My Pictures

The Horizon is a Blade

We have followed our path too far
Infinity is rushing towards us, to cut us down
Like the horizon it seems to be unreachable,
But the horizon is a blade.

Skin

Between pore and pore and pore
On a net, slide
Curving round a bent elbow

A Thread A Skin

Speak in emotions an emotional language
And a language of emotions, infused with language,
Language devoid of emotion a blind faith,
Hidden even from the true believer,

A thread of time a skin of a memory,
Just remembered,
Forgotten,
Leaving a thin trace as it recedes
From the moment,
To a dark crevice,
Where untapped dynamic energies lie dormant.

Nights Devoid of Ease

long long forgotten places
between walls and spaces
dim dusty and damp

forgotten boxes fragrant antiques
dovetailed tables and chairs
well appointed fixtures
in suburbia relegated to
a perimeter out of sight
an interior exurbia

infused with a latent light

img harvest

The Long Long Fall

I’m beginning to feel the long long fall,
I fall backwards, and only see things once they’ve past
The world is not rushing past me, I am rushing past the world,
It is not a wind that blows as I plummet, the air does not move at all,

The world does not move for me, and I cannot move the world,
I can only move myself, and there are others who move with me,
We do acrobatics in the air while in our free fall together,

We cannot see the ground, and try to act as if our fall will last forever,
The house we build in the air is falling with us, it has no foundation at all,
Our young children rush to the ground too, falling beside us.

YVR - SLC

Sorry to have not saved you your seat
I thought it was you who sat beside me,
It feels like I'm dreaming

I deplaned in a daze,
I can hear the air conditioning drying me out,
A customs guard searched my shirt collar for weapons and explosives
three times before letting me go.

Harbinger

Don’t change your step harbinger of sleep
nothing but mold grows in the dark,
Festering thoughts are fertile ground,
where anything will seed

Keep step in time, the Night is short
Lengths of dark, puddles of light
and Forest asleep
Every tree hums, and the wind
a breeze quietly breathing
bends a single sapling low.

...another place erupts in the Forest
and the place is now a room
in a building, painted red

the walls, those hateful walls
pin me to my place,
in a desk like a slot, similar to every other...

These Walls

When I lay down, I prepared my self to dream good and long. Determined to have a measure of control over my world, I teach myself to bend time and space (the very fabric of my unreality). I return although, most every night to my elementary school. Here I feel the tyranny of those walls crush my will to remake my interior world. It seems as if my imagination is contained at those times in those walls, held prisoner from me. Like a child I am powerless to this institution that holds such immense power over my mind and body. The dreamer that I am, will awaken though, and it may be soon.

ECUAD Creative Process: Devices in Which to Weigh a Dragon

ECUAD Creative Process: Some myths and some symbols for a future paradigm

An Inspired Fire

In the future I will be dreaming, of a slow and steady flame
In a kind of sleep, in a scarlet mood.

Porticelli

Floating down the street, the street with arcades running both sides all lit for the absent patrons, the shop's windows display goods to a silent promenade of no one. The always cold always dusty stone underfoot shines its singular lustre. Smudged, scrubbed and freshly painted and plastered columns support the arches above. Turn a corner, there will be no one, the fiends and shoppers go home when the shops close.

A Waking Dream

During the time of the night when I first start to dream, I was woken by a phone call. So, now I could not sleep, although a little of that dream still clung to my waking life.

I saw a vast hall, deep underground from far away — filled with many people. The roof was sheared off so that I could watch them from above. Or, maybe it was only from a mountain I saw this room. There was soft light from lanterns strung between the walls, and I seemed to be floating. Slowly as I left the scene my interest grew and my thoughts wandered to a less peaceful place.

All scientists are artists, although not good ones.
Also, all artists are scientists, although not good ones.

Composite Storia

Following my course down the hall into the stairwell, I pass down to the lower street level exit of the House. The door is broken, huge and made of ancient wood. I skip over the street with two long strides into an arched entrance of a stone, temple like palazzo to mail a package. Standing, waiting on the green marble floor for a clerk's attention the afternoon moves at a special pace.

The people's deepest desire is sleep

They walk in a waking dream,
through the dark, casting no shadows

Wandering the Streets, never finding
Night's sweet child Sleep.

Further On Place

This building is a tyrant, it structures every part of my life

This building has friends and is friendly with its neighbors,
here is a community

This building is my home, this house is where my family raised me.

A Finite Stage

This landscape pulls up close around me
A vast plain laid before me
Where I make gestures
And pace in circles


Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Place #1

Spreading, radiating
On this expanse of asphalt,
As still as still waters,
Taking Darkness from the
objects on this surface.

