SULLAGE II (1996-2002)

     GENERAL INTRODUCTION

INTRODUCTION

WORDS FAIL

MIMIC

BLISSVILLE

INVADER

WASTE

 OUT AND UNDER

COME NIGHT

MOONSHINE

BAD LAND

EROSION

MORE METHOD

ROCK ART

    WHAT’S AMERICAN 

NATIVE

EXILE IN UNION

ROOST

STRONGHOLD

PICTURE

  RECORD OF LIGHT

VISION   

 LAST AND FIRST

       

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What is this? The Sullage series of books is an aphoristic ongoing philosophical journal created on the run while shooting books of photography, Picture are a visual silent aphorisms themselves, and trying to make a point, simply sum things up or jam up bolagna before it even can happen, and cut through it if it’s there.

There are three more volumes that are written and shot, but not edited. The Sullages paralell  the book and picture endeavors over the years, and are the actual things in themselves where all the thought originates and is confined to by virtue of all five senses with abso0lutely no mediation.

As i said the Sullages reflect life on a pcture quest, and pictures lived, so at any given time these books of aphorisms refine it to basics that can be hard to argue.

Both Sullage I and II are the years spent going under, after 1989, and even well after 2002, when Sullage III picks up. One year into Sullage III began the final ten year battle to hold on to my home, stronghold and burial ground – a huge departure from the same location that provided cheap affordable stability for RealStill, particularly after deciding to just hole up in my subect matter.

Upon losing or having it taken away, your most valuable things wrecked, the way to proceed is often further crippling through booze, drugs, escape, pain relief, stress avoidance and suicide. But i went out and i went under. And i have the pictures. 

It’s another book for no one.

What? I gotta explain myself again? It won’t take long, since SULLAGE II is pretty much the same inburst of trouble and truth, told in the simplest terms possible, from the inclined plane of my existence.

A doctrine of no contact proceeds against the isolationism of insignificance. Molestors, cowards, and money-changers exist and grow, but I don’t do business with them. My production grows without exchange. The temple itself was abandoned to tourists, while true living continues in exile.

Begun in 1996, SULLAGE II is marked by more time, distance and definition from the enemy and more disappearance of the things I love. Like SULLAGE I, it’s a going under as an intellectual choice and a reclusivty-as-strategy to protect a treasure.

SULLAGE II is more better slag and scoria, the by-produsts of a Picture Man from the furnace of doing.

IT’S WHERE I LIVE

The same dirty haunts show up as in SULLAGE I, and expand into the lands of New Jersey or the Brooklyn/Queens border – their sewage canals, landfills, toxic waste sites, and tunnels.

NEW TURF

SULLAGE II delves into the “natural” world. Although nature here is really just another dirty haunt – except this is a haunt of dirt. It’s here that SULLAGE II becomes still more elemental.Nature, industry, street – what do social constructions like “nature” or “industry” mean to me? It’s all real, all the time, when it comes to what I engage.

THE SILENT RECORD OF NIGHT

SULLAGE is hauled up from the very bottom of our existence – waste, erosion and the guts of industry. If SULLAGE II, at times, flies into abstraction or beauty, what kind of beauty is this? Was I recording light, dark, beauty, ugIiness, abstraction, reality? You mean the American Sublime?

VALUE

Even more, intelligence here, is equated with capacity for perception. This excludes all media which lie like a screen before perception and “mirrors” nothing except itself. The odd man out, on an inclined plane, I do mind dying. Memory, resistance and a philosophy that manufactures too, proves this.

INTRODUCTION

SULLAGE II

ATCHMO’S TAPES, ECCE HOMME, THE SAYINGS OF JOHN MILANO,  MINIMA MORALIA or THE PROPHECIES OF ARISTOTLE WALTERS – notes from an uderlife, and some precedents for SULLAGE – one more attempt to form a philosophy from the standpoint of “subjective experience” (which is not a standpoint at all). A book of lines from the gospel of another Thomas, who doubts with a sense of reality. Diatribes to a culture of insignificance that I don’t suffer lightly. Hear me as I make the transition from angry young man to angry old man. 

I do not exclude chaos that is pure reality and what’s irrational is a fuel.

Truth is trouble I’ve never avoided; confronting oneself is part of becoming better. Flipping a negative to positive – pretty simple, and necessary.

I would articulate only to move on and leave behind what only pure action forgets.

So I won’t talk, represent, imagine or theorize myself out of existence. Knowing shouldn’t be a terror, but a love – for a wisdom that is reactive to the rule of life. 

BALLAD OF A PICTURE MAN

I’ve come fully painted from my recondite journey – my own little ghost dance with a camera, composed on the run. Fully tested from the field and street, I present proof of my findings. The thing represents itself, of course. And the stones you find randomly can fit only one way. 

Meaning is you, here, exist fully even now. 

I am anti-development, at least, on the level of provocation. As a matter of course I believe in evolution, but not always to a higher or better place. It’s not survival of the best, just the most fit. Technology improves, but not necessarily us. Art alone does not redeem

Mythic objects, over art and cultural products, have a use. Pictures as stones – use? Make meaning; build memory, a home or a path. These are some uses, none, I have chosen for profit or self-invention, which would render them useless. 

My lyrics? Forget reaction. Always act. Never react. Forget the endless egress of mirror selves. Exteriority to all things. The method is the message. And the method is built on strength.

How is this done? Opere et veritate. That’s Latin for get off your ass.

PHOTOSOPHY

To every other – hear me. These are the likes of me, and  the hates. Do not mistake me for your own image. The point came where I had to state my case. I’m only the third philosopher to put his money where his mouth is, and the first to use a camera.

Both art and philosophy is a relationship to life examined from distinct perspectives and methods. One explores meaning and non-meaning in life, the other produces meaning. Philosophy, psychology and art offer both information and message within the last vestiges of culture. The ultimate themes of existence are purely the domain of philosophy and art. 

The rare times in life, when your back is to the wall and you must turn to meet your maker with, possible last breaths, the question is posed most deeply, “What am I doing here?”

The biggest and best truths are forced.This is how one philosophizes with a camera. But also how one becomes more of what one is and proves it. Experience, thought and object unified. We call this real work. Some use a camera to mimic and some to copy, some to get closer and some to dig deeper. A camera is definitely a tool. I use it to seek light and dark or anything in between, just as long as it’s real and I can afford it. Pictures and words are sought in the service of contact alone.

The unified method takes place within a productive life. And physical labor is the cement that seals experience and object. Neither paradigm nor grand scheme of the universe, let’s exclude all speculation for the certainty of living and working really. Just as “mass culture is psychoanalysis in reverse,” art can be philosophy in reverse, resulting in both object and discourse – things commonly known as culture and today disparaged as myth.

Presently commerce hogs so much culture, that myth itself has come to define something false. But ubiquitous cultural pretending masks the suspicion that it ain’t myths that have become false but something more vital.

I offer no cultural products, but things compressed and formed by a life of experience and understood by no logic but being, whose only use is a soulful reminder of what’s important.

The useful and truthful fused into an object. Is there any room left for this?Photosophy, written with word and light, reliant on sense perception, is a working philosophy of root experience. Photophilous in nature, it senses clearly the wisdom of light, and living in it now.

Light, simply the best illusion, is the only wise choice. In the beginning, that’s all there was, and, in the end, I suspect that’s all there will be or won’t. 

The phenomenal world exists for light.I suppose mine is a too real reality. So I may not be an artist at all. They tell me an artist must have a voice and needs an audience and, thus, seeks one. That’s not at all what I need or what I seek.The church of no truth still preaches truth in debunking

If all is untruth what of the few big clunky truths that one discovers very early on? We are made and born and we live until we die. And we have a lot of time in between to decide how we spend this living. These few fully accepted truths are the platform for action in life. 

And if I would seek truth, would it follow that I need some light? 

Would I then be a priest or a shaman, or, perhaps, a sage – at the very least a god damned dialectical monist?

I know this – I’m a man who does. So just like when I shoot, if I speak, it’s enough.

You want a name? Your celebrity head lies up your ass. Oh yeah, I doubt anything with any connection to any notion of fame.

VICTIM OF INSIGNIFICANCE

A few years back, I saw a news report showing migrants crossing the border. They swam and floated down an open sewage canal, brimming and foaming with shit, piss, and every sort of human rot and waste. This is America. Willing to do what it takes for an even better life.

Truthful folks, once victimized by fakes, struggle particularly hard against contamination. True, a rock is impervious to even the most vile liquid that might surround it, but even solids are subject to the erosional forces their resistance encourages. Practically speaking, the rock metaphor does not cover enough territory. Maybe one has to be an entire landscape – whose vastness minimizes the effects of toxicity, and whose uselessness and isolation aids its own preservation. The master of such thoughts once said, “Truly, man is a river of filth. One must be like an ocean to be able to receive a river of filth without being contaminated by it.” 

You must know the art of containment and no contact, plus be able to move and dodge the pure vapidity, to keep the senses unclogged – to live really.

