#67…considering some aliens among us…

 

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Wow! the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture has a show up in the gallery.  An ancient figurative sculpture exhibit. Everyone seems to be on good behavior, thoughtful and interested in bronze likenesses of “others”, and being served.

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A bit anachronistic (bronze is ancient) and mildly troublesome: someone is in the room not from our temporal identity group.  Troubling if someone has a sword or posturing an old exotic mystery-angst.  Troubling faces, masks are easily offensive.  Of course the figures may be troubled, headless or limbless, broken in ancient ceremonies or wars.  And troubling (depending upon the winds of doctrines) because they are not dressed at all, nudity.

It is possible to bump into them. Maybe sculpture should have an alarm sound incorporated, you know beep-beep-beep-beep incessantly calling attention to the bleeding obvious or providing auditory accentuation to momentary troubles.

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The alarm may also be applied to various issues between men and women (the putting on or off of the pedestal sort of thing) respect that may not be interpreted as respectful; antiquated chivalry.

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Some sculpture needs the alarm if it looks like – when then and there meets here and now.

 

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#66…Considering the role of anger…

 

IMG_0001Theatrical extras, birds and small mammals, escaped during a mystery play rehearsal (to have been performed here at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture).

The play, in synopsis, is a dramatization of a trio of stories concerning the same angry man, who knots ropes into a whip.  He is better known in other stories for peace and thoughtfulness, with a skill in useful fiction.  He becomes an anarchist after watching the plebs offer the weak to gain an honorable nod from the patricians, who claim access to The Divinity’s pleasure.

His whip is not a particularly lethal device but, unfurled in rage, it upsets the traders accounting.  He madly denounces the cheapening of the sacred.  Would any forego such commercial arrogance and accept this cleansing?

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Alas, in later scenes, other actors bray their manly sins; a type of public self-flagellation – self-flagellation in a kevlar cardigan. Then they bellow scripts of hallowed words, for remission of their actions (with special offers to others, at a price, payable to earthly gatekeepers).

As the play goes on, those with an unconquerable desire to be despised offer their weak in exchange for a haughty nod from their lording creditors.

We are not sure how it ends, could this be comedic?

#65…the change, spring….

IMG_0002Certainly this too will change: a thicker, darker, more heated, densely leaved, buggy, irritating evidence of life proceeding into summer. But for now the winds blow from wherever…

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Wherever, whenever, always and ever…change.  It is hard not to personalize, whatever changes, hoping for some stability; for a complete ever and forever.

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But, if only the changes stopped at…(…whatever would you want…)…

#64…considering manure and weeding…

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The emotives, artistics visionaries in outlook, have uncovered their agrarian roots.  While their tent world is airing, these balmy days call up the genius of gardening.  Spring opens all that will come; fruits, vegetables, viney growths, sprouting green goodies, the gentle haze of chartreuse over loamy soil ( a spread of lightly sanded microbial nursery and grave).  No bugs yet, just a few bees gathering in the ditches pollinating flowering weeds.

But surely the bugs will come, with associated fears and pain, and the delicate delights now coloring the roadside will spread happily among the rows of newly planted edibles.  The elbowing for sunlight, the spreading drinking roots, the happily (are plants happy?) gnarling fertilized stems will need removing. Killing (killing a happy plant?) from these purposeful rows, now neatly tilled valleys of ancient worm graves, will be required.DCS_1682

 

 

 

 

 

The circus, as mentioned, uses part of the tent for their menagerie, assuring a plentiful supply of manure to replenish the soil (though not likely to return it to the prelapsarian) but maybe allowing some dance of a sort: a grim pass between danger and delight, beast and grace, weed and fruit, stench and aroma.

 

Sometimes (maybe always) even the simplest places have layers, some meaning veiling some other meaning.  Myth upon measurable truth, nobility upon coarse brutality, angels (the good kind) upon fearsome savage, all contained in a few squares of a measurement; studied surface laid upon the unfathomable. Aromatic manure upon antique compost, all feeding weediness (and so the question – who will weed?)…and maybe…gain fruitfulness.

 

As spring moves souls and seeds this world of effusive artistics has a plethora of planters. But the garden holds sparse hopes for abundant fruitful harvesting, considering the happy weeds and the plentiful old and new manure,  and it being probably bereft of weeders.

 

 

 

Planters are cocky, forward, proud; the harvesters self-congratulatory:  but in between must be the weeders (when employable), hot, bug-bit, bent, ill-tempered; maybe also feeding a crotchety delight in killing.  Across the road crop farmers use chemicals, kind-of crotchetiness in a bottle.

 

But, for this artistic’s garden, the only hope is that a disciplined few will be weed editors.

 

 

 

 

#63…considering someday, some appropriate day…

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Somedays just want to be enjoyed, a breezy Spring day, full of new green – the pale soft new green full of new sun and new waters – on a new breeze.IMG_0001

 

 

 

 

Someday, with the sun at the appropriate inclination, the ground at the appropriate warmth, the wind at the appropriate breeziness, the picnic table appropriately leveled (to keep our bombs from falling off), the fears appropriately displaced, for now…maybe.

