Friday, December 30, 2011

some brief thoughts on Santa Claus

Things are finally getting back to normal. The holidays are always full of ambivalence for me, a combination of contagional excitement and mnemonic dread. The time seems both phenomenally unproductive and full of busybody anxiety as people run around buying this and opening that and eating enough sugar to give a rhinoceros type-II diabetes.

There are also blockbuster films with idiotic names:


Speaking of, Cameron Crow should know better:


But this is beside the point.

The point is that my yin and I had the opportunity to hang out with a lot of kids over the holidays, and besides being fun watch, it brought up an ethical dilemma:

What is one to do about Santa Claus?

 Option #1: A parent tells a child that Santa Claus exists, ensuring future disillusionment and instituting a policy of parental deception, manipulation, and subterfuge

Option #2: A parent tells a child that Santa Claus does not exist, and then must attempt to explain why the child must lie to all of his or her goyim playmates.

The interesting thing about this situation is that, either way, the parent is forced to teach the child something about lying. I had never really thought about Christmas this way until this year, and although I haven't thought all the way through it yet, it seems to serve as some sort of litmus test for a parent's understanding of ethics.

Do we adopt a situational morality and lie to the child? What trauma will be incurred by the child when he or she learns the truth? How will this revelation affect his or her perception of the parent? How is one to explain why the child should lie to his or her peers? Given the American larger culture of Christian Consumer Capitalism, what are the ostracizing effects of not believing in Santa Claus?

And, perhaps most importantly, why don't more people ask these questions before they have children? Given the awesome responsibility of nurturing a child into adulthood, it seems disturbing that we do not even perform a moral and ethical inventory with regard to the stories we tell our children.


This rant has been brought to you by your friend Ebenezer.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

last night's dream

Dream of a parking lot and
unplanned encounter with Nancy

I'm walking down the hill.
It's sloped like the one in the park:

the sky above.

the park dangling in the middle

The town below


falls gently towards the Earth. 

Nancy is getting in her car


| a sports utilitty |
| that barely sque|
|ezes between th|
|e cracked white l
|ines on the aspalt

We're surprised to see each other,
and I nod uneasily as I walk past.

Something has shifted though

and I turn back around.

We exchange a tentative hug and wish each other well.

The trauma has healed. 
The vitriol has dissipated. 

The first six years of the new millennium never happened.

Monday, December 19, 2011

we [clarification]


I watched Rent (the film version) two years
and two nights ago and either:


The bohemian romance of New York
is a clever fiction, a lie we
[Generation X]
tell ourselves in an attempt to grapple
with the fact that we
[Americans]

live in a nation where the indomitable efficiency of
interstates and television has obliterated the
peculiarities of geographic separation. We
[artists]
loathe to believe this, and write musicals
and songs and books
[and blogs]
pretending it isn't so. We
[would-be critics]
watch with a mix of terror, excitement, and
trepidation as a quilt emerges from our collective
musings - a quilt pieced together from pop culture
references, allusion, consumption, cleverity,
pathological irony, and non-historicized personal
experience. We
[the tragic curious]
are left to wonder if it was ever so, or
if it was only a dream we
[the unreformed romantics]
invented in an attempt to keep
from shivering in the night;

the pastiche quilt of post-modernity makes for a poor bedfellow.

OR
I
[the author]

wrote the above in an attempt to
distance myself from the sadness I
[the human]

felt.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

the thoughts in the mind


Sometimesthethoughtsinthemindseemtopasslikethis....



And


sometimes


the


thoughts




in


the


mind


seem



to



pass


like



this...



But rarely do the thoughts in the mind seem to pass like this.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

repost: a date that will live in (in)famy


part 1: two, and three years ago

Dia de playa



part 2: five years ago

Two Birds, One Fish (heart presently unbroken)

wind
surf
silence
white noise
blue ceiling
green sea

tide in, mind out

a raft
a cinder block
flippers
and snowshoes

scuba
and tank
siphon
and tanker

salt mist spray I taste

brent crude and oxygen
union and undertow

waves crash
(super novae)
in to oblivion

ebb and flow
constant as the moon


part 3: thirty-one years ago

"Darby died from an oki dog"

September 26, 1958 - December 7, 1980


part 4: seventy years ago

"...a date which will live in infamy..."

view of Pearl Harbor in December


part 5: two thousand four hundred one years ago


from Chris Marker's "The Owl's Legacy"

Sunday, December 4, 2011

on Art Basel, 2011

My yin and I traveled down to Miami Beach for Art Basel yesterday, just as we did last year and the year before. It was the festival's tenth anniversary, and like always, the area around the Miami Beach Convention Center was awash with collectors and wannabes, artists and artistes, Europeans and Eurotrash, and enough Maseratis, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis to single-handedly solve the Eurozone Crisis...
But this is beside the point.

