Hello all. I see no one has been posting so I will attempt to create a discussion. It seems that Facebook is growing and creating a virtual bar scene formed by individuals who want to stay in touch with their "friends". This virtual world is actually the world that we wish we had. In a perfect world we would control who we stay in contact with and who we can shut out from our sphere of influence. It seems great at first glance, but there is a deeper sadness that prevails. Of course I'm just speaking from personal experiences, but I'm sure someone, somewhere agrees with me. I started my Facebook experience with a gentle push from a good friend. It started out great. I could stay in contact with my friends even though I am hundreds of miles away from them. I can share photos, ideas, and news with everyone and stay close to those I wish to stay close to. As my friend circle grew I came into contact with individuals from my past that I have lost contact with. Again, this is a good thing. There are those that I want to find and others that I miss. However, the deeper I go into the vast spiderweb of connections, the more people I find from the past that I wish to forget. There are those that I hate, some that I have wronged, and some that bring back bitter memories. I'm not a perfect person and I have done things in the past that I regret. Sometimes I wonder how I got here and end up dwelling on the bad choices I have made (which are numerous). Though Facebook does provide me with endless entertainment, it also makes me depressed. I often wonder what could have been or find myself comparing my life to another. Maybe I'm just getting old. I am not happy with my life in general and Facebook seems to remind me of this.
There are things in this life that do give me joy. I must do what I can to embrace these. But what is a successful life, anyway? Is it money? Fame? Inter-personal relationships? Who knows. Who cares. Why do we have to be successful in the first place? What is success? I think we spend too much time worrying about our time on this Earth. So much time, in fact, that I feel we miss the point. We are insignificant on a large enough time line. Our existence is meaningless. Our lifespan is a blink of an eye on the universal scale. There is so much we don't understand about life. We should embrace this and tap into mystery. There are no answers to the important questions. Why are we here? Are we alone in the universe? What is life? More importantly, we do not need to know (though if the answer was revealed, I doubt we could comprehend it). The problem with humanity is that we have always strived to regain control from the chaos that is life. It could be religion, or Facebook, or "success". Who cares?!?!? I don't need to feel validated for my actions, nor do I need a comfortable explanation of the world around me. We should tap into the unknown. Our souls, the very nature of our existence, is unique in every person. Embrace this. Our expression and personal view on life is unique. Embrace this. Find a way to express what can't be expressed. The greatest thing the human race has to offer the universe is art. Expression in it's most pure form. Those who can embrace art (understand, interpret, or create) are those who are "successful". At least that is what I believe. Your art doesn't need to be popular or mass-produced. It needs to exist. If I reach just one person with my art, I am happy. I can die a happy man. I have connected with another soul on a level I can not fathom. We do not need to understand something in order to tap into it's energy. We simply do. We must.
Well, I guess I started this post feeling very depressed about life, but in the process of writing I have come to a better understanding of the big picture. I just need to keep this in mind the next time someone shows me pictures of their three kids or brags about their advanced degree. My art can survive the ages and offers a better understanding of our place in time and space. Your bank account will be gone in 50 years. I feel better. Thanks for letting me vent.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
The one true art form
So how about a discussion about art? Here is the question: What is the one true art form? There are many forms of expression and an endless list of things that are considered art, but is there one (or some) artistic endeavour that holds more validity over another? What are the criteria? Is it even fair to compare dance to music, poetry to painting, etc.? Here is an idea, what art form stimulates the most senses? Painting covers sight and maybe touch and smell if you get close enough, and music triggers sound (well you could argue that a good concert experience can stimulate sight, sound, touch, and smell). Is there any art form that can use all of the senses? Sure, how about food. Food, or the dining experience, can offer something to all of the senses. Food should taste great, look pleasing, have the right texture, smell wonderful, and crackle with delight as it is being prepared. Take the classic Mexican fajita for example. Part of the joy of ordering this satisfying dish is the aroma and sound as it leaves the kitchen and arrives on your table (usually with everyone in the immediate vicinity looking over at you with that "I wish I ordered that" look on their face). Food is art, it just isn't thought of like that because everyone has to eat to survive. Art isn't about doing something different or expressive just for the idea of it, it can also be the transformation of something mundane (or something we all must do, like taking a shit or speaking) into an expressive representation of the human experience. Food is such a great example of art and it holds so many similarities with the "classical" forms. Food pleases the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and brain. Anyone can create art, its just those with training or experience seem to be better at it. Just like chefs with prime rib or your grandmother and her heavenly cookies. It seems like famous chefs are gaining popularity as celebrities, but are they getting the recognition as artists? I feel that Morimoto is every bit the artist that Bono is, but is that the general consensus? Are we ready for art shows that focus on food instead of having an art show that is catered by a notable chef? But I digress......
