Anatomy of Creation

This is an unorganized ramble of my day's most significant happening.

After being ejected from the eight hour jigsaw puzzle called work, from which I can't quite find the place for myself, I decided to walk my remaining Strength over to the South Street Seaport and finally visit the Bodies Exhibit.


You crazy architect, you genial engineer, you write the music and the lyrics at the same time, nothing overlooked, everything in its right place, slowly improving on the design depending the set background to the script. Dearest Matrix what are you influenced by? What is Nature the nature of?


I'm obsessed with not being satisfied, I can never accept things as they are; I try to find strings, links, networks at times unapparent, a body and an eco-system, a circulatory system and a city's financial infrastructure, tumors and mushrooms...sometimes they connect, sometimes they branch off to a dead end, never reaching the other side.

There's nothing like seeing your internal organs floating with the dissected body like a knights armor removed, to see exactly why you are as your are, it wasn't a mistake, it wasn't done because it looks cool--No. We were designed by practical hands, the way every piece on an iPod is where it needs to be for convenience and function.

The arteries and nerves, their stretching branches over a skull like vines swallowing an abandoned house, giving me the impression of growth, an evolutionary reach that responds to the need of new uses for newly relevant muscles, the way a musician would near the proximity between himself and the instruments he's intending to use, so does the brain need exclusive access to its guitars, keyboards, drums, etc. the organs of its Body Song (Jonny's soundtrack was by the way, what I had on my iPod during the exhibit, because I'm a dork like that).

I wish I could see a single cell become a human, in hyperspeed and certain moments in super slow motion, to watch the exact moment an internal vertebrae is introduced, connecting to a brain, and then nerves extending like a plague throughout highways of veins and arteries, none conflicting, to watch skin cover it all up, and then forgetting about the sub-surface as the exterior can be so beautiful as well, only matched by the care with which this planet ruled it necessary for our insides to be organized in exchange for our continual existence.


Life is but a Dream

Abandoned Cast Aways:

a letter to you both

Okay, so we've been stranded on this little boat for 3 years now. This I've not to tell you, it isn't or shouldn't reach you as a surprise; you've been right here beside me, the both of you and I beside you just as well, or worse. I should think that if at all surprised, it should be by the length of time being so short not so long. I may not speak for the 3 of us but it has felt like much, much longer. If either of you have truly been here, solidly, then I do confide that I must speak for the 3 of us when I say its felt like far much longer than 3 years. The farthest of "much longer" in fact.

We've each spoken of going our separate ways, taking a chance on our own. By the time you read these words, that is where I'll be, for well or worse, I have swam out further and am now possibly alive just as likely as dead. My morning swim has become a full day, depending by what time the two of you discover this letter. It shouldn't have been hard to find, our Titanic would surely sink if even one of James Cameron's camera's parked on our stern. At the driest corner where the sun upon its proudest of noons would bow down its rays and hold warmly an inviting attention; there; you must've found this page and on the page, over the sketches that documented as well as tormented my thoughts, I have written these words. Boldly and violently etched into the 8" x 11" manilla sheet.

I am gone. I have left. I wish you both the best but I am gone and I shall not return. I am selfish and I apologize if the consequence of my action hurts or harms either of you whom I do truly care for but I refuse to die out here. Out at sea, in the middle of the ocean. Stranded on a row boat that sips in water through the three holes under our feet. 3 years and we've become comfortable with transforming the situation into a unique circumstance and adapting ourselves as if we could go on as this for 3 more years, or whatever it takes before we either die or are rescued.

I realize I am leaving you both with more work, we are three but without so much as 1/3, the labour of each remaining person increases but twice. I hope my departure awakens in you both, a sense of alarm, a sense of time and necessity. I hope that my example strengthens your courage, provides a battery for your will, gasoline for your self-preservation and promotes your urgency to act now. This instant, as you're reading...I hope that your minds are made up regardless of your feelings towards me, for abandoning you both, for writing this letter and having the neural gall to claim its an action executed in love; despite your immediate impression of me this instant, I do wish you both, do urge you both to please leave this boat. Lets part ways and we'll be better off alone, I am sure of it. If only one of you leaves, please do your best to convince the last person not to remain alone, not to attempt to keep the boat on their own. You'll surely sink, the 3 holes are much stronger and consistent than any one of us. If you die even an inch further away from where we've been stranded for 3 years, then you have made progress. You have been as consistent as the holes that mean to drown you.

Goodbye, so long.

We'll meet on dry land,

Our End.


Curious About Kim Novak

Somehow Calm as She Walks Off Stage

Kim Novak is such a peculiar actor, its probably because she's not a good actor but the characters she's played are all intriguing in a hollow way. She always comes across as cold and empty. Even so, I always feel interested enough to romantically believe that there's more there than meets the eye; that the blank personality is only the surface to a submerged and highly exclusive truth that's too sacred to herself to reveal.

Novak never seems convinced of herself, almost a lack of confidence that refuses to admit she's a beautiful star. The women she's played appear to not understand why they are desired. Vertigo, Strangers When We Meet, The Man with the Golden Arm, and Picnic are the four films I've seen her in so far. In each film, we find a woman, more or less, who is a simple girl set upon an overwhelming circumstance. When the drama swelters into a scene and she has to perhaps step out of a comfort zone, its noticeable and I sense as if it taxes her a bit. She's an actor who doesn't like to expose herself into any role. Which is fine but she also doesn't like to expose the characters into her roles. In fact, she pulls the characters into herself; almost hides and keeps them securely kept away from the surface, where no one can harm them.

