#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Yorick’s perceptive comments, and clever juggling, are largely out-of-date to political celebrity royals.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?

#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.