#98 … hall of fools (part 3) …

Having some oaf handle ( or is it footle? ) the ageless symbol of eternity while strutting a pedestal may be a bit offensive.

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Most won’t find it funny, the idea of a balancing fool; whilst and also, most just acquiesce.

Think about public fools, and that which litters warm seas, damp bogs, oily wetlands, bridge abutments; there does seem to be a connection, right?

 

Some are honored when young for limited talents highly praised, excessively praised, but then, well the drive may still go on but the talent … declines a bit. But in this world of emotives and egoist there is still room for a bronze commemorating the feeble skills and the self-made spectacle to remind those who ponder.  And the pondering considers why there is never enough ( as in finis ) honor for limited fools.

The world ain’t-agona stop spinning, its’ just the drive the drive the drive, to encircle the look-at-me: please ponder a fool’s monument.  Another visual thought from the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.

 

 

#97 … the hall of fools (part2)…

The seashore, and any creatures of the deep, are a long ways from here; about 900 miles to the closest salt water.  Prairie folks vacation there and then await their end, close to some rising shore line.

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The Laocoon

The seashore can bring an end to common sense; some idea of endless waves lapping endless shores as endless and unchanging, never rising past the high-tide line, well, save for a few hurricanes, tsunamis, and wakes of passing cruise ships: but we no longer fear giant snakes coming forth to kill noble harbingers of truth.

Ancient Trojans thought in ageless ideas and accepted the big snake in the sea idea, but they were too late to grasp the danger signal. Trojans would not imagine that the dire warning concerning “The Horse” would come out of the mouth of a disparaged outcast, and should be listened to. To them the sea -serpent must have killed him for other reasons.  Of course they also didn’t listen to the lady.

It is still too easy to believe in the fancy conceits of bombastic authorities holding wishful ( or deceitful ) ignorance, as in the days of the Ancients.

But, the troubles keep rising out of the ocean: probably it would be better if the trouble was a big snake.

 

 

 

 

 

#96 … the hall of damned fools …

 

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Keep up with the times, the news!

This tent holding the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture has been shaking and flapping since the first of November, due to the prairie wind; with the shaking comes the pleasure of fear, the type that gives a quickening; knowing potential disaster looms. Maybe some audience will be bringing down the house for some, late-remembered, past folly.  The great “They” are out there worrying all in the fear of finding faults.

Audience needy … fools and un-convicted felons … their incessant demand…ah, but having lacked a social back-up beeper as the guffaw laughter and whoopee applause and tainted honor start, the end is a typical folly.

Anachronistic artistics recognize pedigree, often a prestige allowing one to stand for all.  And so the ringmaster grandly displays his endowments.  If there are some chagrinned observers, they lack the eminence, the honor of recognition … of bronze statuary or other, more useful … remembrances.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#95 … Grief, some considerations …

Grief, the considering of grief, it is a job for some.

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Changing things, from one thing to another, grief into say joy or beauty or maybe … damn this is a big maybe – into better moral actions.  Doesn’t sound reasonable does it: that’s because those are reasoned from the past, maybe a job for authority (or maybe anarchists).

There is the changing from the outer growing, reaping time; into the enclosed, restful, time: the seasonal – now.  How much trouble should one go through to transform that end-of-the-summer grief … maybe, into beauty.  Seems the job of the artist.

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As it is – in the changing – gloom descends; it is the low light, cold drizzle time.  The pain is now (or else why, or what, would be transformed): now, as in – the past carried forward.  There must be something in the quiet of winter; some poetical wondering enclosed, darkened for the soul.  Would that transform enough pain if handled by some mystic?

Central Illinois Caress

Maybe, the past&now analyzed and checked against some catalogue of disorders for the appropriate cure; there ought to be some skilled consoler.

It seems that the pain, looking backward, is what is knowable, but, considering the new (or renewed if the past is included) moral actions; could they generate … maybe, from thankfulness.

#94 … boys and exploits …

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Exploits and boys, well at least the late age of boyhood, somewhere around 12, 13, 14, …  (some would have other ages included.)

Seems like there is always a constant trial, a trial of some exploit that apparently worked back in the day (hormonally chronological).  The surrounding life has changed a bit but there hasn’t been much of a change in boys.

Exploits, counting coup  battling the other guys (tribal pushing and shoving), charging the sabertooth tiger (testosterone fantasy), stealing eggs from eagle’s eyries (petty larceny); exploits to gain the acclaim and the bragging and the bluffing rights.

Exploits once proving who is tuffest, best balanced, most capable of quickly grabbing the mouthful, or handful … ending puberty.

 

 

Exploits now deliriously digitally virtualized.

 

 

Eventually, if the exploits haven’t rewarded the boy with the babe, the vehicle, the lion’s share of the loot and repast,

the boy is left with …

just small trinkets and smirky mimicry of some tyrant’s buffoonery.

 

 

 

There was a day when when the boy could just run off to join the circus, to exploit fears and folly, and maybe … in the end …

exploit a bit of finese.

 

 

#93 … reflecting on shallow pools …

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The river to which they went was wet, then dried, now damp again; leaving shallow pools to await freezing.

 

 

 

It is where galactic rules, the measured kind, are so easily dismissed by a boy – to impress the girl, so as to reflect on a puddle; or, more elegantly, a shallow pool … with romance and absurdity.

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A place for swinging twigs and skipping stones, swirling and splashing time pictures, cloudy, rippling orbits (remnants of a person) –  exercising a   personality … the marks of his passing…

 

 

 

 

… that’s turbulence…

IMG_0004  IMG_0005  IMG_0006… beginning – and to the end –   turbulence…

 

 

There, there you have it; the mystery of the whole universe ( including his special place ) … turbulence in a shallow pool.

