i made it, i got it

i made pizza
i made plans
i made beds in cities
i never slept
i made time
i made drawings
to pass the time
i made tracks
i made noise
i made shapes
staring out the window

i got lost
i got left
i got taken
i got rest
i got coffee
i got to sleep
i got up early
i got dropped off
i got to see you
i got drunk
i got attached
i got nervous
i got away
i got nothing
but the clothes in my bag

the hardest part is yet to come

Now leaving Pictorialism, now entering, approaching/appropriating Pop Art, apparently. An aesthetic arrived at sideways, and from behind, approaching from an historical vector, the foundational approach, I suppose: starting at the beginning and progressing, in upward steps, towards the pinnacle, which is always one step ahead, so that someday, hopefully, I will always be in the present. The strategy now appears to be clear, which may require subversion, or perhaps a strategy of undermining, in order to find some new direction, upwards maybe but diagonal, or even parallel, the direction or shape not really important but just the surprise at what is produced with each generative step, each action also a possibility, so that stepping is of itself the purpose for stepping, an action is an action, perfect equal relationship, self-reflexive, self-affirming motion: yes, I am stepping. I stepped from Pictorialism into Modernism and am currently stepping through Modernism into Pop Art, and the beginnings of an 80's Postmodernism have already emerged, as well as an interest in work dealing with questions of medium and media, so that I have become of multiple eras, and am seeking to connect them all, to give depth to each project by drawing them from a basic proposition outside of themselves, an idea in abstract, an axiom which gives form to the steps: Life is energy. Life is the ability to move, in any small increment, however passively, as well, so that a child in a coma at least breathes, has a heart that beats, however softly, and that is energy, and that is life, and a leaf, too, falling to the ground, blown across concrete by wind, has energy, too, and is life, and surely the sparks of a fire, and surely the restless ocean, surely the stars that shine, and even the bedrock of the earth shifts, life, which is energy.

Development, Inevitably

TITLE:
Untitled [No possession, no expectations]

GENRE:
Experimental Youth Romance

LOGLINE:
Forget the influence, I was under you.

SYNOPSIS:
Is certainty desirable? Is permanence ideal? I'm a rolling stone, I'm gathering moss. I wander the country, I won't leave the house. Let's get out of here, just stay with me. But contradictions aren't surprising; I'm not impressed by those commas. I'm faking a stance of disappointment, because it's expected. You got semi-colons, you 're connected. Each fully fleshed idea connecting one to the next, by punctuated phrases, by alliterative consonants, continually concerned with the crushes of others, collected. Cute. Ace in the pocket, high above your head, the miasma of denial and inaction, hiding under a hoodie, in the corner with your criticism. Did you catch all that? Did it fall through your fingers, weightless, lacking content? Each rain drop holds a secret - drink it in, toxic as honesty.

SUPPORTING VISUAL MATERIALS:
(to be updated)

Old Enough to Care

Teen Drama

She said I wouldn't be caught dead
She said let's go to my place instead
I looked at the books she read
I didn't hear a word she said

Try standing still
Try being real

She didn't say a word
As I turned out the light
She didn't say a word
And it didn't feel right

Try standing still
Try being real

just a second more

Mouth won't make the sounds right, nothing sounds right, lips only sure of themselves in silent speech, and the translations of touch, which may circumvent subtext, cut down on the confusion, speak directly to desires, and while the festival committee discussed deities, I thought "We just need to talk" >>

The circles are silly, the cycles perpetuated under spherical moon, circular sun, with hands held tight, holding absurdly to each other as if gravity might give up and we be released towards the circles we worship - the son, the sun, the chosen ones, the prophets, the martyrs, the saints, the gods, the goddesses, the demi-gods, the krishnas and the shivas, the buddhas and the brahmin, anubis and toph, old jesus and adam and even moses and abraham, good allah and mohammad, thor in valhalla, god in his heaven, all is right with the world. But what did Jesus say - what did he tell you in that dusty old book? He said, "For indeed, the kingdom of God is within you." Oh-oh yeah? You m-mean God ain't a jolly old robe sittin' on a throne of clouds way up where we don't know, judging and observing, determining right and wrong? No sir, and there ain't no Neptune in the sea, ain't no dragons in those caves, ain't no fairies in that forest, ain't no aliens in your brain, ain't no dimensions unfolding from your fingertips. (psst: The kingdom of God is within you.) Hey, hey! God is in me! I am God!