Saturday, March 14, 2009
The Closet
Part Two of Chapter One
The other auntie does not wait silently anymore, she burst from the closet before it can open more than an inch or two. Her eyes searching for me. They always find me. When they do, I scream. I have not messed myself or fainted since that first time, but I am just as terrified. Screaming I run to my room and wait for mama to come home.
One time, I left my coat and scarf lying on the sofa instead of putting them away in the closet. It was my plan to stay outside, avoiding Auntie until mama came home. I was in the barn when she came for me. Not the other Auntie but the real auntie. She was madder than I had ever seen her before. She beat me for leaving my things laying around. I had never been beat before, mama did not even spank me on the bottom; I was afraid of what would happen if mama found out, so I did not tell anyone about the beating or the other auntie.
Walking into the yard I resolve myself not to scream this time. Sound is ok but not a full scream. I imagine auntie’s look as I calmly step around her and hang up my school bag. “Nice Mask”, I will say as I turn my back to her and head to the kitchen for some milk. Dejected and confused she will take the mask off and stare in awe at my sudden bravery.
I start up the steps, feeling the quiet. The other Auntie is here, the house knows. I know. Trembling, I climb steps. As I cross through the front door I know with certainty that the she is not in the closet. The fear builds as I make my way down the hall to the closet. Trembling I reach for knob. heart pounding I jerk open the door. Nothing, it is empty but for the woolies and the dust.
The anticipated relief does not come. Stowing my things I began to understand. She is here, the other auntie is here and she is out of the closet. I hear Laughing, no giggling, the sound of a little girl delighted. The sound has been with me, distant and undefined from the moment I walked in the door. How could I have not noticed it? The sound is coming from Uncle Emery’s study. It used to be his dad’s study and his dad’s before that.
I walk to the door. Peering in I see her. She is not wearing a mask. But there is one lying haphazardly on the floor next to the desk. An unexplainable fear grips me. I want to run away but I can not. She is reading form an old book which appears to be a journal of some kind. I have never seen it before, which is not surprising. I am not allowed in the study and it is usually locked. The other auntie is muttering, smiling, delighted with her special treat. “Burn them” she mutters followed by a giggle. “Yes Nathanial, burn the whore. Fuck them and then burn them. Make them pay for our sins. Yes the smell! The smell is, (hehehe) the smell is wondrous. So much better for the salvation”. Some small movement, maybe the flutter of my dress catches her eye and she looks up suddenly her violet eye flashing. “Come Naomi, come read grandpa’s book” she invites softly. I wanted to go to her. No, not her. The book, I wanted to go to the book. It wanted me too. I could feel its pull. I ran.
I ran from the house crying tears streaming down my face leaving their tell tale tracks. I was not crying out of fear. It was longing I felt. It disgusted m to want it, but I did. I wanted to see the book, feel its oiling exterior, read its pages. I wanted to know it and it to know me. The sick came sudden, I lurched to the corner of the loft, and cried as the mess stained my dress and covered my shoes. I crept from the loft and quickly crossed the yard. I was able to make it to my room without seeing her.
Auntie was already eating when I entered the kitchen for dinner. We had a dining room but it was not used except for special occasion. Mama says there is no reason to dirty up a room that is entirely too big for our small family. As always auntie acted as if nothing had happened. I crossed the room and sat next to mama. Where is the book now? Auntie is the book’s whore but it is done with her. It wants me now. Mama what’s a whore?
The other auntie does not wait silently anymore, she burst from the closet before it can open more than an inch or two. Her eyes searching for me. They always find me. When they do, I scream. I have not messed myself or fainted since that first time, but I am just as terrified. Screaming I run to my room and wait for mama to come home.
One time, I left my coat and scarf lying on the sofa instead of putting them away in the closet. It was my plan to stay outside, avoiding Auntie until mama came home. I was in the barn when she came for me. Not the other Auntie but the real auntie. She was madder than I had ever seen her before. She beat me for leaving my things laying around. I had never been beat before, mama did not even spank me on the bottom; I was afraid of what would happen if mama found out, so I did not tell anyone about the beating or the other auntie.
Walking into the yard I resolve myself not to scream this time. Sound is ok but not a full scream. I imagine auntie’s look as I calmly step around her and hang up my school bag. “Nice Mask”, I will say as I turn my back to her and head to the kitchen for some milk. Dejected and confused she will take the mask off and stare in awe at my sudden bravery.
I start up the steps, feeling the quiet. The other Auntie is here, the house knows. I know. Trembling, I climb steps. As I cross through the front door I know with certainty that the she is not in the closet. The fear builds as I make my way down the hall to the closet. Trembling I reach for knob. heart pounding I jerk open the door. Nothing, it is empty but for the woolies and the dust.