The point is that my yin and I began our excursion by grabbing a free map at the Convention Center, then leaving immediately. The copious amounts of gawkers and art inside the Center provide far too much stimulation for anyone this side of amphetamine, and the $40 entry fee seemed egregious considering the numerous public art installation and temporary galleries that inevitably accompany Art Basel. That being said, here's an overview of the free art we saw...

One of the first things I noticed was the number of pieces explicitly referencing the Occupy movement. Some of them seemed rather obvious:



all apologies for the glare

While others appeared to be completely random, like this sticker affixed to a utility box:

 Boone, really?

Considering the fact that I hail (more or less) from Boone, I found the above especially rewarding, and I wondered if my brother, who recently told me he had become a supporter of the movement, had flown down to Miami unbeknownst to me.

With regard to the first Occupy picture, it served as a welcome to a gallery full of quasi-political, quasi-pornographic artwork. Some of the pieces were interesting in that thread and canvas were the primary media, which implicitly gendered the works and created a tension between the images of nude (often bound) women depicted by the artist and the undeniably misogynist gaze through which they were seen. Nonetheless, some of the text accompanying the pieces was clever:

a true and valid point

From there my yin and I continued our trek to Collins Park, which was hosting a couple dozen larger scale pieces. Since part of this year's experiment was to document our night using our fancy new iPhones, I found myself engaging with the pieces in ways I normally wouldn't:

Gargantua by Feinstein

 All in search of the perfect angle to share and post on Instagr.am:

comme ci

In the park we found interesting several interesting pieces, like this one that resembled a cross between Jenga and a crucifix:

Strain by Antony Gormley

And this one, which emulated the ocean wave by leading patrons around in a giant circle:

 photo, amazingly composed, by my yin

There were some PVC tubes set up on the beach:


That became infinitely more interesting with my yin standing inside:



In fact, the above piece was one of those artworks whose artist's description was actually far more engaging than the piece itself.  This one began:

"'Untitled (Apparatus)' by Gardar Eide Einarsson is a sculpture based on prison exercise equipment. Prison design and architecture represent a zero state of design, where all traditional design considerations are jettisoned in favor of a design that exclusively seeks to prevent certain behaviors, generally focusing on not lending itself to the infliction of bodily harm..."

I always feel ambivalent about these types of pieces because, on the one hand, it makes the realm of high art seem accessible to anyone with the capacity for critical thought and imagination. On the other hand, it seems kinda lazy. As I told my yin last night, "This Gardar must have himself one hell of an agent."

Other notable sights included this piece by Anish Kapoor, whose combination of concreteness and the void spoke to my most noble metaphysical aspirations:

 Black Stones, Human Bones

These giant cowboy boots, which reminded me of Mardou and had a killer title: "Snake Skin Boots with Snake Head. White Quarry Stone 21st Century. North Mexico" by  Eduardo Sarabia:

 
these boots were definitely made for walkin'...

And this silhouette of the palm trees outside the Bass Museum at dusk:


 artwork by Mother Nature

Another found piece of brilliant was the burger stand at the east end of Collins Park, which is (presumably) not intended to be artistic at all, and yet lends itself to images such as this:

my photograph from last night

By the way, what time was sunset last night?


my second favorite photograph from last night

Anyway, we left the park and headed over to Mr. Brainwash's gallery, which was set up in exactly the same location as last year. The only difference is that this year my yin and I knew whose work it was we were seeing. As fate would have it, just as we approached:

the MBW gallery

Mr. Brainwash himself was exiting. Unfortunately, though, I was slow on the draw and managed only to take this photograph of his taxi as it sped away:


And yes, that was Mr. Potatohead two images ago:


I still go back and forth on Mr. Brainwash's artwork, which combines elements of Warhol with a graffiti sensibility that incorporates cultural references ranging from Gandhi and Mickey Mouse:

 

To Michael Jackson:


And Colonel Sanders:

 the chickens have most assuredly come home to roost

I feel he's at his best when he's either at his most obscure:

how now, graffiti cow?

