The truth of all of it occurs when I reflect on being half of what she is, in terms of the artist & art. I am exactly half. Of her whole. The level I represent is 50% the level of hers. At fullest capacity, at “The Artist Henry,” I am still 50% less than she is, my mom is, as an artist. 100% of my inclination, talent, and if we are to believe a “gift” is involved, a gift for self-expression through tangible mediums comes from her lineage. Yet she represents half of my DNA. Thus, as you see, I am only half. From the start I recognize I’m already much less talented, gifted, and inclined than at least one, by a long shot–by half. Written & visual: half. Maybe not written, but she is still quite good. She might be double. I might be right there with her on that. Maybe surpassed but lets not assume. Visually & intellectually without a doubt half. The thing is she stopped the pursuit of 44 well over a decade ago when she began her iconography practice. And she never publicized or gave credit to the power of her words. Her paintings, though outstanding in concept, form, and technique, were and have been held privately. 50% less but I’ve made different choices. My choices might better fit my lessened skill. “Prolific,” Henry says, again & again. Maybe the word count will make up for the real lack of the other half, the other 50%. But what of the other 50%. How does it make me different, in a positive way? There is no doubt I am significantly visually inept in comparison. There is no question about it. Giving myself 50% in comparison is almost prideful because a single digit may represent what I’ve got. Vocabulary: 50% or less. I’m being nice to myself. I am incorporating aspirations (of studying the dictionary & syntax again). In a way all of this is to, kind of, apologize. I am not the real deal. If I am the real deal then damn, we let a realer deal pass right by us. I’m not hating on iconography. Tradition and technique is all I see in that practice though, and I don’t do either of those. Inspiration & abundance will be my attributes I guess. I think what I’m reflecting out loud is a coming to truth moment: “I am not the one.” I can’t be. I’m much too less of already one– however talented, inclined, and gifted she is, was, & will continue to be. So here we are. I have to work with what I’ve got. No kidding it’s a lot. Abundance in many forms. Perfect timing. Stability. Unpredictability. There’s hope on the horizon (the child). My 50% with her 50% (the poet) might recreate a version 3.0, and the real player deal closer may rise far beyond any of his or her predecessors, ahead of all successors, far far beyond them all carrying the flag higher & stronger than neither my mom nor I could ever have. If it doesn’t work out like that I believe it will have been by choice. Supported either way, always here, never there, forever & ever. I love you guys!
someone, somwhere, perhaps here or not, is counting on you to rise, to continue, “despite it all…” and though they may leave you and never return, and though they may, it is up to you not them to continue for the need of the alleged. “When people say people are counting on you,” it means people are counting on you, somewhere, at least someone is, at least one, somewhere…allegedly. And when they say they care, and when they say, though if you do not hear it, though you may not be there, someone somewhere was and heard it, if not another than the sayer them-self, heard it through their voice or their head or maybe in the mirror out in front: not so much a “hello friend,” but a like, “i believe. you inspire me.” kind of thing, very powerful with periods and sharp ends with silence to follow and long stares absent of facial gesture in between. It’s so easy, if only they knew how to motivate.
A counter-productive, awful film absent of feeling, lacking in directing, and counter-useless to contemporary society. It has no place in this world. It is a sick twist of fruitless frames & poor intention. Does it even have an intention? What is it’s intention. The book is phenomenal. The book is a document. The book has power. The book is genuine and serves outstanding purpose. The movie is a sad example of so much wrong with the direction of our culture. The book is what it is. It is a historic document. The movie is a cover. To sell. To resell. To promote separation. To rewound. To captivate mediocrity. To negatively influence. To cause harm. To do nothing good. The film does nothing good. It neither does anything good nor is it directed, acted, or filmed good. It is not good. Examples such as this define the opposite of good. It has no place. It may be celebrated, as it would, but for the sake of all that is worthwhile this is beyond not worthwhile. It is anti-while. The book is brilliant, and significant. Though it is ruthless there is a magic to the document’s document: it retains its place in history, as being in the past. The movie however does not. It brings things artificially to the present. The movie was filmed a decade into the 21st century. Why are we creating things such as this! Why are we celebrating them! For fuck’s sake cast off this shit into oblivion. Read the book, burn the film. 0 out of 10. and shame on the director. and pity on the audience who sees anything of value.
