Tag Archives: Art

Briefly now, on the waning heels of a second wind

Happy 2013 and suck on it Mayans. Or really what I mean is congratulations to all of those who cashed in on writing books about the apocalypse.  I missed that boat.  I’m going to check in on some Aborigine tribes in Australia, see if they have any ancient relics that could land me a literary agent.

I have another show coming up on the 24th and I must edit. It’s hard to parse material into 35 minutes, at least for me and what I realized in looking at all of my pieces is that I did write a good deal last year. As solitary as it was, I did produce.  Right now, I’ve been recovering from a cold as I seem to bring one back with me every time I go back to Pittsburgh to see my family.  So I’ve been watching old movies and more so reading about the stars from the  “day” and what fascinates me is how strongly one would feel towards another artist or their work or an entire way of expressing.  Robert Mitchum and Cary Grant both were not fond of method acting.    Marilyn Monroe solicited opinions from across the spectrum, from deep empathy (Marlon Brando) to light scorn from more than one person.

It fascinates me how artists can peck at each other, despise each other but somehow maintain respect for each other’s work and yet sometimes have completely different opinions on one person or piece of art.  I guess there are people out there who think Hamlet is a shitty play, or overrated.  I wouldn’t want to be paired with them in a hospital room for a week, but it begs what’s relative vs absolute, even in art.  I’m going to quit before I start drifting into a Russian novel.

May everyone have a high end magic ham radio that grants a dream or two for you through the airwaves this 2013.




Latency eggs

Some nights are laced with deeper whispers than others.  And when those prehistoric weather patterns sneeze the way out of your soul at 1am on a Thursday I suppose the best thing to do is listen and keep your bones from flying apart into powder.  For me, it’s constantly asking what kind of life do I want? And if I can get deeper, that’s where I usually go, which may explain partially why waiting has become an Olympic sport in this household.  When I can capture these film or words or even some rant only my dog and my invisible friends can hear, I call it a sacred rupture. Always dig. I don’t know what I’m after but I’m after it, no doubt.  It’s a wicked plunge into the unknown and the old stains of the mind circle in and circle out like shadows of abandoned planets and the key is not to get lost in the shadows too long.  A mystic I saw years ago said resiliency is the key. The mind will drift and skip and fly into garbage zones but how quickly can you recover?  It’s no longer about the mind, but the MoonAche prowling around my chest plate.  It’s an uncompromising gambler with its ass glued to the craps table so I wait and push and wait and push and each push hurts a little more, and I imagine your hair like woven anchors and I simply wonder where am I and where are you? It seems the search is coming closer to an end. There have been clues dropped to me about who you are. When the book is finished, I’ll have more to say about prophecy and imagination in love and memory.

Meanwhile, I went to another comedy open mike. Anyone who does them knows it’s a ratio of about 20:1 man-woman so thus the room is filled with men and one woman.  It’s a sad imbalance and I find it not useful for my material.  The rule is if you can make a room full of comedians who are half paying attention laugh, you have something. I think I disagree with that. I like women.  And if there were  a third gender, like glorbots, then I would like glorbots.  And I’d want to test material in a room that was proportionally representative of the population of men, woman and glorbots. And I don’t want to bend my material to accommodate a room full of men if it compromises the integrity and joy of what I do.  And it’s always the rub with rooms full of no audience and male comedians.  It’s nothing personal against a room full of men, it’s just having women’s energy in the room is like electrified balm on my material.  I guess I’ll have to comb around until I find a room that has that. I do know I have to be back on stage. I have to do it.

I will be in Rochester, NY for two weeks on a contract gig living out of a hotel. I am looking forward to being out of town, finishing my novel and spending time with Gladys, my guitar.

Spalding Gray’s transdimensional topography

I just bought Spalding Gray’s posthumously published journal entries over a span of about forty years. I barely started and what already strikes me is how, other than pioneering the bare it all life as art style in his monologues, he still was an artist who crafted his pieces and still kept some things hidden; maybe some of it was out of negative audience reaction or maybe there were some things that weren’t meant to be shared.  I often tussle with that in sharing my own experiences;  it’s often tempting, like some clods do on Twitter and Facebook, to express one’ feelings for another person through posts or tweets or some straight stage confessional;  it’s horrifying actually how that happens.  My rules if I can state something more poignantly and beautifully in writing and honors the other person, I do it.  If it’s a beef I have and that person’s still in my life, best to have it out in person. I won’t even do emails. I don’t like emails for having a conversation or expressing any negative thoughts; arguments that weren’t meant to happen start that way.  Wars begin that way. I fear one day the art of conversation will only be found in museum displays where you put on headphones and hear two wax figures you see before you have a conversation and actually emote and listen. I look forward to opening that museum.

And so with this new book comes my jaw which is so sore from grinding teeth in my sleep and now to some point when I’m I’m not certain anything other than gargling on a bag of marijuana, which I don’t smoke, would do the trick.  My teeth hurt. my gums hurt and I don’t know what to do with tension even after running, meditating, visualization, etc.  I think I’m about to give birth and so my jaw’s in labor.

I promised myself I wouldn’t snark on other people in my public writings but I just saw Rick Perry make a complete ass of himself on footage from Jon Stewart where he forgot what the third agency was he was going to shut down if President, even after people hollering from the audience and Ron Paul making suggestions. He plum forgot. I forget my keys, where my glasses are, how to play Chopin; I never ever forget which agencies I would shut down if I were elected President;  and I do have a list that would get hosed down with the eyes of angry owl.  These candidates all cell divided and genetically mutated from one creature that sits on a fake toilet somewhere in an lab in the Yukon thinking it’s constantly trying to poop and it can’t so it keeps scraping off chunks of cells that wind up running for President and filling our lives with utter bullshit for over a year and a half;  All of these cats. I am registered no party; I can’t vote in primaries; on those days I sit in my apartment and make a fake ballot box and vote for fictional characters I believe would make good officials; Mr. Bentley from the Jeffersons for Secretary of the Treasury and etc. you know the obvious choices.

Jon Stewart had a good time as all his correspondents with this gimme from Rick Perry. Then right after that Adam Sandler was coming on promoting his new film Jack and Jill. Al Pacino is in it.  Not Allan Pacina, the Al Pacino.  I guess he’s planning on buying a space shuttle and needs a quick couple of million.

Sparkles is back; this is the name I gave the rat that lived and scratched and self bathed  inside my wall and ceiling for months. After he left Son of Sparkles has returned to wreak vengeance.  I don’t like killing any living creature.  I know it’s the way of Earth for many species but I have trouble with it; that being said, after many nights of conversationally pleading through the wall to please vacate the area, I have to call an exterminator. I ask forgiveness from the vermin gods.

So I end with the joy and grind of putting on stage and in writing that which is truly true versus what is merely true.  My jaw seems have a jump on the battle.