Thirty Cents

Why don’t they all just kill (me or) themselves? It’s the most I wish to witness. Yet I must deal with my decision to return (the old country). Sink or swim is the motto. All of those thoughts of sinking. The rifle barrel pressed to the back of my throat and I worry if I can reach the trigger. The Americans, remnents of my past, have actually dared to progress. And in their progression where have they gone? The down-spiral path of disarray. What a joy it must be to just glide along this life. The (manipulated and perverted version of Plato’s) noble lie working so well. That wasn’t his intention though was it? It’s not supposed to be about the lie (as it is these days) but a noble cause. Oh, are we doomed!

Part Other. (As opposed to part 2.)

Christian reconstruction-ism and christian zionism.

Drank a beer last nigh and was appalled. The bartender, after taking my money, returned only the bill part of the return change. The odd (thirty some cents) he kept as a tip. When I questioned where the change was he said/asked, “Oh, I thought you wouldn’t want that.” How Euro of him. He assumed I’d leave it for a tip and that was that. Incredible really. The increase, if you can call it that, in US productivity over the last twenty years is all about keeping the thirty cents. There is no substance anymore.


The She

Met the She last night. She was last night. She had a sharp wit honed in the time of laughter and avoidance. She is unlike those around me in that Hers is more a life of avoid which is a utter mystery because Her vision will strike a strong man down. Where She is now no one knows for real. Perhaps the guitar player at the morning cafe.

If I could only remember the things she said. Yes! About gong for a walk. She sits upright. American’t raised albeit not from her mother but instead from her gurlfriend. And the wit. The very short stories of humour and experience would burst out as if rehearsed and (would/could) land just below my left lower eyelid … (Is there a name for that part of the eye (lid)?) … like a minuscule raindrop or the lost spit of a colleague lost in discourse. She was asked, “We’re going in to town, do you want to come?” Someone else said, “yeah, I could use a walk.” “A walk?,” she injected. “How ’bout we drive?” “It’s only a fifteen minute walk–or so”, someone else said. “I don’t walk; that why I have a car,” she said. “But walking is good for you,” yet another someone said. “The only time I walk is when I’m with a dog,” she said and then added, “I have a car.”

All the talk of shitting last night. And Brown … something and AC/DC and Edison and someone else who fiddled with electromagnetic something…

Something of interest that I cannot realize: Apt. furnished studio for rent. <phone number excluded to protect the innocent; and don’t bother looking for the original notebook this is transcribed from>

Rant on.


Modigliani And The Imbecile

Bringing a baby to an art museum. What are the parents thinking? Why are they not better trained to think. And so, I view Modigliani and one of the best exhibits I’ve ever seen. But it is a Saturday afternoon on a cloudy rain threatening day; the people have crowded the beautiful wanna-be-something-other-it-is place (Phillips) and their breadth is a burden between myself and paintings. It is so hard to focus on art in a place where occupants of it lack just that. Difficult to be surrounded by so much art and creative work yet the rooms and halls are filled with imbeciles, those who have no idear what art is. (Yes, this is tommi-worst projecting.) Because none of them strive for it. Yet it grows on me. The wondrous dark colors M used. The way he accentuated women as if to elongate their beauty. The secret M has kept and which will obviously never be revealed is what these women actually look(ed) like. We want to know who Mona Lisa was but I want to know what and how M’s women are/were. There are a few portraits where I wouldn’t ask twice but the likes of the noble Polish Woman or the (in)famous Reclining Female(s), even the surprising painting of Jean Cocteau who revealed M’s genius. I tend to think, after seeing his (M’s) picture, that there is a piece of himself in these pics. Obviously M saw something else. It was about the seeing, sight, vision, eyes. He has taken so much time to either ponder their position or correct an error, but the eyes are always asymmetrical. What was his reason for this? A trade mark? Clarity of origin? And the similarity of the women in Anna (Polish Nobel Woman) and reclining nude (woman unknown) ??? Anna was the wife of a confidant. The(ir) hair and body and shape, facial structure look so similar. All of this questioning and answer seeking, among the imbeciles and hourly waged security forces. “Let’s have a few cc’s of culture shot in our arms, honey.” “Yes, of course, dear,” she responds. Who is gonna save the children from their parents (ignorance that stays before them)? So many of M’s paintings are dated 1917–at least those I enjoyed. I am particularly taken by the portrait of Cocteau! I have looked but cannot find any indication to suspect what I would like to suspect. For we know who JC was, according to certain secondary sources. Yet, the handkerchief in his suit jacket pocket, it means obviously nothing. It certainly doesn’t look like a properly folded handkerchief. And what of the broken (lines in the) nose? The short description of the painting says the chair JC is sitting in a “throne-like” chair. Let me continue. In a drawing “Hermaphrodite Cariatide” the description begins with “Gender ambiguity” and continues with the Leitmotif of the Kabbalah and alchemy and the importance of androgyny. Was alchemy important to M? Seek and you will find or… be patient and it will eventually come around. “SANTO GIOVANNI” a small penciled on notebook paper drawing of St. John. The caption notes: “M. believed in the universality of religion as advocated in the mystical messianic teachings of the Kabbalah…” Symbol of fish, star David and world Jerusalem.



In Tact

It has been (a) hour(s) and sorts. The sounds might be at fault. It’s as though I have moved between dimensions. Remember? Certainly the previous one was quiet. DC is so loud and hectic. But I have maintained the organism. Wait. Let me scrap(e) it (her) off the hard wood floor once again. Mold. It. It is in tact. While in American’t.



Henri De Toulouse-Lautrec

  • Red Headed Nude Crouching, 1897
  • In the Salon: The Sofa, 1892-1893
  • Women Resting, 1894-1895
  • In The Bed: The Kiss
  • In The Salon, 1893 (Same room, different angle as previous “On The Sofa”)
  • Medical Inspection (Rue de Moulins), 1894

Explain to Danton the limits of his excess. Beyond the failed cause stands a bleeding woman. “Where does the blood come from,” he asks. “You (of all people) should know (where blood always comes from),” she replies.

Why should a whore have rights? To tell her client what she’ll allow and he refuses because he’s paying.


The Apple

The apple. Used by Newton for gravity and Bible for religion. Contradiction? Same thing? Both fell out of nowhere?

Identify space tearing flop transitions.

The anthropic principle. This is a doctrine, not unlike a political or relgious agenda, that stipulates (in the world of theoretical physics) the world is the way it is because we are here to observe it that way.

>makes no sense at all

>>it’s also probably not what it means.



How to?

Cookies cooked stale.

The cooky batter/dough was so old that when I cooked them they were already stale.

-From a friend (Patrick Henry)

Rant on.