Nightscape #1

The corner of the attic
Is dark in the same way
As a river valley wood at dusk

These secret hours of serene silence
Keenly aware of the deep night below

I treat my boredom exploring
On a stage of lamplight
The forgotten overgrown places,
The wild patches

I look at the street lamps
Burning aside the houses row on row

Glowing dimly under long arches
Of walnut arms along the road

The dark has drawn up close to me
As I keep silent and watch

Mode Moderne

River to Me

Not the clear quick stream
Not the lazy brown river
A glacial river in the spring
A torrent rushing sediment along

After the melt will return
As blue and steady
Calm and confident

For the Performative Poet

Whispered in an undertone,
A subtext to the words spoken in italics
in brackets he muttered — to himself

(The small details will sadly be missed
In the rush of oratory
But, the pithy punch-line
Shouted with gatling gun alliteration
In an indulgent lilt
Will be remembered)

"A peasantry grown fey and mystic, and unimpeachably artistic."

Cornered in the darkest crevice, teeth bared shining in the starlight.

The Night is Alive

The night is alive in the wild patches, in forgotten overgrown places
Keep silent, and the wild parts of the grid will remind you they're there,
Lithely under warm pools of lamplight they run,
Balanced on wires darting across the lane to warm nests in house walls,
Dexterous paws sorting through bins
House cats treating their boredom exploring the night
This city would turn to rubble in a short time if we were all to leave from it at once.

untitled, 2009

lost in a moment from dennis wheatley on Vimeo.

Empty Vessels

It feels as if my life has shifted into a plotless prolonged waking dream. Friends and family have morphed into exaggerated parodies of themselves. Their words have become cryptic; ciphers to a world I no longer understand. I feel ignorant of something I'm not sure I can comprehend.

Everything I don't know has become mystery to me, I can no longer trust my perception, I now look at the world unquestioning, accepting what I see as true.

In time I've become habituated and found ways to cope with my place in this world. I've begun to mimic those around me, I cling to every phrase I can memorize, every action I can imitate, I dance around chanting the slogans I know, gesturing passionately to passersby desperately hoping for any connection.

We speak the same language, but the words seem to signify nothing. The meanings I know seem to have been forgotten, outdated, or washed away.

So, I'll go down into a dark basement away from family and friends, to muttering about the ways that used to be. Nostalgic for meaning and mystery I'll seek to fill the empty vessels, to plant seed that grows plurality.

"the blogosphere"

I feel like this medium has a chance at being an honest and useful forum for people to exchange stories. When bloggers are not just complaining or ranting about inane topics, interesting things come out. Whether a tedious hour by hour account of your day or minute observations of every social action and idiosyncrasy, or a meandering narratives populated with characters taken directly from the author's own life the blogosphere is rich in imagination, or at least information and inspiration.
Naturally none of these things that are written remain our intellectual property and anyone serious about making a go of writing can't blog without the danger of the invading "google bots" or "coolhunters" making off with their thoughts. The argument could be made that there exists the same dangers in the physical world of writing as the digital, and that the path set before an aspiring amateur isn't easy whichever way. The access to an audience or to readers offered through blogs is unprecedented, and although great works of literature are unlikely to made here great writers could. In such a fertile and liberated environment passionate writers have an oppertunity to make a name for themselves, and like the dream of most every blogger to make a deal with a real life physical publisher and write a real life paper book.

On the Lake

Undulating sheets of light
Cast shimmering ciphers on the hull

The memory of the lake was spoken,
In a language unknown to all

It told vividly a history,
Rich in meaning to decipher

Of every loon, stream, and current
Ever alive inside her

This beautiful representation of something so simple and true
Drew my gaze for hours and imprinted on me something new

A greater clarity of vision, one more the perspective of nature,
A complete historic view.

cldhnd

What Lies Ahead, Chaos?

Postmodernism (or more accurately our "current unnamed time") seems to be an age, making a clean break from history, it seems to hold the potential for something authentic.

History seems to move in circles, swirling convection currents propelled by our human character. For the first time we may be coming aware of this phenomenon en masse. If we interrupt this current what will happen? Will we see chaos, or a new way?

What will happen when our "postmodern" ideas are deployed in full force?

Response to "Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization"

First of all the term "hipster" is as about a descriptive word as is "postmodernism,"
the term "hipster" throws a blanket over the whole movement. The only thing that this movement really successfully rebels against is a neat and tidy name that wraps up what it is. If this essay really did define the "hipster" I would buy the thesis, but the fact is there's more to it, which makes it hard for me to believe the end of our civilization is nigh. It seems to me that this is a movement in need of a direction.

