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First blog post

This is the post excerpt.

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Sitting on top of the world watching summer fade. Today, here at North Pole, Alaska,  we have 15 hours and 8 minutes twix sunrise and sunset. Tomorrow the day will be almost 7 minutes shorter.

Not complaining, you understand, my firewood’s cut, split and stacked and I’m looking forward to winter.

Sun day

The Fall Of Western Civilization

Not darkness shattered by a sudden cry

But instead, an almost silent sigh

That’s quite absurd

But all that’s heard.

 

And another day dawns brightly

Over ‘scapes that are unsightly

While we all pass by

And never wonder why.

 

 

The populace eschews the past

Noting that the future’s vast

Ignoring it’s chaotic

And rootless, is necrotic.

 

 

Great while it lasted

But everything passes

In death all are equal

There is no sequel.

A Little Literary Labyrinth

 

Down on the farm, in 1984

It was a horror show

But the oranges flowed like clockwork

Sprouting out from Dragon’s teeth

Careful of the third wish.

 

And now today

They say

The way is gay

One should play

No matter what may

 

Yet I just read the words of dead Carl () and little rats feet

’cause nothing like us ever was.

Two legs are good for bitter or for wurst

Alex and his droogs are alive and sell

 

Lanny’s sister’s long gone dead

The soy boy a goyisch cup of Cheetos

While the rats shift and hieroglyph

the dust.

 

Which will soon be us

Our actions were quite rash

Our dreams turn into rust

But we still bring in the trash

 

In dog we trust.

Dyslexic septic shouts abound

Published as the latests sound

Played on the finest record brayer

For fusty dungeon dragon slayers.

 

Meanwhile Ozymandias

Look on, I’m mighty sure Budd

You can spare

A dime.

But on the other hand

Ain’t nothing wrong with sand

You will reach

The tropic beach

If you trudge and don’t begrudge

Herbert’s Sandworm’s right of way.

And then there’s Fulghum’s Alice

Perhaps his other Alice

Or maybe Alice Alice

Wishing and witnessing

The passing scene

Literature and labyrinths

Entrances and exits

Srophe

Antistrophe

Epode.

Exit, stage left.

 

Just Sayin’

 

Sometimes I holler when the water’s right

But most nows and knows I float the flow.

When on top the depth don’t matter

and down I find my ground.

 

I had a lot to say about today,

yesterday,

But now the wind is blowing from the east

and handy as that is, I’ll take another tack.

 

When all is said and done

Then all is done and said,

But then again, most often, one can appraise

and, perhaps, rephrase.

 

To clown or not to clown

But where’s the rub

er nose?

A laugh a minuet, Pagliacci?

 

Just sayin’

Or playin’

and now for the bottom line:

___________________

Cork Screw? We don’t need no stinkin’ cork screw!

OK kiddies, story time:

Some years back, here in Fairbanks, Alaska, I was exploring one of the old cabins along the creek were the original gold discovery claim for this mining district is at. Two miners had obviously lived there as there
were 2 bunks, two stools, etc.

I noticed two deep dents torn and worn in to the small table edge, one on each side, which struck me as curious strange.

Checking outside, in the kitchen midden, garbage heap, I noticed it was mostly quart bottles, at least 70 or 80, probably a hundred or more, broken off at the neck. On closer examination I found they were all, each and every one, 150 proof Hudson’s Bay Rum bottles that came with corks, not caps, back in the day. The ones nearest the cabin back door, the broken necks were rough and jagged, less jagged a little farther out, but all the rest, each and every one, one smooth, clean fracture line.

OK, putting it all together, the dents the bottles, those two miners, after a long day, would grab a corked bottle of rum and no stinkin’ cork screw? No problem, they’d break the bottle against the table edge enjoy their after work rum and toss the empty bottles out the back door on to the garbage heap!

Again, looking at the kitchen midden, noting rough breaks near the door, smooth fractures farther out, they became quite skilled and adept at opening their evening tipple without a cork screw as time went by!

Having said that, I admit we’re not the men that used to be. No I don’t have a cork screw in my pocket, but I do carry one in my Jeep in case I need it. -grin-

File under….

Why yes, you can “Fix” a charcoal drawing (keep it from smearing when touched) using cheap hair spray, rather than stinky fixatives from the art supply stores. I’ve been told the hair spray will yellow over time, but I’ve 30-40 year old drawings that show no color change.

Lately though, I’ve been fixing my charcoal drawing with urethane spar varnish applied with a brush. Of course your first thought is but but but, the brush will smear the charcoal all over the place!

Ha! not if you apply it to the back of the drawing, let it soak through the paper and hang it up to air dry.

Art is… but…

Art is art but location is important and, to state the obvious, art critics are (mostly) pompous asses.

OK, here’s a minor rant on critics, in passing, but more to the point, when, where, how art is viewed, matters.

No matter what the elite art critics say, a urinal is just a urinal and a pipe is just a pipe (Also no matter what René Magritte says.).

Having said that, remember it takes one (pompous ass, {I’ll spell it out, me}) to know another one (pompous ass) and also remember Sturgeon’s Law; Ninety percent of everything is crap, and paraphrasing his corollary, including this, my, posting.

Realtors and retailers harp on location, location, location & they’re right, place and time are extremely important for appreciation. The time and the place can make all the difference twix that’s nice, to instead, a jaw dropping bug eyed wow!

Some sixty or so years ago I was in an art museum in Chicago, long enough ago I can’t remember the painting title, let alone the museum, and unexpectedly, walking up a set of stairs, found myself looking at an, El Greco handing in the landing above me. That was a a jaw dropping big bug eyes wow!

A couple of other a jaw dropping bug eyed wows; Blue Boy at Huntington Gardens. Ruben’s Bacchus at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg (then Leningrad) and a yawn, Warhol’s Marylin, maybe a hundred prints of same, filling a museum wall in Saitama , Japan.

-which segues to the point I started aiming at (& no, not the 90% thingy but the location thingy):

On another trip to Japan I was in the Ohara art museum in Kurashiki, took a right turn from the bright windowed hall in to a darker room and, as my eyes adjusted, a predominantly blue painting on the far wall eclipsed everything else in the room (Bacchus, in the Hermitage, hit me the same way, by the way.). As I walked closer & could make out the details, it was Jackson Pollock’s ‘Blue’ or ‘Moby Dick’.

Previous to that I’d pompously place Pollock right along side the urinal and the pipe but ‘Blue’ at that time, in that place, (& sigh, using another parenthetical aside; ‘Blue’ mostly blue, shapes floating/blending therein, colors bright,objects hinted at, -highlighted in a dim room in Japan, a land of islands surrounded by deep blue sea, Fujisan, The Wave, the floating world…) it worked, it was art, hell, it was great art!.

On a later visit to the Ohara, the room was being remodeled and ‘Blue’ was, temporarily out in the hall, still the same painting, of course, but it’s impact was lost in that location, although it was ‘nice’.

& OK, I’ll cut Magritte some slack on his ‘Treachery of Images’ (This is not a pipe) but Duchamp’s urinal is still just a urinal.

&& I hope I did fit in 10% of non-crap in this posting.

&&& some of you might enjoy looking at the work of a dead friend of mine that was a contemporary of Pollock, et al: http://skondovitch.com/