mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Tag: art

There is no end to the last days

Bacon from the back. Bounty for the good bonus. A boudoir, to have a place to pout.

Fear nothing, dreadnought. Nautical noisy nausea. Leave work to go debauch. But if god deems it doomsday, we’ll all be judged.

Doctors are learned people who teach. Old Saxon dipping was dopian, baptizing, then the doop any viscous sauce before one in particular. So some are baptized by water, others by fire, but the dope is the baptism itself, and not everyone comes back up for air.  That’s why the dope fiend droops, and addiction is its own religion.

Read the rest of this entry »

After the rains

Current, like electricity.
——ocular, after
help isnt a perfect opportunity
——ants, termites
apple of
my eye
—after, we’re thru it
isnt all I intended
—education, medication, reminders
youth recreation, we all enjoying it
—Democracy, a moment

After the rain the
near drowned worms
bake & shrivel

My eye has shooting
pains like my
eye can feel Read the rest of this entry »

Ants & maggots, sun & stars — Several Papers from a Severance

I’m interested, but I
didnt quite understand.
——I like making people
——happy & keeping still.

My girlfriend’s nickname in high school was ‘Fuckzilla.’

But my dental dam
cant stem the tide.

Teigen: For a while
I thought you were
useless, but now
I know.

Have a job that does 
good & have fun
doing it.

Read the rest of this entry »

Or fuck, you know, just forget the whole thing.

It’s 4 a.m., and I’m sitting in the hallway of a dorm of a college I don’t attend because I’m staying with a friend, whom I hardly know, sleeping on his floor, but I can’t sleep. I’m 22, unemployed, and hungover, but mostly satisfied.

Where did it all go wrong?


I had something just now but it slipped away.

Read the rest of this entry »

Unnatural Beauty

Yeah, this is one of those blogs, so if I come across as preachy or prematurely enlightened with any of this, please overlook it and bear me no ill will. Of course the fact that Iam prematurely enlightened means that I’ll probably come across that way occasionally, but what can you do, eh?

Anyway, we’re often told to look to nature and appreciate all of the wondrous beauty therein. The mighty trees, the simple wind, the creatures that we see everyday and those we only notice when we stop and make a point to– all of that nonsense. I say it’s nonsense not because I disagree or anything, but just because there are enough people out there who will make a case for it and try to shame you into stopping to smell the roses as you go throughout your busy, technologically distracting day. There’s a place for all of those people, but I’m not among them.

I’m a hopeless romantic and a hardened cynic simultaneously, or at the very least in cycles. As I reject the romantic idealism of nature, I also find beauty in all of the ridiculous man-made objects I see around me. Or at least I do when I’m in the mood for it.

Recently when I was driving home at night, listening to music, and just looking at what was ahead of me, I found very little appeal in the darkness of nature. If I’d stopped and gotten out of my car to look straight up, I’m sure I would have found something spectacular in the sky above, but just driving as I was, I couldn’t really appreciate this. Instead, I appreciated the lights of the cities. From far away, almost any city is beautiful, I think.

If you’ve ever seen one of those pictures of the dark side of earth from space or looked down from the window seat of an airplane, you know what I’m talking about on a grand scale. Every little piece of light is indistinguishable and uniform, and the overall effect is something simple and beautiful. I mean truly, truly beautiful.

On a smaller scale, driving toward a town at night you get this same feeling. The world is dark, but here, here where there are people and human life, are these glorious bobbles of light.

As an added bonus in my particular situation, because of all of the dirt on my windshield, the light scattered when I went through the town and it was kind of like an undynamic fireworks show that continued as long as there was electricity around me. Lights from signs and a dirt on a windshield, simple and mundane, but when framed by the human mind, art of a fashion. Not the Sistine Chapel, but art of a fashion.

In most cases, the towns were a few hundred or thousand people, and I suppose the fact that they were still able to have such an effect makes them even more remarkable. But my hometown has about one hundred thousand people, not huge by any means, but sizeable, certainly. How glorious the lights were as I drove in on the highway overlooking that city. I was close enough to pick out individual buildings and such that I recognized, but it was best when I couldn’t and it was just the lights.

It’s Christmas, so that’s part of it, but in another way, that’s not part of it at all. See, there’s a building at the center of the town with a kind of conical tower on the top which is always decked out like a Christmas tree at this time of the year. It and other buildings, really the entire downtown, are decked out in Christmas lights and banners, and you know what season it is. On the highway heading east, the town and this building are on the left, but I found myself looking to the right more, to the old industrial complexes that run all along that side of town. And I found myself looking at one building complex in particular, I think it’s involved in oil refining. It is covered in lights year round, for safety purposes, airplanes flying in the area and the like. During the day I’m sure it isn’t much to look at. In fact, I know it isn’t. But at night? Oh God, at night it’s more beautiful than any Christmas decorations you’ll find anywhere.

Now, I feel this way partly out of my own aesthetic tastes. Simple and uniform is always more desirable to me than gaudy and complicated. And of course, it’s also easier for me to find something beautiful about an object whose purpose is something completely different than one whose purpose is just to be beautiful. But even with all things equal, there’s a beauty about an industrial complex lit up to protect it from planes (and vice versa), something that we constantly overlook.