 

 

Someday fancihatted twisted crazies might just take a walk, not searching for anything, not for some personal goal, just a walk, some wandering in the breeze for now.

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Someday just a picnic ( like We had offered at first) no drama, just a breeze and some nibbles awaiting nothing, nothing, nothing…without the turbulent gyrating synoptic folderol (okay maybe with some pleasant wine or cool frothy beer).

 

Somedays we remember we now eat the harvest we saw six months ago, now it is plowing, tilling, seeding time, six months from now another harvest.

Someday, maybe this day will be remembered; opening the flaps of the tent, airing it out: letting the breeze do what we can’t…move the past onto someplace other than…now.

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Someday to maybe just take a walk, for now, will a picnic just be there?

 

#62…considering synapses firing, Divine matter…

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Turbulence, the synapses keep firing, twists and turns (a bit embarrassing).

What inside keeps it all going? memories? rituals? codifying  dreams? efforts? (oh my God the failures), the faint loss? the unattained? the firing nerves…maybe that is all, just firing nerves.

 

 

The haptic synapses, oh how embarrassing, do they mature?  Do synapses wrap up the Divine… this matter?

 

Melted ice and dried thorns, bits of  petals, leaves, still attached; crumbles of things.  Its’ Spring, or, what’s left over from Winter.  Ice and thorns and turbulence, now warmed. Some day this will lift up again, as if the past is now just sleeping.

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Caught in the backwaters, what beauty has sustained is not to be noticed, but that beauty is still there, right?

The river does keep flowing wetness, damp alive black soil wetness that thickets will carry forth…upward… as green, green, green.  Here (where winter browns and grays all life) those little shoots of green green green… matter.  As if matter was The Divine.

As to matter, or “what matters most”; isn’t that Realm… thicker, richer, fogs denser, cold deeper, warmth more enduring, colors more revealing, under a brighter sun?  A vibrancy of stories?

Stories, it is always best (for power) to know the other man’s sins, or better yet failures. Reminiscence of old times (among friends, in front of the young) does often bring forth an event which shadows so much. Some path through the turbulent synapses: a hidden story of pointed embarrassment.

And yet we all begin embarrassed.

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And so we start all over again, the green, green, green (or maybe a different color) to variations along the same path, firing off similar (but oh so personal… stories); lost in the tragedy laughing, or surprised in the comedy crying.

It is common to reduce the Divinity to concepts best reserved for choosing bathroom towels, to wrap about, to cover what matters, to know…embarrassment.

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What We Have Done           painted wood

 

#61…where we consider sentence diagrams and sculpture…

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diagram of emotive relationships in a recent sentence as mobile

Does mystery have value if no human desires to explore the underlying structure, a revelation of the un-mysterious?  Anarchists are profuse with word bombs convoluting thoughts (or mental pop-ups) aimed at emotively reasoning an end to some offensive authority: including even rational thoughts.  Certainly there is an explorable mystery in organizing explosive emotive thoughts.

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Veer a bit to see a pile of coat-hangers.

Wire “art materials” from the junk deposited (with good intentions) at the door of The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.

During the chilled months confinement in the tent, some attendees began “coat-hanger sculpture” projects.  A coagulation of disagreements soon puddled around the project tables.  The makers were adamant that no narrative or story should be attached to their output, no figures recognized.  Their wiry sculptures don’t have to say anything, just…BE.  They are just abstract sculpture.IMG_0003

But some of the scribbler types soon identified works that resemble diagramed sentence structures, therefore implying a story or meaningful words. Attempts were made to place subject, object, and predicates plus adverbial phrases, predicate nominatives and all of the other bits and thoughts (often absurdities) preserved in sentences, as then making meaning of the coathanger art. IMG_0001 2

The wire artists, remembering the cognitive dissonance of junior high school, embroiled with the less-physical learners about keeping “their” propaganda out of “my” art.

The structures became more convoluted and complicated and enlarged in scale (a wonderful word for sculptors, meaning bigger, commanding presence).  These became huge steel structures perfect for holding bifurcated cliches.

The grammatical tyrants analyzed speeches of emotive politicos (word bombs, isolated utterances of dubiously ordered facts, paltry similes), and applied them to the sculptures.

And so sculpted steel now supports dissembled stories; combined mysteries occupying the open areas of the tent of irreconcilables.

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work-in-progress

The pale light illuminates an insufficient answer to a question seldom asked…is there meaning without a story.

#60…Considering urban legends and other doubts…

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Fooled in the twilight, a clanging…to look or…to replay convoluted stories …creatures, a chimerical plot, a misuse-able craft?  Confusion – a mechanical, persistent heart’s cognition, a dark dull force in pursuit- a raft of fear?

