Archive for December, 2002

complex

Well I officialy have a new complex and it’s feeling waif like and girly. I fucking hate this. Last post was about this. In Birmingham, bought an max gift for mom. Hate my mom, very weird and controlling like a Daneil Clowes character. Went to Jecie’s xmas party. drove through Atlanta. Got a bunch of new records. pissed off.

December 24, 2002 at 6:15 pm Leave a comment

instrospection

Introspection fucking sucks. I hate it. Things stay the same, you think about it, you get worse, then you have to build yourself back up. Which sucks. It’s a lot easier to tear yourself down than up. Always thought I put out a resistance to the world, now I feel like the world is dicking me over. I don’t want to see things like that, it sucks and it makes me feel like I should give up. Stay at home. Never go out, never meet people, let some fuck take care of me, etc. I hate that.
Sez, “I know you have a problem with yourself.” Duh. You should. You have to box, you have to move with yourself. We’re flawed, I’m trying to deal with it. The things people tell me at Stardust in sincerity, as if their placing me in these positions is some kind of apparent, pisses me off. I feel like a little bitch. Some fuck that’s by a movement of an invisible status qou at the bottom of the barrel. Some would say I placed myself there, but after years of thrashing to be a more competent and social person, I’m still seen as a quiet passive little guy people get to run over. I have no problem with quiet anymore, but your not going to run me over.

December 23, 2002 at 12:22 am Leave a comment

Rummage

Things I found rummaging through my documents folder.

An architectural march of structures that underly Mark Twain’s blimp in his search for Haley’s comet, the LNF Pool is a list for the cognoscente, by the info-proletariat, and by hegemony opposed to the connoisseur.
Stuff gets established in ways the little eyes on top of x and y are blind to.That’s what we’re establishing here. Not the sublime, but a state goofy enough to keep us on the margins of belief. Ne roi, mais jester, as the olde saying goes.. The LNF Pool, a mailing list for people who like to do things, because they do things.
100% Not affiliated with neen.

Application Reuters.com

In my three years of freelancing I’ve learned to professionally report on issues spanning the gamuts of human affairs. I have never missed a deadline, and I’ve learned an effective ability to manage my time and skills to be able to meet competing timetables. My articles are populated with clean copy that can be published with minimal editing.

A journalist can be two things, an inventive rancouter equal to the challenges of investigating the facets in an issue, or a quick witted reporter aided by a concise style and good research skills. As a Reuters Correspondent I feel my editing and writing skills will be effectively challenged in all aspects of journalism.

French. Extremely basic knowledge. It’s been years since I studied French. I still remember the grammar and some vocabulary. I’d like to pick it up again.


Need
What is beginning to occur to me is that neen, and I know my title is need, was perhaps the only art work to come about in the 90s that seemed a fulfillment of the 20th century. Both performance and conceptual, Manetas managed to do something that caught the spirit that left when Warhol died. Art has stuttered since then for something new to do. With most work still telic (and there’s many fine things for telics to do), it’s still hard to see, but it was the business that really nailed neen down to it’s need in mass consciousness. Art is business, and it need an update, a realization of it’s roots instead of flagging about in theoretical mumbo jumbo.
Theory is important, an artist has to think about what their doing, but neen sees through the impulses of the art world to it’s root: pay attention to me and give me money. Neen is more like Henry Darger, an outsider vocation in the intellectual enterprise, it’s exists a harbinger of theory, but a theory problematic in actually executing in thought. I had this entire thing worked out once about what I thought about the art world etc. How we’d lost our abilities to connect with the audience, and how neen and net art was part of re-embodying art for popular culture. It was more complex than that. I think I might have written something down about it somewhere. Lemme see ok here we go:
list of weird avant-garde art movements

symp <– Canadian
Nadaists <— Columbian

—–

Landscape painting, that Tv show where they teach you how to
paint like that.