& it might as well be the size of a warehouse. or the town of charlotte. or the carolina mountain acres. or the united states. the western hemisphere. or both hemispheres. the planet. and moon. the sun. even the solar system. even the galaxy. the galaxy cluster! the cluster of galaxy clusters! the universe! but though it has no limits in this way, in the feeling of its size, and of its importance, it is confined to a certain physical space, that is to say, everywhere not there is unsafe for the act of creation. everything not done in there is vulnerable to the attack. to the interruption. to the assault. to the resistance. to the demands. to the needs. to the everything not. here is the space but having the space sharply then defines non-space. and so you see, once the space has been made the other 99.99% space that you inhabit becomes no space. So by creating space you actually lessen space. The key there here then is to have no space, not even a walk-in closet, but “to adapt,” they say. That is, to be able to work & create under the pressures of others and their demands and their things & disrespect and fruitless entertainments & distractions and smart phones and cat videos. You may grow dizzy. You may fall ill. But in the process you adapt and retain the universe as yours though trying it always is regardless of the level of abundance. Where there are people there will be no hope for you. Neither this nor that, not the pounding drum nor the empty vibration emitting from an absent human captivated by mindless pleasures on their small screen simultaneously demanding so much. Click. Clank. Clock, hopeless.
Alfred, known to friends as “Al,” had made the biggest mistake of his entire life. And it goes further than he thinks. We know that this mistake is not just the biggest up until this point, but the biggest he will ever make, ever. We see the data of it all. How his life changed then & where this mistake leads him. We know how he would change it all if he could, right now or later, given the data of the great plan. Do all things start small? They did for the universe. And how expansive things grow! How quickly they fall out! Nothing is nothing and the scorn for which Al endures as a result will not be forgotten, neither by him nor us, the great collectors of information. If a tiny bird falls from its nest. If a tiny bird is injured and will not survive. If an intelligent hand ‘ends the misery’, so to speak, or ‘stops the suffering’, in a word, a much greater loss occurs than just of the alleged ‘pain’–the loss of information! Hence all of us are the great collectors of information existing to collect all information. To simultaneously report back. To know and understand greater amounts. To reduce ourselves to smaller things. To return to smallness. To be small. And in the case of Al, he refuses & will live to deal with the hard consequences of leveraging his size as an advantage. He himself dies in the future of large tumor growths not quite as large as his ego but enough to make it long & painful. The end.
Leonard. ‘No, no no no.” Leonard said, eyes downcast & chin pointing down, eyelashes down. The projection of his head said “on the verge of paradigm shift”–not that Leonard was open to change, like as if to say his hands were empty, because they weren’t– they were full. So full Leonard here was seen on the verge of too much. & the collapse. Leonard doesn’t collapse. It’s the things that do. Are dropped or caused to be gone. No no Leonard just changes. From full to empty, hands for the next thing: the next medium, the next influence, the next friend, the next lover, the next work of art, the next thing. And when we watch him close off with his eyes & chin, arms & crossed shins, and those words No, no no no we remember what is coming for him and we say something like, “Yes, oh yes oh yes,” because as the creator of Leonard we know there is a plan for him. & for his journey, as told by us. Neither he nor I know it. We could not predict it. Neither he nor I. It just is. The natural way of it always makes sense though, this we both know. At some point it will make sense. There are no exceptions. We cannot expect quick turnaround. I mean, we can, but then believing in a masterplan would be foolish. We are not foolish. There is no reason to expect quick turn. Expecting it to turn quickly around is the kind of thing Leonard doesn’t do– because it is a deprivation of faith in the great plan. So you see, in knowing of the great plan we in a sense rise beyond our timed limitations: we focus & do our best with the best intentions of doing our best, & we trust that every single thing happening, or happens to Leonard, or to myself, to the deer a hundred yards away, to the decomposing lizard in the backyard, to the struggling family, to the prospering, and wind, and sound, & so much more is the great plan processing. We are in the process of it’s great plan. If you & I die one day unexpectedly, or expectedly depending, we will have either known or not known trust in the process. That maybe the time is coming soon or it is coming late–the time in which our voices are heard globally, perhaps irrefutably, universally. Goodmight Leonard, “Goodmight,”
So I’ve been experimenting with Art & Loss over the last year or two. Yesterday I was to write about it, as it’s been on my mind again & again. Because of the new ways I’ve lost. And you know the craziest thing happens: while I am writing about the various ways I’ve lost art I stumble into, somehow, a new form of art loss emerges: “The Art Lost in Translation.” I have no idea how it happened (how the writing became backward), as it was written blind, and I tell you a tiny fraction of me believes I wrote it backwards. And immediately upon completion lost the memory of doing such. Not to say it was written forwards then slowly reworked to be backwards, but that I straight wrote the entire thing backwards. A small part of me believes in that possibility. Just a small part. It is the absolute strangest thing. Universal teachings are infrequently so clear, so obvious, so useful. It is remarkable & I am unable to overstate how confounded I am about it, when I think about Art Lost In Translation, how fucking beautiful & 44 is that! It’s so isolated though. But look here, it CAN be understood, with a little time & a little patience. Manic Dreams Network has a chance after all. My friend told me she was an art history major, & I told her I was going to make art history. I am, & I will, for yes art is lost in many ways but it cannot be lost in translation. Luckily that’s all I ever wanted to do, was translate. We’re good then, “carry on,” Carl says. Thank you Carl.
