Just an addendum. Someone has far exceeded my feable PH reference. Check out
http://anissaannalise.livejournal.com/

Doh!

One never knows but at least one can stay entertained. There's a lot of ranting railing peeling and pooping about the culture we have somehow derived. But has anyone considered, it is the most valiant? I bought a painting tonight. Because, in part, the artist (and I had deduced that between bathroom breaks he is an artist), described it as, the paint "is thick." Pardon me and you probably need to, but that is freaking brilliant. There are two piddly things in my piddly universe. One is, I like paint. So crucify me for an object loving hedonist. Yes! The other is no bullshit. "oh I did this painting because of a sunset that happened on a day when my dog died and I was 12 and I had my first kiss." Save my piddly from such dribbly.

But I have, relunctantly because I love to complain about the world I am not succeeding in, decided this culture is the best. Has anyone else thought that? Look at it. Given the circumstance. We as a living organism are effectively on death watch. Dunno about you, but I don't see a fabulous future. Because of some wierd creature organism hangover from a more ignorant time we expect something like at least 10 kids a generation will read Middlemarch. And we are appalled (and I singularly am) by the fact few read, and the number reading Middlemarch has dropped to 8. (Forums are addictive, you've gotta rec that, LOL!)

Don't key in on the name "Paris Hilton," but think instead of a damp smelly twig poking out of the water and sluge on a flood plain. And we, as the primordial muck of a prehistoric phasmortigation (?) reach for... our forearms distended with the effort of survival and hope... fingers seperating in deliberate aim and desperation... we... the culture at large make the last flailing grab for... Carrie!

Ah man. One never knows does one. But at least, one can stay entertained. And the shop I bought the "thick paint" from is MoTowne.etsy.com

Who Knew

Who knew, indeed. But what I was going to blather about is the state of... well. Finances. Bleck. Today I discussed life with the manager of my local bank branch. Weelll. maybe not life in general but an overdraft or three and I am guilty. You see, life is way to complex. I didn't expound on this. Instead I brought up Gisele Buchanan and Tom Brady. You see, I read that GB earned 150 million and TB earned 30. Million. Last (one) year. And one of my overdrafts involved a $30 penalty on a $1.25 charge. Geeze. (I think I represent the amoeba of this story.) The local branch lady was nice and understanding, the bank person downtown who bizzarely kept hanging up the phone was less understanding. (What would Freud have said about her relationship with her phone? WWFS?)
I really don't think I misremembered the $150 million... and not even for a cure for cancer. or AIDS. Infant mortality is on the rise in Mississippi and a lady (I'm sure she is a nice person) is paid $150 million to walk around in a bathing suit. Now paying TB 30 mill.... well, go Pats, what can I say. Geeze. Like, win? My $30 penalty + TB's 30 million = three beers during a Pats Super Bowl.

Its the Hands

I think this post originated with my viewing richierugs.etsy.com earlier today. His rug of hands on a piano, title of the piece, "Just Shoot the Piano Player." So when I felt compelled to take a picture of a wax and I of course had to hold it... the hands stuck out. But its the piece! Carved wax, particularly carved swoopy wax... it is erotic... No doubt about it. Art in all its pure and unpure forms... is erotic. But there are those hands! Have I stumbled upon a metaphor of the universe? Religions seem to like hand stuff... is it an inadvertant recognition of the metaphysical disjunction between the pedestrian image and desire? There is some disjunction there and I ain't no John Donne. I be a simple carver of wax and drinker of beer. Cheers.

Not a Baudelaire

Whenever one is contemplating the stupidity of ones fiscal choices in ones life, (you can see the orgins of my "ones" post), Baudelaire is useful. Frankly, I feel that if anyone can achieve the originality and conceit of Baudelaire, stupe on, as it were. The guy is beautiful. A hero, without a doubt. So when I was fussing over a new batch of photos the title appeared intrinsic with this poor bastard child of Picasso.... Not a Baudelaire.

Fishie-poo

This small fish was carved out of wax and cast into sterling silver. I consider him my good luck guy...