This last one is our line of the hour. You see conceptualism has become like that TV show in the eighties where that guy showed you how to do landscape paintings. Conceptualism relies, like the existentialists, on frequently reactionary politics. It’s reactionary so of course it keeps the status qou it’s reacting against in itself like a vaccine housing a virus. This isn’t always true, many conceptual games thoroughly shed their referent to become fully independent thoughts. Found another little clip on this subject:

the biggest problem with conceptual art these ideas is it’s ubiquity.
like the cheesy murals you see in restuarants, anyone can take a few
classes and begin to address some simple or grandoise concepts in art.
For instance the Artrom for the gameboy color raises many questions about uses of technologies, format, and cultural preconceptions around electronics.
It was produced with an obvious fore-knowledge of it’s consequences,
but where is the discussion? Where is the conclusion? It is not enough
to just ask in art, the mystery of the concept is the opening line, the
piece is the conclusion.
Oh what do you know. I did write a review of Hal Hartley’s “No Such Thing”:
No Such Thing
Directed by Hal Hartley
Starring:
Robert John Burke
Sarah Polley
Released on DVD and Video by MGM
If the world were made of ideas, than there would be no need for the films of Hal Hartley. Over the last twenty years Hal has produced a body of cinema that evolved with the same sense of advantage and pride in low cost techniques as in indie rock. His films grip you with character, storyline, and concept. His latest “No Such Thing” was planned as his first major film, however it was canned from widescreen release when Hal refused to make an edit to the film. Thanks god he refused. No Such Thing is the Alphaville of our times. While the previews for it left me skeptical, the film itself is simply the most breath taking thing Hal has done since other classics like Surviving Desire and Henry Fool, and perhaps more so. The film centers on a lowly reporter (Sarah Polley) at a magazine who intercepts a letter from a man claiming to be her fiance’s killer. She ends up on assignment to track down the monster her fiance was contacting. Like all Hartley films each character is a metaphor, an avatar of some idea he’s working with and the protoganist’s interactions only deepens the sense of conversation and critique.The protagonist is a simple example of innocence and the film centers on a biblical idea she espouses, “It’s like my mother used to say, Jesus had it figured out all good and proper. Love your enemies like you love yourself.” The monster is a monster, a real fire breathing possible incarnation of evil. I won’t get anymore into the plot, because it is riveting, and the film spins through ideas like a finely honed essay. Mr. Hartlety has here filmed a parable of our times. With planes flying through buildings, suicide bombings, and racial strife at an all time high, we no longer need monsters to remind us of our mortality or to hoist the responsibilities of being cruel, it’s just fucking implicit in our lives.
I don’t like this review as much as when I wrote it. Ahh well, also found the lyrics to Jandek’s Other Man:

Your Other Man (1/5)
Well, I guess your mind’s made up
Well, I guess there’s not much left to do
Go on, see your other man
Walk up the stairs
That’s where the stars are
Go on, see your other man
Well, you wouldn’t believe it tastes like candy
Gimme a fork, yeah a gimme a fork
Eat some potato
Shades are falling
Shades are falling
And for my final rummage. A report for my history of photography class. A respone to Sontag’s criticism of Diane Arbus:

Andy Jones
Prof. Libster
Histo-Photo-rama

Susan Sontag America, Seen Through Photographs Darkly

Growing up in the soup culture suburbia of the eighties, desolation followed the metropolis like kudzu. Strip malls exploded out concrete parking lots and closed even faster. There was an aesthetic to the whole thing. Surrounded by sedate colors and vast expanses of empty space I can remember the horror and loneliness these brittle landscapes invoked in me. A similar feeling is aroused by Diane Arbus and her photographs. As Susan Sontag points out, “Arbus’ work does not invite viewers to identify with the pariahs and miserable-looking people she photographed.” Instead the viewer is horrified, or empathizes with the subjects. Sontag says these photos don’t present humanity as one, but I feel as they capture a certain melancholia that has pestered my age. Humanity is one because humanity is alienated. A friend of mine calls and tells me she feels alone in her problems, she’s going to start seeing a psychologist. I was prescribed with depression and prozac in high school. I’m not depressed now some 6 years later, but the memory remains of that indulgence. Perhaps that’s what Arbus means to me is that self-indulgence and alienation we force upon ourselves growing up. Her work reminds me of the emo-rock popular on college rock stations that is always maudlin on the darker side of consciousness. These works provide a kind of comfort because the subjects are as messed up as we are… or think we are. There’s a kind of common humanity behind all them, that their all human and flawed, that their all really just like us.
and as an encore, my paper on Lewis Hine:
Andy Jonester
Prof. Libby
History of Photography