There’s something about her. When she gets her nails done & plays that guitar… no guy, no girl, no child can withstand her beauty, & and the way her hair falls. And how she looks down & out, down to her instrument, out into everyone’s soul. Definitely mine at least. I see it on the faces of others too. We all are in it. With those beautiful hands & those colors she’s made a web of aesthetic sound neither I nor you nor anyone or anything will ignore or resist or take for granted. In that web, there’s us. If we were to take a vote–on the feeling about being in her web–, we are cool with it. I’m not sure if she’s planning to eat us but okay if she needs to I will be first, “no I will be first!” It’s crazy I tell you, the way this chick has all of us locked in a free world mindlessly pursuant on staying stuck. Some are recording her music, others have fallen asleep listening. I mean, this could be there lunch break–I see briefcases beside them–and it would appear they may have finally just said, “fuck it! i’m not going back, I’m staying right here. I am not going back there is a choice and she’s shown me there is always a choice fuck this briefcase! Fuck these clothes!” And I shit you not some of them have taken off their clothes and literally thrown them into the wind. I saw a man’s pair of pants tumble down the sidewalk & land on the head of a sleeping homeless man. Another woman who had already undressed–I kept my clothes on– started dancing real slow next to Sarah & her guitar. And the woman dancing began to open & close her legs, slowly & quickly, revealing & hiding between them an incredible vagina gaping for the taking, tightly closed for rejecting. & I shit you not I felt so inspired by her & it & Sarah & the penetrable structure teetering in front to ask her quite plainly if she wanted to have sex & we did, right there, in front of everyone. Men, women, & children, all in front, all in reckless euphoric abandon. Hypnotized. I know I know it’s hard to make sense of what I’m saying. After I came inside & softened I wouldn’t believe it anymore either. Hence this is why I tell the story: to trigger the memory of what occurred! But it is or was like, this girl and her guitar opened up a shared collection of human sense. All who heard her play stopped & became one with it. I was the first to sit down next to her. Not long after another joined, then another, and it was like the area of our influence grew exponentially. And we were all responsible for everything, down to the detail, down to the great looking vagina, down to the tumbling pair of pants destined to be a new hat. Everything became one there’s really no other way to explain it.
When it comes down to it the interview is about two things: first, belief in yourself, second, convincing the panel or interviewer to believe in you as you believe yourself. You make them believe by believing. You believe in yourself, and through this unshakeable belief, you believe in them, the company, the person or persons, because when you are hired or brought on you know things are good now but they are going to be even better when you come in and mix things up, positively, collaboratively. It all comes down to belief. It really does. Everything else is a distraction. All the things. First find & focus on the belief. Second, have it with you during the interview and use it to convince them to believe as you believe. You convince by believing. That’s it. What you say is a byproduct of belief, whether or not you possess it, and if you do have it, what you say will be what they need to hear. And look, not all jobs are right for you. Not all environments are either. With the kind of belief we are talking about–the kind that knows– it’s like this irrefutable thing no one can actually argue against. The interview turns into something else, when someone walks in with belief. They don’t always get the job. You won’t always get it. But, now listen but, but I promise you after you’ve left the room those eyes of theirs will tell the story. It will be a look like, “wow.” Hey, after all, they are as desperate as you. Their last hire sucked, did you know that? This is actually the third time they’ve tried to bring someone in–all three ended with disappointment. You know, one other thing, the downfall of all three was their attitude. They kept getting the interview piece wrong, the interviewers were getting it wrong. They were looking for the things. And asking about the things. And getting stories. And interpreting stories. Really what they needed, or need, what they need is to have someone who believes positively. The only way they were going to see that was when someone walked in with it and carried that shit with them all through it. True, they may fuck up again and botch the hire. But hey, you weren’t cut for it maybe, or maybe you were. I tell you though, those people will come back in some time and wonder either outloud or in private or public circles how you would have done. People can try their hardest but what is really being interviewed. And what is in our control. Is anything? Just belief, that’s right. Come into it.