If the "hipster" readers of Adbusters were to be given some sort of motto or manifesto, if the critical voice of Adbusters were used to rally a movement to stroke some ideas into action, we might just see an authentic counterculture movement like this essay pines for.

Also counter to what this essay suggests, history will continue, new ideas will take root, new movements will march forward, this movement marked "hipster" could be the seed of something authentic, or at the very least the fertile soil for a future seed.

this is the original essay im responding to

http://www.adbusters.org/magazine/79/hipster.html#comment-1136

Thursday night at the GAM

I walked to Torino's Contempory Art Gallery called GAM this evening. I understood that on Thursdays the gallery was open until 11pm. It wasn't. Instead I found myself walking straight into a lecture entitled "I Viaggi di Maurizio Levi." I asked one of the staff if it was open to the public, she said "yes."
After I sat down I noticed I was almost certainly the youngest one there, in fact every head for three rows ahead of me was grey. So I waited, feeling totally out of place, expecting to hear a lecture in a language still foreign to me on an unknown subject.
Even though I only understood a few words, I was able to surmise that it was about the travels of Maurizio Levi. Whether the speaker was Maurizio Levi or this was someone recapping the journeys or "viaggi" of the ancient explorer? I wasn't sure. The lecture consisted of a narration of photographs taken in India, China, and Kashmir of their people, their everyday lives, and the geography. It took about 45 minutes for the speaker to cover China, India, and Kashmir, and as I noticed there were still approximately 20 countries listed on the program and as it was already about 10:15pm I decided to call it a night, and walked home.
Although, I didn't actually learn anything about the subject the speaker was talking about I wouldn't call it a waste of time. I was able to understand more Italian than I have before, and it got me out of my apartment to someplace else than the market or the internet cafŽ. I hope next time I go I see some contemporary art.

First week in Italy

I landed on Friday night with my mom. Unfortunately almost everything shuts down on the weekend in Italy, so we couldn't really get down to business on anything until Monday. So we just wandered the streets and ate amazing meals at night and drank cheap but amazing wine. By the time Monday came we were starting to adjust to the timezone. We had only a few things to do before my mom left on Wednesday morning, but they were big ones. Primarily we had to find an apartment for me (something that ought to take a few weeks in most cases) but for us only

we only had two days. Fortunately we had a guide to help us on Tuesday, after we decided that we could not make it happen so quickly by ourselves with out speaking any Italian. Our guide Luisa our new best friend found me a place in only half a day. We went to the notice board at the city University and she pulled a fist full of numbers to call about apartments for rent. After about twenty minutes on a payphone and about 5€ later we had a lead. It was a newly renovated one room apartment in the best neighbourhood in town (zona crocetta) at exactly the price we wanted (very cheap). Our guide Luisa told us once we saw it that it was perfect and
that we couldn't have hoped for anything better. So we took it, we ran down onto the street to a


Bancomat to withdraw enough for a deposit on the place, we then went over to the landlords house to sign the contract. Anyways to make a long story short, a few trips to Ikea and the local market and its almost home.
-=joseph

thoughts on Andrea Zittel

I went back to the art gallery again today. I managed to catch a tour on Andrea Zittel. She is really amazing, I would call her neo-contructivist. She redesigns life. She tries to question every way we organize it, in a way that seems to transcend social commentary and speak to a more basic human nature not yet discovered. Is the eight hour work day reasonable or is it just arbitrary? Where we work and where we live why do they have to be separate? Why do we wear something different every day? I like the way she thinks, as it seems that she is not compelled by a social or political agenda but only her own curiosity. I am also very fond of the directness of her works, nothing seems to be a metaphor, but instead a very direct simile. Each piece amounts to a statement or an essay.

Andrea Zittel -----"These things I know for sure"

1. It is a human trait to organize things into categories. Inventing categories creates an illusion that there is an overriding rationale in the way that the word works.

2. Surfaces that are "easy to clean" also show dirt more. In reality a surface that camouflages dirt is much more practical than one that is easy to clean.

3. Maintenance takes time and energy that can sometimes impede other forms or progress such as learning about new things.

4. All materials ultimately deteriorate and show signs of wear. It is therefore important to create designs that will look better after years of distress.

5. A perfect filling system can sometimes decrease efficiency. For instance, when letters and bills are filed away too quickly, it is easy to forget to respond to them.

6. Many "progressive" designs actually hark back towards a lost idea of nature or a more "original form."

7. Ambiguity in visual design ultimately leads to a greater variety of functions than designs that are functionally fixed.

8. No matter how many options there are, it is human nature to always narrow things down to two polar, yet inextricably linked choices.