Lewis Hine, Social Photography

“Does art do anything?”, she says to us one afternoon. We don’t know what to say and I just stare at the table before me. We’re supposed to be taking pictures and developing photos, but instead we’re discussing art. They have these round bench room at the Glassell where I’m taking photography for the sixth year in a row or at least what seems like it. I’ve taken one picture in six years that my teacher likes, the rest she just shrugs at says, “I knew it.” My swirling collages of over exposed jumble with my step Mother’s Boston Terriers in one floating over a TV set has failed to impress her, as have my elaborate plastic army men blurred like some photo from a grunge-rock album’s liner notes. “Does it do anything?”, she says. I don’t know what to say because of course it does something: it makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. However I suppose it was bigger issues she wanted me to tackle, after all developing photos makes everyone feel like they’ve accomplished something. I suppose I wasn’t like Lewis Hine, full of ideas about the need for social photography. I don’t think anyone ever comment that about my blurred avant-mess that, “With a picture thus sympathetically interpreted, what a lever we have for the social uplift.” My photos weren’t symbols bringing the view close to reality, I had no interest in such things. But enough with the self-pity’n stuff, I’m not Lewis Hine, but reading his manifesto does give me a bit more respect for him. Hine did some amazing things that brought the world and social issues to our doorsteps. His ability to both aestheticize and empathize with his subjects is amazing. His work requires the viewer have a heart and look close at his portraits. His work makes even the most jaded see the world through the eyes of a humanist.
I’m all art-ed out for the next couple of days and my journals are always a little melodramatic, I’m melodramatic, and a tab self-important.See you folks after the holidays.


A

going to an eggnog party tonight. doing my show on monday then driving to b-ham for holidays.

December 21, 2002 at 6:07 pm Leave a comment

Rummage

Things I found rummaging through my documents folder.

An architectural march of structures that underly Mark Twain’s blimp in his search for Haley’s comet, the LNF Pool is a list for the cognoscente, by the info-proletariat, and by hegemony opposed to the connoisseur.
Stuff gets established in ways the little eyes on top of x and y are blind to.That’s what we’re establishing here. Not the sublime, but a state goofy enough to keep us on the margins of belief. Ne roi, mais jester, as the olde saying goes.. The LNF Pool, a mailing list for people who like to do things, because they do things.
100% Not affiliated with neen.

Application Reuters.com

In my three years of freelancing I’ve learned to professionally report on issues spanning the gamuts of human affairs. I have never missed a deadline, and I’ve learned an effective ability to manage my time and skills to be able to meet competing timetables. My articles are populated with clean copy that can be published with minimal editing.

A journalist can be two things, an inventive rancouter equal to the challenges of investigating the facets in an issue, or a quick witted reporter aided by a concise style and good research skills. As a Reuters Correspondent I feel my editing and writing skills will be effectively challenged in all aspects of journalism.

French. Extremely basic knowledge. It’s been years since I studied French. I still remember the grammar and some vocabulary. I’d like to pick it up again.


Need
What is beginning to occur to me is that neen, and I know my title is need, was perhaps the only art work to come about in the 90s that seemed a fulfillment of the 20th century. Both performance and conceptual, Manetas managed to do something that caught the spirit that left when Warhol died. Art has stuttered since then for something new to do. With most work still telic (and there’s many fine things for telics to do), it’s still hard to see, but it was the business that really nailed neen down to it’s need in mass consciousness. Art is business, and it need an update, a realization of it’s roots instead of flagging about in theoretical mumbo jumbo.
Theory is important, an artist has to think about what their doing, but neen sees through the impulses of the art world to it’s root: pay attention to me and give me money. Neen is more like Henry Darger, an outsider vocation in the intellectual enterprise, it’s exists a harbinger of theory, but a theory problematic in actually executing in thought. I had this entire thing worked out once about what I thought about the art world etc. How we’d lost our abilities to connect with the audience, and how neen and net art was part of re-embodying art for popular culture. It was more complex than that. I think I might have written something down about it somewhere. Lemme see ok here we go:
list of weird avant-garde art movements

symp <– Canadian
Nadaists <— Columbian

—–

Landscape painting, that Tv show where they teach you how to
paint like that.