Richard blocked out an area of his canvas with a 2B pencil. He’s right handed but sometimes uses his left. This time, or that time, he uses or used his right. His traditional hand. The hand he uses normally but not exclusively now has a residue of graphite from a deep unintentional smudging. “Ruined!” for just a moment, Richard pulls out a black eraser bought earlier in the week, when he had money to spend or waste. With his left he pulled out the eraser from the drawer and handed it to his other hand, the right one, and with the power of two fingers he unblocked and partially shaded out the section of his new, discounted canvas. The base of his palm continues to smear lightly across the canvas as he erases. Richard notices, “Damnit!” More erasing. More unblocking. More retreating. He stands up. He goes to the bathroom. He comes back into the original room and looks outside from inside. Greenery, balcony, flowers & sun; a bird flies by and another follows. A cat stretches and whiskers catch the attention of a piercing ray of sunshine light bravely forcing its way through needy leaves and unestablished plants. The reflection of the sun of the whisker catches & passes to the movement of the cat’s body, and to Richard’s. Really there was only a half second to see it. Richard was back in his chair just as the cat had finished settling into his upright seating position, facing inward, in the direction of a Richard who then & now has his back to everything but the canvas. He forgot to wash his hands. He gets up again. He goes to the kitchen. He washes his hand with soap. The other hand gets little attention. Together they click, apart they beep. He dries them. He sighs. He goes back to the canvas and retrieves a partially full coffee cup now cold. He microwaves it for 30 seconds. He pulls it out of the microwave and adds a bit of coffee from the still on automatic pot. He adds a little milk. He adds a little honey. He licks off the excess honey of the glass honey jar. He puts it back into the cupboard. He goes back to the canvas. He sits down. He looks at the canvas. Someone had been there already. They left before they even started. Richard begins to think, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” His stomach gurgles from too much coffee. He takes a sip, then a second. He puts the cup down and picks it back up immediately again and takes a third. A bird chirps, another moment passes that didn’t quite go right.
Go ahead, ask him how he’s doing: ‘Well, ya know… I am The Most Blessed Man in The World,” he said with this beautifully aged smile of his, “And there’s good news: you can too, anyone can be as blessed as I am.” It’s like clockwork. There was absolutely nothing in form that could shake his divine connection. Not cancer, not poverty, not the death of a wife, not the pain of a stomach, not how a cold shower feels before you get in, not lower back pain, not uncertainty, not that feeling you get when your alarm goes off, not labor for money, not greed, not misfortune, not enemies, not the success of enemies, not forgiveness of enemies, not a hazardous driver, not a driver who made a careless mistake, not the book that drops from your hand, not the small line formed at checkout, not the long line, not unfairness, not the dispersion imbalanced,not the lack of knowledge , not the hot pillow, not the sagginess of skin, not the penis going limp for good, not the hare, not th o not thmk in the frnott wa of kineanot t nte gowrn, not the tablet’s inability to keep up with the speed of fast keys, not the sight of lost keys, not low credit score, not the way that person treated the other person, not the sale price, not the sale price being incorrect at checkout, not the thing that should be there but wasn’t, not the bad lies, not the lies of others, not the deadlines, not the treachers, not the bad bosses, not the friends, not the failures, not the lost competitions, not the reprimands, not the puim, not the fear, not the things never done, not the desires, not the money, not the corporations & ipotins, not the way they are going, not the looks, not the wrongs, not the rights, not the bedtime stories, not the horror stories, not the violence, not the vandalism, not the crls not the uusthings, not ust of hioo nothe mother,oate not orn te m, none of those things and so much not more, not the allergies, the movie ticket prices, not the government, not the neighbors, not the television, not the lack of anything, not the lack of nothing, not the low battery, not the lack of talent, not the oversuccess of no talent, not manipulation, not deceit, not corruption, not children, not teens, not young adults no. Nothing you see could shake his form. Go ahead & ask. He’s formless. Look at him. What you see doesn’t matter. How he goes, where he goes, what he does…none of it matters, not in any way does it matter anymore, for he, without question, is The Most Blessed Man in The World, & well, ya know “there’s good news,” he says.
