#58…considering unemployed elephants…

Published on by herbeaton

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Unemployed elephants, shouldn’t we admit that it is inexplicable – the course of history.  Unemployed elephants with nothing to do, covered with dust and mud and sequins and plumy tops.  Unemployed elephants, unconcealable immensity of individuals – dense in matters of gravity, numbered as Stars, as real as the circus unknowns.  Unemployed elephants, bearing their wonderful equipage showing the finesse of their servant girls, now wandering in the provinces.  Some in memory ponder the big idea, the Big Tent, presenting the fears, the follies, and some skills brought to – finesse; and the value of pachyderms, now past.  Maybe it is best.

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Do Elephants Remember Mastodons?             oil        H.Eaton

All emotive lives are the stuff of dramas, runny mascara on artificial heroes, pains from discarded dreams (or is it discarded activities); taming a beast or learning what the beast would have. Sequins and ribbons on wrinkles and scars.

The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture sits on the glacial out-plain of the ancient iced home of the mastodon. As things warmed the tree top ripper and scat pooper provided useful service. Mastodon was gone long ago, before these enforced migrant elephants came to entertain and provide bits of a story.

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We have offered fields for the elephants to spread their droppings and fertilize the home of ancient grasses, the gift to future growing.  A home for unemployed elephants, as if we knew the mastodon – or remembered to care.

Please join us next Saturday, the befuddlement of urban myths arrive at the tent.

 

 

#57…Idle thoughts Illinois and Ballerinas…

Published on by herbeaton

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Our balletic prairie, The State of Illinois.  Illinois, a graceful ballerina, balances; just look at the map. We are surrounded by a bunch of boxy, less lusciously graceful states, in the great fly-over land, the American midwest.

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Illinois, as a ballerina, has a hefty derriere; bounded by, and fondled by, the Father of Waters (maybe a bit inappropriate).    Illinois is somewhat flat-chested in outline and topography, but that aids the corn growing, which maintains many  derriere’s.

Illinois has a most unfortunate abbreviation…Ill, nobody wants to be in “illness”.  Ill is  the correct description of its’ unbalanced budget and politics, but not Illinoisans.  And while noise is the description of our wind in winter, traffic in the Windy City, and garbled logic from our capitol, we actually don’t pronounce the “s” at the end of Illinois.  We prefer a more subtle uninflected, even artistic, spoken language (except for Chicago, where a lot of the people live),

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The sound of “Illinois” is rather feminine and, considering the amount of feeding it does for the rest of the world, rather appropriate.   It is also births the Mother Road, old Rt. 66, which crosses the prairie in a smooth dancer’s diagonal thrust.

High above our often stormy expanse of sky are many jet contrails, temporarily marking travelers from coastal metropolis to coastal metropolis.  With no need of maps or electronic guiding voices few know what is below.  Those who might wonder often confuse Illinois with Indiana, Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, Omaha, Oklahoma, Oahu, Ottawa, Ottumwa, and Ionia (which isn’t even in North America), but the sounds are similar.

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The vasty prairie of Illinois is where the reunion of the emotive anarchists takes place. Our “rivers gently flowing” have watered a number of artists,  including ponderers and dancers of svelte, and even passionate, dimensions.

 

#57…Idle thoughts Illinois and Ballerinas…

Published on by herbeaton
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Her Grace, Illinois           ink           H.Eaton

Our balletic prairie, The State of Illinois.  Illinois, a graceful ballerina, balances; just look at the map. We are surrounded by a bunch of boxy, less lusciously graceful states, in the great fly-over land, the American midwest.

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The Great Fly-Over Land

Illinois, as a ballerina, has a hefty derriere; bounded by, and fondled by, the Father of Waters (maybe a bit inappropriate).    Illinois is somewhat flat-chested in outline and topography, but that aids the corn growing, which maintains many  derriere’s.

Illinois has a most unfortunate abbreviation…Ill, nobody wants to be in “illness”.  Ill is  the correct description of its’ unbalanced budget and politics, but not Illinoisans.  And while noise is the description of our wind in winter, traffic in the Windy City, and garbled logic from our capitol, we actually don’t pronounce the “s” at the end of Illinois.  We prefer a more subtle uninflected, even artistic, spoken language (except for Chicago, where a lot of the people live),

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Prairie Picnic       oil

The sound of “Illinois” is rather feminine and, considering the amount of feeding it does for the rest of the world, rather appropriate.   It is also births the Mother Road, old Rt. 66, which crosses the prairie in a smooth dancer’s diagonal thrust.

