#84 … middenheaps and refugees …

 

IMG_0001 2What could be better for time-refugee enfant terribles than to be cast upon the prairie at a reunion housed in a disused circus tent, on a discarded farm, a bit upstream from the middenheap. Middenheaps matter, waste-piles downstream a bit (lest a nest be fouled), away from habitation.  The middenheap, the piles of revelatory refuse crushed in convoluted layers, canceled and discarded stuff of bygone refugees. A story of wanderers in convulsed pattern.

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What did they eat, what wood or stainless ladle did beat on some drum or dinner bell, what poetic pottery, trade items, pets (or supper) bones; burnt and crushed, once valued – now eroding, discarded evidence of passed lives; even the affection in those lives.

Once wandering refugees left scraps from flint-tipped hunting somewhere around here.  Now our circus tent rests on farm ruins of but a few generations use; plus the middenheap bits of steel, bones, glass, plastic and bundled papers; erratically layered.

 

IMG_0004.jpgAfter commercial skirmishes destroyed their daily pattern, circus tents and quaint farmsteads are now mostly gone…industry and raucous media replaced what was singular or family, small, clannish, close,  (even romantic).

 

 

The ancient way is to rebuild on ruins and middenheaps, layer upon layer – that leaves evidence. Our tent (The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) will no doubt leave some mark – for awhile; but certainly no stone reference of its’ mighty empire, just partially burnt and bundled discard.

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Refugees from some new disturbance are bound to show up, and build their own.  Maybe our enfant terribles, anachronistic anarchists, will remain; then here will be another haunted place to be uncovered in measured layers.

 

Someday, maybe, someone who wonders about stuff in the middenheap might find useful evidence that is not yet consumed. IMG_0003

Projects of hands, maybe document bits recording homespun chores, numbers, affections, sentiments, burnt and crushed, layered among the middenheap, evidence not consumed, evidence of those who discarded and wondered on.

 

#80 … considering … maybe, what She is doing …

100_1366What is She doing?

(But first this inquiry) Does He have a right (is that the right word(?)- it is such a big word – to visit? Would it be best to just stay away?  She is, after all, trying to grasp and maybe emote some timeless grace.

Close to the river, the thickets (as good as any other background for mortality) limit her (as they do him); and maybe – maybe is such a big word don’t you think, (maybe?) – maybe She wants some quiet from the chaos of emotives and bomb-throwers, and enfant terribles, and maybe just (and is this the smallest maybe) maybe from He and his craziness?100_2305

 

Now that He has passed the conspicuous discrepancy (He, faulted, walked the straight and narrow – to her) shouldn’t He be acceptable?  Maybe (as one might think) maybe, to be with her at the river…maybe? Maybe He has his own flowing grace or simple crazed value.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe She just wants to ponder a while, stare (or gaze) through this moment …

… or maybe wait …

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… wait …wait, (that is also … such a big word).

 

 

 

 

…Vignette…

The American Experience continues…

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Sometimes, even here in the very sensible midwest …

… things get mixed up.

Barbed wire, roses, poison ivy, all share orderly fence posts,

sensibly convoluted.

 

 

Anarchy … the soul of one, just one … twists, for want of other choices …

… on structure meant for broader devisings, other purposes, different borders, other times.

 

 

#75…considering the demon Beauty…

 

DCS_1629Reining a demon …

… Beauty … Beauty certainly isn’t a demon, is it …(or maybe – she)?

Is there a tethering grace to hold the pony’s desertion or revenge?

 

There is noise in bumping cans, tubes, brushes, bottles, razorblades dividing pleasure from depression (simple, just scrape off callused dried bumbles).  There is racket in traffic, robo-calls, bad media speakers, word questions for which there are no answers (impatience awaiting sober silence or skill?). There are memories, bits of love, clanging  mushy heady grey matter (or warm red embodiments), alarms beepbeepbeeping (is it commerce or just legality?).  There is loud partisan truth (for which there is no rebuttal).  All this, and obviously more, attend while roping a delusion …  the reining of Beauty.

And yet some, covered with dust and ashes, persevere. That is okay, and noticed, but please don’t burden the wrangler with your delusions.  It’s that day’s work, a tiny skirmish with an outrider of the sublime, a vengeful circus pony; and plenty for the painter’s day.

Beauty has within – a wildness – to birth awe, but beauty is not awe.  Beauty is tied to controlling acts of delusion, of a final ruling, maybe unity, even unalterable hushed simplicity; beheld, maybe, in joy.  And yet it changes, often degrades; entropy attending the stillbirth of awe.

Artistics possessors of technique and emotions, even greyed and ash covered ones, mostly lack that silent simplicity: and seek painting (circus ponies and more) for fun.  Now there is a delusion! Fun is less than joy, and that’s a fact.  The restraining lead tied to beauty is going to snap and lash through delusions, the stumbling, the wild skill-less drippings, the slashing; the meek even cowardly smoothing: hoping for that simplicity, a circus going solemn.  And yet, beauty is more than that and less than awe, and that’s a fact.

But shouldn’t fear reign in the confrontation with demons?

Can we be fools, funning with Beauty, restraint ruining the savage unleashing of joy: and still face (and even grasp) the descent of awe?

It is how the circus ponies get their revenge.

