Friday, October 28, 2011
I decided to let myself drift with the tide, to make not the least resistance to fate, no matter in what form it presented itself. Nothing that had happened to me thus far had been sufficient to destroy me; nothing had been destroyed but my illusions. I myself was intact. The world was intact. Tomorrow there might be a revolution, a plague, an earthquake; tomorrow there might not be left a single soul to whom one could turn for sympathy, for aid, for faith. It seemed to me that the great calamity had already manifested itself, that I could be no more truly alone than at this very moment. I made up my mind that I would hold onto nothing, that I would expect nothing.
Henry Miller, The Tropic Of Cancer
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Poems that, even though I did not write, were written by me.
I call it the provinces.
And all the time it is my heart.
My imperfect heart which prefers
this distance from people. Prefers
the half-meetings which cannot lead
to intimacy. Provisional friendships
that are interrupted near the beginning.
A pleasure in not communicating.
And inside, no despair or longing.
A taste for solitude. The knowledge
that love preserves freedom in always
failing. An exile by nature. Where,
indeed, would I ever be a citizen?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
THAT"S IT-NEW YORK IS OVER!
Saturday, October 8, 2011
"I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas."
So much to blame this man
This man holding me
for my fears
for my loneliness
He's the source
but not the cause
He was severely damaged by his father
a father so incompetent
so evil in his selfishness that I hope that stories of hell
I can't forgive him
I can see him
that is all I can do
A day of feeling-no more and definitely no less.
Should have been in the studio getting ready (less nervous by being active) for a visit in a few weeks-one which could get me back to showing.
Instead chose to be in a veritable "fetal position" at home.
Ok, so you probably think I'm scared. Well I am actually-I've never questioned the fact that my paintings should "be out there" just that I have to be a part of the process beyond giving them life-
I would have said " birth" but enough is enough.
I'm scared showing them to complete strangers again. How can they know my works worth?
Just looked at what I said-what a fucking stupid statement. Why can't they discern what I always feel that I can of others work?!
Man. Am I nervous about all this.
My fear of success is rearing it's ugly face again.
I am that good.
I just hope someone else can see that-commit to that.
I don't want to die abandoning these paintings.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
You say your not ready to talk.I understand. Yet
I had to ask twice- You could have emailed me-
you could have told me.
I'm not going to see you after the opening I suspect. This dance we've done, through Cooper - and
I'm scared and
I for one don't know what to do.
I agree -
to talk before going or doing is important now. Essential.
There is so much to say- to know.
Of you and
Why I did what I did.
You say you cannot make art Now
You said , I think that it was a condition of our relationship.
Up until tonight.
It was one of the Why
my anxiety over us kept me from working.
Tonight I finally see I cannot influence any of this. I can't as you said decide how to be,to see you.
I will leave us alone
I think you think I miss our past
What I know is I
Yes- I don't want others
poets to speak for me anymore
it's all I have now
until we talk
I thought of one of Rexroth's most famous poems tonight
I think it has much to do with why you cannot make art
I know it does with me
GIC TO HAR
It is late at night,cold and damp
The air is filled with tobacco smoke.
My brain is worried and tired.
I pick up the encyclopedia,
The volume GIC TO HAR.
It seems I have read everything in it,
So many other nights like this.
I sit staring empty-headed at the article Grosbeak,
Listening to the long rattle and pound
Of freight cars and switch engines in the distance.
Suddenly I remember
Coming home from swimming
In Ten Mile Creek,
Over the long moraine in the early summer evening,
My hair wet, smelling of waterweeds and mud.
I remember a sycamore in front of a ruined farmhouse,
And instantly and clearly the revelation
Of a song of incredible purity and joy,
My first rose-breasted grosbeak,
Facing the low sun, his body
Suffused with light.
I was motionless and cold in the hot evening
Until he flew away, and I went on knowing
In my twelfth year one of the great things
Of my life had happened.
Thirty factories empty their refuse in the creek.
The farm has given way to an impoverished suburb
On the parched lawns are starlings, alien and aggressive.
And I am on the other side of the continent
Ten years in an unfriendly city
I feel sure of it now
chilly more than not
the death of plants brings an odd beginning
"here we go again"
"bet it's a bad winter this time"
"can you feel it?"
how stupid is all this
as if starting again
all you ever have is bits
chips of memories
it's all so fucked
It's as if the actual space
has an opening,
left by the loss
of someone I miss very much.
Tense without her strength to bolster mine.
Unable to touch her or look into her eyes.
Miss her full/filling
My place with the world. I am so much less without her.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
American, 1848-1919TitleReclining NudeWork TypePAINTINGSDatec. 1890MaterialOil on canvasMeasurementsImage: 22 3/4 x 49 in. (57.8 x 124.5 cm) Frame: 36 1/4 x 62 3/8 in. (92.1 x 158.4 cm)DescriptionSigned: Lower left: monogramRepositoryTerra Foundation for American Art, Daniel J. Terra Collection
The Blood of the Fish
Erica Miriam Fabri
for Gustav Klimt
The painter is beautiful because he can see
the sway of a woman in a water snake. He names
a painting Hope and means with child. To him,
Eve is not the bedmate of a serpent, she is a soft,
china-colored body for Adam to rest on. What is
Voluptuousness ? A pot-belly. Excess? A river
of red hair. Poetry is a girl swimming in a white dress.
Love is a gypsy. Sleep is a witch. The most beautiful
girl in Vienna gave him her first kiss. She went to him
to find out what beauty was. And so, he covered her
in a blanket of carnations. Every woman he painted
had daisies sewn into their curls. What exactly does
a kiss do to a girl? It makes her face fold over,
and her toes turn like scallops in the grass.