This last one is our line of the hour. You see conceptualism has become like that TV show in the eighties where that guy showed you how to do landscape paintings. Conceptualism relies, like the existentialists, on frequently reactionary politics. It’s reactionary so of course it keeps the status qou it’s reacting against in itself like a vaccine housing a virus. This isn’t always true, many conceptual games thoroughly shed their referent to become fully independent thoughts. Found another little clip on this subject:

the biggest problem with conceptual art these ideas is it’s ubiquity.
like the cheesy murals you see in restuarants, anyone can take a few
classes and begin to address some simple or grandoise concepts in art.
For instance the Artrom for the gameboy color raises many questions about uses of technologies, format, and cultural preconceptions around electronics.
It was produced with an obvious fore-knowledge of it’s consequences,
but where is the discussion? Where is the conclusion? It is not enough
to just ask in art, the mystery of the concept is the opening line, the
piece is the conclusion.
Oh what do you know. I did write a review of Hal Hartley’s “No Such Thing”:
No Such Thing
Directed by Hal Hartley
Starring:
Robert John Burke
Sarah Polley
Released on DVD and Video by MGM
If the world were made of ideas, than there would be no need for the films of Hal Hartley. Over the last twenty years Hal has produced a body of cinema that evolved with the same sense of advantage and pride in low cost techniques as in indie rock. His films grip you with character, storyline, and concept. His latest “No Such Thing” was planned as his first major film, however it was canned from widescreen release when Hal refused to make an edit to the film. Thanks god he refused. No Such Thing is the Alphaville of our times. While the previews for it left me skeptical, the film itself is simply the most breath taking thing Hal has done since other classics like Surviving Desire and Henry Fool, and perhaps more so. The film centers on a lowly reporter (Sarah Polley) at a magazine who intercepts a letter from a man claiming to be her fiance’s killer. She ends up on assignment to track down the monster her fiance was contacting. Like all Hartley films each character is a metaphor, an avatar of some idea he’s working with and the protoganist’s interactions only deepens the sense of conversation and critique.The protagonist is a simple example of innocence and the film centers on a biblical idea she espouses, “It’s like my mother used to say, Jesus had it figured out all good and proper. Love your enemies like you love yourself.” The monster is a monster, a real fire breathing possible incarnation of evil. I won’t get anymore into the plot, because it is riveting, and the film spins through ideas like a finely honed essay. Mr. Hartlety has here filmed a parable of our times. With planes flying through buildings, suicide bombings, and racial strife at an all time high, we no longer need monsters to remind us of our mortality or to hoist the responsibilities of being cruel, it’s just fucking implicit in our lives.
I don’t like this review as much as when I wrote it. Ahh well, also found the lyrics to Jandek’s Other Man:

Your Other Man (1/5)
Well, I guess your mind’s made up
Well, I guess there’s not much left to do
Go on, see your other man
Walk up the stairs
That’s where the stars are
Go on, see your other man
Well, you wouldn’t believe it tastes like candy
Gimme a fork, yeah a gimme a fork
Eat some potato
Shades are falling
Shades are falling
And for my final rummage. A report for my history of photography class. A respone to Sontag’s criticism of Diane Arbus:

Andy Jones
Prof. Libster
Histo-Photo-rama

Susan Sontag America, Seen Through Photographs Darkly

Growing up in the soup culture suburbia of the eighties, desolation followed the metropolis like kudzu. Strip malls exploded out concrete parking lots and closed even faster. There was an aesthetic to the whole thing. Surrounded by sedate colors and vast expanses of empty space I can remember the horror and loneliness these brittle landscapes invoked in me. A similar feeling is aroused by Diane Arbus and her photographs. As Susan Sontag points out, “Arbus’ work does not invite viewers to identify with the pariahs and miserable-looking people she photographed.” Instead the viewer is horrified, or empathizes with the subjects. Sontag says these photos don’t present humanity as one, but I feel as they capture a certain melancholia that has pestered my age. Humanity is one because humanity is alienated. A friend of mine calls and tells me she feels alone in her problems, she’s going to start seeing a psychologist. I was prescribed with depression and prozac in high school. I’m not depressed now some 6 years later, but the memory remains of that indulgence. Perhaps that’s what Arbus means to me is that self-indulgence and alienation we force upon ourselves growing up. Her work reminds me of the emo-rock popular on college rock stations that is always maudlin on the darker side of consciousness. These works provide a kind of comfort because the subjects are as messed up as we are… or think we are. There’s a kind of common humanity behind all them, that their all human and flawed, that their all really just like us.
and as an encore, my paper on Lewis Hine:
Andy Jonester
Prof. Libby
History of Photography

Lewis Hine, Social Photography

“Does art do anything?”, she says to us one afternoon. We don’t know what to say and I just stare at the table before me. We’re supposed to be taking pictures and developing photos, but instead we’re discussing art. They have these round bench room at the Glassell where I’m taking photography for the sixth year in a row or at least what seems like it. I’ve taken one picture in six years that my teacher likes, the rest she just shrugs at says, “I knew it.” My swirling collages of over exposed jumble with my step Mother’s Boston Terriers in one floating over a TV set has failed to impress her, as have my elaborate plastic army men blurred like some photo from a grunge-rock album’s liner notes. “Does it do anything?”, she says. I don’t know what to say because of course it does something: it makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something. However I suppose it was bigger issues she wanted me to tackle, after all developing photos makes everyone feel like they’ve accomplished something. I suppose I wasn’t like Lewis Hine, full of ideas about the need for social photography. I don’t think anyone ever comment that about my blurred avant-mess that, “With a picture thus sympathetically interpreted, what a lever we have for the social uplift.” My photos weren’t symbols bringing the view close to reality, I had no interest in such things. But enough with the self-pity’n stuff, I’m not Lewis Hine, but reading his manifesto does give me a bit more respect for him. Hine did some amazing things that brought the world and social issues to our doorsteps. His ability to both aestheticize and empathize with his subjects is amazing. His work requires the viewer have a heart and look close at his portraits. His work makes even the most jaded see the world through the eyes of a humanist.
I’m all art-ed out for the next couple of days and my journals are always a little melodramatic, I’m melodramatic, and a tab self-important.See you folks after the holidays.


A

going to an eggnog party tonight. doing my show on monday then driving to b-ham for holidays.

December 21, 2002 at 6:07 pm Leave a comment

rumors, schools, and parents

Super angsty journal entries suck, but I feel like I’ve been stuck with some short stick in social circles. I mean let’s face it, I am no more paranoid, nervous, or generally less passionate than any other human being on this planet, but I’m stuck with all these weird images attached to me. I carry around umbrellas or something was one, ya know what type of mind set dare put an umbrella in their car? That was a meme, now I’m under restriction for not stalking girls enough or something. After 4 years of constant rejection in Orlando, one serious enquiry into my sexuality, and a few one night stands I’ve come to the following conclusion: YOU NEVER GET THE GIRL YOU STALK. IT WILL NOT HAPPEN. Calm down, take a breath, forget about. I’m interested in like 5 girls right now two of whom have Hs in their name, 2 of whom I did stalk at some point, but didn’t get, and one who I dated once and finally see what I couldn’t when I was with her. Stalking is stupid, it’s a fantasy and the chances that the girl your stalking is also stalking you, fantasying about you etc. are close to nil. I’m sure I’ll end up stalking someone again, but for the most part it’s an empty affair. You build up a person in your head who you hardly know. I mean if just hang out with women you’ll run into someone whose willing to sleep with you or maybe even date you. I remember this chick in sixth grade named April who I meet at summer camp. She came by my room to talk to my roommate and I remember moving over the closet to avoid getting nervous in front of this girl. Anyway, one day she knocked and I opened the door and somehow said something witty and she responded with something that seemed to say, “please come and fuck me now.” It didn’t happen, I mean I couldn’t hold up enough social affability to perk her interest for more than 3 minutes (I think I can manage around an hour thirty now), but it turns out we were going to the same middle school. I bothered her every single day. I followed her around the track. I talked to her at lunch. I don’t think I ever said anything witty to her again. I might have actually asked the same 3 questions to her over and over again for all I know. One day she got so sick of it she screamed at me in the middle of P.E. (away from everybody else luckily) and that’s the last time I talked to April. By some interesting chance I found some other friends about a week later and she seemed a distant dream when I saw her in the hallways, khaki shorts and plump ass with a striped shirt that with held secrets.