Regarding the NFL Patriots

Who cares. In the background I'm listening to NPR cerebralizing over blogging. Now, I have read some fantastic blogs. And forgotten every single one (no not really but I have a point to make). I don't forget reading Tale of Two Cities while in Quito, Equador, or talking about Steinbeck with some CRAZY Canandian in Panachel, Guatamala. There is some great beer in Guatemala for all you NFL fans. And in Fiji. Man do you guys got some traveling to do....
As with all those cell phone crash drivers, I've taken up one neural track with another. How to listen to others while talking to oneself.... (present difficulties referring to...
Who cares.
I do re: Pats. (that's the title, anyway) I wanted to vent about Randy Moss. What I want to say, to me and the keyboard, is. I don't think individual desires and society expectation can ever be factored out. Simplified, shut up youse guys. Look at it. Do all families have a black sheep or do all families need a black sheep? People respond to expectations. There is something way to facile about how we deal with one another. I've heard it said that if you enter the public forum expect the the pubic discourse. But. If I were to say anything to RM I'd refer him to a blog I caught a few weeks ago talking about deliberate practice. A blog, mind you. (by Friendsvangard..? just to help out any anal retentives out there.) It was talking about success, and practice, and what made for success. Bottom line, if you want the touchdown do it all the time. Practice delibrately.

However. There's the individual thing and the organizational thing. Psychology. Whose playing footsie and why. I think the Pats played footsie last season. This season I expect them to go all out. Kinda like redefining the line. And RM? well. um. I wish the guy well. The videos I've seen are great. Pure talent. He is an artist. Its just, the deliberate practice thing. (Wes Welker apparently read that blog.) And how can any individual with a sense of self ignore massive BS? It'd take a Zen master. Hey, RM....

And another Pats thing. Regarding TB, our incredibly sucessful QB? His self absorbion? Give it a rest. Like, who do you know says all the right things all the time, and who isn't self absorbed to some extent? What contorted value system are we holding athletes too? (or not to for that matter). He is not, from what I've heard, more self absorbed, than 90% of the folks I know and I don't want to know the other 10%! Geeze people. You're paying him to win, and he and the rest of the Pats do that very freaking well. Quit nit picking. Were he to be involved in dog fighting I'd say call out the....

Anyway. Good night and buy more jewelry! That is, StoneyCharms.etsy.com. (Other jewelry dosen't count. We're going for the touchdown here...)

My House

My House. This House is a very very very fine house. What were my thoughts when I started on this image? Really now. Do people vocalize internally when they are into a form? I think not. I think its like infatuation. You can rationalize later, but frankly, you're along for the ride.
Good night.

THIS IS MINE

This post is in response to a few questions received and the, ah, times we live. And the art we produce. And the visual statements made. The communication inadvertently, or not so inadvertently, created.

I'll start in flashback mode. (You know, one of my frustrations in life is in not being the author of a Tale of Two Cities. I totally disagree with the folks that say the best has been written and therefore... I know I can't set the scene the way Dickens did, or rant like Faulkner or Baldwin, or hallucinate like Joyce... But that won't shut me up. No way man. As a pugnatious 2 yr old kept telling me once, "no way man no way man..." in a high pitched and determined voice.)

Getting back to the flashback... years ago... how many won't be specified... I took a light metals course at a prominent art school. During this course I watched fascinated as a fellow student cut the feet off of a cheap rubber duck and cast them and call the product "her"earrings. It never seemed to occurr to the artist that in fact a sculptor had made those ducky feet she was now appropiating and calling her own, unique, art. Actually, I'm not sure she cared enough to think about it. Because, what she did, is not unusual at all. Its seems totally acceptable. My crossed eyes and silent retching is the oddball reponse.

I can think of 2 theories about this. One is that there is a whole lot going on, some good, some not so good. Linking in with my second theory: the flashing billboard syndrome. People (not me, but those that don't have bad backs and fat rears) can run fast. But. Traveling at the speeds we do today...(and how quaint those words will be 50yrs from now... another billboard flashing by)... what effect does that have on our ability to absorb and perceive depth in images and information given. How does the speed of travel effect our critical facilities? Are our perceptions tunneling to flashing billboards?

I think I'll leave that rant there, coasting the car to a stop in a weed choked driveway. Who said "I yam who I yam." Some cartoon character? Getting back to charms and THIS IS MINE. I make my own stuff. Butt. (referring to my running abilities again.) Butt. (oh dear oh dear). I am within a tradition that I respect and enjoy. Charms are "a cross between a power amulet and a security blanket." A quote out of a book on charms, titled "Charms," oddly enough. I make hearts because I like to make them, and they remind me of a lot of silly and very human stuff. Bees? I haven't made one yet but I will. I will make one because I used to catch honey bees in my hands and let them go. People may, or may not, buy bee charms. But if they do they will do so because of how it looks, what they think of when they see a bee charm, or because bees charms are considered lucky.

