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.
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!”