School
So while I’m on the subject of middle school let’s get this shit out of the way. I loved Middle School in the end because it was the only time in my adolescence I ever meet people I could relate to. I meet a lot of people I liked, I had a lot decent friends who I still think about, and yeah I also was seriously abused and made fun of. In the years since I’ve ceased to care. Most of the jackasses that fucked with me are probably doing stupid shit compared to my life. Plus I had a lot of fun in middle school. Elementary school was bad ass up till 5th grade when it being my second year at West U. Elementary I became the butt of the cool kids’ jokes and all my friends were video game geeks which yes I was more or less the king of (I actually owned a neo geo at one point). My best friend Lee Wilson I think I met at West U. Yeah that seems right. We lost contact around my first year in college, but by that point he had strayed into D&D and me into Derrida (I feel very pretensions saying that). We’ve already gone through middle school (Sarah McQustion, Dylan Miracle I remember) now ninth grade was probably the best year of my into school days. David Duke (no relation to the politician) and I clicked off the bat and years later I’d realize the pavement shirts he wore ya know were a band. Jessica Templet I remember, she shaved her head and managed to look amazingly pretty with short cropped red hair. This one girl was always chasing after me, but I was never really interested in her. Maya, one of the carry overs from Lanier was also with these kids. They all had intense lives outside of school though which I never had. Basically, it was a fun bunch of people to hang out with. Everyone was funny, and yeah there were some role playing kids who banned me from their competitions. I honestly think I’ve never really played a role playing game, but I have probably spent about 3 weeks of my life in total getting a character ready for a role playing game that I would find out, I didn’t really want to play.

I feel bad that I can’t remember his name, but there was this one really nice kid who played ska and was into electronic music. Now here’s an odd thing to admit too, I think the Lords of Acid was probably like the second or third cd I ever bought. Up to that point I have a TMNT sound track, Soul Asylum, Velvet Underground box set, a Soft Machine album, and a lord’s of acid album. And yeah… I liked the lords of acid (ok yeah and I also ended up with music for the jilted generation and one other pre-fat of the land prodigy album… along with DJ DB’s history of our world drum and bass comp. which wasn’t bad actually). I also bought some truly horrible “trance whatever” compilations before stumbling into aphex, black dog, and warp around 16. I remember once getting on a plane and seeing a kid with a Black Dog shirt, I can’t believe my memory so traces status.

I guess with the way things were going in my high school life some type of eventual going out and having fun with people type of thing was about to happen. My friend David whose last name I now can not remember I was supposed to go to one of his shows. It seemed like everybody I knew in high school was in a band, or doing something. Ska was big then for some reason as was GWAR and shock rock. This one band named Billy Goat used to shave their pubes on stage, that was their big draw. Sprawl was another punk band or was it… no wait a second Sprawl I think was the funk group. Whatever, I listened to rice college radio all day and bought mostly top forty albums while expanding my reading interests.

I’m kinda trying to come to peace with the fact that I lived most of my life in seclusion I feel, when in reality I did not. One thing does continue to bother me, and that’s the way my family never get along. I mean you can blame kids at school all you want, I’m sure their trashing instilled a sense of fear of humanity in me that will probably never leave, but my family didn’t talk. We really had no communication. We didn’t know each other. We still have very smallconversations. I feel as this is the central problem of my life, I never learned who to deal with social shit from the day to day life in my family. Yeah I shut myself away myself, but my parents never engaged me, my mom still lives in denial of my life and my Dad just doesn’t really get it. He’s a cool guy and I like my Dad more than mom because mon pere actually has interests and a sense of humor. The theory in my family is that I’ll end up like my Dad who supposivley started so shy and nice, and now exceeds good will and has a kinda pretenious personality which hides a keen intelligence underneath (my dad has learned 8 different languages in his life). He’s also a backstabbing fuck and a total asshole on occasion, but I think these extremities of his personality are probably a result of a keen climbing of the economic ladder, and an eye for spotting talent and filling holes. My point is, he’s complicated and maybe not as moral a human being as my mother, but he’s a more fascinating character and worthy of further research.