9. The creation of rules is more creative than the destruction of them. Creation demands a higher level of reasoning and draws connections between cause and effect. The best rules are never stable or permanent, but evolve, naturally according to content or need.

10. What makes us feel liberated is not total freedom, but rather living in a set of limitations that we have created and prescribed for ourselves.

11. Things that we think are liberating can ultimately become restrictive, and things that we initially think are controlling can sometimes give us a sense of comfort and security.

12. Ideas seem to gestate best in a void--- when that void is filled, it is more difficult to access them. In our consumption-driven society, almost all voids are filled, blocking moments of greater clarity and creativity. Things that block voids are called "avoids."

13. Sometimes if you can't change a situation, you just have to change the way you think about the situation.

14. People are most happy when they are moving towards something not quite yet attained (I also wonder if this extends as well to the sensation of physical motion in space. I believe that I am happier when I am in a plane or car because I am moving towards an identifiable and attainable goal.)

15. What you own, owns you.

16. Personal truths are often perceived as universal truths. For instance it is easy to imagine that a system or design works well for oneself will work for everyone else.

-----Andrea Zittel

who needs sleep

Well its almost midnight and i have to get up at 5am. Do I care? Not so much really, Ive done with less. What does sleep matter really as long as your functional enough to get through the day, you can really sleep as little as you like. Besides the only time I really like to think and write and read and draw is this time. Between 10pm and 3am. And I dont think that Im that unique in this way, I think that most "creative" people do the same. I dont think that my health is suffering from it, Im happy and content to be a little sleepy during the day, after all Im working that time, there isnt much to enjoy anyways. I always perk up in the evenings no matter how tired I was during the day so why change things, I have energy when I want it.

I should be working right now but there isn't anything much to do. All I do is react to situations, there is little need to be proactive. I hate this kinda of work, but then again its good for me because it allows me the mind space to blog or just think. So I guess as long as I'm not bored then I'm happy. And having that freedom to do what you like when there is no work to do feels great. Ive had those kind of jobs with long dead spaces and nothing to do because if it its not working then its forbidden, and all you end up doing is starring at the wall for hours on end.
-=joseph

may 3rd

10:30am
Well I'm starting to count down the weeks until I leave for Italy, its almost asurred now, now that I'm working full time. Its not going to be easy to sort everything out before then, now that I'm occupied monday to friday during business hours, and on top of that I also have to run my business. I hope I can turn over all the logistic stuff to min and vlad, so that I can be the remote owner/designer and still reap the benefits from Torino. I think what I have to do is look for more ways to streamline my whole operation, which means outsourcing all of the printing and getting the company to also print the size and the name of my brand on the inside of each shirt. The one thing that I want to keep doing by hand myself is the labels. I think that they communicate a lot about my brand. I don't want to give even and inch of to anybody on that cause with a little imagination I think that I can do alot with that small amount of space. One thing that ive done is number a run of shirts I recently did by writing by hand the edition and individual number on each tag and signed beside it. This way I can reclaim the feel of a "hands on touch" even if no part is done by hand except the tags. I imagine that they would be pretty easy to send to Canada when I'm in Italy too. I wonder if I'm going to be able to sell many shirts in Italy. I can see that there is a demand for the type of shirts I'm selling but that there isn't an abundant supply of quality designs. I saw a bunch of shirts with "Angel Demon" written on the front as if this is some clever english phrase that everybody is wearing in "the States." But nothing else half decent. Now I'm not implying that Italians have no style because we all know that would be a lie, but they're definetly not on the cutting edge in the niche of designer tees. I just dont know if my vancouver style will be congruent with the Pietmontese look. Well no mattter if it isn't cause it seems that min and vlad might be able to get me ditribution across America and Canada. 10:30am

I dont blog nearly often enough.

8:30
So I figure that I need some sort of creative outlet that I can access whenever I want, even when I'm working. My job is boring but it certainly isn't "soul sucking," what is does is really just occupy me, it uses up all my mental energy. If I can skim a little of that energy thats being wasted whenever I have nothing better to do than "look busy" with this then I think I can get something meaningful done. Well at least meaningful to me, maybe to you as well if you relate to me.

What I intend to do here is document my thoughts while I work (the ones between calls) where I have free rein of my thoughts.

Now I warn you, in my writing I often find myself able to only write about the writing process itself or why I write, why I don't write about anything else, and so on like that. I don't know how interesting this will be, but I'm certain that this is still much prefered to a detailed account of my day's events, as I find it hard to be dishonest with those type of entries, and they almost always end up being to accurate, to the dull truth, or too consise for a decent distraction from your boring day. But then again, I don't think really that I'm writing this for you anyways, it'd be nice if you were interested but not problem if you're not. 8:30am