I thought good honest work would speak for itself so words (explanations) wouldn’t be necessary. But actions, let alone pictures, don’t speak to the senseless. Insignificance has power on account of its presence everywhere. Imitation is an irritation, mimicry could set me off. And plagiary? That would ignite a chain reaction. Such a “radical” reaction, at best, could only be philosophical.

Real work only alerts pirates, the same way dead meat attracts flies. Only certain critters have an attraction to light, but, by now, snaring even these common, odd birds, is of no importance.

SYMPATHY FOR THE INTELLECTUAL

“In America I was liberated from a certain naive belief in culture.” Mr. Adorno, with grand understatement, has given us one of the great one-liners of our time. 

Wasn’t it gullible to desire nothing but a real life and escape a life of servitude? I liberated these notions by taking more fully to heart what I knew all along – culture today is another form of servitude staffed by the worst sort of spirit slaves, where images stand before images losing their ability to reflect accurately. Media mirrors itself and little else.

And still, “The introverted thought architect dwells behind the moon that is taken over by extroverted technicians.” 

Now we know. You can’t fight technology or ubiquity or both.

And virtual endless choice is no choice.

OUR REAL VALUES

Commerce and technology form the baseline. That’s why we will let the secular and legal alone define us. Individual rights reign, as virtuality’s ascendary (rooted in a colonialism that, previously consumed physical territories) works on the mind. Cultural forms of life, which are hierarchical by nature, have been democratized, popularized as, dare I say, commodities. Instead of the primacy of lived experience we have culture. The ascension of the culture of representation, its imitation of life, is complete in the sense; no one escapes, even in reaction. Mimicry commands the more we let culture become purely a business that trades in dead myths.

The current embarrassment of unchecked self-engagement permits life to take place purely in imagination – the cultural life style. The rise of unearned individual rights and an economy of consistent cycles of consumption and development has blinded and resulted in a wicked forgetting.

Technology and commerce are ends and culture is one of the means by which ends are reached in this world. 

HALL OF MIRRORS

So what? Shit is as endless as life and a fight is more than futile. Complete imitation dictates this. But violation still breeds reaction even if reaction is a waste, because what I do is what I claim it to be – actual. At best violations beg a clearer articulation while giving me something to do while observing a bunch of leisure class media clowns help themselves to work that is not their own.

This enemy makes articulation futile and stupid, their violations make it necessary. After having my say, documenting my intent, I move on. An invader with no eyes and ears can be left to waste, it’s domain.

And why would I seek to be part of something that would destroy me with the same subjection I was avoiding throughout my life? 

Although most of SULLAGE is a life in action, there is the inevitable reaction to contact with unlife and its unethics. Mimicry is kidnapping and the world of representation has lost its senses – screened, dulled and masked by an unregulated atmosphere of inborn rights and hyper-consumption. All this in a get-mine democracy, that has become a stage for a self-involvement that is total, as well as, practically unprecedented (Ancient Rome) and absolutely unable to perceive itself in relative terms to the larger world.                 

Recently many cities have gone from raging depravity to relative prosperity. The yuppie city-state and its boot camp of neighborhood bohemia saved the day. This professional audience completes the loop of media. Of, by and for images, all for the emptiness of a self-referring eternal egression.

One way I spent life is documenting it. None of it has been an opportunity, a miming. More than mirroring, it’s being. I’ll spend a life, not absorb it.

The world of representation was another world entirely. A world that was in constant reference to itself. And, since photographic representation details the surface so well, and little else, the chances for representations to evolve self-referentially is a constant danger. 

Less contact with this world of selves preserves meaning.

WINDOWS AND SCREENS

A world of screens has not one window. People who sacrifice sight for screens, (often spending every waking hour doing so) don’t see even a reflection. Instead, screeners see nothing at all. If you work all day behind a computer screen, go home and watch a television screen, then, screen a movie to “relax”, you might think you saw something.

Windows give a clear view of the immediate world. Screens do not.

ILL WILL

To be seen, to gain attention – what is that? It’s not even a matter of accepting any amount of the neglect or ignorance I expect. I document what I’m connected to (the novel approach) which, incidentally, is all but gone. Hate for unlife is the only hate that is healthy. And healthy hate can only be flipped, to fuel the working life. The working life which by nature is anti-self.

To sleep with sewage, contamination and corruption and still live fully, now that’s some real blue collar stamina shit. What revenge results inevitably is not there for life but its imitations.Hate is reaction because reaction means identity. One reacts out of meaning. The contempt is for the overvalued simulation, not necessarily for what’s simulated.

And truth? Truth is a debunking. 

NECESSARY 

The experience of living is its meaning. Necessity excludes choice. So all that is necessary for life should, if not welcomed, at least be accepted. The unnecessary is a choice – stupidity, theft thoughtlessness, cowardice, while features of life, remain unessential. When what’s unnecessary is injected into life constructive reaction can only be philosophical. 

SULLAGE is a kind of last will and testament of intentions – mine. Living is  meaning.

TIME PLUS PLACE IS BEING

Sacred is simply what comes from living in place over time. To walk in step with the sway of life implies a code, and codes are lived. Behind all forms lurks life, not images. Nativity knows what’s real and what’s not by sensing without “thinking.”How many artists deal directly with undiluted reality? How many of those are physically cemented to the thing they depict? And what if the life you’re stuck representing is disappearing? There’s no opportunity here. The blue collar dollar is quite unadorned. To represent life as a participant, is to become specific to what you’re representing.

A camera allowed me to dig deeper into this world and the sway of life I was already working.

SELF-CRITIQUE

Photography records the surface, while words possibly penetrate. But the pursuit of a picture will bring you physically into the world at the moment of its creation. Actual contact as a cement has all sorts of consequences, not the least, is basic union with this world. 

I take photography literally.

We’ve forgotten that the audience has gone too far – a work (world and image) makes you the center, but not a partner to the creator. The audience knows nothing nor cares about labor. That’s why they say, don’t tell me about the pain, show me the baby. When the baby is molested, a list of what is valued and what is not, emerges. Declarations of value are acts of protection for survival’s sake, and, a boundary to mimicry.

I usually spend more time lighting paper than talking to it, but combustive reaction fueled a declaration of intent. After the fuel is spent in the furnace of doing, it is to be buried, as waste. Like all waste, it cannot be broken down further and becomes permanent. It must be buried and contained so it can be ignored. 

Now all is to be collapsed into a self-advertising no one escapes. But if your sole allegiance is to life, reality or soul, why your suspicion? There are places to suspect all things from – I just mentioned three of these possible spots.

The  species got that way by two vital methods of survival, adaptability and the talent to shape the world. Qualities that might go too far as bad habits when formed by commerce. A will to profit spurs fetishistic “thinking” and empties a vessel of real meaning.

LIFE – IN CLOSING

“Our perspective of life has passed into ideology which conceals the fact that there is life no longer.” Adorno 

A book for no one, you’ll have to discover on your own. My job is not to dig, but bury, in a cocoon of wise silence. Maybe someone who is real will find it. One must be willing too. The “struggle” has been turned into a joke. The real message of prosperity is to use it wisely, do something significant, and, you are so fuckin lucky. 

Against nebulity, specificity, above knowing why, knowing how, I participate first, I witness last. And be who you are – is that such a big deal? There are people with no discernible identity – empty shells of consumption, cycles of eating, sleeping and shitting. Oh, the bliss of waste. This is most of us – now.If pervasive illusion absorbs even its reaction, the only choice becomes no contact. And that leads to pure action. The power of the necessary prevails. Denied contact, the selves amicably look elsewhere for what selves needs most – their attention. The invader can be left to waste – its proper domain.

No contact.

This is a certified Going Under project.

       WORDS FAIL     

A word is never the thing.

Some things never change, but words do.

Words – so malleable, accommodating, fashionable.

Every word, a prejudice.

Empowerment, reinvention, late capitalism – you’ve got to be kidding.

Words are in favor of words.

Words themselves are a hypothesis.

Certainly, life ain’t no story.

Generalized symbols are there for efficient communication and efficiency is all they signify.

Stereotypes are lame secureless, empty, imaginary minimum security prisons to house any sort of life, that may offend the prevailing culture of insignificance.

Later the search is found to find a sentence for my convictions.

I won’t follow words.

If there are no words for “it”, then it certainly does not exist.

Appearances, comparisons, and generalizations serve language. Depth, specificity and singulaity seves art.

Art let’s the caged animals escape with a knowledge of structure.

Statements won’t require words.

Read between the lines and find images.

There is no vocabulary for the indescribable.

Pictures describe the indescribable.

Write with light, and words will disappoint.

The unsaid says more.

Any dialogue with the soul is done without words.

Silence speaks volumes without volume.

Silence is understood by all.

To say the most, say the least.

Simplicity achieves coverage stereotypes aspire to.

Language above all is an agreement.

Writng is technology.

Don’t even say, “digital.”

I’m brief because most words are unbelievable.

Words are slippery and covered with body fluids.

Words are crude. They demand refining to make them fit a purpose.

Like fishing with your bare hands, they will flounder, slither, slip, slop, and flop, but, with patience, practice and timing words will come into your power.

Only a will can harpoon a word.

The native tongue wills.

Outside the native tongue, the effects of words are merely annoying.