I don't mean to spoil the fun. I don't mean to bust up your magic, halt your rituals, snuff out your candles, fan out your incense, keep you from kneeling, but quit lookin' up at that cross. I don't know how many times Huey Newton has got to tell y'all folks, but "Heroes ain't nothin' but sandwiches." That includes all that dead ancient dust you chase after, includes all those fairy tale figures conjured beneath the stars, before we knew one of those was Mars, another Venus, planetary gods in the heavens, passive masses subject to gravity.

You've got to
Open up your, open up your, open up your
Throat

And let time go
Let them go

kids will be skeletons

kids will be skeletons someday so it's a sin to lie still, right? but you must, at least once, under a satellite or a star, drifting through the sky, on shaky steel, riveted and solid, above an incomprehensible fluidity, the mighty mississippi's endless tide, black sky dissolving in light pollution, behind an endless stream of cars, below, the river less roars, more pours, from the north, southward, to new orleans and beyond, to become a gulf, becoming an ocean, felt ourselves becoming as we lie still on rickety steel, rusty beams pristinely vintage, acid worn, dissolving like the sky, so that every footfall is a victory, every step a challenge to the structure, and when the bridge does not collapse you feel relieved, and you save up all your breaths because you never know which one might be your last, so that when you lie still under the stars on a rickety bridge above a river, against a backdrop of cars, you'll be alive, and not know why, and each time you remember, you'll sigh, sending your breaths downriver, away from the pain of knowing, the breath inward which rejoices, the breath outward which cries out, the breath inward which receives, the breath outward which projects, your breath, a whisper floating downriver, amongst the eddies and whirlpools, turning the river over backwards in rivulets, seen from above like strands of hair washed white in the sink, and the foam is thousands of celebratory bubbles cheering on the river's progress, intoxicated by the chemical contents of the water, detritus of our consumptive desires, and the shore is my hands caressing your liquid skin endlessly, all at once. lie still and feel the brick platform beneath rumble, watch upside down the lights shine upward on the steel above you, passing in their own time, set to the rhythm of the train, hopelessly pulled forward over the tracks by locomotion, a daze in the headlights of the train, a crazed look in the eye of every lamp lit down the caboose, and there's no one watching but you, as your lover hides her head in your chest. she's not scared, she's just unimpressed. or it's irrelevant to what's going on in that chest, the lungs expanding and collapsing with each breath, rejoice, reject, as the heart pumps, thumps, stumps the logical mind with each beat, steady, increasing rhythm, therefore hypnotism, therefore movement, and the stillness is broken, and you move with the stars, falling endlessly, clutched tight to each other through space; you flow with the river, float swiftly just along the surface and succumb to the intoxication of contrasting borders, above and below, when a loss of breath is, of course, death, and your arms flail and you scream, or pout, but bite your lips to keep from crying out, clutch tighter in the fall through space, hold tighter hurdled along straight, like the train, illuminating the night, bright as you bounce along, crazed and dumb, to have finally left all doubt behind, to be leaving in every moment, fleeing as you move forward, the vision always new, the perspective always changing, you look above, to the stars, you look below to the river, behind you the cars, and before you know it, the train, and you bury your head in your lover's chest, to hear their heart defy the roar, dare it to beat still more, beg it to be bold, implore the one you hold, as you sigh, sigh, sigh rivulets in the sky, galaxies riveted to night by stars, which shine, from this distance both steely and divine, at least sure of their place, a part of a structure, too large to comprehend, and you lie still on the steel structure of which you are not sure, holding tightly onto a person, people being of stuff which is anything but sure, but still you clutch, and trust, with pure naive trust, childlike logic which keeps you clutching onto this chest stuffed full of uncertainty, nothing but probability all around you, keeping you from the improbable river, bubbling with a consumptive lust, which you sigh against, breath inward, breath out, quicker as you clutch, breath inward, breath out, because kids will be skeletons some day, but that day for damn ain't sure today.

sounds, furthermore

The noise I've made the most often recently sounds like a groan and a sigh at the same time, and is meant to communicate a weight I can't possibly describe in the space of normal conversation. I make the noise because the question which prompts the noise is usually "How have you been?", which I don't take as an invitation to attempt to fully describe my weight, because I imagine describing the weight to be a lengthy process, one that might not have an end, so I make a noise that sounds like a groan and a sigh at the same time, by which I mean to communicate an inability to describe concisely "how I have been doing". Visually, it might look like this: "..." My eyes look toward a distant corner, away from the person I'm talking to, and then I return with a smile, as if to say "don't worry about it" or "what are you gonna do?" Everyone has problems.