To write is to know God.
The other day she like, forced me into saying it. I didn’t want to do it. I was embarassed. I turned red in the face before I even knew I was embarassed, before it occurred to me altogether I was embarassed about being embarassed. They were just words. Logically contradictory. That adjective or adverb is how I felt for a period of time, a short period. The emotions of the period passed into itself, in a forced kind of way, like I said, because it was forced–she forced me to say them. But only to the point where it would be understood that she would not give it a rest until I went ahead with it and said the thing she wanted me to say. And after it was done–it felt so unusual I have no words left in my vocabulary to describe–she made me say it again, and again, and again. As you & she * I expected it would or was or should, as we expected saying the words drew less & less energy to force them out. There was less hesitation. Now don’t get me wrong: none were easy. There was just less strain. The two corners of my mouth unfurrowed from their point of misunderstanding, as it was said again & again, they turning into nervous smile, shame then hope, perhaps curosity as a constant undertone to the entire event, and I’m only guessing here (it wasn’t filmed or documented, only recollected much later inside a storm of entirely different material) but maybe the eyes had a dilated look to them with lights hitting the pupils just right to create a choice-based observation of reflection or incredible absorption (into the pupil). And the being carrying the eyes is kind of, or was–if you trust my ability to recollect, then you would just know, damn belief right we’ll save that for religion–frozen like the kind of slow motion high-emphasis moments in film, the thing we talked about it earlier remember, and this emphasis so clearly, with a choice, is to the impending moment of judgement, when I or he or she would or did finally give in to her requests to just say the words, to say them outloud: “I am a good person.” We were embarassed at first for it being so difficult. Then the embarassment for being embarassed kicked in & we knew we wocltsof iumclne otherwise perhaps a major breakdown would be seen, perhaps walls or delusions or illusions or memory would be unnecessarily nuked. If it were walls, let us go with that the metaphor is easier, then we knew quickly there was a door and all we had to do was open it. To just open it & go ahead with it and go through. There was no gvn. Just an act of will. And courage. Encouraged. “Just say it,” she said, and so we did, five or six times in all, and it like worked I think kind of.
in the most serious efforts to retain my sense of self–who I am driving to be, in these moments of my life (THE ARTIST), I have spent what appears to be the extent of my monetary worth on supplies to further open the doors of my expression. And I told of my plans to the cashier, who had asked, “if I was a painter,” to whom I replied, “no but I am an artist.” & I described to her my search for mediums, & that yes, “I paint but only a little,” “It’s a new medium,” I said, “& what lately I’ve been pulled to is graffiti, & “how, there is this isolated tunnel, underneath a road,” & it seemingly stretches for miles,” & there I wish to paint the entire tunnel with words,” & interested she commented about how very long that would take, and & I said “no I don’t think so.” “But maybe, I’m not sure I said as my debit car declined. There was enough in my life to cover it, just enough I knew & she asked if I would like to try again, & with a fearing, flushing face, the kind of display after brutal rejection from the universe itself, I told her yes & prayed & prayed outloud & it prompted me for a signature (it didn’t do this before) & I said outloud, “it didn’t do this before,” & I signed it & hit accept & it went through. Kitty litter, art supplies, & a new pair of Ben Hogan’s: my self had been RESTORED.