High above our often stormy expanse of sky are many jet contrails, temporarily marking travelers from coastal metropolis to coastal metropolis.  With no need of maps or electronic guiding voices few know what is below.  Those who might wonder often confuse Illinois with Indiana, Iowa, Idaho, Ohio, Omaha, Oklahoma, Oahu, Ottawa, Ottumwa, and Ionia (which isn’t even in North America), but the sounds are similar.

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She Wonders About Her Treasure        oil

The vasty prairie of Illinois is where the reunion of the emotive anarchists takes place. Our “rivers gently flowing” have watered a number of artists,  including ponderers and dancers of svelte, and even passionate, dimensions.

 

#56…Considering further playful thoughts…

Published on by herbeaton

Parents and grandparents are the audience for most performances by wee ones.  As a consequence this post may get a bit boring for those of you who prefer your childishness played out by adults.

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The Deciders have decided that the new systemized education (play training) should begin where we expect the children to end up.  To that end, The Decider-In-Chief (this is self-named, not what We named anyone; The Deciders are servants to the reunion’s best functioning, shown by their hobby-horse head personae): anyhow, that Decider appointed an announcer, a slick-stick hobby-horse personae, with the duty of introducing the children and their various acts in our recital.

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The recital began with a dramatic presentation of the lives of famous hobby-horse cavalrymen.  This is definitely old-style dramatization of imagination as portraying goal-focused adventures for youth.

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Next was a rather sappy maudlin story of a lost little girl.  According to a legend she finds a mysterious decorated cannon-ball, belonging to some knight-errant, prince, or cavalier.  Lots of tears as this bit advanced the plot.img_0018

 

 

 

Next was an acrobatic review of how much the students had habituated into the arts of dealing with “adult” situations, the somewhat athletic control of emotion bombs.

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This was loudly applauded, the skill being accentuated by keeping the propeller spinning.  Variations of this were detailed by the announcer.

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The closing was an invented ancient ceremonial “Lighting Of The Fuse” with flint and steel, recalling the everlasting need to be prepared to ignite an emotion bomb.

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The child playing this scene is probably the best example of the training The Decider -In-Chief advocates for the The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture’s day care.

 

 

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The audience gasped as a curious errant child came centerstage. The announcer, warning about the bluntly obvious danger, was quickly dealt with by the so-called Decider-In-Chief who also dismissed the curtain call as potentially unruly.

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The solution to danger warnings…for the moment.  Hopefully, next week we can have some dancing, join us.

 

 

 

 

#55…Considering Play…

Published on by herbeaton

img_0001Play is the eldest of habits, preceding the scribbling on cave walls, the accumulation of stuff, the maturation of mythical leaders, the harvesting of row-crops, the forming of balls (and bombs), and the counting graphs of wealth and power.

The ultra-new ( which includes old-school avant-garde) is worthy, when remembering, that play is connected to the antiquarian, the ancients, the creation myth of all things fiction; fulfilled in all things art.

With all of the pernicious crap going on in and around the tent of The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture it is important that we remember that there are children present; and play should be a part of this gathering, no matter what real or imagined fears the adults cling to.

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Our anarchist emotives live a nervous maturity; favoring adult sophistication that is (only?) monetized aggression, raging against a pitiable return. Collusion with wealth and power is often difficult to avoid, oligarchs tempt.

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img_0001Please excuse the following official note:

The tent, overseen by those to whom We have given authority – The Deciders, is stretching into an oligarchic character.  Scholarly attention has been devoted to reigniting the carcass of artistic drive towards a new, superior (monied) academy; without an artistic skills component. It is to proffer effete emotive intellectualism lacking any direct involvement in lowly affairs, such as real children playing.

Play is to precede to a type of professionalism that diminishes childlike wonder with its’ erratic anarchic character ( i.e. the spontaneous substitution of a broom for a horse, the type of realism that never claims victory over an actual stone castle).  It appears that it should accomplish goals (sooner and fiscal in character) in service to the Decider-In-Chief.  Play, as now proposed, should be systemized in a digital format.

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Decider-In-Chief

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The Decider-in-Chief as established a play area developing skills more likely to benefit the fate of children when they seek a day-job.

 

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Yorick established a play area outside last summer but the winter has limited it as a refuge, arguments have reminded some of the other Deciders of that effort. To what end we must wait, at least till next Saturday.

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#54…Vignette…

Published on by herbeaton
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Animosity in America  {vignette play extract}                                                                                                                 female voice (yelling)  “…and what pain would come outta that?”                                                        male voice (calmly)  “But I didn’t…”

Romance, or the triumph of absurdity, it is February. Valentine’s Day is approaching, and the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture attempts a small play.  Something started considering twinned tyrannies.

Conflict, plays should have some conflict. Conflict moves the plot along and develops the characters, but the various writers, directors, actors, etc. here in the tent are conflicted.  Surely this isn’t “theatrical” conflict, even if it is very dramatic.  It is the response to decisions.

