Where to begin…with the good or the bad. I needed leadership. I needed the role of a dad to be leader. Financial supporter wasn’t enough. Bread winner wasn’t enough. The money created opportunities but look at how those opportunities were treated without leadership! I know we’re all just doing the best we can or could, but dad…he was absent, he was not the leader…there was no leader. Brother fell suit. Mom wore so many hats. Hats that couldn’t have ever fit. The role of the father is, as I’ve been reading, to the child & to the family, the leader. No greater opportunity of leadership will pass a man. For the child, for the family, no greater possible leadership figure will exist, compared to that of the dad. And like, all those hours I spent in my room sleeping. Sleeping off the time. Punished in there. Time traveling…Maybe it was good for me though. Maybe having no direction allowed the kind of room that no exists: spaceless, timeless, & unlimited-ness. All that sleep… All those games…. Both are still a part of my life though I’ve made conscious efforts to put a stop to it. The only game I play now is soldat.pl; sleep I still try. But its embedded. It’s removable. Maybe after lots of therapy. But like I almost mentioned…maybe there is good in it. The way the opportunities of childhood were blown off; the way those teachers had no influence. My creativity protected. My freedom internalized. No one to follow. No one to disagree with… it might have been a blessing. And we’re talking about myself too, now that I’m a Dad. Maybe the real blessing will be seen in my child. It will be irrefutable: the blessing. I don’t know completely how but I know why, where, when, & what. And it’s not about retribution. Or making anyone feel bad. It just is. Detached. I’ve forgiven. I’m just really trying to anticipate how. Because I know how important I’m about to be. And not to use my example as what not to do, but in terms of leadership…We shared moments though. Like when we would go to the charlotte checker’s games. How I’d fall asleep on the way home. The basketball games…But when I got cut from the 7th grade team where were you? Where was anyone? I don’t know the smallest things are so to big to the child. And the child needs that leader. I’m going to be that leader. I might not have money. I don’t. But I will have leadership. Of the house. For this is my house. And for me and my house, we will be spiritual, we will create, we will support each other, & we will advance our collective nest. Collaboration. Involvement. Trust. Creative outlets. Positivity. Intention. And who is to blame? I’ve haven’t asked but I bet that leaderless life began before me, before you became an adult. When you were a child. Did you have a father figure leader? I have never asked. I don’t blame you. It’s the chain. It happens to so many & it’s so hard to break. Generation after generation. But, maybe with all of the financial support, you created an opportunity for me to break the cycle when or if I recreated. You caused an awareness. You allowed that space. And what of the other 50%? Of my DNA. I’m whole brain dominant, that’s how you shaped the way I work, mechanically. To balance out that creativity with logic. It’s a real beauty of a blend. It’s hard sometimes to assimilate with society. And to follow the rules of others. To follow at all. To obey. I see it right through it. It’s taken time and lessons but I’ve learned how to do it. Because of the abundance. Now as we discussed I am much less the potential artist than mom. That’s because of the logic. But, again, as discussed, she chose something else. I’m not choosing something else. Creating, leading, inspiring through prolific abundance of words & visuals & family. Making magic out of thin air with our hands. And our voice. And the way we do things. It’s no one’s fault. I forgave a long time ago. I forgive. I forgive you. And I love you. I will always. I appreciate everything you’ve done & sacrificed. And how you tried your best. Thank you. Now it’s my turn. For the hive!
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.
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.
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.
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!”