borne

Nothing can come of nothing.

William Shakespeare, King Lear.

nothing can come of dissent is the meaning of the king – of the play nothing comes of empty action; but emptiness, death, dismemberment, betrayal. words have a use, meaning is obsolete in the face of  consequence / action.

without consequence, without action, without engaging there is only pretension. word / analysis / manipulation when serviced to objectifying or pigeon holing builds entropy. there can be no future.

i make no apologies for using this quote before. s’good quote.

uh, great poetry.

born

Fascism is not in itself a new order of society. It is the future refusing to be born.

Aneurin Bevan

according to some studies: shakespeare could not have written his own plays, roger bacon; or a cabal of upper class academics including roger bacon most have written them, after all a ‘man of humble origins’ could not have created such genius.

only a reductive materialist could be ‘great’. the world is moving to a state where we are reducible to status & art is reducible to its meaning. if one does not want to be ignored by history one must bear these things in mind.

 

if one is so great one cannot be ignored, authorship, or sanity can be denied you.

and you can still be ignored because the ‘paradigm’ has moved on… and naturally there are few who can say when that happens, or why, & they may not want to tell you.

transgress! ii

actually don’t transgress. it’s boring & no good’ll come of it. probably.

‘total’ art i think the notion is descended from something wagner had in mind for the theatre. the bauhaus developed it to mean the application of all the arts (with architecture pre-eminent) to improve life, everyday life. maximising the amount of light in the home.

what it could mean today; i’m not sure. maybe the happenings of the ’60s are an example of it. or purpose in / of  space.

 

there still has to be space in which we can explore.

 

unsource

In hosts of minds, today, are impressions that the word ‘eerie’ means nothing except convenience to makers of crossword puzzles. There are gulfs of the unaccountable, but they are bridged by terminology.

Charles Fort (unsourced).

 

it’s mystery which gives excitement not drama; drama raises the humdrum to moments of friction; friction generates energy; floods the body with endorphins and then the drama resolves sufficiently for life to settle back as it was.

 

[not drama as in theatre just daily drama.]

 

 

 

mystery must needs to be allowing for the mysterious.

otherwise it’s boring.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

mechanism

given the many angled creatures we are.

it seems odd that society is designed to keep us so subdued. the limits on us as visual creatures, psychic creatures, cyclical creatures, physical creatures even; all carefully kept controlled – ritual as ritual without purpose other than the ritual & therefore rituals as controlling mechanisms.

buttons can be pressed without delivering experience. misery numbs.

 

 

transgress!

since the world is returning to mediaevalism. i’ve been making more & more studies from illuminated manuscripts.

i think a lot about hans bellmer.

his work, his breaking down of the body, was a response to nazi ideological notions of the body (& as a channel for his sexual interest in little girls reputedly). such transgression is difficult now that the media co-opts all imagery for consumption – most is over wrought / painfully dramatic / bloody annoying. though it’s been hard work co-opting bellmer, partly because of the overtones of paedophilia perhaps. not a path i feel qualified to go down.

this is the crux of some of the more sensible arguments against painting / sculpture, that the object is commodity… that the price being paid is the value; all other values being lost in the face of it. no other philosophy being allowable in a consumer culture paradigm. i have made the case previously for concepts falling into the role of commodity even more so on the grounds that the significance of the ideas are in the hands of academia / speculators.  elites motivated by money & perpetuating their own creed.

the most useful artists in politics i have read about were the diggers in san francisco in the ’60s running soup kitchens and performance driven highly creative protest (versions of happenings i suppose) plus of course there were the ‘total’ art attempts to transform life…

hm

take

 

listen to this: http://sounds.bl.uk/View.aspx?item=025M-C1047X0017XX-1600V0.xml

& (a traditional fairy tale):

Teeny Tiny

ONCE upon a time there was a teeny-tiny woman who lived in a teeny-tiny house in a teeny-tiny village. Now, one day this teeny-tiny woman put on her teeny-tiny bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny house to take a teeny-tiny walk. And when this teeny-tiny woman had gone a teeny-tiny way, she came to a teeny-tiny gate; so the teeny-tiny woman opened the teeny-tiny gate, and went into a teeny-tiny churchyard. And when this teeny-tiny woman had got into the teeny-tiny churchyard, she saw a teeny-tiny bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the teeny-tiny woman said to her teeny-tiny self, ‘This teeny-tiny bone will make me some teeny-tiny soup for my teeny-tiny supper.’ So the teeny-tiny woman put the teeny-tiny bone into her teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to her teeny-tiny house.

Now, when the teeny-tiny woman got home to her teeny-tiny house, she was a teeny-tiny bit tired; so she went up her teeny-tiny stairs to her teeny-tiny bed, and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny cupboard. And when this teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny time, she was awakened by a teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard, which said:

 ‘Give me my bone’

And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny clothes and went to sleep again. And when she had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice again cried out from the teeny-tiny cupboard a teeny-tiny louder,

‘Give me my bone’

This made the teeny-tiny woman a teeny-tiny more frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny further under the teeny-tiny clothes. And when the teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said again a teeny-tiny louder,

 ‘Give me my bone’

And this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny bit more frightened, but she put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny tiny clothes, and said in her loudest teeny-tiny voice, ‘TAKE IT!’

 

find more here i took it from katherine briggs; british folk-tales & legends.

 

English Trad.  Halliwell, Nursery Rhymes and Popular Tales, p. 148

 

 

moon

low moon tonight.

 

i am convinced of the fact i need to make some large works. it’s what people want. large works.

 

beach combing

Reality is what it is.

Francis Bacon, here.

there’s a lovely bone like quality to the centre of this one, fibrous, worn down and rotted like the bone i picked off the beach on sunday.

bleak

They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.

Lewis Carroll, ‘The Hunting of The Snark’

 

 

there’s a sadness to the hunting of the snark, puts it among the most bleak of poetic pieces in the english language.