Once the spoken word was all, now it’s vaporous, while only the written word suffers scrutiny.

Words are as reliable as their users .

“For these are the days of vengeance that all things that are written may be fulfilled.” Luke 21:23.

Talk poisons action.

Gestures mean nothing.

I am a man. What use or truth would be served by more words, more talk?

What the fuck is a famous recluse?

These are all the words we have, and yet, there, is often, no real compelling reason to use them.

Unless you read or listen between the lines.

I believe words fail, especially when they’re spoken.

Hear truth in the silence between the lies.

Words are a misadventure.

Words can only point to their objectives.

The other side is reached by only sweat and deeds – and, on occasion, words.

Unless your words are written in the red ink of will, your words fail.

Only our written or recorded words are required to stand as documents.

The written word, too, is an image, but it can go deeper since its manufactured mentally.

Pictures own the surface. I can only calll on words to penetrate.

Light must suffer refraction, words distortion, for them to be set free.

Leadened, and shaped for velocity, the impact of words is defined by weight and style.

All the worthy words and pictures speak of time and becoming.

Make words come into your power – I dare you.

And the value of words is weighed against one word – truth.

Life lived is truth.

  Normally our words fail.

   MIMIC

Malleability and capacity for delusion, Bo, you are more human than the rest of us.

I have met the enemy and it is you.

There’s nothing original about our drives or desires.

There is a will to mimic in all forms of life.

An act of mimicry requires weakness, not will.

If weakness took a form, it would be a sponge.

Plagiarism is a theft without guts (kidnapping).

Nothing follows a genuine discovery including reinvention.

Copies are made from a master.

A copy is not the document.

If it ain’t broke, don’t copy it.

Imitation is the sincerest form of self-loathing.

Your own original sin is unoriginality.

Simulation is the method of tourists.

Coy and sneaky signify fear of participation.

Imitation is suicide, and, if you don’t kill yourself, I will.

I only feel ripped off when I’ve been ripped off.

To stop the echo, remove the emptiness.

I’m suppose to accept theft as a form of recognition?

All appropriation is inappropriate.

Self service is not a method.

The only thing self-made about a mimic is stupidity.

A source and a copy become one only in the imagination.

I can’t locate those ideas anywhere but inside your head.

Delusion is the lie that the liar believes.

Only what’s a simulated touches you as real.

What did one mimic say to the other mimic? I was the first to mimic.

Your version of the dialectic is duplicity.

Duplicity is not a coincidence.

Mimicry is not coincidence.

Only the random can be coincidental.

You’ve scripted a life called, I LIE.

Fool yourself, fool.

Borrowing is not a skill.

Theft is another form of jealousy.

You invite comparisons for their eventual kidnapping.

You think your life is good because you have left nothing to compare it to.

No soul, no comparison.

You covet the authentic.

You see image manipulation as progress instead of playful vanity.

Virtually significanct still don’t cut it.

When experience is not available, employ mimicry.

Your thesis is loaded with hollow points.

I need, therefore I am.

Your theme, yourself. Your self, your desires.

Your mantra, never enough.

The mimic has neither ears nor eyes, but tongues, many of them.

Without a voice of your own, you appropriate another’s, but your dead tongue eventually rots your whole being from inside your mouth.

You serve gossip with your tongue.

A stolen tongue, once planted, sprouts only a new head.

To fashion a world from your problems is wrong.

I’m all for a self expression, just have something to express.

I’d be humble too, if I took so much from another’s experience.

Mimicry signifies ambition only.

Sensing what you want is not sensing.

You sense your need.

Can I head move further up its own ass?

Reinvention is nothing really.

Even leisure class clowns need to express, I’m told.

Mimicry signifies functional envy at best, victim envy at worst.

Those that can’t do, simulate.

Vicariously, we experience our nonexistence in the copy.

Your depression is caused by the sensation of no power.

No power, no engagement with life.

I’m sick of sorry.

I can find humor in everything, but you.

Your media exists to be mocked.

“The whole world’s a stage,” is no longer simply a metaphor.

Media, never an experience.

Media, record of nonevents.

Media means “middle” – precisely where they deal reality from.

Media, simply a parallel universe.

Hypocrites keep their contradictions in check.

Real lives don’t need massive doses of culture. They create their own effortlessly.

Mass society, mass mimicry.

Your rights stunt you, because you hide behind them and they have been given to you.

Excess breeds rot.

All mimicry requires the decay of the lateral prefrontal cortex.

Put your life on “pause.” You never know when you’ll need to record what it’s like to live.

Loafer, parasite, karoke, echo, sponge – pick a style, mimic.

The only thing you’re an outsider to, is reality.

Illusion’s knot is not untied but cut.

Delusion, the lie believed by the liar.

Art, an attempt to be true.

The will to steal, even the ephmeral.

Sponges are not known for their self possession.

Remake, reinvent and never resolve.

Cultural memorization is absorption of reproduction.

Memorization is not the correct function of memory.

Quotations mark your life.

Reality imprints memory. Memorization disconnects it.

Memory is the proper museum for life.

To say, “it’s all art,” is to say I’m mediocre.

In art, as in truth, one head is better than two.

I don’t tic when you talk.

Imitation generation, to create or recreate, to produce or reproduce, that is the question.

Just being in the same universe with you is ironic.

Culture, at best, a habit, like crack, at worst a fetish like child molesting.

Mimicry is the unpunishable form of rape.

“Mr. Ferguson is willing to be patient.” Great ironists of our time.

In another life, I’d be someone else.

Only this culture could reinvent itself.

The Tiger doesn’t change his stripes, even amongst other copycats.

The old machines produced but the new machines reproduce.

“The myth of authenticity” is a notion of the inauthentic.

Authenticity – you have to see it to recognize it, and experience it, to revere it.

It takes a man to know a man.

I ain’t your mirror and I don’t want to know what the view is like, so far up your ass.

Infertile are you.

You’ve paid your dues – to a trifling dim portance.

Post-modernism, a meaninglessness put to action.

Pop, omniverous yet starved.

Absorb, to suck.

Service, the economy of servers and patrons, has made good acting the prevailing professional skill.

Good acting

Any art where there are more artists than subjects, I quit.

To mimic, patronize.

Let me make a value judgment, your worth less than nothing.

Have I violated your first amendment right to self involvement?

Cows graze and fatten, while wolves scout and discover.

Live it, to be it.

To all human trifling, a good night.

   BLISSVILLE

In the town of Blissville, they have a zoo.

Nothing here is as it seems.

This is the demeaning of the world.

Feigning meaninglessness and meaninglessness are one in the same.

Today’s growth industry is gaming.

Begin with compromise and end with nothing.

Compromise fuels bliss.

Gleefully merging art and commerce is the definitive art fraud.

Don’t make distinctions, you’ll feel good.

Democracy is a form of government, not art.

I’m for populism, only if the population is worth it.

The old mantra, “art for art,” is now, “it’s all art.”

The “end of art” reflects its excess.

Art ends when life ends.

What’s trifling is valued, what’s significant is trivialized.

You’ve grown a custom from insignificance.

I can live with stupidity, not its overvaluation.

Happy hour is one hour long.

Memory and emotion produce soul, memory and simulation produce bliss.

Prosperity produces much culture, but hard times produces more meaning.

Success stands outside art.

Postmodernism is to art what the suburbs were to the city.

Ignisfatuus now.

The screen now looks back.

We now know the identity of the unknown soldier. Are we better for it?

Between control and influence lies our future.

A screen for work, a screen for play, and real-time for sleep.

Wake now or sleep forever.

Hyperphagia is for bears.

With regard to life styles, there is only one alternative in life…

The pursuit of comfort is a long death.

The symptoms of tragedy are jokes to you.

The leisure class trades meaning for comfort, and, then, cries about it.

We don’t have a class system, but a system of mobile units.

Your version of sympathy is titillation.

Your movies keep you in the womb.

The unborn have nothing to say.

Somehow growth becomes disengaged from change.

Food eating contests? Cosmetic surgery? Eating disorders? Auto-immune disease? Serial killer genre?

Eating is not an amusement and neither is dying.

Of the 28 million gallons of tequila produced in Mexico, the U.S., by itself, consumes 22 million gallons.

America consumes diversity as another product.

The more the means of production are hidden, the more reason to consume.

A fetish is a fetish is a fetish.

What can be more selfish than love with no objective?

“I’m only human.” Enough said.

Donald Trump, ” I’m personally against gambling, but I’m for it on a business level.”

Compromise powers irony.

The power of contradictions is sapped by irony.

The degree of irony is in proportion to the distance from reality.

There’s the irony of contact and the irony of no contact.

Irony, the happy cynicism.

The only thing radical is your neutrality.

Yours is the first widespread culture of comfort. And it shows.

Hip is only the best illusion for substance.

Hip is the confusion of truth with desire.

Fashion and pleasure make youth constant.

Don’t confuse a look with a vision.

Vanity, nativity discomfort.

Fashion is as fashion does.

Question a bo and get bo answers.

Your life is a loop.

You don’t seek, you suck.

To you, concentration seems selfish.