It seems The Deciders, exerting purloined powers, have squashed various scripts and sets; but have provided only expectations. Inept expectations suggested certain types- action (more filmic than stage) –  delightful love (more greeting card than dialogue) – or triumphalist historical dancing (certain skill limitations).  As a consequence the above heavily-edited script and set are all we have.  Perhaps as we move to Valentines Day we can produce more, but it is okay if you peruse the above and add your own thoughts.

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We would like you to know that this single petal of a rose, still vibrant and alive, may be all you get this week.

 

 

#53…considering nobility…

Published on by herbeaton

img_0023Recent events at the tent have left some cracks in our present story. The local audience half-expected some pose by a bleeding Yorick. The white-walled gallery, now needs rebuilding.  The Deciders have demanded more color bombs and authority, something of an aristocratic triumvirate.   And so we move on, to a more noble day (?).

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Considering Nobility      oil

Is there a better day in this “there was a better day”, “back-in-the-day” era? The question is probably better “is there a greater day to remember?”  A day when the oligarchy was noble, above all, in some auric glow of past splendor (we confuse with the present).  When our superiors were Nobles, and acted with noblesse oblige.

The eagle, whether perched or on wing, searches for the weak, the inattentive, the injured, for an eagle’s sustenance.  Flying here over our rivers gently flowing they have the attributes of gods; power, majesty, floating upwards without borderlands.

Eagles flying, gold burnished, the eagle abstracted to emblem, logo, or symbol posted on commerce and political ascendency. Compressed emotions to symbolic standards for those membered, who claim charts of nobility as a decantation of heroic acts; whereas the lessers died without gift of a position.  Noble authority didn’t mine the gold nor form and burnish it, but they wear it and are housed in it; a world liquid in unexplored vanity, unexplored despair.

Imagining the wings and gold as attainable and usable attributes; some emotive artificers seek to mimic the gods in the pursuit of sovereignty.  Presumably they bequest a benediction on those in subservience, on the borderlands of obscurity and living remembrance. And yet seeking supremacy is not the Holy Grail, certainly not the one from which the Blood of the Lamb pours.

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Aha Young Men        oil

 

 

 

 

 

 

A fool was not a Noble, but many who claim a noble’s elite rights are fools, and so even here where winter leaves no fragrance, fresh or rotted, young men prefer the artifice of noble folly.

 

 

 

 

 

#52…considering centaurs and the nature of bullies…

Published on by herbeaton

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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.

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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.img_0001

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.

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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.

img_0003Nonetheless the trivial use of wisdom (what money will an action cost) sometimes looks like courage, sometimes cowardice.

 

#51…Commas again, blood, and other repeating issues…

Published on by herbeaton

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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.

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Hothead     bronze

 

 

 

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The Primal     bronze

 

 

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The Dull-Force    bronze

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

#50…considering, commas,,,

Published on by herbeaton

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It is winter here on the prairie where we are wrapped in wind and whipping canvas, the former circus tent, now home to the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.  The winter light is brightening a bit, a week plus after the early dismissal of the sun.  Back then the world came to the end of its’ wobble, then started over again.  Now, a lengthening winter sun is not the same thing as a warmer sun, only a more promising sun,  it is still cold.

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Tent shelter in winter…a bit chilly, no insulation. Swirling snow (although very lovely) blows in,  hot air goes to the top, while the people at the bottom cuddle lit emotion bombs, these artistics crunch closer and closer, erratic opinions drafted in chilled tensions find a topic. The more verbally endowed articulators (poetic/prosey types) anxious for even this bit of fame, begin to declaim on…,,,…comas.

Comas, those old-school  upside-down bombs, incomprehensibly-absolutist little dictatorial-divisive-connections interspersing the written as directions, or, governance to – how we speak, or how we mean – something.  Instincts re-form the vocalizers;  visceral high school psyches face rational-comma subgroups, and concurrently, the threats of little emotion bombs.

Older attendees proffer commas as the output of medieval theological speculation, where a threesome of ideas becomes- a point: to whit, and therefore, – uh, ah, oh, – commas; or something like that.  Ergo, comma tyrants claw with religious tenacity as arguments develop. The noise is vibrated aloft into the winds.

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While the big comma, winter wind, forms a grip on outdoor activities, arguing anarchists and grammar-lords fill time inside. Smoking enfant terribles enjoy the separation from the  grammarians more than the nicotine, banished, like back-in-the-day.d

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On an official note: a new Deciders Quorum has been appointed.

Due to rules thy are first formally presented by their hobby-horse head personae, to whit…

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Better to be discussed next Saturday, disagreements already exist over new authorities, and, the issues are greater than grammar…