laura o nausea

Tansy essence will spring me into action, here’s hoping. Along with some evidence of, already. Meanwhile, considering the foodstuffs of Repo Man, emphasis on stuff. Reminds me of, old enough to: SoftBank's Brandless…which I liked somehow, using bug-eat codes to paper-line the iron heart-rattle. Ahead of its time in a way, pre-figured Rx Bar proliferation, for instance, post Target generic, though that too has evolved, subscription model, Klarna economy, and they hired this person as a marketer, that was my original association. salut Kyle Chayka. handing these things over to memory in writing otherwise how else. Laura Owens in Arles, 2021, Fondation Van Gogh, kind of about the same thing. The respective weights of image individuated object subject whole ground surface identity name. Using my mini blue IKEA bag. Does it make a difference, what a difference a day.

our spoons

The Europeans except maybe the Southerners and those of the far North cannot possibly know, "mind cannot comprehend," can it, the true value of what it’s like to stake a soft, lugubrious long morning purely for oneself, reading caffe trinken etc. Unlike Tony Soprano in his bathrobe, emitting puffs of sigh. Rising early, and then left to the devices of. No care core passe even by current juncture yet with being as a reminder. They make a life from this, its specificity theirs, its peculiarity ours.

dry sherry

anecdotally, as supported by friends, the demons came out again with Pluto's transit last week. hooks shaved down to a millimeter, circulating Weyes Blood Andromeda alongside Elvis Costello's She. now, more settled in Aquarius, we can slough off sentences like: *nasal Harold Bloom voice* 

What I retained from olden days, "yesteryear," was a license and proximity to text I would not trade for the love of a cheerier God…

It's Capricorn, really, that is about hi-G God. Yet the Aquarian "Godhead" the gallery liaison on the train to Somerset over a year ago told me was being developed at MIT, still no trace of. Auspicious.

For the artist getting older being a business, so much depends on to what extent you do so offscreen. at the moment, screen worlds beckon back, hilariously. While at the same time, becoming addicted (demons, dependencies) to maximal library borrowing.

death in America

they say it's about taxes but isn't it more so about real estate, bound up in the former? (reading Nicotine, Nell Zink). frame tale malfunction...anyway, perhaps that's why the pain has to be exported out, then imported back in again. industrial-scale processing. no Beverly Hillbillies logic. here's what's really important:

perhaps someone can source for me this 90s sweatshirt 

(Gabriele Münter, Breakfast of Birds, from collection of NMWA, Washington DC)?

repurposing

below, an uncreative (collaged) writing exercise from a class last month. note its date of origin (5.12, a Tuesday, my unlucky Mars day, in the span of fifteen minutes, and I hadn't yet seen Poor Things), publication here (17.01), and context of Switzerland, though all source authors lived in NA:

HAHAHAHAHA JACK MY SWAG HAHAHAHAHA JACK MY SWAG

The world is wide, wide, wide, and I am young, young, young, and we’re all going to live forever!

For years I have been a prisoner of the Watchers. These great hypnotists have no idols, their magic is powerful and their appetite insatiable. They thrive on misery but have great delicacy in choosing their victims. They evoke compassion but have none themselves. They possess unlimited knowledge but have no understanding, and this gives them the power of the absolute, concentrated.

I wanted to slap one in the face. Instead, I slapped him with my thoughts.

But then again, we are just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach our car, our locked hands like a starfish leaping through the dark.

Facing us, in the distance, there is another group, a group called the Weavers. These are the ones I’m trying to join. I have to leave him to be with them. Their power, of course, is pure being pure color great happiness.

The chief element of happiness is this: to want to be what you are. For there is nothing either good or bad, only thinking makes it so.

There was a time that…It's difficult to explain, but I just somehow feel that I never really lived, really existed…in the sense that other people do. It drives me crazy. I was terribly aware of it all those nights waiting for you in the Ritz bar looking around at what seemed to be real grown-up lives. I just find everybody else's life surrounded by plate glass. I mean I'd like to break through it just once and actually touch…

Dissolving margins, where change is also loss. In that state of mind, all trace of feeling is banished. Or rather, the trace becomes All. I realized, in other words, that I was alone, and saw the gift and the burden of that state. And went on dancing in my grotesque disguise, but not before I told him: “I am lonely and miserable, but I am wearing my last skin. Since you are almost face to face with the Gods, the Gods do not abandon me.” In human language, this is called love.

