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9 O’clock on a Saturday produces nothing but staggering ideas and thoughts that generally don’t add up to much other than a shaky knee and a room-spinning, dizzy contribution. Dizzy. I sit and try to focus on something solid. Like an Acid trip. The metaphors floatin by. One suctioned to my face. Another one stuck to the wall. A fistful of salt. No hope now. Forcing me down and filling my gullet to the brim. Spewing out. Over everything. In the muck. There, you’ve said it. Shoot ‘em out of the water with your rap-a-tap-tapping. Blow. Sing it like a line. That gray J-ELLO with its cauliflower pieces nebulously floating through: a pot-luck. Not lucky enough to get something other than three beans in soup. My thoughts, your thoughts, a society of drunkards and intellectuals and side street prophets bull-horning their forecasts to the world. Dizzy. I thought about it. Again. A plague. It. It can mean anything. It can mean me or you or us or them or that or those, but it can never mean It. I can’t speak It. It, there it is again. How many times do we follow Hem.? It. Dizzy. It. I try to define—didn’t use the It—but I only conjure It. A slippery demon that possesses those and destroys others.
It. It. It.
You want Art! Ask me something else.
Art.
He died ten years ago while shaving and underneath the plant that my GrandMum now believes is her bed-mate. Art is that which I try to explain but all I get are five I.B.’s and a dirty cup of H-2-O. I can’t explain Art. I can’t defend it or him or them together. It. He was a chef. A good chef too. He would create things that would slide down their throats—an ooh ahh—and It would become something that, under glass and with a flower on top—prosthetic or not—is now considered Art—not his name but the being itself—beautiful and so REAL. What was art? Is. Three letters. A.R.T. Combined they are something impossible. That slippery demon.
(Justin Weber)
It. It. It.
You want Art! Ask me something else.
Art.
He died ten years ago while shaving and underneath the plant that my GrandMum now believes is her bed-mate. Art is that which I try to explain but all I get are five I.B.’s and a dirty cup of H-2-O. I can’t explain Art. I can’t defend it or him or them together. It. He was a chef. A good chef too. He would create things that would slide down their throats—an ooh ahh—and It would become something that, under glass and with a flower on top—prosthetic or not—is now considered Art—not his name but the being itself—beautiful and so REAL. What was art? Is. Three letters. A.R.T. Combined they are something impossible. That slippery demon.
(Justin Weber)
posted by Prometheus Publications at 11:36 PM
5 Comments:
Very smooth, yet stimulating style! It was nice to see something that reminds us that art is simply an object, much like the chef
I really like the last paragraph. I just picture this guy Art. It's funny. It's classy. That slippery demon.
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oddly enough, art is a real guy...he was my grandfather and everything there about him is true. He died one day while shaving and he died underneath a christmas cactus. Now, this cactus had never bloomed before, and after he died it started to flower and my grandmother believes that his soul got trapped in this cactus because it floated up and hit the cactus instead of heaven.
Hmmm...christmas cactus or heaven. Tough choice.
Either people don't understand this...or it is so over their heads that they choose not to comment on it. It is sad that no one says anything though.
Is it because it doesn't quote Frenchisms? Is it because it doesn't use other people's work and copy, paste, and some-what alter?
It is an original attempt to describe something that is indescribable. That is why I like it. It doesn't have the same tone as every critic published. It lets you think and in a different way. It doesn't just spew out Nietzsche and call it a day.
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