I'm sure my making charms is all E.D.'s fault. '"Hope" is the thing with feathers-' Without her I'd be casting rubber ducky feet.

A couple of wonderful and original shops to check out at etsy.com... BiscuitOfDoom and Evod.

In the Pursuit of Happy Endings

In this post I will link Paul McCarthy, the Great American Health Care Industrial Complex, and the NFL. Hah, you say. Well, we're all in this life raft together... let's drift. (The Great American Health Care Industrial Complex will henceforth be referred to as the GAHCIC.)

Getting back to the title. See, all problems, or some of them, or those that I pick anyway, can be linked to time. The other day I heard a fragment on NPR about how "the pursuit of happiness" had a different meaning when the consitution was written. I do not remember, if I was even listening, what the time relevant meaning of P of H was. My pathetic brain stopped with that one realizaion. (one at a time, please.) You see. It does make sense. P of H never did. However, the misunderstanding over time has morphed into an odd thing. Pursuit of Happiness....

Now enter Paul McCarthy. Not to be used just as a Google spasm, he (again on NPR. I do enjoy NPR... the beauty of it is an aquired literateness without having to open a book) said this a.m. something about "Happy Endings." Was it a song title? dunno. Another brain fart occurred. (my brain does beans.) Did he realize the beauty of that phrase? Possibly. I mean, well, you know....

And the NFL. I'm rooting for the NE Patriots. And one reason? I really hope this is not totally true but the pain of living requires me to at least sit in this well cushioned chair and admit... they win. I remember the season Brady started doing his thing. Or at least, his QB thing. Though I'm sure he was doing other things too, but I digress... The team suddenly started to look interesting. Stuff (football) happened. Good bad though mostly good, happened. I don't know enough about football, I just look at action... and the scoreboard...

And getting back to the microchip implanted in my bean fed brain... NPR, that is. On "Only a Game" this past Saturday a pro B-ball player talked about how he didn't understand 40 yr olds painting themselves green and black and taking sports so seriously. He doesn't get it. Maybe as a player he's not aware... He doesn't have this need...

Its all about happy endings. Paul McCarthy said it right. In that one phrase. with DARFUR. The Bush (that is his name, right?) administrational debacle. Global Warm Poop down. Health care.... GAHCIndustrialC. Is it the warping of a time that created misunderstanding, or is it a human need? Maybe, the misunderstanding came willfully though subconsciously through time.... We need a happy ending therefore we saw the P of H as our right....

GO PATS! The NFL (or at least rooting for the NE Patriots) is like weeding. It's a mindless activity that one can succeed at. (all NFL folks just... you know I had to say that...) I won't paint myself. Really. But whether it is good... not... it is like that little bird E.D. mentioned (see I did read in 3rd grade... introducing E.D so early robs her of the P of H link)...

There was this book, Rollerball. Where in a world corperations ruled, there was this sport rollerball that was vicious and committed and occupied the masses totally. I do not link the NFL and today to this sci-fi story totally (GO PATS)... but I wonder... I want a happy ending. Frankly, we really are in this life raft together. (Steelers fans, okay. No Colts.) I still pay attention some, albeit in a cringing way, to the political train wreck (an old metaphor denoting an unstoppable destructive force...)

I even liked Brady's Snickers commercial. Good night.

Jewelry jewelry jewelry

The title brings to mind some old image of a movie where a middle aged white guy is banging with a gravel dispensing justice. In a suit. He's wearing a suit. And the justice is good and right and you feel good and right and there's no static in the image. The good guys will win. And you can go to bed and sleep well thinking good and right stuff is being done. Man. What is with reality. What is with this country? What is it like being a 17 yr old and not even having a glimmer of an illusion of justice? I mean, I know its an illusion. But it is a FREAKING IMPORTANT one. With such illusions we develop standards. And with standards we try harder and expect more. In fact, we hope. Constitutions are written on the basis of such stuff. Humanity defines itself that way...
or not. Look up Genarlow Wilson. Georgia.

I began this posting to announce the opening of a stoney charms store on etsy.com. The title got me sidetracked. I found out about Wilson the other night. There's a petition to sign. I signed it, thinking of the anti-war petitions I've signed. Ah, hell. What a way to announce a store! Ya'll come visit now, ya hear?