Whether I am the author of anything that follows, heroic or otherwise, or that has preceded my efforts to express, I owe to a cast of characters, an influence, a town hall of mirrors so innumerable as to confound an audience of even, if only, myself singularly alone. And on this grandiose tip of the hat to Mr. Dickens and mirrors and hats and towns and halls everywhere I will begin to do a bit of talking. In advance of my chatter I send thanks to you for reading it.
Saint Peter - The Thirteenth Apostle
"Gravity is a field and mass is the charge. An electric charge creates an electric field around it proportional in strength to the amount of charge. Mass, like electric charge, creates a field around it to the form of a curved space, a gravitational field as opposed to an electric field. Empty space is flat, but in the presence of mass or energy of any kind... space will curve around it and time will warp.
We are intrinsically bound to this space and this time. We cannot jump off it or live outside it. We are meaningless without it. This is our universe... the vast extent of our curved space-time. People always ask: what's the universe? The answer is nothing. It lives nowhere. There is no meaning to the questions where or when if there is no space or time."
from "How The Universe Got It's Spots" by Janna Levin
So I am in free fall. I'm in an awake state somewhere orbiting importance ordered by gravity. Even when I'm asleep. So I dream about it too. There's no peace under the circumstances. I may as well just go along with it. What else is there to do if I want to be somewhere. Otherwise there's nowhere and I can't find books about that. Even nowhere has gravity as far as I can tell.
I've decided I don't like blogs. Even the name suggests bog. Or blot. Or bot-throt-tled blahg... blow-gagged. A Gaoggh. Gawhl. Hog. Gaol. Golf which does nothing for me. God. Bloated God. Just don't like them. So I'm going to stick to one page so I can find everything in one place so I won't have to start all over. At least until some point in the future curves of future spaces.
"I like it here: bricks and broken glass, and an old garbage can. It's the story of my life."
- Thus Spake Gulley Jimson
Was imagining (and why does this default reset to grey... who gave this machine the right to think for me. I don't even know this machine and resent the intrusion. It does not RENT me yet. I figure there are few free things left and at the very least I should be able to assume proper rights and privileges over a glorified type writer.) So now I was actually thinking again yesterday while driving back. The velocity works well and here... a portion of the paragraph. Sort of Poughkeepsie to Palisades:
The situation in the garage is intolerable. I simply must move that situation out of there. I can't seem to just write things down. Would be such a grace note to make a book of thoughts instead. It's no longer necessary to bury myself in all this clutter, one would like to think when I am someone else, but I find myself like some sort of Miss Havisham wrapped up in my dry rot of clinging self dictating cobwebs. And there are heaps of this relic catastrophe. I don't see how it's possible to venture from my wheelchair... the great expectations of myopia and dust mites. Is there a market for boxes upon boxes of what's left even if I find a way to manufacture this grandiose wishes were horses and beggars had wings and all the rest of what's probably written down somewhere around here on all the shelves? I have too many books. Keep thinking I should sell them on Amazon like Camille. But I can't seem to read how that works and which one would I start with anyway as she said "it's the textbooks that sell best" and I don't have many of those. My old Italian books. But they're dog eared and I suspect the language has changed.
I'll have to take it step by step.
How To Break A Tea Cup:
One could just be a fly on the wall while I visit my mother. The surface tension alone could shatter any tender bone china and reduce darjeeling to a puddle of electricity meets the great lakes curving space catastrophically. It's a study in how to hold the cup. And of course it depends on your intent. If you want to preserve the little rose buds in Aunt Mary's collectible tea and saucer set you need to hold the tiny handle firmly and ball peen near where you'd once taken a sip. You should then be able to keep whacking what's left in a circle until you're holding the handle alone. It's a delicate operation but if you follow these easy instructions you should accomplish your task without any of the usual unforeseen torments like no one calling you for years over slights and evils you previously were entirely ignorant of but can now see clearly like a hurricane in the fog over the morning mirror, the rings around a tornado cornering your inadequate tar roof or a headlight as it knocks you out.