December 20, 2002 at 4:25 pm Leave a comment

rumors, schools, and parents

Super angsty journal entries suck, but I feel like I’ve been stuck with some short stick in social circles. I mean let’s face it, I am no more paranoid, nervous, or generally less passionate than any other human being on this planet, but I’m stuck with all these weird images attached to me. I carry around umbrellas or something was one, ya know what type of mind set dare put an umbrella in their car? That was a meme, now I’m under restriction for not stalking girls enough or something. After 4 years of constant rejection in Orlando, one serious enquiry into my sexuality, and a few one night stands I’ve come to the following conclusion: YOU NEVER GET THE GIRL YOU STALK. IT WILL NOT HAPPEN. Calm down, take a breath, forget about. I’m interested in like 5 girls right now two of whom have Hs in their name, 2 of whom I did stalk at some point, but didn’t get, and one who I dated once and finally see what I couldn’t when I was with her. Stalking is stupid, it’s a fantasy and the chances that the girl your stalking is also stalking you, fantasying about you etc. are close to nil. I’m sure I’ll end up stalking someone again, but for the most part it’s an empty affair. You build up a person in your head who you hardly know. I mean if just hang out with women you’ll run into someone whose willing to sleep with you or maybe even date you. I remember this chick in sixth grade named April who I meet at summer camp. She came by my room to talk to my roommate and I remember moving over the closet to avoid getting nervous in front of this girl. Anyway, one day she knocked and I opened the door and somehow said something witty and she responded with something that seemed to say, “please come and fuck me now.” It didn’t happen, I mean I couldn’t hold up enough social affability to perk her interest for more than 3 minutes (I think I can manage around an hour thirty now), but it turns out we were going to the same middle school. I bothered her every single day. I followed her around the track. I talked to her at lunch. I don’t think I ever said anything witty to her again. I might have actually asked the same 3 questions to her over and over again for all I know. One day she got so sick of it she screamed at me in the middle of P.E. (away from everybody else luckily) and that’s the last time I talked to April. By some interesting chance I found some other friends about a week later and she seemed a distant dream when I saw her in the hallways, khaki shorts and plump ass with a striped shirt that with held secrets.

School
So while I’m on the subject of middle school let’s get this shit out of the way. I loved Middle School in the end because it was the only time in my adolescence I ever meet people I could relate to. I meet a lot of people I liked, I had a lot decent friends who I still think about, and yeah I also was seriously abused and made fun of. In the years since I’ve ceased to care. Most of the jackasses that fucked with me are probably doing stupid shit compared to my life. Plus I had a lot of fun in middle school. Elementary school was bad ass up till 5th grade when it being my second year at West U. Elementary I became the butt of the cool kids’ jokes and all my friends were video game geeks which yes I was more or less the king of (I actually owned a neo geo at one point). My best friend Lee Wilson I think I met at West U. Yeah that seems right. We lost contact around my first year in college, but by that point he had strayed into D&D and me into Derrida (I feel very pretensions saying that). We’ve already gone through middle school (Sarah McQustion, Dylan Miracle I remember) now ninth grade was probably the best year of my into school days. David Duke (no relation to the politician) and I clicked off the bat and years later I’d realize the pavement shirts he wore ya know were a band. Jessica Templet I remember, she shaved her head and managed to look amazingly pretty with short cropped red hair. This one girl was always chasing after me, but I was never really interested in her. Maya, one of the carry overs from Lanier was also with these kids. They all had intense lives outside of school though which I never had. Basically, it was a fun bunch of people to hang out with. Everyone was funny, and yeah there were some role playing kids who banned me from their competitions. I honestly think I’ve never really played a role playing game, but I have probably spent about 3 weeks of my life in total getting a character ready for a role playing game that I would find out, I didn’t really want to play.

I feel bad that I can’t remember his name, but there was this one really nice kid who played ska and was into electronic music. Now here’s an odd thing to admit too, I think the Lords of Acid was probably like the second or third cd I ever bought. Up to that point I have a TMNT sound track, Soul Asylum, Velvet Underground box set, a Soft Machine album, and a lord’s of acid album. And yeah… I liked the lords of acid (ok yeah and I also ended up with music for the jilted generation and one other pre-fat of the land prodigy album… along with DJ DB’s history of our world drum and bass comp. which wasn’t bad actually). I also bought some truly horrible “trance whatever” compilations before stumbling into aphex, black dog, and warp around 16. I remember once getting on a plane and seeing a kid with a Black Dog shirt, I can’t believe my memory so traces status.

I guess with the way things were going in my high school life some type of eventual going out and having fun with people type of thing was about to happen. My friend David whose last name I now can not remember I was supposed to go to one of his shows. It seemed like everybody I knew in high school was in a band, or doing something. Ska was big then for some reason as was GWAR and shock rock. This one band named Billy Goat used to shave their pubes on stage, that was their big draw. Sprawl was another punk band or was it… no wait a second Sprawl I think was the funk group. Whatever, I listened to rice college radio all day and bought mostly top forty albums while expanding my reading interests.

