Thursday, August 31, 2006

The Votes Are In!

And the result is:

The UN will finally be sending a peacekeeping force to Darfur! The strength of their mandate will be determined in the coming days. Please call John Bolton at 212-415-4050 and thank him for his efforts in getting the vote cast so quickly and in convincing other nations to back the efforts of President Bush and Prime Minister Blair on this account.

After years of genocide, the UN is finally taking action thanks, in large part, to the lead of Bush and Blair.


Now up to 22,600 people will be walking into hell to protect those living there, "by any means necessary."

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

One Of These Things Is Not True

1. I have no fingerprints

2. I eat pork chops

3. I do not drink coffee

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Poetry Nights...

have begun again. This blog will now return to its normal posts - art, lit, arch. Enjoy!

Friday, August 25, 2006

First Day Of School

I found a man bent over, holding a painter's razor, and talking to his calf. "Oh hey, I haven't seen you in a while."

I found a man nicknamed Christian after bouncing for a Strip Club with his toenails painted BRIGHT pink. Non-Greek.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

It Begins

This term I have two firsts: an 8:00am class and a class on Friday. I think I did pretty good making it through three years of college before having either.

I am now lab manager at the store I work at. It means I take care of the machines, nurse them to health, clean our their intestines. It's true. It also means on days I don't have to work, if there is a problem I have to go in. Like Monday. From Monday off to a six hour day. I do all this for no extra pay. Me Think Smartly One Day.

One of my coworkers snapped. All he has said to me, while no one is around, for the past two days is, fuck you, fuck you dude, or fuck you man. Though he hasn't told me what his problem is. When people are around, especially my girlfriend or her hot roomate, I am his best friend.

There is only one passing in my group of friends. He went home. He doesn't care what happens tomorrow. He used to dream of being president. I am happy for him.

The sun rises through the smoke of burning fields.

Saturday, August 19, 2006

It Begins In Two Days

a) It tried desperately to kill me earlier this year

b) It brings the IQ of Moscow down eighty points

c) It is a pointless exercise of jumping through successively smaller hoops

d) All of the above

e) None of the above

f) Cover head and run at top speed down Main naked and screaming, disobeying all traffic laws for pedestrians, while desperately trying to find a place where there are no Greeks at all

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Darfurian Rebel Leader

I was born under a tree.
I live under a tree.
I am fighting from behind a tree.

I will never compose anything quite like this. For a man who hasn't cried since his pre-teen years, this almost got me. I remember it. I had exited the hospital four days earlier, shouldn't have driven down there, shouldn't have walked, clung to guard rails, blessed my disability permit, swam in clothes too large for my emaciated form. I had planned it. It was something I could point to and say, there, I helped there. I said I wouldn't go, I swore I couldn't. That trip put my recovery back a week. I passed out for a day after that. Oh God it was worth it. Oh God I hated it.

He had one eye. He wore sunglasses. He took them off once to wipe sweat. The sand was blowing. Bombers whined overhead, returning from burned villages. And when we ran to the tree to hide he said it. In the back of the auditorium I couldn't breathe. I blacked out. I was crushed. It was the words, the man, the village he ran from - it was a symphony. Mozart's Requiem knocks me out every time I hear it. This killed me. This was my salvation.

I like poets and poems I can hear. Reading some of my favorites I have composed their voices in my head, I imagine they would stop just where I do, I imagine them sitting on their front porch reading from a beat up Moleskine. Others I have heard - others I know. Their voices conjured up by mere mention. I hear them reading their poems. Both of these I like.

I once thought painting was the least of the arts. Using only one sense is boring. I want to be assaulted. Inundate me. That is where mastery is, breeding one sense into the others. Mastery is the smell Van Gogh's cypress trees, the feel of Venus di Milo's skin, the taste of O'Keefe's milk. True genius is conjuring the second iteration of senses: emotion. Goya makes me want to scream. Chagall makes me want to start a revolution. Da Vinci makes me want to study everything all at once for about five minutes. It is hard to call up senses with just pigment and binder, but even harder to call up actions, emotions. The artwork is the whole. It is not the paint on the canvas. It is not even the philosophy behind it. It is broken. It is the wall. It is the time of day. It is the light. It is the biography. It is the history. It is most of all me.

Art too often forsakes the surround. That which is not the specific piece. Photography has drawn the surround back into the art world. Are installations and architecture the purest forms of art then? No. All forms are equal. Including words. It is just as hard with words. But every so often a single span of time and a set of words, of brush strokes, of walls and windows come together to slay.

I was born under a tree.
I live under a tree.
I am fighting from behind a tree.

(Quote from Darfur Diaries.)

Monday, August 07, 2006

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Jeremy Clarkson

There are two sides to Holland: the Rembrandt side, where he spent all his time in stuffy rooms painting portraits of accountancies; and the Van Gogh side, where he moved to the south of France and cut off his ear.