Nebulosity, the speed of your convictions.

To do good because it returns to you is no reason to do good.

Neither the Circle nor the Hoop is a loop.

Karma is for opportunists.

Karma, yet another selfish motivation.

Do good and suffer.

What ever was good about bohemianism died with Socrates.

Was Socrates asked to apologize for his wisdom, or the prevailing stupidity?

Why would exile or death be the proper place for wisdom?

Your evil is your stupidity.

You think being lost is the struggle, then, you reach your destination.

Your road to success is paved with spite.

Your labor issues are loafers.

Inspiration is a one-way street.

When they call you an inspiration, check your pockets.

False humility, another game of power.

If Karma was true, I’d be king.

What is a post-modern blow job? Lip service.

The words you eat, mix with my dust.

Karma? What world do you live in?

Television, the social weather report.

Opportunists are shallow by nature.

I own no stock in appearances.

Appearances and comparisons have a strictly mental existence.

I have critiqued many of the enemy. How many? They are not worth the count.

There’s nothing that makes me wrong, but your unearned rights.

Level ground, shallow waters.

Delusion runs down the gutter of malleability.

I’m demeaned in your presence.

The worst is done by the weak.

   INVASION

How can you fight an enemy who has no memory?

I lived in the forest before it was destroyed. I did not leave. The trees are gone. In their place are references to trees. What will happen to life in the forest?

Something not known cannot be forgotten.

The future arrives quicker, the faster you forget.

Globilization, the final forgetting.

White stands for both surrender and opportunity.

Caucasoid trait, colonization.

From casino to crack house – if you build them, they will come.

Colonialism is purely a business move.

All isms start with opportunism.

Art colony, enough said.

When they say, “Mine is an art of ideas.” – I run.

When you see a clean white bowl filled with clear pure water, you want relief.

You want your gold pure, but not your motivations.

New is not necessarily interesting, or good.

Development is not progress.

Your road to success is paved with spite.

An ornamenatal culture tries to buy its significance.

This culture loves to dig in its tombs, examine the remains of corpses or mummies in detail, and then exhibit their findings, knowledge without wisdom.

Even the dead are fair game.

The endemic depend on their aloneness.

This is so rare, let us destroy it.

There’s a big difference between changing and ending; evolution and extinction.

The last ones feel the most danger.

Greed makes goodness seem stupid.

After territories develop, old boundaries vanish, the final colony is in your mind.

Cultural logic = the saturation point.

Big ego, no self-esteem.

In the economy of service how will your virtue serve you?

In an era of unleashed needs, constellations of want are called agendas.

Providers, enablers, and servers – there goes the neighborhood.

The have-nots must now compete with the haves, the have mores and the about to haves.

Leisure class – spirit slaves.

Tourists don’t dwell.

Hip is way too safe.

Living history is still possible.

You have forgotten more of life, than you remember.

The herd absorbs difference and declares itself diverse.

The price of our cleverness, is soon forgotten.

You brought this irony.

The future of an illusion is in our hands.

Your sickness is in your heart.

Mockery is theft.

Your thick skin is a clown outfit.

We’re all lined up in traffic and you’re blowing your horn.

As unavoidable as you are, you act invisible.

It’s weak to speak of empowerment.

You can’t forget what you never knew.

Replace soul with comfort as an organizing force and understand the new world.

Comfort and lack of memory are the leading causes of blindness.

The cowards lament is always, “I didn’t know.”

Obliqueness is cowardice.

The scavengers unite in the presence of a hawk, not out of danger, but, jealousy.

They’re a rat and I’m a cat.

Invasion hurts, even the healthy, but the enemy unites.

I do suffer invaders, only to use the force derived from the pain of that contact to will what is better.

I’m not examining, critiquing, or auditing the horror of the vacuum, I’m condemning it.

My value system is different, I have one.

The eagle is our national symbol. Maybe it should be the blackbird.

5% take 50 percent?

Drain the lake, water the desert, level the mountain,tear the sod, plug the river, fill the valley -why? Because it’s there.

“The whites are crazy.” – Ghost Dance song

Invaders never have eyes or ears for nativity.

The money changers are in the temple.

Want beef? You bought it.

          Leave the endemic alone.         

 WASTE

Weegee showed the glee in murder, I want to show the glee in waste.

There is nothing so appalling to the senses.

Because it’s there.

It begins with one person.

Eventually, one loses all.

Nothing in life is inviolable.

Virtue hides the tragedy that produced it.

The joy of the survivor is tragically linked to the memory of overcoming the event that should have destroyed him.

The only growth that waste could possibly aid is virtue.

Virtue, the proper reaction to contamination.

It’s fine to hate forever and for the right reasons.

Reaction states who you are, even in defeat.

Reaction assures stagnation.

Reaction remains attached to its model.

The conquering dingbats piss in my sacred ancestral chalice, while declaring themselves to be spiritual creatures sensitivie, above all, to life.

Hate, and learn a brutal honesty.

Train hatred to do smart things, otherwise, dump the hate.

Shovel shit with a smile, but don’t eat it.

Don’t let the hatred make a fool of you.

The proper reaction to contact with waste is total revulsion.

To successfully depict toxic waste, hate is your ally.

That cream of waste, mine is a leachate.

Take from me and I’ll take you to the landfill.

With regards to duplication one is enough.

It seems we are pre-disposed to be a one-use culture.

The higher ones looks down and see waste.

Socrates gave us the best reason for unpopularity.

You want spirit, without purity?

The deeper prejudices are reserved for intelligence.

Hitler burned the wrong books.

Truth is wasted on technicians.

Why stop with tobacco and guns, why not the media?

The media is there to be mocked as so much waste.

Trifling with life is waste.

A spiritual struggle with waste, thus, abstraction.

Why is a waste, but how is useful.

A common practice is to inject the worst waste, deep into the earth.

Oil in the soil today, in the marrow tomorrow.

There is much in us that is elemental poison.

What’s food, but fuel.

Heads are made to be filled, bowels emptied.

The gut’s goal is to empty not to aspire.

Fill the head, empty the gut.

More affluence, more effluent.

Every action produces waste.

Wasted time leaves no trace.

I hold a lens to excretions because I got ugly honest.

A mirror is a void.

Two mirrors are exponentially empty.

Vanity is ugly.

Beauty lives amongst waste, not despite it.

Too good to be true, too ugly not to be.

Landfills are the real theme parks.

A copy starts as waste.

A copy doesn’t hide its complete absence of nutrition or the fact that it is landfill-ready.

Waste – whatta goal.

There are things so vile and wasted they cannot be destroyed.

Waste is one of our a few permanent creations.

Waste is the most archival of human works.

The fact we only use 5 per cent of our brain is an exaggeration.

When something is not true, then debate is rubbish.

The very weight of mass society is the problem.

There’s only so much clarity a person can take.

Wasting sight rots insight.

Poison is defined by anti-life.

Never let poison in, waste can only be contained.

Microbes will never let us be gods.

What ails me is other, specifically, the other who is sick.

Robbed intentions turn good work to waste.

The deepest prejudice is reserved for autonomous thought.

If Van Gogh would live in these times, he would have shot himself in a landfill.

I cannot influence the forces of life and death, ugliness and beauty, but I can see them clearly, and have no fear in depicting them.

Beauty is the cure for what ails me.

 OUT AND UNDER

Crossing is a going over, but I cross by going under.

A fall is never pretty, but it does afford the opportunity for grace.

A hole is unnecessary tragedy.

I saw the tunnel at the end of the light.

Field and street, where theories are tested.

Fatalism is the study of chaos.

You can’t stay clean in the streets.

I’m from the inner shitty.

Latent and full of sensing is the criminal vision.

Bowels in the cranium.

I own no fork, let alone food.

Orthodoxy has its place.

If I have to live with worms, snakes and rats, I will.

The natural state of the universe is silence and darkness.

People can’t see what’s beneath them.

Here in the dark, black is the color of invisibility.

An unknown is not bothered by being forgotten.

There are compelling reasons for unpopularity.

Religion wants you to see the light, truth wants you to seek the dark.

Hopes are like the knowledge that deep in the mountains there is gold.

The truth is discoverable if you’re willing to bore rock.

Seek shadow density.

Truth is exposure, knowledge is shelter.

Want change? Go outside.

Truth is a threshold.

They say nine into two won’t go, but I’m here to prove otherwise.

A river has no choice but to go down.

In the end we are to see the light, but all I saw was the night.

Hopes are like looking at a photograph of money.

How do you cross a season of darkness?

I’m suicidal with absolutely no desire to harm myself.

Go outside, and go under, inside and across.

Dig myself a whole, when I come up there’ll be no walls around.

Outside, the sense of totality, under, the sense of weight, across, the sense of purpose.

A bridge stays the middle from the ends, its load is limited.

A tunnel lies on a bed of rock and can support any weight.

The truth is bearable if you’re willing to go through rock.

I won’t respond to the facade, only the core.

Mountains and cities require digging to cross.

Tunnels afford no view but what lies before and after.

Achieve height with a shovel.

Is a ladder for climbing or going down?

How do you cross a river of filth, with a bridge or a tunnel?