 

 

#73…Considering Yorick, floods, & cartoon bubbles…

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Floods, they come and go, usually taking with them the fallen.  But some of the fallen become embedded; anchoring the edges of ancient and present times, and, this is to surmise … a place for fools.

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IMG_0002Yorick has been missing for awhile, a professional fool’s skeleton, medieval jester, princely tragedy’s companion; lived, died, and resurrected – by virtue of art. He has rested awhile at the river contemplating another apt comment or juggling trick to awaken the witless to their folly, and nudge them to better behavior.IMG_0005

The jester’s goal…(jesters are congenitally about Joy and Truth)…conjure an insightful smart-aleck one-liner pointing to the consequence of hubris; war, rape, hunger, blood-letting that ends with the onset of malaise, the misconstruing of fun with joy.

Yorick’s perceptive comments, and clever juggling, are largely out-of-date to political celebrity royals. Flat cartoon bubbles are the vehicles for modern times; jokeish profundity in snappy little tidbits…perhaps.

Inflated, cartoon balloons could spread ideas far afield, if the winds blow right; still, there are limits to letting wisdom float free. IMG_0001

 

 

Were cartoon bubbles Medieval, they would have been in danger from below (an oligarchy’s crossbows), now they are probably doomed by drones from all directions.

 

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Considering that, Yorick’s balloons were sending variants of airy thoughts (ideas about peace and harmony, brief warnings about violence,  treason, and treachery); and, considering that the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture hosts many artistics from other ages, an antique form was re-construed – banderoles – those script holders from medieval manuscripts and the late circus.

 

 

 

 

To that end Yorick conscripted theatricals to perform, but, as it is;

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the winds still blow and jokes (especially dry, witty ones) don’t translate.

Apparently presentation means are variable, even if similar, as is the cliche’ message. It is difficult to deliver the wit that accumulates into Joy.

Yorick retreats. The default settings for amusing present fools are digital scores, ticker tapes, and virtual tragedies scrolling the screen edges for the emotives: folly is  Fun.

IMG_0001.jpgYorick harbors on a long-embedded log and illuminates (passé) banderoles; thoughts of recurring floods and remaining fools.

#70…ahh, ahh, charming angels and romantics purists…

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As you can see, this dazzler has lushly decorated beauty – foregoing simplicity – knowing that psuedo-charm will attract gallant purists.  Primeval myth, covetous medieval glory, and opulent circus maidens churn impulsive purists.  For the enticed, hormonal dust never settles and the vainglory flood of desire never recedes. Spurring on in rapturous clamor they seek to capture the untouched “all”.  Even if that “all” is disguised store-bought-angels, store-bought halos, and store-bought lovely taffeta and pearly goddesses in spray-gold bartered carriages. Vanity is wonderfully alluring for purists.

Modern, technically enhanced, and mythologically misconstrued unicorns play their roles, with vanity and dizzy pursuit. Benighted valiants who, it is said, lack the virus of lust; practice a type of chivalry – in hot pursuit of the (idolatrized) virginal.

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IMG_0006Well-aged unicorns (also mythologically out-of-step) have returned to the prairie; in keeping with generations of prying, window-peeping moralist – intent on ending moral turpitude. Desiring “lots”, and “more” and “much” while avoiding labor, (e.g. making a sharable daily bread) the unicorns ride spreading consumable fear and bellicose intimidation.  This to the end of quelling prurient visions of glamour and angelic seductive concupiscence, plentiful among the emotives gathered here. Quelling even art and artistics.

They have put to chasing the nearly feral young (so fragile in morality).

 

 

Could it be that our reunion of anarchists in a circus tent on the prairie, which holds the brazen charm of individual enticement, is soon to be surrounded by the panting breath of self-made (aged past sin?) purist on contrived unicorns damning pleasure’s end?  They will demand “all”.

 

Youthful ardor has dashed ahead to grasp and gorge on the romanticized pure beauty but, alas, the utilitarian must be replenished…

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…in olden chivalry, this is when lance and arrow inflict the unicorn’s demise.  One purity superior to another.

#69…it is June…and matrimonial thoughts…

IMG_0003 The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such.  The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?

Matrimony (what this table seems to offer) is based on the future, it is a promise.  Sounds nice, but there are always issues from the past enclosed in little emotion bombs (quick to hand) and today’s occurrences of – now,  wherever “now” lands.

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The following is just conjecture.

“Now” might have been the first meeting, the first fifteen seconds; the dancing began, awkward probably, (an interruption on the way to mundane work?).  A bit of prancing about, hiding and showing, bending and bowing, looking and avoiding…afraid to fall?

 

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To that out-of-balance whirl, a dance if you will, unchoreographed bodily truth; something moved on.  Both dancers clutching lit anarchist’s bombs: ancient bits and pieces of pain; brought from, visited upon, invented by, bought and cared for – presumably defensive.

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Look at this, so soon after their meeting.

What do you think or, what do you  know: dropping his bomb would destroy his footing, even if both hands would be free to remove the mask…or dance better, closer.

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But, of course, the partner would have to give up her little bomb…and vanity.

 

 

But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.

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Now meanwhile, out near the peaceful stream, some wine and a little cake await, why?…do you know?

 

 

 

#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?