The anticipated relief does not come. Stowing my things I began to understand. She is here, the other auntie is here and she is out of the closet. I hear Laughing, no giggling, the sound of a little girl delighted. The sound has been with me, distant and undefined from the moment I walked in the door. How could I have not noticed it? The sound is coming from Uncle Emery’s study. It used to be his dad’s study and his dad’s before that.
I walk to the door. Peering in I see her. She is not wearing a mask. But there is one lying haphazardly on the floor next to the desk. An unexplainable fear grips me. I want to run away but I can not. She is reading form an old book which appears to be a journal of some kind. I have never seen it before, which is not surprising. I am not allowed in the study and it is usually locked. The other auntie is muttering, smiling, delighted with her special treat. “Burn them” she mutters followed by a giggle. “Yes Nathanial, burn the whore. Fuck them and then burn them. Make them pay for our sins. Yes the smell! The smell is, (hehehe) the smell is wondrous. So much better for the salvation”. Some small movement, maybe the flutter of my dress catches her eye and she looks up suddenly her violet eye flashing. “Come Naomi, come read grandpa’s book” she invites softly. I wanted to go to her. No, not her. The book, I wanted to go to the book. It wanted me too. I could feel its pull. I ran.
I ran from the house crying tears streaming down my face leaving their tell tale tracks. I was not crying out of fear. It was longing I felt. It disgusted m to want it, but I did. I wanted to see the book, feel its oiling exterior, read its pages. I wanted to know it and it to know me. The sick came sudden, I lurched to the corner of the loft, and cried as the mess stained my dress and covered my shoes. I crept from the loft and quickly crossed the yard. I was able to make it to my room without seeing her.
Auntie was already eating when I entered the kitchen for dinner. We had a dining room but it was not used except for special occasion. Mama says there is no reason to dirty up a room that is entirely too big for our small family. As always auntie acted as if nothing had happened. I crossed the room and sat next to mama. Where is the book now? Auntie is the book’s whore but it is done with her. It wants me now. Mama what’s a whore?
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The Closet
My Grandmother was afraid of masks. She told me why in January of 1992. I lost her to cancer a few weeks later, and I have kept this story as mine. It is not mine though and the time has come to tell the tale. This is her story. The story of Naomi Fay Bridge passed to me as she lay dying. It all started in the fall of 1933. No, it started long before that. But this is when it started for Naomi……..
From the journal of Private Leviathan Nathanial Gifford
November 8th , 1838
More of them died today. Why we don’t shoot the weak I can not understand. The amount of resources being used to relocate these animals breaks my heart and I dare say it is criminal. The cost of Jefferson’s indulgent mercy may well be our souls. Men resist temptation for only so long. Even the most fortified souls will fall to a prolonged siege.
Part One of Chapter One
I know she’ll be in the closet. Waiting for me; wearing one of those damn masks. Mama doesn’t allow me to swear, but if there is anything in this world that should be damned its Auntie's masks. Me and mama live out on old Gifford road, named after great grandpa Gifford; he homesteaded our farm back in 1841. Uncle Emery and Auntie live with us too, but Uncle Emery spends most of his time in the oil fields. He says the oil money is dwindling and oil work is the only way to feed us all.
I wish Auntie would go to work in the oil fields. She is as mean as a snake. She likes to hide in the closet and wait for me to come home, so she can scare me. She wears masks made from old news print. Where she gets them is anybody’s guess. I have never seen her make one, and each time she wears a different mask.
It is easy to tell when she is in the closet. The house becomes quiet, it feels vacant, like it’s family has gone away and will never return. It is a lonely feeling. The sad silence always gives her away. With tears on my cheek I tell myself not to be frightened; after all it is just Auntie in her old house coat wearing a crummy mask. It never helps and I scream every time
The problem is that sometimes, not every time, but sometimes her eyes are not hers. Auntie's eyes are blue Pale blue, like all the women in our family. The other Auntie's eyes are violet and they blaze from behind the mask. Their brightness is unnatural like the last flare of a dying light bulb. When I scream, the brightness intensifies which is something I would not have thought possible. Eyes were never meant to shine like that.
Standing facing the door, I pray for the courage and strength not to scream, but as my hand touches the knob I see her as she must look, crouched on the floor between the woolies grinning at nothing, the violet eyes unfocused seeing the dark, loving the dark, waiting.
. The first time she did not move when I opened the door. She waited until I was in, reaching for the hanger. I realized something was there, my eyes adjusted and I was staring into those blazing violet eyes. At first I didn’t know what to make of them. It was dark and I could not make out the mask. Finally my brain put it all together I most have fainted from fright; when I came to, I was on the floor, wet and cold. There was a bump on my head.
I try not to think about that awful moment, but I remember the terror and the prickly heat of the urine stinging my legs. Worst of all, I remember the teeth. Hundreds of tiny razor like teeth, arranged into a mocking grin. Auntie was humming to herself in the kitchen cooking dinner as if nothing had happened. I went to my room frightened, humiliated and ashamed.
