rusted screens, broken windows.

I see no faces inside the security cars that patrol. At one time, the Asylum housed 12,000 patients. Two examples:
  •       22 year-old white female mentally ill for eight years; indecent and immodest, ulcerated legs and other somewhat minor complaints.
  •       23 year-old female lunatic and epileptic convulsions followed disappointments in love; violent, hostile, auditory visual hallucinations. 

I wonder if an ex-lover friend would have been eligible, who in the throes of an indefatigable psychosis accused me of a death-defying frippery beyond compare.
I brandish a banana from my manbag, my purse, my murse, if you will. It is bright-cold. Wincing from its brightness, I gaze up at the sky. The sky is all white with enumerable shades of gray — at least fifty. What comes to mind is the tartare sauce that W.G. Sebald uses in The Rings of Saturn, a compelling depiction of un-great condiments, a veritable tour de force. “The tartare sauce that I had to squeeze out of a plastic sachet was turned grey by the sooty breadcrumbs”. My banana is cold as ice. Suddenly, my brain starts to turn over handsomely. It is possible, I reason, that if I were to set the banana on the yellow painted curb that I would not be able to find it. Eager to get this pertinent, yet uncaffeinated thought down on paper, I locate a pergola next to the decrepit fountain. Admiring a magnolia tree just off to the right, I haven’t gone ten feet when I run right into an enormous cobweb. A squirrel cackles at my blunderings.





Thursday, September 11, 2014

Reality check

In class we were asked to represent our work in art at present with where we'd like to be. I thought I was Garfield with an aim to be Hockney.



Monday, August 18, 2014

Trying to cope with feeling dismal.

I have a host of muddling posts that I wrote this summer that I hope to share. 

Why did I just drink a big thing of gin  Near-fatal last words. I was in bed by ten, full of despair. Summer muddle. The things that used to work for me, or get me through, no longer work. Mostly what I am saying is my wonderful ability to laze about and contemplate the beauty of the world that has lately just imposed numerous grim realities upon me, which suggests that I need to modify my philosophy.


No explanation as to why I feel so goddamned great today. I’m writing with clarity and more purpose than I have in a week. Keep it up.

Monday, July 07, 2014

Plum-pud


Plum-pudding is the term bestowed upon certain fragmentary parts of the whale’s flesh, here and there adhering to the blanket of blubber, and often participating to a considerable degree in its unctuousness. It is most refreshing, convivial, beautiful object to behold. As its name imports, it is of an exceedingly rich, mottled tint, with a bestreaked snowy and golden ground, dotted with spots of deepest crimson and purple. It is plums of rubies, pictures of citron. Spite of reason, it is hard to keep yourself from eating it. I confess, that I once stole behind the foremast to try to eat it. It tasted something as I should conceive a royal cutlet from the thigh of Louis le Gros might have tasted, supposing him to have been killed the first day after the venison season, and that particular venison season contemporary with an unusually fine vintage of the vineyards of Champagne.

— Herman Melville