100_1433In the beginning, We had sweet and simple idea remember?  This was a place where the creative and natural could have a simple reunion: inviting neglected anarchists and enfant terribles from now and the ages, to a country picnic.  A rural simplicity joined, sharing art.  We refused proper names (except for Yorick) in the hope that all would feel included, even unmemorialized names.  We have appointed The Deciders, for simplicity, to service opportunities in this old circus tent become museum. Deciders are rendered as the spiritual hobby-horse head of their youth, a personae, avoiding issues of photo rights.

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The Decider (in-chief so called)

But alas, there is something foul afloat  (some unspittable taste of fear) because of one of the Deciders: who chooses to be called ” -In-Chief”.

But also a rising has expanded; a resistance has formed (quite sensibly) among emotives, including anarchists.

 

Bartered superstitions lurk, even on the prairie. A conjured ambassador from the city, night prowler (maybe urban myth), a legend about windows to be pried, and bolted doors blankly covering what should be opened. Among misfit children, the myth is a hero (he sticks his tongue out?).

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KnightRider of the PryBar

 

 

 

 

An invented name, The KnightRider. Schooled in emotive bombs, the children regale in the KnightRider, hoping for some excitement among the resisters.

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Yorick watching (chronically frayed) afraid of lukewarm immortals, counsels the child…

“You are to small for the bomb, and the bomb is to meek for the problem.”

The legend, the conjured Prybar, gains fame in a circuitous polarized distemper between town and the rural colony of anarchists.

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Searching for that which needs, and can be…pried open.

 

 

#60…considering spring cleaning and other dangers…

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The above is the end of the story – not much different than you would expect if anarchists and other emotives are in charge of a menagerie and scribed pages.  Misattention, misadventure, and maybe frivolity and scorn for the written; some of it possibly wise, maybe ancient: forced sudden efforts.  Just as a greater danger poked her nose into the blustery and brighter day.IMG_0001

 

 

Now on to the middle of the story.

Spring cleaning is much in order and some of the boxes of writs (once compelling but now needing reexamination in the light of day) were removed from the barn and spread upon the grass.  The dusting off, examining for value, repackaging and restorage incurred frivolous debunking by one of the enfant terribles who decided a paper airforce would be a fun way to distribute the ideas, during a brief calm.IMG_0002

Winds habitually haunt the prairie and sweep abruptly across the reviving grass, for this the  distracted spring-cleaners were ill-prepared.  What had not been proximate, became a dynamic presence.

 

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Now…remember the bear?  This brings up the beginning of the story.

The bear is here because We are sympathetic to circuses with animals (not welcome in most places), and have made space available.  The so-called Decider-In-Chief has a childish infatuation with teddy bears and left the cage of the bear unlatched (the bear arrived in hibernation).  But a new season is also arriving here on the prairie and with it the friskiness of animals (two and four legged).  And so a she-bear, a hungry she-bear, roamed.

How are we frightened, and by what, affects decisions; panic being the most common.  After that “decision” the bear happily rummages our garbage (you will just have to imagine).IMG_0004

Now, a coda for the story…how does one put a she-bear  back in her cage, or respect our gifted scribbles?  With a trail of sweet words, candy and honey, flowers?

#59… if you want pretty balloons…please consider…

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yes consider… paying the artists.

Commerce, even here at the reunion of anarchists and tent of the enfant terribles always keeps things going.  It seems that many want the pretty balloons (metaphorically speaking) but the artistics want some compensation; even the dead (We suppose): for what purpose is only an incense cloud of guesses.

Included in the disrupting events of the last few weeks here on the wind-swept prairie was one, the thought of becoming commercial, i.e. imitating the outside world. It is a critical discussion.

Donations, “begging” for help, has alienated some of the purists.  Instead of offering a handful of balloons they would have a wagon-load of halos to demonstrate the quality of the artists, a monkish expectation of earthly provender while guiding morals and spirituality with various scribbles.

Well, maybe.Donate now

History, art and otherwise, offers pirate affluence as validating most actions, even proving a state of grace, but it  possesses a pejorative connotation among anarchists and enfant terribles:  unless ( of course) they receive a benefit from some pirate, where upon blessings are extended.

Some lament that art has been turned into a commodity.  “Commodity market” – an ethereal pantheon – for some hallowed artists : (usually during explosive three-year careers).  Producing commodifiable art, acquiring patronage, showing in evening vespers galleries, or pontificating where affluence pours into collection baskets; is for the few.img_0001-2

Outside on the prairie, corn, now that’s a commodity – certain product uniformity – offered with an understanding that someone will buy.  Buy (maybe not at the best producer price) but buy they will.

Art is a little different.

Hundreds of millions of paintings are offered on the internet, not counting the sculptures, drawings and cat photos, they do not possess “certain product uniformity”.  Alas, few will be bought.

The artists here at the tent who didn’t come into this world with a gilded guardian angel, have found a bit of the necessities of low fixed costs and dry storage space; to hold their art till some pirate wants to buy a blessing.

 

 

 

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This romantic absurdity does have a cost so we have put out our sign, against the pure anarchists desire,  and hope you will donate to the PayPal account.