The impenetrable is not always.

To seek truth you must bore and burrow through what’s hard and what’s unknown.

Why did the philosopher cross to the other side? To get there.

Why did the philosopher use a tunnel? Not to be seen.

Underground, the truth is bearable.

The bird and the snake have their ways.

I’m not above the law, I’m below it.

You got your life, I got mine.

Life is good, life is hard.

Cross the threshold and bring truth home.

  COME NIGHT

Light pollutes night towards dawn.

Darkness exhausts light, toward dusk.

The night says to hell with the light.

The ugly truth is trouble.

The night owl maintains a healthy hate for dawn.

A city’s subconscious is what’s interesting.

You can clean and light the underbelly, but the gut has a mind of its own, and a memory.

We manage the underbelly like a plastic surgeon manages health issues.

Correctness is the problem.

Quality of life is an excuse to check your pockets.

Anything anybody says to me I take the wrong way.

My last will is the will to ill.

Excuse me, fuck you.

Pick a fight with me and learn that at the bottom of ideology is only will.

Poverty is nothing original.

A primary reaction to poverty is tribalism.

There’s no drama in prosperity.

The evil don’t necessarily feel they got evil in them.

The poor have an extra certainty – taxes, death and trouble.

“Poverty is as complicated as high finance.”

I consider money to be a proper tribute.

Marginals? That’s right, I’m saying it’s an entire city of marginals.

I’m not worried about the quality of life, I’m worried about the quality of night.

The darker it is the better to see the light.

With regards to light, I’m an earner.

It takes time to see in the dark.

Beneath the city

within

come night.

Evensong for an eventide.

Twilight,

Fateful edge

Dark doesn’t grow, it blooms.

Into the city within.

There is no dark side.

There is near and far and everything in between.

The city is endless.

Just because you can’t see, doesn’t mean it’s dark.

Revelation is neither miracle nor trick, but an exposure.

I judge light and sentence it.

    MOONSHINE

Metamerism says consider the source.

As long as you live you will never see the other side of the moon.

The certainty of always rising to the occasion.

I got the 239,000 mile stare.

The moon is luminous.

The light of the moon is not its own, but bounced.

The earth at night is bathed in a light that is reflected by grey lifeless rock and dust.

At night the earth is bathed in the bounced grey/white light of a lifeless cousin.

The quality of moonlight – largely gray to silver to white, metallic, crystalline, open and cold.

With no atmosphere and no life, the moon’s light is wholly reliable, impartial and reified.

There is nothing blue about the light of the moon.

The moon’s light seems polarized, but its saturation is purely natural and comes over time.

Who would have thought that it is the moon that causes the tides?

The moon is a stabilizer.

The things we call timeless tell us about time the best.

The typical condition of the universe is silence and blackness.

Atmosphere and life reside in the rarest of circumstances.

The moon reminds us, we have phenomenal luck.

The stratosphere, soaked in the ink-blue of the endless twilight is the color of truth.

Chances are the moon is a child of the earth.

The moon signals reproductive cycles and, thus, conception, in certain animals.

People have a relationship with the moon.

“The drowning and dying of the moon reminds us of our ignorance which comes and goes; but when the moon is full it is as if the eternal light of the Great Spirit were upon the whole world.” – Black Elk

The moon’s light is strange because it exposes life on earth as a perverse rarity in the universe.

“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.”

The moon is often seen as a companion in a place nobody can find.

Passion is hate and love in equal doses.

The moon lights by duration and position.

Plant a camera, grow a picture.

A road of ghosts is marked by moonshine.

Night’s path is exposed by earth’s silent totem.

The path of totality, big shadow on the move.

Between the suns, night

And a night noon.

Between the months’ moon.

It takes duration to see by the moon.

Timeless things take all our time.

A moth is attracted to light. Why?

Rise to the occasion and the occasional convergence.

When the sky broke, I was repaired.

These are the loss years, never lost.

There is no loss in memory.

“Del otro lado,” night light the way.

  BAD LAND

Mortal landscape.

Haunt of dirt.

Accidental shapes.

It’s no destination.

Specifically, nowhere.

The place where a person with pain and tears goes.

Inclined plain,

Broken lands,

Naked, gullied, ruined.

Fall to the river.

All bad things must come to an end.

No place is home for any soul.

A land with no value, not even to cross.

There is one place to seek yourself.

Can a land make you the destination?

I tell you what I know of this bad land.

There’s no dwelling unless you plan to move on.

A place to prove existence, not discount it.

An emptying out, for clarity and definition.

Life seems odd in a lifeless place.

This is what a normal planet looks like.

The very chances for life are odd.

Imitation of mortality, mirror of weather.

Too real land.

The fat of the land is a memory.

Truth is as old as dirt and offers less cover.

Struggle is the only rest from truth.

Exhaustion reveals other ways.

Seek truth, find indifference, glimpse a big truth.

Intentions intensify before ignorance.

A land imprinted with weather and duration.

Land of fate, the shape of chance.

This land makes the case for distortion, as its fate takes form over time.

Nature, no intent, but contested equilibrium.

The highest meaning is destiny.

This land is a cathedral,

Memorials unknown.

Because it’s not there.

Long live indifference, because it will.

Don’t expect nature to go out of its way for you.

The old ones are here.

Life is more limited than gold and harder to find.

Is useless and valueless necessarily bad?

No vegetation, no distraction.

The land thinks it has the final say, even as wind and water erode.

The difference between a bad decision and no decision is the difference between rock and sand.

Brute experience leads to no expectations.

The good decision is gold.

All is accident but intention and purpose.

Exposure, pursue it.

A hoodoo looks like the black magic of existence, resistance and overcoming, that it is.

This bad land honors experience.

Goodness and toughness stand as one.

To know me is to leave me be.

A capstone resists with purpose, and finally falls.

There is no shelter in truth.

Wind and water win eventually.

I do not seek knownness, nor is that what I dream.

What’s great about insight is we can seek the truth and when we find it, we can see it.

Silence and night.

To be with soul, be one.

Do I go back to the land of fools? No, and never.

This planet is not normal.

Life, too, is suffering, to affirm life as a whole is to transform it into growth.

“The Great Spirit has given our enemy into our power.”

What’s good about this bad land, is that it is beautiful and useless.

The spiritual center of America is this bad land.

Seek dread, find exhaustion, learn soul.

My touchstones are the stones themselves.

People don’t understand the value of nothing.

Exhaustion reveals the soul after depleting the corporal.

Land-soul alloy.

It’s not about size and scale, but shape.

Some are built for it.

The gold is inside you.

Soul land.

Because it’s not there.

EROSION        

I know one thing. You’ll never know.

Truth is surrounded by grotesque prejudice.

Ruins are not only man’s invention.

The grandest ruins lie in nature.

Loss is the way of the world.

What is unforgiving and rewarding? Indifference.

Geography is all about difference.

Democracy floods distinctions.

Motivations are never deep, but just below the surface.

You’re only equal on the day you’re created.

Grotesque begins as plain.

There’s esoteric and weird and esoteric and not weird.

Loss imprints memory, gain erodes it.

Repetition erodes memory.

Experience invites erosion.

I’m not as evolved as I am eroded.

“Our bodies earth, our minds clay.”

I count on the sun, moon and tides. I bet on the weather.

Weather is fate.

Weather is a spirit-changer.

Bad weather, good landscape.

The path to perfection is fraught with faults.

Rain carves stone over time.

To endure is to weather and erode.

To endure it is to remember and resist.

Is memory the reaction to erosion?

Memory is a caprock that, for a time, stunts erosion.

The beauty of truth comes from its battles with erosion.

Erosion is the face of weather over time.

Memory is a flash flood.

Memory is always about to happen.

The weather has rain, wind and lightning to talk to the earth.

If the land has the final say, the atmosphere says nothing is final.

Rain is growth and decay.

Exposure – suffer or benefit.

Weather is everything.

The only thing that grows light is the wind.

Forcing is useless.

If you don’t like loss, move to the moon.

The good die young because they’re soft.

Eventually erosion wins.

It’s gonna even out even more.

Patience erodes by what has to be said.

Somehow hate is truer than love.

Erosion brings out the real earth.

MORE METHOD

Late and raging is how I come.

I do. Then I think about what I’ve done.

I got more heart than art.

Unreconstructed. That’s a fact.

I’ll tell you upfront, I’m entirely post facto.

I don’t dig holes, I fill them.

Depth is measured by volume dispalced.

Art produces the meaning philosophy explores.

Know-how is the work ethic.

I don’t love what I do, I love what I’ve done.

Participation is the method.

You must have eyes, ears, and guts.

The sight of lightning and the sound of thunder fuse on contact with the center of the storm.

Deeds are heard fully, and seen clearly.

Proprioception keeps muscle and will as one.

Thorough is painstaking, relief is completion.

Growing pains are normal.

Translate ideas into labor.

Walk the path of totality.

You’ve heard of the talking cure, this is the walking cure.

Unlike the stroll of the whore, the stroll of the flaneur leaves even more to chance.

I don’t wear different hats, but shoes.

The person that is to be, is moving always.

Production is movement, movement is will.

