I once wrote a book of poetry, it had this image on the front cover. I sold only a few copies, the rest I decided to give away to people. The receivers were embarrassed, rolling the book into a position where the cover was less obvious.
I was told later, that “that book upset a few people”. But it’s not the worst book I’ve written. The worst ones were a bit too long to print out and sew together myself. English always gets me into trouble. That’s why I stopped speaking at one stage.
I was trying to explain a few things about what happens when you absorb the stuff around you and add it up together and put it into sound-sense and visual symbols.
I also wanted to explain what it was like when you can hear and see a feeling. The intangible sense: 5th dimension electromagnetic frequency or “feelings”, they enter the body and they are not my opinion, unless I choose to let them be. Just as when someone says, “Nice day isn’t it?”, do I then chose to make that also my opinion, or do I think of it as “other”. Well, same thing applies when I get a feeling from “another” translated into words. Do I then just write it up as a character’s speech and follow the thread until I understand why I’ve linked with this thought? Or do I think, yes, I want that to be me…
Intangible senses are a which, that society regards as an illness, to be suppressed with pills; just as Nanas thought washing a kid’s mouth out with soap would cleanse a filthy word. And how people have at various times thought it a good idea to murder. Making the fear become so big it won’t go away. That’s when you get superbugs. They stand up to all the murder and suppression of their kind. Because ultimately humanity needs equilibrium as much as the earth does.
I like places that allow everyone to speak. For the shopkeeper-polite does not say much at all, if it is hiding an antagonistic troll.
I carry an umbrella to stop the battering sun. I can’t dim it down, it burns as brightly as it wants to. More than a decade ago, I had wanted to do this.
But my friend Nat said, “Don’t you’ll embarrass me. You’ll look like an old Greek woman”. Nat had nice dark Italian skin. She also said I shouldn't say I don’t like sex with the man I was seeing, because I’d end up, “a fat lonely old lesbian.”
I farted in her car that day and couldn’t seem to get the gumption to admit it was me. She palmed it off as the old blankets in the back seat, but after that she never wanted to know my stinky person again.
There was something under this painting here. It was called Redhot pokers. Stuff of the ying and yang. Think I miss it a bit. But there it is gone, except for the photo. Artists, foolish cards eh? Thinking that they can actually exhibit the lost worlds of never being and people will flock to the seeing. They'd rather listen to the same book being read again and again and sing the same hymes. Nautical nature disturbs and corrodes their sense of ordered lore.
Perhaps I should’ve left it at that. But something weird annoyed me about this abstract pretty. It was part of an exhibition called: But what is it?
I once wrote a book of poetry, it had this image on the front cover. I sold only a few copies, the rest I decided to give away to people. The receivers were embarrassed, rolling the book into a position where the cover was less obvious.