And so I return home, & am like, “I’m so sleepy,” like NOT EVEN BEFORE I’VE ENTERED MY HOME & STUDIO, my bed & my dream-killer, my place of nourishment, my place of depletion, my space of higher purpose, my place to be private & do private things, & though I don’t have a room of my own, & much space if any to be chaotic with mediums & supplies & ideas, & though the ideals are not being met in any shape or form above expectation, GOD HAS ALWAYS GIVEN ME AN ABUNDANCE OF EVERYTHING, & it is only through my human intelligence, that I imagine my room, & my time, & an improved discipline, & perhaps even more leisure and abundance, & other things more like “ideals,” & not to say the clouds are always stormy, or tornadoey, or hurricaney, or absent, because you & I know the clouds shift in form, in simultaneous shared time, & that sometimes our written or visual or spoken or demonstrated expression reveals to us our current, present form & we achieve the under-standing of our own existence, as we sometimes need to do, as you & at times go ahead & relax our eyes & cast them away, to eliminate the illusions, & we stop the music other’s lyrics, & we quiet down & power down, & we stop with the untangibles–the unrecordered voices, the unfilmed looks, the landfill destined napkin art–& we make permanent the things you & I know for some great purpose we know exists found, unfound, defound, profound, defound, befound, nonfound, refound, & that it’s like okay, it’s going to be okay, the colors don’t always have to have meaning, choices choices in the expression are made. The control of how they are recieved <- is in the moment of creation. It’s so easy; just do the best, abandon excess rest, fail every test, & perhaps head west, to the carving out of new beginnings on something as legitimate as a canvas, then maybe they will accept the–our–choice of non-edit, & only then a super deliberate act of throwing the canvas into the trash could be made, it then truly protected from everyone’s hands, including our own, to modify or destroy, or forget, truly then, “yes!” is or would our intention of tangible expression of simultaneous shared time be had, is had, at that time, at this time, on this day, on all of our future days. And there it is, the discovery of an evolution in medium, right before my eyes, your eyes, our I’s in this beautiful pursuit of the Present to reflect back on in the future for the purpose of expanding the then present through appreciation of art done with a growing master of intention unintentionally, so humanly, simultaneously, greatly weak & feebly strong, magnetically powerful & dutifully done, under the constraints given & the warnings & words of others as newness emerges from the rushing imbalance of our stories of the past, and it settles, & it rushes again twice thrice many times again the reinvention is had, the sacrifices are made, mostly of imagined ideals, peace is created and words begin to massage the neck of strained shoulders carrying a world’s weight without stable direction, & the words flow & flow, just like had promised they would, thousands & thousands, millions & visuals too & sound! All tangible, mostly, decreasing loss, and the map genuinely coming together, internally legitamizing itself, of a 44 network, just one so doomed & blessed to fall short of so much, to the hero who enters the lair & cares not, concerns himself not with the return of his slain dragon, if he slays it at all, which he will not, & in the darkness not one will see his print of foot in lit, full form, he having left to the simultaneous stay of increased abstraction, a wolf never truer than in the clothing of all these sheep. 1 2 3 4 5 6 8 9 10–and this is not to say the count ever stops, it is to say there is a high willingness & ability for the form to adapt & change to make best use of the container or space given. It’s unpredictable. And prepared. The changing colors do not signify different times of entry–it & they are simultaneous. They & it & this is done at the very same time, in the exact moment of consciousness. This is why a prolific body of unedited art is so beautiful. & it’s also why the concept [& how] of UNIVERSI is made possible: to capture a skilled, lengthy, & fully transparent consciousness perhaps will or does reveal truth about everyone & everything.
“That is mine,” He or She says to the other while pointing, to which we think what actually do we own? Is there anything ours? And we know the attempt is being made to be nice by asking the question. We don’t want to seem rude by knowing the answer, it fundamentally clashing with the principles of the other now on the spot being thrust into a possible revelation. Or what of this attempt, the attempt being made to write a bit, just enough to complete the task, before I go to sleep, me here on my back on the edge of the bed tethered to the strings of the A500 listening to Anthem. We will wait for this to pass. There’s an immense pressure on me right now, and we feel it on my left shoulder & place where this external weight seems to fall & where I seem to carry it. Sounds. There’s nothing good here, not at this time. I might as well practice the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The sentence with all the letters in the alphabet. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. You can feel how dry this is. Is it possible to recover? Yes I think so. Let’s begin. A tall man walks into the room and waves hello at the guests before & underneath him. He is the owner of the establishment. And he wears a smile. He tips his hat, retains the smile, and walks toward the back room. Eyes do not follow where he goes. He goes alone. Nothing is followed. He simply just sees, only ahead. With long arms & delicate hands he turns the knob of a door & opens carefully not to expose too much of what is beyond. Again, no one watches him. They are focused, his guests, on the things going about: a bingo game, a television, some alcohol, a rocking chair or two. They’ve seen him come in before, many times, & all that was expected from each so it would seem is some cordiality between or among those inside. The rule was not spoken about, or even questioned: the backroom was for one man only through which to enter. There was no schedule. He showed or shows up sporadically. Sometimes in the morning sometimes at night, then he disappears into the room. And what if in the room God sat, & no rule ever existed that one man only could enter his chamber, it’s just that all the others were distracted with the things.