But we don't need to hear this. And anyway it serves no useful purpose. At worst you should shut up. At best you're preaching to the choir... just a girl scout beating her brains out on phony glee while the peanut butter sandwich melts in her pocket. This has nothing to do with anything so why share it with no one. And anyway it's against the rules. Oh really? Yeah, just ask. I will.
Volodia was bald most of the time. I made him a bishops miter (Eastern Orthodox) but pitched it. Just too Church, didn't work. Was talking to Joseph about making a monstrance from MOP knife handles... or ladies boot handles or cuticle buffer handles or some vanity or other ladies handle 1920s Flapper Moscow girlie utility and would assume that's the case as he was such a sucker for a skirt. All the rumors. Lili did you have him snuffed? He was such a dope. And that strange creation of polish and White Russian ego he went mad for that probably CAUSED Lili to snuff him across the street from the NKVD. Volodia what were you thinking? Joseph said we could float that sucker like on air. Heavy but I think we can. Am imagining that pearly circle over his paper mache crown. Poor thing. What's with 39? Seems the martyr's date. They all died at 39. Like some trip lever. Can't pass GO. Can't cross 40. Can't collect glory unless you go at 39. Milton Bradley rules the world we just didn't know it. You think so? Seems so.
That's a kid age. Can't call him Papa Russia, not even uncle. Too young too dumb. Just another dope with a brainy head.
Where have you been?
It's been suggested that I record the production of this piece in some way or other. Artists who make art work that can't be explained in two easy sentences that start with... "I wanted to express..." usually end up in the never gets read aisle with Lord Byron these days. (If only he knew then what we know now about the folly of Being Childe Harold!) So I'll put on a cheap suit and pick up where I left off but with FOCUS. Focus Chris Focus! Jump Lola Jump! Strange how much of that I dis-required of myself in my off years. I don't really get the purpose of all this documenting. A thing stands there and now must have it's explanation too. But today we are on the Disney Planet. All explanations are user friendly so that you will LIKE it. It's try... since "Liking" is everything and everywhere today and I'm still struggling with how my memories have warped space and time.
To begin, this piece is about half way finished but I simply can't bring myself to go back and talk about all that. What remains, starting from today... I'll talk about that:
Do people really feel what they do is remarkable? Is that how it works? Do you picture yourself engaged in something terrific? Personally, I don't... publicly. Privately... it's a secret. So I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be talking you into here. I'm rather tired of all the noise. Aren't you? Everything is so noisy. Photographs everywhere. That vamp look selling me something and constant music. I remember going into the drugstore as a kid and there was no music. I could hear the buzz of the lighting in the glass display cases. Or was that Joseph Horne's Department Store in downtown Pittsburgh. You could hear the sound of people walking in the stores. Wasn't that wonderful? Were you there? Or are you too young to remember that. I remember luncheon counters where someone would choose the song on that machine at the end of the booth. You could flip through the songs. But sometimes no one had chosen one and it was just quiet. The vinyl covered seats and those tables where the surface was a bit worn through the decoration from all the people leaning over their coffee over the years. And you could look out the window on a common ordinary place. A car would drive by. People walking by who you didn't know. Maybe venetian blinds in the windows and that dusty light coming through the stripes. It was quiet.
I'm almost finished with the first part of the mosaic. But I need to change the wheels under the largest section. I don't want to add any more weight until that's done so I'll wait to finish the last two sides. The inside is done to the point where "boxes" have to be made for the "View from Toledo" "landscape" that will surround the figure. I have to make mock ups of these boxes out of foam insulation that will then be remade in wood. And then I can begin the landscape. View from Toledo... El Greco. But also like those landscapes under Christmas trees or where toy trains travel through. A landscape of the people and animals of the world. But broken. All of them broken... missing arms, heads, legs. Just like we are. The real people of the world all missing something. All wounded or broken, handicapped by life. You know those little figurines you used to see at everyone's grandma's house. The little porcelain figures dressed like they're about to dance a minuet. And animals. All those headed for extinction. Polar Bears. I've begun grouting. Pigmenting it with various green blue pigments. I suppose I should insert a few photos of this: