Category: The milieu

This is the End…well, maybe not “The” end but the following will explain the above.

Last week’s issues concerning “commas”, the disagreements that lead to riots of a sort, are the causa belli that gathered a dullish force.  It seems that noise from the comma riot in the tent made it to the metal shed in the forgotten “back-forty” that housed a number of long-time offended…Centaurs.  Centaurs, bullies of myth, issued forth regaled as cavalry from the Russian steppes.  Campaign season starts early for the scum-cream of mercenaries.

Mixing conspiratorial buddy-brags, arrogant bluster,  bigotry, and gathering support with digital gadgets, they posted, tweeted, and re-formed into an urgent cohort; as if semi-illiterate centaurs were threatened by grammar during the “comma” riots.

Peace and hope slip-sliding away. They are demanding we, inhabitants of the tent,  relinquish power and send out the troublemakers, or centaurs will charge in.

As all enfant terribles and anarchists are ipso facto troublemakers, Yorick (with”specter of death” cred) chose to embody all troublemakers, risking skeleton suicide to go alone.  Remember, power accrues to madmen, especially those without fear of death: laughing at life’s arrogant, such is Yorick’s response to the master of centaurs.

If you remember, last summer Yorick (the master of the obvious) confronted the centaurs saying they were subjects of some art; not artificers; further, the centaurs were to leave, as the reunion was for emotive makers.

This was reiterated in the wind as explosions of colored shrapnel  from expressionist bombs were tossed from the tent.

Wind distorted the conversation with Yorick and the Master Centaur.  Mental algorithms among the hidden in the tent presumed the centaurs would leave the field due to fearing the specter of death.

But actually, Yorick presumed that the military outfits were rented  (local Nutcracker Ballet Company ?), probably with damage agreements, and stated that the anarchist’s color bombs would be thrown, should bullies try to enter the tent…

…The attack on the tent ropes was energetic and even horrifying:  the theatrical sharpness of the swords cut a few ropes before the centaurs retired the field of battle.

Nonetheless the trivial use of wisdom (what money will an action cost) sometimes looks like courage, sometimes cowardice.

What…do you grasp this!

The Comma…language’s – “take a break, relax” – sign; discussed among emotives, compels a riot. Enclosing enfant terribles, promising their ascendancy (a show of their explosions), plus delay, begets belligerence.  Rioting “comma” activists what name shall we use, (“anti-discontinousists(?) )  graffitied the pure white walls. Bloody alt-expressives-agendaists (?)!  Insult to injury (!): both sides want, what?  No ART?  No peace?

The grammar thing twisted our tented emotives entangled and deeply entwined, with criticism of the new – Deciders. This is embarrassing, this shouldn’t occur outside of cities!

He & She, your ever-patient docents, in good rural fashion; joined volunteers cleaning. They are quite upset about this aggression upon artistic communication within the anarchist’s reunion.These white walls were prepared to receive artworks, of The Deciders choosing.

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Let’s move on to the appointment of The Deciders.  Please tolerate this official business, we do apologize.  Let’s begin with some legalities.

1. This (the Blog) is a work of art, therefore only internal rules apply.

2.  We cannot use proper names (see. post #1) here at the reunion.

a. there is one exception, Yorick, the medieval skeleton jester.

3. Those are the laws We apply.

We appoint characters (Deciders) in order to allow all enfant terribles and anarchists to experience the transcendent spirits of ART.  We try not to fixate on past behavior or the promise of humane generosity in the future, but present the hope of a magnanimous spirit of gratitude for recognition and opportunity.

The Deciders are now renewed.  We choose through a system based on “youthful artistic predisposition” identified by means of evaluating their hobby horses.  This attempts to solve the discrepancies between archaics and moderns.

{ All as children used their imaginations and a broom as a “horse”: eventually those imaginative creations “age” a bit;  what remains is a vision of primal temperament – the viscera of fearful Awe, the wisdom of form, and various other tangibles and intangibles   – constituting ART. }

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The following are presently The Deciders.

We must leave this unfinished. There is the sound of horses hooves, clanging metal, and gruff commanding voices outside.  (Sounds like centaurs).

We will report next Saturday.

It’s cold around here, the wind, the wind, the wind.  Ah the wind, it swirls and penetrates, adding a toothy bite to whatever cold keeps in northern ice.   The wind turbines spinning above corn stubble are gathering energy for comfortable utility of modern types, living past the wind;  however in the tent the heating is last-century archaic.      We found pot-belly stoves in the junk delivered by the locals.  Outside its’ the cold, inside it’s drafty warm, pot-belly coal stoves are roaring rusty orange hot.

Everybody’s amiable around a pot-belly stove, warming hands.  It is very communal, especially for those with storied pasts who have come to exhibit and perform.  Mystic memories, darkened poetry of personal and ancestral memories,  cultural agrarian memories, the darkened reminder of industrial memories,  times we understand by virtue of “back-in-the-day…”memories.  Unquestioned veracity memories, the warmth of old thoughts in a cold world memories, the warm antique junk rag-and-bone shop memories; the, oh so cool, film noire memories.

Memories (and conversations) come out with the smell of hot boiling coffee the color of soot (and  about as dense ), snapping spattering crisp burnt bacon with hot-cakes and syrup, and the nostalgic dusty envelopment of burning coal.

Anachronistically speaking winter in a dusky cave probably started the whole “art” thing; constant babbling and bother, blackened marks on walls.

Stop by next Saturday let’s see where stories and scribbles might lead.

Should we writhe (with a mad-man’s certitude) ensnarled in a world that is only arbitrarily our own; preserving exaggerated grievances?

Often an effort is given to displaying grievances that can be disconcerting to those who know: at the center of it all, this world is suffering.  The grand indelicacy of  money protects (even projects) some with painless exposure, while others are obvious in their displayed pain.  Do they really hope that someone will give it permanence; protect it preserve it?

This is a problem here at the reunion of the anarchists and enfant terribles. Many  believe that the length they took to master the handiwork, the art construed and balanced by bodily actions, is freer (thereby greater) than that which is made static by the deeply indelicate demands of money or the shallow extravagance of the rational mind.  And yet their works are unattended, frozen into fragility, still slightly out of balance.

A cave or darkness, a frozen prairie, a singular forgotten place, can hold the mystery of a tragic personal memory, but more commonly, it is the psuedo-tragic constraints of the mundane. Some special reserved inaction that is to frozen to disrupt that little bit of the world tensed by the efforts.  This isn’t available to the explosive possibilities of more public problems, and yet remains an explosive contrivance in its’ own coiled fury and fragile, singular – oh so singular – character.

The anarchists are escape-delirious, the internal seething exploding desire to blow-up the mundane, going into the wild; and yet begging the peace of stasis.

Balance, balance would be nice if it did not contain with in it the potential of failure, the falling, the destruction; without that, it is not “in balance”.  Stasis, believed impervious to the forces ( also mysterious) that, with a sweep, would, for a moment, replace the static with balance before destruction (or even oblivion): or burst beyond the borderlands.

Such is that absurd world our enfant terribles, our emotive artistics, celebrate.

Next Saturday we consider moments: how long should thinking take place.