A candle burns to the subjects of shallowness, depth, & virality, and the remnants of a days thought & evoked passion linger in the air like this smokeless, spiced candle on fire. Henry pauses. His hands lift away from the keys to slump his head into his hands. And a deep breath is taken. He is leaned back. His head slightly forward, the keys or the candle or the weight of a day or days or something else has him, in all his senses, pulling forward & down. Forward to the florescent screen; downward to the soft yellow candle and the black & unblessed keyboard. And when he closes his eyes the crown of his head lifts his energy skyward. Far beyond the ceiling, far beyond the sky, far beyond the universe. As if–when he closes them–this pole that begins at the center of all things, more centered than the center of this Earth, and it starts there & runs skyward through & out the ground, through the man, through his crown, through his deepest self. “Depth, depth is the hard part; virality is easy,” he said & believed while imagining himself on the corner of streets, wearing his or her blank mask, standing still, carrying a sign, all still, for hours & hours, no movement, corner after corner, the sign pointing the world to his or hers. And to artificially induce the test of exposure, “& how one has to be ready…by creating a life’s work of depth,” & the thoughts carrying him into the darker place, the one of Buddah…man…no…And he understands that though he could, and maybe it would, he cannot. Breaks of integrity occur because he or she or it is human & sin will be had, “but not this, this I cannot.” And he is sorry. Henry asks for forgiveness & receives it just the same. And he is humbled. “I am humbled,” he or she says, “& though I do not know where this is going, where any of it is, therein a given is clear, my form will be withheld.” 347. Hands clasp both cheeks & the skin of his or of her face is pulled back slight. Tiredness. Breaking sounds. Gears are shifting. Forward. Crushing forward. 372. ))99 $33. Is or was the fraud the induced or was or is the fraud the one who knows induction yet goes on pretending for longevity &. And when will the &s stop? The phrases? What of the sound? The excess? The art of it is hard to see. I read it all. It’s hard to see. It’s hard to accept it though we did: “oh well lol full throttle!”
So it appears I need to time myself during these blitzes of 447s. And not to just time. I need to document the context of how the writing came about, specifically to annotate the environment. For example, to say somewhere it was done at the brown desk with the WcW Monday Night Nitro Chair in so & so amount of time [2 and a half minutes already spent] listening to such & such music, using either this unblessed WARNING keyboard or the Blessed K120. At least to start gathering data as to what & where evokes how & why. I have a hunch the brown desk, sight-editing (looking at the screen typing into the screen canvas, either through browser or word document) is where I am more likely to rant non-fictionally by using mixed messages. Whereas outside, if I am outside say hooked into the A500 / K120 combo underneath a tree or above a hillside looking out I will, I think, be more likely to transcend the criticisms & carve out the white space with imagination, fiction, & unfiction. But as we’ve said so many times, the music is the most influential aspect of all. And so with this gathering of data, we really should begin to write down to what music played to the amount of time allotted. Eight minutes forty two seconds; without data I cannot prove this is on the slow end of conscious display. But where do we stop? Which aspects of the environment do we withhold knowing that this path of context necessity is indeed a rabbit hole. Must I tell you Stanley is sleeping to my right, sleeping on the V37. I think I may have already told you that, though it was days ago. Must you know he is always there beside me, if I am inside? He sleeping, me waking. Us together loving. And he stretches & I stretch too inside to cover the needs & create the groundwork for all future writings. Edited or unedited? The word cap makes things interesting. It kind of leaves me no choice but to edit. Through the browser I transcribe, and just below a word count counts, but it lags behind. It is a lazy word count updating itself only every five or six words apparently. Or more. Fourteen minutes! I almost wrote about a fork. I had the idea while washing dishes. Earlier at work I kept thinking about the word “Derelict,” & how I would write about that word later. I’m not even really sure what it means. I also imagined myself writing about “Carl,” to release the first real imaginative piece. One can only handle so much brown desk.