 

#92 … considering enigma …

What if…what if, the conformities (great and small) consented to excuse an absence by He & She.

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Maybe, to consider… something

Maybe, uncertain

Maybe, an inelegant capture of silence

Maybe, an enigma, but … what if … a willing (if limited) participation?

Maybe, a sharing

Maybe, some happiness

Maybe, some conspiratorial  wonder.

What if … what if they just desire

Maybe, presence.

#91 … Heaven and music, reconsidered ….

100_0468Outside on the prairie, even in the midst of agricultural industry, it is possible to think of Heaven up beyond the clouds, as someplace to fly to, someplace to go;  responding to  memory – purest memories, sounds – harmoniously resolved, faults – most grievous faults – transformed.

Sometimes when people, or plural peoples, are dying they … reconsider.  There may have been signs to consider as they wandered along, but the somber utility of life does get in the way of understanding.  Understanding, for example, music and a celestial future. Heaven may be just a long stretched out sheep pasture with wandering folks in pure white veils and angelic wings humming delirious melody and harmony, or it may be silence in a baptism of color.IMG_0001 2

In the spirit of reconsidering; what of music, the singing, presumably transforming the silence in Heaven. Is there a night club, dance hall, church, or bar and grill with actual musicians on your same plane (elevated and very divine), or is some virtual recording, (obviously repetitive – eternity is a long long time) playing only for you.

Maybe some faint hope of fame in Heaven, ( like singing in the Divinity’s shower) is worth practicing (here) to gain.IMG_0003

Is the heavenly-hopeful immigrant musician expected to carry speakers, amplifiers, recording devices et.al. from this present here and now into the afterlife, on his back like so much refugee detritus. IMG_0004

 

Is it absurd to think that Heaven needs a sound track? imagined here? – in the earthly realm – could it really matter? do they have sub-woofers blasting all the crap to Hell (the repository of faults)?

 

And does interruption, certain sounds, matter more than silence, do some acceptable interruptions maybe …  achieve the heavenly transformation?IMG_0001

 

#90 … Now, what of respect …

Feminine maize, the millennia’s inheritance.100_0636

Time always matters, especially … Now.

Now the rush of spring, now summer’s wet heat, now the fruiting fullness, now the drying, now some place for her, now some ending … now … firmly above the soil, the storms passed, the harvest to come.

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NOW ... an edited story:

Maybe, if we reach completion … respect.

NOW, just a gentle breeze, still warm autumnal breeze, now picture (it is easy) the cumulus gentle pillow rising full wonder, holding up Heaven ( or the heavens, if you prefer). That which lifts highest, those are storms; violent heat coursing to the top, the cool reaches of tornadic whirling wonder:  a place of immutable divine rules, a full presence, a remembrance, the cosmos or so it is called.

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Now a chill, if only for an evening, a dryness to hold the virtue un-moldy, a dryness to bury, a burial to crack, the remains of a spent voluptuous youth in multiple greens, the sun-yellowed green chartreuse moist sexual veil now furry purple brown. Bulbous pillows suspended rain, then it came; invested spectral sun and mineral movement, now sugar to starch and to dry, the silks purple brown tipped dusty dry brown; dry, longer lasting than rainbows, if a bit smaller and more serviceable, finished and golden.

Now land plots, tasseled waves, the swirled breeze, the rippled dust flows over endless acres, numbered now to the smallest unit.  Now, the unsheathed grain streams – filling mundane hoppers, trucks, shiny sullen mechanical towers.

Now, a dollared industry.

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Now it is seldom for beauty or poetic contemplation, now lacking the intimate wonder of that which passed forward.

 

 

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Now, immortalization – the respectful pedestal, the static story – her inheritance.

 

 

#89 … considering comparable pains …

We have little to bring you as far as local news; well, other than fires, murders, economic discontent. But this place, holding so many tax-paying emotives, pales so badly compared to the rest of the world on the hyperbole-index We are a bit embarrassed to bring up our problems.

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However, at the tent of anachronistic anarchists things are comparable, still a lot of little bombs lit and awaiting opportunity to be tossed, thrown, left lying around till they explode; it is in the nature of emotives (anarchistic and otherwise), and therefore is a problem worth noting.

We have been considering acquiring a drone, for observation and potential defensive purposes.

IMG_0014As it is, the weight of cameras and emotion-seeking bombs is probably greater than the carrying capacity of big-box discount-store drones. And we lack sufficient pilots, lethal or otherwise, who can direct the photography or bombing.

 

IMG_0001 2But, a solution was proffered. The artists here have decided to draw “artistic conceptions” of what the drone images would look like if we actually did use one.  It is unlikely anyone will get hurt ( it is art after all) but tiny bits of fear of heights and surveillance paranoia might show up.

 

IMG_0018It takes awhile to gain some perspective, some elevation. Artists must imagine heights that are not readily available on a broad farming prairie, so high angles are just to make perspectival drawings, a means of plausible truth.

IMG_0016This aerial drawing is the Mackinaw River, our local bit of the flowing divine, with some rains blowing in, rain, adequate usually, but not to much, usually.

The tent, holding anachronistic irascibles is either just below your vision or among those squiggles around some light area in the middle right. Drawings are nice, viewers get to decide what is important to them; you must imagine things like temperature, humidity and color,

Color should include the ragweed, goldenrod, black-eyed susan, big bluestem,  and the multitudinous prairie weeds, pain should include sneezing and sweating and scratching.  And, hopefully, scratching an itch will be the only sign of blood.

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Imagine if you wish, empathize if you can, the pain and suffering around here; or, better yet, extend it to those in very windy places, very watery places, very hot places, very bloody places – far away.