31 January 2011
29 January 2011
"i lean on the last men and women of the earth who don’t use computers or technology to make things. people that use no power, and use only primitive tools and the precision of their hands to interpret dirty contrived icons of the world that the so-called “advanced civilizations” worship." - rico deniro
real, let's brief on that. you are reading this, you use technology-- you are real. i am using the sense of the word in an anthropological approach (mentioned above to describe the artisans). we can view it all in an expeditious moment via our technological mediums--this is now an inhabitant of our western culture. though, those in provincial villages are void of the constant contact and connection combination. the beauty deniro presented to them, was not in the form of a photograph, or any medium adhering to life like qualities. it was something tangible that was all too perceivable for these inhabitants; wood and paint. if you presented these masks to your definitive westerner, the interpretations would make sense, they would be connected (accepted). what deniro has done, is brought discomfort to you, and the notion of dislocation. you cannot identify with these images; you can feel the dislocation of both subjects (the artisan and the mask), proving this a great study on humanity, culture, and minds untainted.
27 January 2011
zilda; street artist from france. hearts for her usage of greek gods, virgins, and vampires. the placing is what i'm mostly keen on. the sinister effect of her divine subjects, in the most lovely of places create such power. she depicts the frailty of those who are immortal in a way that is justifiable, and natural.
The Vikings & explorers
a map of the states
The veins of hiways
Beauty of a map
Fast trampled forest
Madness in a whisper
The hiss of trees
A city growls
rich vast & sullen
like a slow monster
come to fat
25 January 2011
I find they have a way of capturing me.
It's not that I wasn't hopeful.
The empty ones are always hopeful.
But this surprise was different.
It wasn't in the shape of a brown box tied with a bow, nor were petals present with a cheek flushing aroma.
The surprise was, well it was a feeling, an emotion.
One that I thought was untraceable, vanished, forgotten.
Until it knocked my wind out completely.
I wasn't used to this surprise, I didn't know how to Un-wrap it-- or smell it, admire it, and place it in water.
Because, you see-- I've had this condition; or lack of a condition from what they've been telling me.
Nothing has been capturing me for what feels to be an eternity.
You wouldn't know by speaking with me, or even by passing me by. But regardless, for longer than I care to remember, I've had this empty condition.
I know it was not planned, because this type of surprise was in the form of emotion. An emotion un-planned, but completely surrendered. I knew from that moment, that you had awakened my soul.
I didn't know how to handle this surprise of emotion, so I remembered what I had done in the past with the surprises I liked.
I put you in water, and watched your emotion bloom. I checked on you everyday to make sure you would not wilt. I even went out of my way to talk to you---because I hear that stimulates your growth. And if your surprise, your emotion were to grow, my empty condition would be forgotten.
After a few days of nurtuting you , I noticed the decline of your flourish. When I went to check on you, you weren't found. And when I spoke with you, you wouldn't grow.
It seems the more I gave in to my once relluctant feeling to make you grow... The more I would find you fading in color, and withering away.
I tried one final time, because you see my condition was starting to appear once again. I checked on you, nothing. I spoke with you, nothing.
Alas, I touched you, something did happen.
Petal by petal, you began to fall appart, until nothing. Nothing was left.
What a surprise.
You're no longer reading of wars, destruction, and revolutions--You're in one, why can't you see?
You are numb from the machines, the contstant media contact, the constant typing, and the constant avaliability of it all. They're feeding you poison, they're destroying your homes, and not taking any questions at the moment.
The words of your fore fathers, the begginigng of a battle. Letters from a far away fighter, waiting to come home. Humanity being annihilated, and you're turning away. Who are you? Where are you? What are you?
The world is changing, the summers and springs are cold, the winters no longer bring snow. There's nothing left to make, our gardens are dying. What were eating is not pure, were eating products of the machine. They're trying to destory the nature's process. They're trying to destroy.
The world is changing, everyone has become desensitized. there are children shooting guns. Parents are outliving their children. We are numb with prescription drugs, and cannot feel pain. We don't read we don't write, we don't ask questions.
Save yourself, save them, save eachother. Fight to feel. Fight with words, fight with knowledge. Fight with love. Cure the droids, and bring the people back. Wake them up, let's start a revolution. Let's make them remember. Let's save our changing world.
Whether you’re entwined in the kiss of a siren, or left alone in your thoughts.
For without prior knowledge you inspire words from my soul that could melt the chill from this ghastly storm.
Could I be so wicked as to parade on your cheer, and shower you with the tale of that which shall indefinitely remain unrequited?
My wait remains certain by the glance you gave me the season past.
Your eyes spoke, darling--- love.
They spoke a language that ever advanced as quickly as it deviated since that summer—like the crocus that blooms in the day, and seals at night.
Moments when the heat is rising you’re beautiful, though in the cold I cannot see you—I lose you.
Remaining hopeful with stolen kisses, and embraces between the corridors you have proven to illuminate the shadows for what was once the loneliest of times.
For in the moment when the glimpse of light appears-- your eyes speak to mine,
And by your door my heart shall remain ever so patient, and candid.