If it takes soldiering, we soldier.

Direct the will.

On point, no point.

Being is the best statement to produce.

Put your money where your action is.

The money I would have spent on prozac is prozac enough.

Action stunts talk.

No screens.

Driving is television.

Why put a curve on a bridge?

The only thing to fashion is chaos.

A soldier in war knows probabilities.

Achievement is a planned accident.

Humans have the ability to be more than human.

Without purpose, purposely.

Debunking is not demystifying.

Distortion is the way to view value clearly.

Separate to define, blend to dissolve, express when certain.

Clarity does not serve universal communicability.

To want to be understood is a concession to sympathy.

Spiritual and scientific observation have crossed methods.

Shut the doors to the mind’s rooms and open the windows.

The body is a sensorium, use it wholly.

Shut down though, open all five senses and let the world tell its stories.

Ask Darwin.

The deeper you look out, the more you pull from within.

Measure intention by character and character by action, these are reversible standards.

Never lose level of up or down in the inclined plane of existence.

Concentration is work, don’t avoid it.

Focus is hard.

Make the impossible work.

Endurance is a job.

Elemental survival sharpens focus.

Without concentration you’re with the others bobbing in an ocean.

Conquer by making chaos routine.

Exhaustion orders priorities.

Overcoming the unbearable leads to joy.

Seeking the convergence is a will to chaos.

Get mad and produce.

Don’t succumb, overcome.

I’m crazy as I gotta be and tough as required.

The media taught me to make a big production out of my arguments.

If the world’s a stage, I’ve been playing to the deaf, dumb and blind.

Self-making ain’t reinvention.

Confronting oneself is part of becoming better.

Originality cannot be helped.

The basic inquest of method – all things relative to one – totality.

I’m only paying attention if it’s worth it.

The second chance to live is how to live.

Our back to the wall and confronting death itself, we ask most sincerely only one thing, “what am I doing here?”

There is no why. So why look?

My latent image is blood.

Life finishes what it starts with or without you.

If we all end up in the same place, then it’s just a question of how.

How is history, how is growth, how is the message.

In my democracy only the dead get a vote.

All for not, not for nothin.

Thorough is the obsession that knows when to stop.

Get spent.

It’s a job.

ROCK ART

The first statements were stone.

Philographic encounter.

Have you seen the silence of the ancients?

In the beginning all things were original, for the eyes and for all time.

The first way is the true way.

Certain configurations are constant and enduring.

Image predates word.

Everything changed with the reproducible word.

Art is an analog to life experience, and that’s how I see it.

Art and philosophy have the same goals and distinct methods.

“Sleeping in stone I see an image, an image of all my visions.” – Nietzche

The true judge of art would be someone from any time.

Philosophically the ancients were more involved.

Rock art speaks in silence and across time.

The standpoint of stone, a vision so certain, pictured in rock, for all to find and forever.

When your insights are permanent, so are your visions.

Petrified pictures, hematite in stone,

Stone soul carvings, emotions of stone.

The ancient American could melt into the land.

Culture that is the land.

Old veins contain the deepest deposits.

The ancients have not given us memorials, but guides, to a deeper sense.

With what little remains of you, and, in silence, you’ve shown all that is important.

By the spell of the relic, we yield to an antique gaze that haunts with irrefutable evidence, of an inescapable past – a history of souls.

Aura casts a spell of true ponderance.

The shaman realizes a struggle, by not just unififying the spiritual and physical, but, fusing beauty and existence.

Art with aura demands more than observation.

Work hard, know hard.

Singularity requires your presence.

Pictures in a landscape you must work to find.

Written into the land, a memory of stones, lost to be found,

Rare stones require the most digging.

From ritual to exchange value – art was a going forth, an adventure, then, a stroll, a place to be seen, and now, a place to shop.

The first art demanded far more than the price of admission.

What was the aesthetic intent of the ancients in this land? We’ll never know, as we destroyed every living connection to it.

Specificity lost – 1492.

You believe the story of Christ and not the story of fossils.

Absence of evidence does not mean evidence of absence.

Philosphically, the ancients were more involved.

Technologically the moderns are more involved.

Technology is things and only things change.

Painting rock and pounding stones with stone on your land doesn’t require investors or patrons but pure purpose.

Mineral pigments and stone – the ancients knew more about archiving than the world’s largest imaging corporations.

Encounter the ancients and remember what’s forgotten, that only our technology is better.

The primitive’s skills in archiving was only matched by the resolve of their intent.

Certainty begs permanence.

In rock writing, the method is the message.

Life is temporary and unfixed, that’s no way to live it.

The ancients knew about duration.

The logic of now soon folds.

Could a prehistoric person understand? Criteria for today’s art.

You can touch the stone but you will never put a finger on when, why and what was meant.

Represent in stone, an intent we’ll never know, but clearly sense.

I know what is from what it’s not.

The lode of memory – endemic, idiophatic and highly discernible.

All good art has a shamanistic quality.

We will never know what you meant. Thank God.

Across time, rock art speaks of a conspicuous absence, a vast silence.

When not known, discern.

If I’ve got to be around artists, give me a mystic with great survival skills.

If I read your message correctly, we come from the earth and we return to the sky.

A stone’s memory, long and hard, enduring and inarticulate.

Things change, but not the soul.

The aura is the message.

Restore the aura.

  WHAT’S AMERICAN?

Not one thing.

You’re asking the center of individual self-interest what it is?

Like its rock art (ancients), America is unknowable.

Yankee Doodle is American, not because of its obvious references, but because it was originally a British put-down that was turned on its head.

I’ll take the label American, but without the goody-two-shoes connotations or its naiveness.

Americans are melted, not born.

In America the mongrel is native.

America is always disappearing.

We are crass and we know it.

Even as writing spread throughout the world, the first Americans had no interest in record-keeping or written expression, spoken word and the visual was everything.

Sheltered from civilization.

Nature and industry (and now technology).

Only money creates choice, only choice creates freedom.

You vote with a pocketbook.

Home of the most.

Overcoming commerce is a full-time job.

Others say we’d be great too, if we consumed the most and the best.

Sensibility over sensitivity.

All Americans know how to shoot.

Money decides.

Being American is to have no choice but to deal with a wasteland.

It’s not thought that counts. It’s rights.

Most all your unearned rights serve the right to get more.

I know you got all them rights, but don’t ask me to defend them.

The common man is bestowed with rights and freedoms that are, relatively speaking, extraordinary.

The two original sins are slavery and the annihilation of the native.

Exploitation and duplicity is the trunk of our colonial roots.

Selling and acting – American traits.

Best advice – self control.

To be American it is to be split down the middle.

You’ll sell your soul for the right to cultivate it.

What work means to the soul.

There’s plenty of equity at the bottom.

It’s possible the best can come from what’s ordinary, or worse.

I like the common man, but not necessarily the popular man.

What happened to love for the underdog?

What’s great wants nothing but to be seen as ordinary.

My most basic right is to be left alone.

The fates of heroes are the only stories that inspire.

Independence Day – what a concept.

America is experiential and undiscovered.

For me, a religion of land and sky.

What’s American now, is what we’ve forgot.

Optimism of the many-sourced mongrel.

Dedication through work.

Plain dealing, plain crazy, plain sailing.

Saturation, simple, open, bombast.

Modern ruins, forgetting.

Intellectual pain.

Dive bars.

I’m not dumb enough to think there’s an answer to, What’s American.

NATIVE

The deepest originality is conception.

Your signature is the chances that combined to make you.

The word of the person that is to be would bind.

Once upon a time is now.

What is at stake? Everything.

Unified life, unified theory.

Words, bound to bind.

Communal goals ease communication.

From root to fruit.

The hide has no pockets.

Constant improvisation.

I fancy myself nothin.

I’m nourished by obscurity.

Simple gifts reward twice.

The native will never need to go home.

I don’t work for a dead god.

A naturally occurring philosophy would only put its ideas where it dwells.

I’ve got one tongue and one head.

I live where I live.

Life in life.

A one piece puzzle.

The sacred hoop ain’t a loop.

Meaning instructs…to be real.

Don’t ask a realist what it means.

If it’s real, it’s morally complex.

Taction is validation.

My one condition is reality.

The four directions is a simplicity that covers everything.

I honor the past by living now.

We have the ability to sense without mediation.

The pure never think of themselves as such.

The first Europeans in America discovered that, upon translation, most tribes’ names translated into the “real people.” The invader discovers tautologies.

Never a country always the land.

The only real stories are unwritten.

Poor is pure if nothing else.

The powerless never break treaties and promises.

The native’s rival lies within his purlieu.

Reclusivity is a strategy, but security is protection.

To stand up to all forms of colonialism is futile and absolutely necessary.

Less compromise, more specificity.

The true populist would be unknown.

Only a native consults the land.

Replace the word, god, with nature, and you have your explanation.

Naming landmarks after individuals is done in conquest not recognition.

Nature is proved indifferent by our immodesty before it.

We always equate being with nature as being alone.

Art and philosophy light the secrets of our nature

I’m a person. I know what people do.

My nature is yours.

