*People ask me all the time to act differently. I guess they mean that I should think and say things differently. I don’t think they mean I should act differently physically, though. Come to think about it, though, acting differently in a physical sense would be interesting, yes? Would I walk differently, alter my posture, my facial expressions? Would I constantly do impressions of others, altering my voice, my speech patterns? Thinking about this keeps me up at night…it causes weird sensations in my alimentary canal. I fault these thoughts for my dysfunctional digestion. Perhaps I’m blaming my thought patterns for this distress, giving too much responsibilty to them. But this thought layers onto thought #1 and causes further insomnia, and further digestive problems. This feedback loop seems intractable regarding a solution. I’ve consulted people who don’t know what they’re talking about regarding this situation, and, obviously, they’ve been no help. Perhaps I should talk to an expert, but that’s not my way. I don’t think I really want to solve this problem at all – that’s what I think. I had this car once that had no reverse gear. As long as I never got myself into situations where I didn’t have to back up, like parallel parking, I was OK. The reason I am telling you this, how it relates to my previous thoughts, should be apparent. If it’s not, if the continuity of ideas is turbid, that’s because it’s not apparent to me, either. I lied regarding its apparent-ness. Another one of my psychic cul-de-sacs, my mental vitiations, my neural meanderings, my vortex of consciousness which worm-holes its sinuous, sepentine path through logic which is illogical and ration which is irrational – kind of an ALICE IN WONDERLAND rabbit hole of non-sensical investigations where linearity deconstructs into meaning-less fractals of primordial sound. I read an article in my local paper about a man who swallowed a hearing aid. * Manchester Police/Fire: Local man swallows hearing aid By Taylor Rapalyea Staff Writer MANCHESTER — By any standards, it was an unusual meal. Police and rescue responded to Newport Park at 5:56 p.m. Wednesday on a report of a man who swallowed a hearing aid. The man was transported to Beverly Hospital. *The reason I mention this is that just when you think that things can’t get any more absurd, you read something like this. One can’t help but think about the circumstances involved. Was he drunk? Senile? Insane? All three? * *The news I read these days just makes me want to immerse myself deeper in my own paradigm. Today I read about Syria; the brutal crackdowns orchestrated by Assad, people being slaughtered by the dozens, an eight-year-old shot in the head by a sniper….ugliness just gets uglier….the grim reaper grows grimmer, his scythe sharper and more menacing. And not just that. He’s so busy with his grim business that he has no time to clean his blade. How long, how long? Oh Jesus, how long?? Miles to go before we sleep, before we sleep in the sand, before the bell tolls, before the plans of mice and men are cast, before rivers freeze and summer ends, before we’re off to see the wizard, before the moon rises, before the train leaves the station, before the levee breaks, before dawn, before the flood, before the end of time? This question is, sadly, abjectly, rhetorical. It is outside of space and time. A question can do that. Why? THERE IS NO WHY HERE. Yes, the tue I sing is a worn-out one, weather-worn by too many causeless rebels and vagabonded door-to-door salesman, too many seasick roadrunners and voodoo priestesses who’ve nothing better to do but ride on the D train all the way from The Bronx to Coney Island and back again. This they do all night long. I’ve seen them, their mascara tear-streaked, their lipstick poorly applied. Where are they going? And why are they going there? If I speak to them, will they converse back to me? Do they speak English? *
Word Up: Language in Works from the deCordova Collection
On View May 16, 2014 – Oct 13, 2014
FLAT ROCKS GALLERY PRESENTS: DRIVEN…:
For some people art is not a choice.
Paul Cary Goldberg, photography.
Ken Riad, assemblages.
Jon Sarkin, mixed media.
Please join us
Check out full article at Art Finder. …
Outsider Art, or Art Brut as it was called by Jean Dubuffet who coined the term in the 1940s, was primarily used
What Drives Them
For some time now, we at Art*Throb have enjoyed the careers of all three artists featured in a discussion Feb. 2 at Flatrock’s Gallery… in Gloucester’s quietly
Affecting Perception: Art & Neuroscience
2nd – 31st March
03 Gallery, Oxford Castle, Oxford
Check out the original article on Insight Magazine…
If you’re looking for something that will get
Jon Sarkin has conjured up a series of original legal riffs for the Law & Water Gallery. From deep veins of literature, language, and history, Sarkin mined raw material into statements…
Y’know what I think? Man, you DON’T wanna know….I got a head fulla ideas that, if I told ya, well, they’d bust yer brain. And you don’t want that to happen. This friend of mine, Fat Louie, busted his brain one time on account of having too much – way, WAY too much – information about a situation that he was – or wasn’t – depending upon your perspective, which I’ve heard – and – don’t get me wrong, friend – this is just hearsay – kind of HEARD IT THROUGHT THE GRAPEVINE stuff, y’know? Anyway, back to Fat Louie. We all got a friend like Fat Louie. Well, not EXACTLY like Louie, but somebody who is our friend but can’t be trusted completely, no, not really. He’s always late or owes you money that he’s always promising you he’s gonna pay back, but that day never seems to roll around. He’s always hanging out in the coffee shop I go to, doing nothing, really, just sitting on his fat ass and doing nothing, making small talk with no meaning or purpose, just a run-on sentence in pants. I always sorta wanna read him the riot act – tell him TO GET IT TOGETHER, thinking that being harsh with the dude’d somehow set him straight, but on second thought, knowing that no matter how severe I get with him, it’s not gonna really matter, that it’d be like hitting a dead dog with a stick. I feel sorry for Fat Louie. I really do. Never made anything of himself. Just sits around in his track suit and says to anybody who’ll listen HOW YA DOIN? All day long. That’s his gig! And when the place closes, hell if I know what he does. At least when he was a kid, he could hang out with his friends, who’re all probably losers like him. In fact I KNOW they are. They hang out at the coffee shop too. Shorts in the summer, wool hat in the winter. Like I’m any different. Like I’m any better. I put my pants on one leg at a time. I wonder who invented this saying? It’s thoughts like this that make me feel like I have too many ideas. I honor this feeling. I wonder what it’s like NOT to honor your feelings. Are there people that do this? Imagine your self-esteem being so low that you can’t muster the energy to even honor your feelings. Your energy level must be pretty low. In fact, maybe you have NO energy. But if you had no energy, how could you be alive? You’d be a zombie, like those guys in THE NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD. Fat Louie is pretty close to these guys, energy-wise. I hate to admit this, on account of him being my friend. Like I said, I feel sorry for him, Hell, I feel bad about a lotta stuff besides Louie. Don’t get me started.