Or his most playful:

 my yin and Felix

Compared to the images of Gandhi and MJ (not that MJ) and Einstein and Dylan, these comically absurd pieces seem more authentic, assuming one can even use such a word to speak of an artist whose oeuvre seems predicated upon the utter absence and impossibility of any such concept. Nonetheless, as we were leaving my yin and I saw this haunting image of Steve Jobs tucked above the door:


The piece was barely visible, and its positioning may have been the only incidence of subtlety within the whole gallery. It was illuminated only by ambient light and a nearby exit sign, which eerily spoke to the man's passing. Perhaps there's more to Mr. Brainwash's work than meets the eye...

Perhaps not.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Top 10 Thanksgiving Dinner Conversations

Last night my yin and I enjoyed a veritable feast in Homestead: tuna tartare, fresh tabbouleh, homemade vegan marshmallows, pavlovas, barley salad, roasted asparagus, and the insanely delicious lime caviar:

 But this is beside the point.

The point is that yesterday's tofu-making enterprise failed to materialize, squeezed out by the above-mentioned delicacies... and the conversations listed below:

Top 10 Thanksgiving Dinner Conversations
 
10. James Gilligan's disease model of violence.


9. The search for the perfect email address.

8. Game theory and orders of infinity. 

7. The problem with charter schools.

6. Who's worse: AT&T or Comcast?

5. How to make $40 million/year. 

4. Mersenne primes that aren't.

3. "Jeffrey" versus "Jeffery." 

2. Symbiosis with Siri.            

                          1. The Illuminati.

Thursday, November 24, 2011

in lieu of turkey

Later today my yin and I will be making the trek south to share a Thanksgiving meal with our cousins in Homestead.  Rather than ranting about the holiday like I did last year, I've decided to take a more measured approach.... by making tofu.

make tofu, not war

This will be just one of the many new experiences I've had over the past weeks (new job, new phone, new wardrobe), and by virtually ant metric, it should be one of the least important.  Nonetheless, I must admit to a certain amount of trepidation.  Sometimes knowledge serves to ease anxiety, but when it comes to food, sometimes the processes involved in their production are enough to turn one's stomach.  In fact, you can read about how turkeys get made here.

i
m
age
(thankfully)
miss
in
g

With regard to the tofu, though, I'm less concerned about the blood and feathers and murder than I am the cheesecloth.  For starters, I don't know what cheesecloth is, much less what, if anything, it has to do with cheese.  I think maybe I saw it once as a kid, somewhere in my mother's kitchen.  Although not a particularly accomplished chef, my mom has been known to get on various culinary kicks, and she sometimes talks about making yogurt back in the Seventies and early Eighties.

These sorts of second-hand reminiscences are odd because they have a way of inserting themselves into one's memory so neatly that it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish the things we've been told a million times from the things we actually remember.  Of course sometimes I wonder if that's all memory ever is – the things we tell ourselves often enough to become real. The past gradually accrues a certain mass, an unmistakable pull akin to gravity, both in its invisibility and its undeniability. 

But this is beside the point.

The point is that I've been looking forward to today for weeks now, ever since our cousin told us she planned to prepare tuna tartare. It's been well over a year since I've had fish, and in the past couple of months I've felt my body craving more protein.   All the tempeh and beans and tofu in the world still fall short when it comes to protein density, and tuna is far and away my favorite seafood. So, I suppose I'' break with my vegetarianism later today and indulge in a hefty helping of animal protein and mercury.

But first, I plan to make that tofu, and instagr.am the whole experience with my fancy new phone. With any luck, I'll be able to eat what we make...

Thursday, November 17, 2011

In praise of "friendly acquaintances"...


Orphaned puppy dogs and leaky eyes
rainbows kidnapped by brown and beige and
taupe: the ugly drab colors of nightmare
hues hewn from dead leaves and excrement –
the street sweeper's hangover, the morning after
ticker-tape melancholia.