Regardless of what I've said above its only the opinion of a voice that has not enough material with which to fully or accurately judge his subject. So I am forming a list of Kim Novak films to watch that I've not seen. Hopefully, the intention is to gain a new perspective on a performer whom I already consider interesting.

Graphic Tee Party

Yesterday I walked around LES for a bit, I remembered the Obey Pop-up Store that had temporarily parked on Orchard. I hadn't visited yet and apparently today was a book release party for some artist; Name Tagging was the book's title. On my way to Orchard, I found an opening reception on the corner of Bowery and Stantion. It seemed like a hole in the wall invaded by multiple canvasses and appreciators of said canvasses, along with variable scenesters and the absence of music. I walked in and immediately hated what I saw. Smeared paint of light colors on canvas with these weird odd shaped circles that seemed stuck on and painted over; each piece had one of these circles, I soon noticed. Then I realized what the circles were, after which I found two pieces that were cool.

This was one:

Sitting the Cook at the Dinner Table

The artist had taken t-shirts and stretched them over each canvas and painted over the fabric of the shirts. Some of the pieces utilized screen-printing which was like saying if so-many artists use a t-shirt design technique on canvas, why not bring the t-shirt itself in on it? After all, t-shirts love art too.

The weird circles were actually the head-holes of the t-shirts. And while I felt some of the screen-printed pieces were interesting or just nice to look at, there were far more pieces that I didn't like, that just seemed like I was expected to have been impressed solely on the fact that they were painted on a t-shirt stretched over canvas. But I'm sure other people were into it and they probably hated the pieces I liked, but whatever...thats art. I didn't want to know the artist's name, I didn't pick-up the info-sheet by the make-shift gallery's entrance, nor did I start any engaging conversation to see what anyone else thought about any of it. I kept my headphones on and Synchronicity was convincing me I want to have an affair with an older, married woman.


Dark Knight Returns!

Harry Brown - Anyone else want to see Alfie Dark Knight the shit outta street toughs without a bloody cape and cowl! Its great to see the star of such action films as Get Carter and The Italian Job reprise his no nonsense badass brit grit. The main difference is that now that Michael Caine is older, he's even scarier...Old people with weapons in general are just a perfect example of Frightening. If anyone knows what a spit in the face life can be, its surely our elderly inevitables, luckily memory fades for some, but the more acute of the lot truly can impress alarm if added to some form of violent-expressive relief. I remember a few years back my grandma wanted to take out the baseball bat on some kids who accidentally wet our apartment window when they were playing outside with a water hose. I had to hold her back.


I Know the Hooker's Real Name

The Girlfriend Experience - (2009) Directed by Steven Soderbergh

Starring Sasha Grey, Chris Santos, Philip Eytan

This is a really good story and a very interesting film to watch. Prostitutes have always interested me, prostitution is one of the oldest professions, is there any doubt as to why?

Some things to note when you watch this film is; there aren't any sex scenes, which is great because even though the protagonist is a prostitute the film is not at all about sex. The editing makes for a sort of smorgasbord of scenes that seem to keep you off balance but eventually you start to gain along with Soderbergh's rhythm. The story takes place nearing the 2008 presidential election. All throughout the background of the drama we find financial unrest and all the insecurities that festered most Americans during that time. Another thing I found pretty cool was the seemingly purposeful paralleling of the escort and the personal trainer. Two very physical jobs, that depend on some sort of trust, ego-peppering and an unescapable superficiality towards the client who on some level knows that the attention is bought, is a service, and not an unconditional relationship.

God Won't Show, He Sent a Poet Instead!

So I buy a Bible...you know a friend of mine has an idea, some sort of photo shoot, involving me and a Bible--I don't ask questions. I buy the Bible on my lunch break, I took a really long time deciding between cover colors, a black pleather or a mahogany pleather; "what would god choose?" I think to myself and go with the black. Now I feel a bit strange as I purchase this $6.99 Bible, King James' Version. As I walk out of Shakespeare and Co. onto Broadway, this was just the preview, this was when the Bible still had the plastic wrap, the condom if you will. We all know God with a condom is no God. After work I strip the cover from out its protection and take down Lafayette with one hand in my pocket and the other swinging the Bible. Something strange occurred after a few moments.

Before I get into it, I should now mention that I looked like a mormon, in dark gray viscose pants with a striped collared tucked in and covered by a light, almost heather gray v-neck. Its breezy enough that I can get away with my gray skully, not because of its color but because others tend to take too personal another person's apparel.

Anyway, as I'm crossing Astor, northern bound to 14 St, I suddenly become reached, held, proposed by this overwhelming sensation. Its almost as if the Bible beside me with the words, "Holy Bible" thick and gold on the pleather cover, were a weapon not a book. A pistol, some sort of side arm, phallic and making up for some need within me to extend my manhood through the power of a weapon. I feel as if I could control, fear, excite people, shape their minds with whatever I feel they should interpret as relevant. For whatever reason, as I walked up Lafayette, I felt a legacy of murder, conquest, violence, and prejudice surge through my palm and like a bribe, slipping in, I savored the imagined taste of taking apart a human brain and reconstructing the pieces as I saw fit. This was strange, perhaps even uncomfortable but not frightening. Not frightening in the slightest bit.