Parks and reservations are not made out of affection for the land but it’s endangerment.

You earn the name your known by.

Sell my body to keep my soul.

Trading creature comforts for your soul is such a pittance.

Poor and pure.

Cosmetic surgery looks ugly.

All representation is artifice.

Misrepresent me and I’ll turn it into your psychological death.

There are no representatives in my house.

Only a house lived in has stories to tell.

An immersed life has many ideas, visions and missions.

War is ugly, but if it’s brought to my door, I’m at home.

I don’t need a dog to do my barking.

The power of the coup stick is the power of choice.

True designs spring from necessity.

The elements shape your soul.

Beneath a thin layer of skin, lies the toughest material known to man.

The root of change is inevitability.

If you’re right, expect to be wronged.

Eat from the tree of knowledge and be split down the middle forever.

Do not enter the world of symbols.

The invader brings self-consciousness.

Keep the memory of inarticulation.

Old at heart.

The native population resides in the limbic region, an area of snowcapped volcanoes, carved by deep clear rivers of pure glacial melt…

The deepest sources are aboriginal.

I know what’s power and it ain’t knowledge.

Cut open these veins and see my commitment.

Authenticity is treated as a threat, not a promise.

I don’t know if true love exists, but I know true life does.

How did I know that? It’s where I live.

Everything takes place now.

The third rail of native life is reverence for the past.

Traditions turned ragged are still traditions.

Closure? Let’s keep it open now and forever.

“My life is better than any movie.” – Carlo Gambino

“There are no Indians left, but me.” – Sitting Bull

Natives only become aware of their nativity in the face of invaders.

The hero’s death has two worths – the defeated will always have a memory of resistance and they’ll always be a knife sticking out of the forehead of the victor.

Warriors die, their culture doesn’t.

Freedom is an Indian invention.

Only Indians make Indian moves.

Resistance, memory – spirit.

                        

Where have all the real people gone?

The day nowhere is left is here.

After the massacre, the survivors are accused of living in the past.

With life I can think of only one alternative.

Obliteration or rehabilitation – these are not choices.

We won’t have to waste time on this one – he’s alive.

The new world order is the reproduction of the same old thing.

2 million in prison, half for drugs – very impressive social control for the home of freedom.

If two wrongs don’t make a right, how about millions of wrongs?

My aphonia is one of my themes and, thus, it is one of my choices.

I live in a world that can only mean one thing.

Here today, gone today.

I protect originals and the environment that produced them.

Context is a gift of time and place.

It’s a tragedy to call a neighborhood historic.

Managed wilderness – what’s that?

Gentrification is economic romanticism.

Life is simple without money.

The elite burp, the poor spit up blood.

Poverty is not nearly as eccentric as wealth.

Kindness outside your tribe is a disaster.

If you live in a ghetto, then the ghetto is your city.

A home is not a consensus.

Nothing separates thoughtless guests from barbarous beasts.

The healthy needs shrinks because they’re healthy.

By convincting the wrong person you have given the gift of fortitude in the face of meaninglessness .

I’m not anti-social, I’m anti idiot.

When I go out I get in fights.

No contact, no reaction.

These days following a code only makes you appear eccentric.

A specifist equates generalizations with a free trip to Disneyland.

Those who struggle know each other.

A resister is a free man.

Would you rather be a genius surrounded by idiots or an idiot surrounded by geniuses?

Contemporary philosophers after Nietzche have not been sufficiently alone.

Conviction is a sentence served in word and image and that’s real solitary confinement.

Some people thrive on a philosophical terror.

You’re a prisoner of conviction, I sentence you to hard labor in the House of Wills, for the term of your natural life.

The bonus of extinction is that survival can afford a perspective of strength.

Experience dictates no expectations. If the time is passed, then so be it.

I represent intellectual violence.

I never said I don’t like it, I said it’s overvalued.

My era is post facto and so is my view.

I’m not cynical, I’m impatient.

If every day you awake to exploitation, don’t sleep.

Like the snow that melts in the April sun, I’m not waiting seven generations for dissipation.

In the stream of transience lies a core of untouched permanence.

Neighborhood – checks and balances for real.

The endocentric are supposed to be unnoticed.

If what’s solid is dissolved, then here’s to dissolution.

Let’s draw the dead line to a lot of things.

Illusion binds and truth tears.

To the invader – no contact.

Aphonia as statement.

A source questions answers.

The hokey truth of any poetic account is that it is a living history.

The promised land is for those who keep their promise.

I have written my name in the pages of neighborhood history enough for this day.

ROOST

I just want a little house surrounded by a black wrought iron fence.

All American myths begin in Brooklyn and spread west.

Fill every day with meaning and you’ll have total recall.

Early one morning I woke up strong.

Home is in the limbic region, a place over time.

Tourists don’t dwell.

The third rail of Brooklyn culture is history

You’ll find me in the prehistoric district of my neighborhood.

Greenpoint – the garden spot of Brooklyn and New York – in 1642.

How was it? A ghetto turned magic in the streets of New York.

To be in Brooklyn is to be far from the myths of America, and, deep in them.

Mythic America is rooted in this Broken Land.

Stay local and stay open.

My most public notice is my privacy.

I’m well known by people who know me well.

I go to the barber not to change, but to stay the same.

Don’t ever peep my style.

If consumption is the problem, then control is the answer.

I’ve seen so much of destruction, I don’t mourn it, but celebrate it.

I’m honored by survival, not condemned.

If you’re in the memorial business, there’s less to memorialize.

I go down with the ship, not to drown in honor, but to breathe freely.

The will is submerged in a sea of chance, only timing tells you when to surface.

What you call purity is freedom – from your shit.

My art is my business, my businesses is my art.

Securing a reputation among the influential cognoscenti is not my job.

My job is to generate power, not connect to it, consume it or pay for it.

Popularity softens impact.

Only the self-possessed speak for themselves.

The will settles into a bed of possibilities.

True alightment is to come down in the place you ought to be.

I wish I was as tireless as I am relentless.

The unified theory is the answer to its critique.

The soul’s logic produces hierarchies.

Virtue is a pearl and as rare as a Jersey convergence.

Ethically speaking keep your mileage set at “0.”

A fault, this need to be understood.

Point no point evolved into a point of no return, then, an alightment.

There is no why.

Shaman of indifference.

What’s tough? A penguin.

Sick birds alight on a gift house.

Success is ripeness.

Assurance and certitude define the roost.

If lies are the problem, then truth is the answer.

Alight yourself.

  STRONGHOLD

Island in the sky.

The gift house has burned. Thank God we never went near there.

Enter the house of wills.

The soldiers are coming. Run. Run to the stronghold.

My advice, don’t bow.

Wisdom, fortitude, generosity, courage.

A rough translation of this tribe’s name would be, the Real People.

My land is where my dead are buried, where the living are born or where my blood has spilt.

Believe you, me, what I earn is mine, even if you take it.

Find that stone – the one that’s been waiting through the ages for you to pick up.

Stones stacked make a home. Stones thrown preserves home.

After the earthquake the mosque was the only thing standing because it alone was built to code.

When you encounter the past, and give it the same weight to the existent, nothing is the same.

No style, simply roots.

Complete separation of life from its representations.

True creators rule the limbic region.

The power of the unknown.

My heart is a rock, deep in unexplored canyons, where the sun never strikes.

Do it without witness.

Unknown heroics are the only heroics.

If refusing compensation is courageous, being entirely unknown is…

Who needs to see the proof, but those with none.

Wisdom prevents the rule of the moment which, even knowledge, permits.

Two answers alone – be wiser, be stronger.

Toughness preserves wisdom.

Focus keeps you there.

Maintain focus.

Take the weight.

Island in the sky – table of strength.

Live with anger and faith in chaos.

Anger is furthest from fear.

Fear and hunger are only good allies for alertness.

Is it survivable? – the standard.

Never do anything you cannot live by, for or with.

I deny desire to fuel drives which become exhausted through continual rediretction.

Few thank God for their lack of satiation.

What ever does not give me pleasure, makes me stronger.

I don’t love what I do, I do what I do.

Health is being in the act.

Be strong or die.

Strength has no choice but to respond.

Talents are praised, but only will does great things.

No bullet from the enemy will strike you because you are on a sacred mission.

Art is a battle you’re forced to fight.

Trauma provides the opportunity to overcome.

Action turns pain into a fuel that exhausts memory.

I’m too prepared.

Strong acts strong.

Real prejudice is letting yourself be intimidated.

Intention and accountability walk hand-in-hand.

The fatal flaw is always evident.

The soul is suspended in a solution of memory.

With fate you make a destiny.

Religion should teach chaos, after all, chaos is the basis for life.

I guarantee all life comes from chaos, chance and natural order.

In sleep, I dream, but in deeds I live.

Self-actualization is always mistaken for something else.

Predestination requires me to be behind the times.

Tough and crazy can only be seen as the same to the delicate vacillator.

The sophisticated wild child grows older and more deliberate.

Unification, simplification – culmination.

Hit only the beautiful notes.

It takes toughness in the service of sensitivity.

At bottom is only will, and will is the final fact of existence.

All standards are falsely imposed .