Whiteboards stained with Expo
exposition stained with boredom:
conversations huddle round the microwave
waiting for the downward timer:

0:03...

(what are the consequences of our decisions?)

0:02...

(what maps lead the way?)

0:01...

(how is one to choose?)

0:00

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

redux: memory of dreaming, Rumi on a rainy Monday afternoon

To describe this



love is nothing 

 

more than naming 

 

the things it is not.


Sunday, November 13, 2011

repost: dots and lines, 2 years and counting...

... . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . ..... . . . . . . . t. . . . . . . ....... . . . . . . .... ... . . . . . . . . . . . . h. . . . ............... . . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . . . . . . . r. . . . . . . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . ........ . ... . . . . . . . . . a. . . . . . . ...... ..... . . . . . r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . ........ . . . . . a. . . . . . . . . . . . . l. . . . . . . . . . . . . w. . . . . . . . . . . . . a. . . . . . . . . . . . . y. . . . . . ............. . . . . . . s. . . . . . .... . . . . . . f. . . . . . . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . . . . . . . w. . . . .......... . . . . . ........ ... ...... . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . . . . . . . r. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . d . . . . . . . . . . o. . . . . . ......... . . . . . . t. . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . s. . . . . . . . . . . . . t. . . . . . . . . . . . . h. . . . . . . . . . . . . a. . . . . . . . . . . . . n. . . . . . ........................ . . . . . . l.. . . . . . . . . . . . . i. . . . . . . . . . . . . n. . . . . . . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . . . . . . . s. . . . . . . . . . . . . c. . . . . . . . . . . . . o. . . . .. . . . . . .. . . . . . . .................. . . . . . . . n. . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . n. . . . . . . . . . . . . e. . . . . . . . . . c. . . . . . . ..... . . . . . t. . . . . . ............. . . . . . . i. . . . . . . . . . . . . n. . . . . . . . . . . . . g. . . . . . . . . . . . . t. . ................. . . . . . . . . . . . . . h . . . . . ............ . . . . . e. . . . . . . . . . . . ................ ... .. m.

Friday, November 11, 2011

11.11.11 (superstitions and armistice)

Is it all
1
or is it
all
One
or is it
all
won
and lost:
baffled
baffled
breaths
(one)
after another
until
one
night
we realize
we are
all
al-
one.

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

5 years ago, today

sunrise

I woke in a motel room in St. Augustine before sunrise and ran to the beach. It had been years since I had seen the ocean, and at that moment nothing seemed more important. Three weeks earlier, I had experienced a vision of myself as a toddler, sitting on a bench looking out over the water. The beach in the vision was located at the intersection of Memory and Imagination, somewhere off the Outer Banks of North Carolina:

author, circa 1980


morning

My father and I visited the Spanish forts that overlooked the bay. Walking around the ruins, I wondered how much blood had been shed, how many lives had been lost. I thought about the men who died in sight of the bay, the men who never touched the water.

Castillo de San Marcos


midday

We stopped at Cape Canaveral and took a tour of the grounds. I was surprised by the amount of wildlife surrounding the launch pad and fascinated by the sheer scale of the operation. I thought about the men and women who touched the sky, and the perspective that must come with experiencing one's own body as weightless... one's own planet as distant and small.


 
evening

I arrived in a strange town with everything I owned, or at least everything I wanted to own, in a single bag. It was not unlike my move to New York seven years earlier, except that the sturdy green canvas had been replaced with a flimsy blue linen. That night I purchased a college-ruled composition pad and a new pen. I had been using ballpoint for ten years at that point, and I decided it was time for a change.

181st Street and Fort Washington


night

To my knowledge I wrote nothing on November 9, 2006. In retrospect I find it a beautiful coincidence that the date now exists in both metaphorical and indexical limbo – the chain of signifiers was broken on that day; it exists between these journals:

__

and these pens:

__

There is nothing more important than the space connecting one moment of our material existence to the next.

It is empty, 
yet full;
present, 
yet absent.

The pens and journals and sentences left behind are merely the sedimentation of memory, artifacts of a past that (n)ever existed, monuments to the life that was.

Meaning does not come from words;
but from the silences between them.