Whenever I remain silent in a certain way, I don't love you, have you noticed that? Why does it seem like the only way to live is to disobey the gaze of de-potentiated love?

For every mistake we make in these dances must be turned into a question, otherwise they are fatal to our human condition. Writing becomes a co-morbidity of the dance. Some people write simply because they don’t know how to live in the moment and have to reconstruct it and live in it afterwards. i.e. she had lived her early years as though she were waiting for something she might, but never did, become.

All that remains of that minute, the desire, that waiting is time in all its purity, bone-white time. Waiting you can hear yourself living.

modern major general

my heart is a regular college of feelings (Grace Paley, 1959)

something I always wonder about: what kind, what genre of, how many nuances will I have to explain to the person I marry (and they to me), for instance, the histories of certain Upper West Side families? what will really matter, what will be interesting to us then, and when?

walking by wayside

plugging away. an intercession in momentum. marginalia like:

"reverse psychology," helper, fixer, pain-body flirtation programming must still be operative if I keep going for the parts of the canvas that say, no we don't need your attention right now.

And Giacometti Kunsthaus koan:

The corrective impulse in painting that keeps a hairy 

Hangdog line from being free

Is that the newly Swiss in me?

I have dignity, but not always rectitude. I like to laugh, I laugh a lot.

Ah but what is form but a bum wipe anyhow

or when Adele H gets her big ream of paper, and begins to bleat. 

as in, to never really think things of other things by composing deliberate "argument," but to wait for someone to say the right one, and in the half-pause, half-pounce of recognition, to confess, smarmy yes, that must be what I wanted to convey myself, but could not penetrate enough to get it out, 'til now, that is, in the conversion of inference to evidence, arriving at a stance, a cause. with word, image, to trade in pure impression; for all the mounting bifurcation, impression being our era's ars.

new moon in capricorn

Forget it

I can’t remember what my new ideas for the blog were. I would come back with ideas, I thought, and I did have them. Though of course they had been sprouting at odd moments, when I couldn't get them down in writing and not now, when I can. But in wait, I might as well talk about other things, for instance. 

I lost some paint tubes, expensive ones, walking around, and spent yesterday, the next morning—after a blood draw, always a pleasure (I mean it, really one of my favorite activities)—retracing my steps, going to all seven stores I had visited with the tubes in tow, of course to no avail, and finishing up that failed but not as miserable as I might have once let it be investigation with only a couple hours left before my flight, it occurred to me that a fine final act would be to see A Confucian Confusion (1994), playing uptown, I hadn’t gone to any of the retrospective screenings the previous week, though I find the works by Yang I have seen quite affecting: so the hesitancy was really only out of laze, conflated with insufficient desire. But now this was my last chance, also because seeing movies in New York is a different thing from doing so here (tertiary mediation again). I still wasn’t sold though, being generally discombobulated, texting my mother an update as if for approval (regressing…that’s when you know) but I got on the subway at 8th St anyway, where I listened in on a nurse confessing her complex politics to a could-be patient and read a disheartening email correspondence, also medical-related, over someone’s shoulder and after switching to the 1, got off one stop early, stupid, before the theatre, again, uncertain, and at a public transit choice point, too. These circumstances made necessary what is perhaps best publicized as an "experiment". I do these things often but when in a solid place that creates a clean (albeit internally messy) sense of juncture, I can actually remember them as adhering to a kind of procedure.  

Body fixed to the platform and face slightly pained, I began to run through the full film, drawing on snatches of dialogue and title cards and internet images and descriptors also pieced together from similar works and then my familiarity with the screening room itself, having been in its chairs often, not that they are so memorable but nonetheless remembering the texture of their armrests, deciding on, or peering into, the makeup of the audience, the whole endeavor, very novelistic—I raced through the experience sparing no detail, even, or I should say, crucially, covering the emotional valences of what it would feel like—yes, mainly conducting feeling—to be sat before a film's projection of moods and figures, women and men, all the way to its credit finish. And because I completed that experience in two, three minutes, because the movie was done in an extended breath, as if I was there and knew the extent of it, while knowing that I wasn’t and didn’t, but could have, and what would be the differences between the many possible versions, I transferred to the B and went back downtown, pleased with having only spent $2.90 for the day, on the metro ticket: the film was free. Not long after there was a derailment with that same train line that had deposited me at 59th deciding by trance and I was happy with my decision and with the chaotic means by which I had arrived again at some shade of method.