Do it for soul or not at all.

Crystalline takes on a definitive form.

Coal forms in shallow seas and diamond deep in rock. One response to pressure is restraint, another abundance.

Strength is of value while compromise has limited worth.

Degree of resistance equals depth of conviction.

Finish what you start and be who you are.

Sugar ain’t rock.

Broken spirits are forgotten.

In resistance we are free.

Let us stand outside the gift house.

“Our enemy has come into our power.”

Let me go to give force to my vision.

Life itself is the rarest convergence.

If we go down like insects, that’s how we’ll be remembered – as stomped punk bugs with no will. If we resist and even, die, no one will forget that we were men, unjustly treated like bugs that could not be squashed.

Bugs are amazing creatures. Some have the ability to produce light.

Intuition will drive you to the stronghold.

The stronghold is taught by the great convergence.

To be strong is not a choice.

All things of true power are not found, but sought. (action)

All things of true power are not given, but forced. (reaction)

I’ll tell you now what alone is magic – surviving bad things.

Let us stand outside the gift house.

The journey is what’s found.

Believe you, me.

I’m home.

PICTURE

RECORD OF LIGHT

Evoke or provoke, what’s my light?

The light transmits the message.

Did you say record of light or record of life?

Life is the sponge, not its depictions.

Only life satiates.

As my life increases in value, so my art.

What is the value of something that’s not for sale?

An audience of none for their silent recognition.

The horizon is a circle.

“For in human art we are not merely dealing with playthings, however pleasant or useful they may be, but . . . with a revelation of truth.” – Hegel, Philosophy of Fine Art

Life is promise, all else is indifference, or worse.

Reality is before all culture and, thus, is preferable.

History is given style by living it.

We become less when we forget.

Meaning is created by inviting emotion.

We are men and men are luminous beings.

A son of light records on ignescent paper.

Light is only the visible radiation, thus, it is for the eyes.

The matter of visual perception is only within the visible spectrum.

If truth or anything else occurs within the visible spectrum it can be seen.

Radiation has no ideology and is pure.

We praise light for all its obvious features, but what we really love is its speed.

Truth occurs in the moment, be ready.

Serendipity, convergence and confluence flips the switch on enlightenment.

When fate matches will, we have magic.

In light, insight.

The light itself does not change, but the atmosphere and our position changes.

The clarity of the atmosphere creates the quality of light.

Bad weather, good picture.

I don’t trick the light, the light tricks me.

Weather and time will have the final say.

Light is pure, and is fixed, it’s only our rotation and weather that makes it a language.

I learned weather by chasing light.

In pursuit of light, I found silence.

The light drinks the dark as the dark drinks the light.

Did you say record of light, or record of night?

Pictures embrace silence by basking in it.

I found darkness and recorded it.

Like radiation, silence is a source.

Only silence will tell you what to do.

Silence spells trouble, face it.

Silence and darkness is a provocation by evocation.

Only the aphonic and aphotic amplify light, sound, dark or silence.

Hanblecya – the night silence is to be filled by a destiny.

Silence desire, and see what happens.

Silent night, holy night.

Silent is the record of light.

As the sun and moon are counted on to rise and fall so I rise and fall to the occasional convergence.

I want it sharp, harsh, crisp, clear, low, late and last.

In the silent explosion of light, a hard light engraves film best.

If you want to say I’m a drum major, say that I was a drum major for light, clarity and beauty, and all of the other shallow things would not matter.

Perception is not at all a dream, but intoxication.

A sacrament is a moment of encounter with luck, god or fate.

Silence is the only answer I heard and night is the only answer I saw.

Ultimate ubiquity – water, air and light is near impossible to seal out.

The only problem I got with life or light? I can’t deny it.

No one knows why moths are attracted to light, except moths.

For us, light is the ultimate velocity.

Once you’ve seen the light, there’s no going back.

“In the beginning was the light…”

“The sun knows everything.” – Sun Dance Song

Our sun is the shamas.

Our sole promise is life.

Create a presence.

Record of time, light and motion.

The meaning of meaning is the silent record of light.

   VISION   

By vision I’m implying resolution.

Vision is decisive.

The will to meaning.

To see is to seek.

Vision is a dam for pent-up hubris.

Your senses are naked for a reason.

Sight without cogitation is a gift.

In this realm, forcing is useless.

“I saw it with my own two eyes” is something you hear less.

Seeing what you want is another form of blindness.

Finding an image for your convictions is not seeing, but selecting.

Revision has little to do with seeing.

I believe what I see, so I don’t see what I believe.

Concept or perception? Who sees clearly?

Vision is relative to the totality.

If you must judge, see all.

They say the holy see. I know the smart see and see clearly and see often.

Pure sense perception would allow the world to explain itself.

In sight, in mind.

Real vision is always linked to a praxis of looking in order to find.

Do something and create a memory.

I enter the future with a clear view of only the past.

Depth perception increases only through time.

The person with vision is usually crucified or exiled, and always by his own people.

People love to regret the day that they killed a great visionary.

In the Christian world, a vision could lead to assassination.

If you have vision expect derision.

Consciousness is barely more than the strategy of the image inside one’s head.

You close your eyes and there’s an image inside your head.

People don’t see their motivations for a reason.

Being lost is not the struggle, which begins when you reach your destination.

Premonitions arise from understanding destiny.

Courage and curiosity sharpen sight.

Good legs aid sight.

To give force to a vision – go find it.

The eye is a muscle – work it.

Clarity is attached to a pure life.

Clarity is a standpoint of experience.

What we see at 500 feet the hawk sees at 2 miles.

Don’t feed on the brief pleasures of the senses, rather, cultivate and let them grow.

Like your health, don’t take your senses for granted.

You can always see more and better.

Given the choice, I’d rather have my mind blown.

In a relationship to the truth I can see real good.

Crurmudgeons are visionaries.

It’s not a long memory that jaundiced the eyes.

I don’t sight see, I blight see.

The stones you find randomly over time, begin to fit one way.

Philosophy examines the problems of existence and pictures do something about it.

Clear grit – vision calls it like it is.

Get close often, to see clearly and deeply.

It’s worth mentioning again. I believe what I see, and I do not see what I believe.

I see, therefore, I differentiate.

I don’t believe at all in changing minds, but opening eyes.

Because I faced destruction with my back against the wall, I was given a gift – the gift of how.

When I met my maker I was given a vision. (and then I knew how)

I see. I know. It is enough.

LAST AND FIRST

I do mind dying.

There is as much reason to be as not to be.

Pursuing what I put first, I end up last.

The past is real, never the future.

It’s great to make history, it’s better to make sense.

If, I’m a woolly mammoth, than I’m a wooly mammoth.

You ride the the beast when permitted.

History is lived, only later is it made.

Today is the day that is.

The future will arrive presently.

Solids move imperceptively.

I’m governed by niether secularity nor religiosity, but soul (life, truth).

After having said that, I’m not governed by any word or words.

Distinctions, hierarchies, randomness – give me a democracy that represents it.

Chaos, indifference, natural order – give me a religion that represents it.

I have no choice, with regards to limits and resources. They are one, thank God.

Comparisons are pointless.

You can’t kick me any harder than I kick myself.

Wisdom is truth in action.

Nature succeeds always.

All nature is within human nature.

The last thing I want is a name.

Fight what’s unnecessary.

Don’t react to non-meaning.

I cannot reconcile the ” all for a reason” school with life, but I’ve mastered life’s relation to the all for no good reason school.

People lie to avoid conflict.

Invaders need their irony, for what a native would never mock.

Immaturity is cynicism.

You lose by virtue of being lost.

You’re lost if you think it’s about any form of contesting.

Finishing is rewarding.

Right and wrong is all about veracity.

Truth is not about versatility, but veracity.

Why is truth politically incorrect? Because politics is truthfully incorrect.

Truth is assembled in the cortex.

The cortex holds a capacity for endless convergence.

I regret that I have but one life to give to this light.

I give thanks to forgotten difficulties.

I give thanks to the convergence.

Truth is experienced in the moment.

The untimely ones are always on time.

There is no beginning and no end and no unity except within living organisms.

There is no why in living.

There is no unified theory outside life.

Death is constant, life is change.

A unity of the high and the low, the sacred and profane, past and present, occurs in life.

There is unity within, towards what is, indeed, chaos without.

Strength remains the only answer.

And toughness its method.

If you decide to do it, do it to death.

Only a life of doing holds promise by virtue of some sort of growth.

Opere et veritas.

Part of expressing is finishing.

It’s always the time to live out the true meaning of one’s creed.

The universe is devoid of virtue.

The chance for life is odd.

Life is an accident, all human nature proceeds from there.

The ultimate advice, it comes with the territory and consider the source.

Birth and death are each lone fateful certainties, between which, we live.

To all these words, to what end?

There is enough said, already.

A life is an arguement.

I am a man. I see. I know.

It is what it is.

Presently is all there is.

Is is all there is.

Is, the ultimate tautology.

I speak. It is enough, on account of how I live.

Exteriority to all things.

The method is the message.

And the method is strength.

Life is a unity.

I earned mine.

Relict I am.