From the journal of Private Leviathan Nathanial Gifford
November 8th , 1838
More of them died today. Why we don’t shoot the weak I can not understand. The amount of resources being used to relocate these animals breaks my heart and I dare say it is criminal. The cost of Jefferson’s indulgent mercy may well be our souls. Men resist temptation for only so long. Even the most fortified souls will fall to a prolonged siege.
Part One of Chapter One
I know she’ll be in the closet. Waiting for me; wearing one of those damn masks. Mama doesn’t allow me to swear, but if there is anything in this world that should be damned its Auntie's masks. Me and mama live out on old Gifford road, named after great grandpa Gifford; he homesteaded our farm back in 1841. Uncle Emery and Auntie live with us too, but Uncle Emery spends most of his time in the oil fields. He says the oil money is dwindling and oil work is the only way to feed us all.
I wish Auntie would go to work in the oil fields. She is as mean as a snake. She likes to hide in the closet and wait for me to come home, so she can scare me. She wears masks made from old news print. Where she gets them is anybody’s guess. I have never seen her make one, and each time she wears a different mask.
It is easy to tell when she is in the closet. The house becomes quiet, it feels vacant, like it’s family has gone away and will never return. It is a lonely feeling. The sad silence always gives her away. With tears on my cheek I tell myself not to be frightened; after all it is just Auntie in her old house coat wearing a crummy mask. It never helps and I scream every time
The problem is that sometimes, not every time, but sometimes her eyes are not hers. Auntie's eyes are blue Pale blue, like all the women in our family. The other Auntie's eyes are violet and they blaze from behind the mask. Their brightness is unnatural like the last flare of a dying light bulb. When I scream, the brightness intensifies which is something I would not have thought possible. Eyes were never meant to shine like that.
Standing facing the door, I pray for the courage and strength not to scream, but as my hand touches the knob I see her as she must look, crouched on the floor between the woolies grinning at nothing, the violet eyes unfocused seeing the dark, loving the dark, waiting.
. The first time she did not move when I opened the door. She waited until I was in, reaching for the hanger. I realized something was there, my eyes adjusted and I was staring into those blazing violet eyes. At first I didn’t know what to make of them. It was dark and I could not make out the mask. Finally my brain put it all together I most have fainted from fright; when I came to, I was on the floor, wet and cold. There was a bump on my head.
I try not to think about that awful moment, but I remember the terror and the prickly heat of the urine stinging my legs. Worst of all, I remember the teeth. Hundreds of tiny razor like teeth, arranged into a mocking grin. Auntie was humming to herself in the kitchen cooking dinner as if nothing had happened. I went to my room frightened, humiliated and ashamed.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Poop Pollutes
So, there is this whole genre of porn out there that celebrates shit, literally, and relishes in the delights of consuming it. I know, kind of hard to keep the ol' trap open long enough to process the images, let alone sit with it long enough to ponder why you react a certain way to it. Now, I could not care less what people do in the privacy of their own sex lives. And I want to be able to be as free as I want with my own. However, I can't imagine a time when "enjoying" my partner's feces, or my own for that matter, would be sexy to me. I'm trying to work on why that is, and maybe I'll come up with an answer, maybe not. But it does beg the question....why, in the grand design of the human body, does the sewer in fact run through the playground? Just asking...
Monday, February 9, 2009
Hope Is Not A Strategy
So, the economy is balled-up something fierce. I hear lots and lots of people talking about their place in the world today, and what the economic downturn means to them. I have never seen so many people not get the point in my life. I want to scream at them and say, "wake up and take control of your own path". This is our existence we are talking about, our future. Do not leave it up to hope, prayer or some other lame practice of avoiding reality. The institution of hope has made us all passive bystanders to world events that we could have control over...if we implemented an actual strategy. There is a group of very powerful people(?) on this planet that are banking on the fact that we are just sheep relying on hope and prayer to guide us. They created that reality when they gave us the Bible. Wake the fuck up! Do something, do nothing, but for god's sake own it. And don't waste your time implementing an idea like "hope". Work on a real strategy that has a chance in hell of working. Trust me...I'll see you on the other side. I'll be the one you see through the trees, that has a savings account and 666 carved in the back of her head.
Friday, January 23, 2009
How Many in Your Party?
Welcome. So, we are an eclectic group of people who appreciate words, but not in the obnoxious pontificating way. More like the "do you know what I mean?" way (although, we reserve the pontifical right, should the need arise). The idea behind Feast of the Mind, is just that. Gluttonous literary displays of thoughts, ideas and reflections for the sole purpose of engaging you in some form of communication, either with us, or with someone else. We'd love for you to be a guest at our table, so please feel free to join in if you are desirous of doing so. We'll do our best to try and let you get a word in from time to time.
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