"Let us bring to daylight the impulses of midnight contemplation."
Images from trip to NYC and the Picasso Exhibit at MOMA.
Photos from Fine Arts New York City Trip (Complete Albums)
Complete Albums of the Individual Locations:
9:07 minutes (12.53 MB)
Sound quality is eh, turning down volume helps.
Done off the top of my head.
there is a moment overflowing
when a passing breeze
and the tree sways embracing the air
and it is too big, too good
following, straining, holding, reaching
stretching out to the passing air feeling
and quivering rests
hold and release this world too much for us
everywhere too much
and yet my fingers follow
reaching and grasping
memories of moments
beyond me swept
train. bus. almonds and a cool breeze. new hampshire summer air sweetly scented like pine and mountains of oak and musk and fresh flora. so crisp and real and unlike what i came from and what i will eventually go back to. mailing letters past the due date that read of girls drunk on fatigue and insights on howls and Howl and the present effect of alcohol on her social skills. self conscious about the corporation versus the art and how the two are inappropriate toward each other, foreign intruders (of redundancy) who don’t belong in an office mail box. basket? holder?
muscle and muscle and muscle and naps, an ampersand holding them together with fierce shiraz adhesive glue; veins and contours that taper into a form so familiar and missed and sad. gay men married to beautiful women. san francisco 1955. with the steams of and grinds of and maybe a wink of a working eye and the trickery of a phone number. a set up. a scenario of entrapment. roasts & blends.
4:48 minutes (4.4 MB)
i decided to strangle my reservations and it wasn't that hard- so here's a recording of a project i like to call Liquid Meter and the Leaky Quartet. it's a raw recording with my neighboorhood noises (i think a few chirps).
the lyrics are as such:
death be kind and ignore all my crying. i know you got a lot of pleas but replace my old ones for these. come when you may and tell my mother i sent you away. death be kind forget me
i gave it a title so it's called cherry in the well
there are a lot of versions of this song i hope i can one day really reify it
alright, see ya
i ache for the constant thumpthump of my heels on the concrete and an industrial, impersonal exhaustion and the verb of my eye with my fingers and my camera. i miss seeing things that bend my mind and make me stop and itch and ask what the hell the point is. new light, domestic abuse, falling houses and piles of salt. i liked all the angles of the narrow-walled galleries and the expensive coffee. i liked the nightly drinks and time spent with professors. old crow and cards and walking into a room of glossy-eyed philosophers. closer.
the greenhouse @ sherman
19 june 2011
Suburbia was never the problem.
The ethical dilemma that faced us as demonic teenagers was
Moving forward in "punk clothes" clutching drum kits and amps tight
Through the washed out backroads of New Hampshire.
Suburbia was never the solution.
The lack of consistency, the omnipresent hypocrisy
Encountered both in school and the venues was
Fighting and arguing for our place