I’m kinda trying to come to peace with the fact that I lived most of my life in seclusion I feel, when in reality I did not. One thing does continue to bother me, and that’s the way my family never get along. I mean you can blame kids at school all you want, I’m sure their trashing instilled a sense of fear of humanity in me that will probably never leave, but my family didn’t talk. We really had no communication. We didn’t know each other. We still have very small conversations. I feel as this is the central problem of my life, I never learned who to deal with social shit from the day to day life in my family. Yeah I shut myself away myself, but my parents never engaged me, my mom still lives in denial of my life and my Dad just doesn’t really get it. He’s a cool guy and I like my Dad more than mom because mon pere actually has interests and a sense of humor. The theory in my family is that I’ll end up like my Dad who supposivley started so shy and nice, and now exceeds good will and has a kinda pretenious personality which hides a keen intelligence underneath (my dad has learned 8 different languages in his life). He’s also a backstabbing fuck and a total asshole on occasion, but I think these extremities of his personality are probably a result of a keen climbing of the economic ladder, and an eye for spotting talent and filling holes. My point is, he’s complicated and maybe not as moral a human being as my mother, but he’s a more fascinating character and worthy of further research.

December 20, 2002 at 4:25 pm Leave a comment

Notes

http://www.riccomaresca.com/C/Bookstore/Images2/Masterpiece_Greenberg_Collection.jpg

Notes. Mennello Museum 12/19/02

The painting is not simultaneous, neither is it a linear way of portraying a story. Instead it’s a hodge podge of sights that layout out events in one frame that didn’t necessarily happen at one time. It’s a cluster of happenings linked only by the way the eye treads across the frame and canvas. ——————- Earl Cunningham. Even place is disposed, fragmented, and displayed w/o knowledge of perspective, the timing and place of the work becomes more apparent. Everglades, Indians or maybe black people shown, white people, I’m assuming the leasuirely people are white, are cast in shadow. ———– 1930 characterizes himself as American Primitive, written on bottom of painting. —– 1945 crossed out to 1944 crossed out to 1940, first paintings w/ white people in them. ———– had to be from memory, pictures from 70s still idyliic towns. no cars. —- touch of Fauves —— Adolf Wolf 64 – 1930. Christoph Columbus —- Anna Zomankoua

Scottie Wilson Canada. Toronto. W/ the art brut the narrative is usually thrown out. the image becomes less satisfingfy becuase it’s a sigil, not a story. while the images resound w/ creative detail, their greatest draw is their execution. On the other hand Henry Darger suffers from excessive narrative, an almost schizo retelling

Friedrich Schroder-Sonnenstern not insane ——– Emmanuel doriennic ——- madge gill ——– edmund mongieul. intrictate, but comic, comes close to having a story, but seems more to be a single gesture amplified (edited here)

Jaine Fernandes, more surrealist than art brut, a narrative emerges, we have one part, a glimpse to work from. ——– martha grunenwaldt on electroencephalogram
—— J.B. Murry non-sense narratvies
—– Jean DuBuffer, guy who “discovered” many of these.

Things I Did Wrong One, J.B. Murry didn’t write nonesense narratives, the words are only legible through a bottle of holy water. Two, the absence of a narrative certianly doesn’t imply insanity, after all abstract art dispensed with telling a story. What happened here was I went there Earl Cunningham’s folk art before hand, looking at his pictures noticing the way he enveloped a narrative into his work like most painters before the 20th century did. Historical scenes, etc. When you arrive at the art brut exhibit the differen is immediately apparent. The art brut exhibition has maybe 3 paintings that evoke a sense of a narrative. Henry Darger’s work with the same girls doing different things at once seems like an overload of the narrative. There’s no place to be lead to, only a kinda confusion exists. Darger’s got a lot to him that makes his work so popular. He traced his children from comics etc. Piracy in painting, outsider, all the other things. Jaine Fernandes has a few surreal moments in which the picture seems to come from other place, and you standing there have already been there. It presupposes a fictional past in which you’ve seen the creatures of the canvas slinking past your door, as does Friedrich Schroder-Sonnestern. Both of these artists’ work do not strike me as coming from deranged minds, I’m assuming neither of them were insane, although they might have been institutionalized. The most stunning thing is the attention to detail. Many of these works might be self-taught, but the artist has graduated with a Phd from their own university. Perhaps the reason many of these works have a relation to modern art (as in being non-narrative) is that Jean Dubuffer discovered them. A modern artist himself, he incorporated the intense focus these works have into his own art. Dubuffer’s output could have passed for a 19th century schiozophreniac’s.

December 19, 2002 at 6:00 pm Leave a comment

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