We pay attention to Christmas lights and appreciate the unnatural splendor because we’re made to notice it by the season, but the unnatural splendor is everywhere and in almost everything touched by man or framed by human mind.

You can take this too far, as I often do. The bowling alley is just a place where people bowl and drink and play arcade games, nothing more. I don’t mean to suggest that it represents anything deeper or more philosophical than a (somewhat) enjoyable pastime.

But what do I see when I go there? I see an eternal struggle between good and evil, between the irresistible force and the immovable object. The bowling ball will knock over whatever it hits and the pins will always stand back up. In lane after lane after lane after lane this struggle is played out over and over again. It doesn’t matter what the score is or who’s throwing the ball, only that it happens. The collision, the mighty, wonderful collision.

This is another example of premature enlightenment but one that’s only possible because of technology being what it is in the modern era. Bowling existed before automated machines, but only with automation can bowling be what it is in the pseudo-philosophical way. As static and unchanging as it is, only with amateur bowlers does it take on its most dynamic form where throw to throw one has no idea what the results will be.

Plenty of people find something beautiful and wonderful about places untouched by humans. But even if it hasn’t been shaped or touched by human hand, it’s the human mind that decides nature is something worth appreciating. How much more so when the mind not only appreciates but designs?

What is the highest form of art?

Imagine if you will an ancient Greek city-state where once a year there is a week long festival celebrating the ingenuity of the human mind and creative spirit. During this month, all of the self proclaimed artists from the surrounding area come to this place for the purposes of mingling with other artists, and of course lauding their own particular works.

However, over the years the size of festival has outgrown the size of the city and the artists who once mingled freely have become to grow unmanageable, unable to decide how much of the city should be devoted each particular medium, each one of course believing theirs should have more than all the rest. Being the wise, benevolent dictator that you are, you decide to have a hearing so that you may choose which art and artists best deserve the right to come this festival, however it has already been made clear only one form of art (and in the case of some, one subset of a form) can be allowed to come to the festival, no more. Small groups representing each of the respective mediums shuffle into your courtyard and stand, waiting to be heard.

Fittingly, the philosophers begin the discourse. They argue (and would have had more to say had they not argued among themselves so much) that they impart direct truth to humankind and produce not only the most important art, but reasons for all art itself.

The poets argue that that’s nonsense. Philosophers deliver truth sure, but blunt truth. The poets say that they are responsible for giving the world beautiful truth, though they disagree with one another about the precise source of their art. However, the poets do agree that their works are the oldest of all human art, and the kind that will likely survive the longest, in some form or another, via oral traditions or underlying themes.

Here, the painters, sculptors, and architects all contend that that’s false and that mankind has been creating visual art from the very beginning, not poetry. They say that every culture that is known of has left some trace of themselves behind in the form of the visual arts, but here the painters and architects break off into their own argument, painters stating that theirs is the more common and personal art, architects that theirs is the grandest and most impressive, sculptors being ignored as they contend that statues are the best compromise between the two extremes.

The playwrights and actors have been bickering over who is more important, the one who creates the work or those who perform it, but do not hesitate to take this opportunity and begin explaining that while all of the other arts mentioned so far are dead, theater is alive because each new performance is a rebirth. It adapts to the time and place according to the actors and audience, and is both literature and visual, surely the highest art of all.

The philosophers take a break from talking among themselves and vehemently protest the assertion that all other arts are dead. The audience, the perceiver, is the one responsible for new life, and as long as any of the mediums have an audience, they will be alive.

The musicians have been silent up until now, only considered to be at the festival for entertainment purposes, but several stand up and say that surely music is the most important art, able to be enjoyed by anyone, regardless of their language, literacy, or nationality. It is the purest expression of creativity, and able to be shared by anyone who can play an instrument or sing.

The visual artists are cohesive again and they argue that their works can do the same and are much less subject to change or the winds of time the way a particular melody might be, and don’t rely on the performance. Music as an art can be ruined by just one person involved- as can theater -while they need only rely on the eyes on their audience.

Physical art is subject to the weatherings of time! someone shouts out.

And philosophers are a bunch of boy-loving faggots! yells another.

A riot breaks out among the representatives and your soldiers repress them, then kick them outside. You say you’ll make your announcement tomorrow and retire for the night. You get up next morning, get dressed, and walk out to give your decision.

What do you say?

The music of life

Music swings this way and that and it’s all mathematical formulas when you get right down to it. It’s all about math and using math to make art, to make the notes that people want to hear in a way they want to hear them. But it ain’t the notes that makes it go, it’s the flow, dig?

The notes make it music and the beat just gives it movement, but that’s the most important part.

See, life is like the notes. Life is the events, like the beats are events. They stand still in time, waiting for context. A note out of context doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a sound. It needs all the other notes around it. A moment of time doesn’t mean anything, it needs what comes before and after. It’s all cause and effect, see. Cause causes the effect to be effected. But unless you’ve got the rhythm, unless you’ve got the beat, nothing happens. The notes are just there and they don’t play no music. Life don’t go unless you’ve got the flow, dig?