angels waiting for nothing,
banished to back streets while the
devils click at abaci
banished to back streets while the
devils click at abaci
Showing posts with label eyeballs are soul windows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label eyeballs are soul windows. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 18
Wednesday, February 28
SONG OF THE DAY: Rhinestone Cowboy (kudzu'd)
Authenticity in a consumer culture is always gonna be impossible to nail down. Fake ass people who practice the same persona for long enough eventually appear to be authentic as opposed to the folks they cribbed from in the first place. Nostalgia for old fabricated bullshit starts to seem more real than the current fabricated bullshit, and it all just gets all mixed up and around in the bins of shit you’re expected to sift through to consume, that authenticity is completely lost and somewhat irrelevant.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what is a person’s culture, especially in some place like America where most of the population is not from there historically. Most of us have had most of what would be our historical culture lost in the process of assimilation to American life, and few of us speak the same language as our ancestors 4 or 5 generations back. So what is our culture now? On the surface, by design, it seems to be what we buy into, or consume. American culture, on that superficial level, is big trucks, spacious houses with engineered landscapes, giving the appearance of rural but not too far off giant clusters of box stores where we can restock our identity with convenient ease. But let’s be real, that’s not a culture so much as a lack of culture. Culture is what we practice, regularly, and yeah, it can seem like by that definition, the big trucks and suburban lifestyle is still our American culture. But culture also should have some lasting value, into the future. And just buying shit has no lasting value… it’s a constant struggle against the high and low tides of economic factors to maintain that bullshit.
I’ve been thinking of culture as what I practice, but in two directions – past and future. So whatever I practice regularly is my culture, and it reverberates as far forward into the future as I practiced it regularly into the past. That means, so like I’m learning banjo now (very early stages lol). But also, I had kin who came out the mountains to Amelia County back in the 1930s or ‘40s, who brought bluegrass music with them to Southside Virginia. So it’s in my familial history. But my dad didn’t play, nor did my grandfather (who I never met). But the folks before them did, extensively, so that practice maybe echoed forward to me, maybe not. But the more I practice it, the more I can connect with that practice, and carry it forward. Maybe. It might die because I find it too frustrating, who knows?
But also with writing haiku, I’ve practiced that super extensively, on daily basis even, for upwards of at least 20 years now. That’s an extensive practice. It’s part of my being, and everywhere in my life (and mind). As an individual, that’s part of my culture, but being I’m the first in my family to do that, it’s not really my culture… yet. But the events I’ve created, and sharing my practice with others has led others to practice it as well, and it spreads that culture of writing haiku. It moves from familial cultural activity to communal one instead. But I’ve put a lot of life into that, and I’d say it’s part of my identity, at least to others. (I remember when I got to do workshops in the old Richmond City Jail, and one time I showed up and one of the women students who was incarcerated, as we all stood on the line waiting for entry into the classroom, saw me and exclaimed, “Hey! It’s Haiku Guy!” The personal practice I had shared had become my identity to her.)
I say all this, because as a kid, there was a lot of country music spinning on the turntable. But it was mostly outlaw shit, and pop country was seen as weak and not relevant to our fucked up rural life. You never would’ve heard my pops playing John Denver or Glen Campbell. But 40 years later, as rural America is more suburbanized, and Wal-Mart Supercenters touch down every 40 miles or so across the vanishing country landscape, “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” feels nostalgic, for a simpler time. Or “Rhinestone Cowboy”, seems less like the embracing of materialistic bullshit urban culture that it did when I was a kid (under the influence of paternal thinking) and almost like a cry against that very world. But also, I’m applying the filters of time on it from today. And slowing it down (as I am wont to do) just adds that extra layer of fucked – “Where hustle’s the name of the game… and nice guys get washed away like snow in the rain.”
Now, strangely enough, a rhinestone jacketed dude strumming guitar would feel more authentic than the big truck driven to Costco to fill up on La Croix 12-packs. Except the rhinestone jacketed guy might just be the young adult sign of the Costco visitor, with a scraggly fu manchu mustache, cosplaying country in a different way than his dad. It’s impossible to tell, unless you get to know somebody, to see if what they’re showing as an identity is what they’re actually practicing as a culture. I don’t necessarily have time for that all the time, so I’ve been extending benefit of the doubt a lot more often lately (no time for drama), but also, the eyes always give it away to a certain extent. You can tell how real somebody is by looking in their eyes. I think. But I could be full of shit.
I’ve been thinking a lot about what is a person’s culture, especially in some place like America where most of the population is not from there historically. Most of us have had most of what would be our historical culture lost in the process of assimilation to American life, and few of us speak the same language as our ancestors 4 or 5 generations back. So what is our culture now? On the surface, by design, it seems to be what we buy into, or consume. American culture, on that superficial level, is big trucks, spacious houses with engineered landscapes, giving the appearance of rural but not too far off giant clusters of box stores where we can restock our identity with convenient ease. But let’s be real, that’s not a culture so much as a lack of culture. Culture is what we practice, regularly, and yeah, it can seem like by that definition, the big trucks and suburban lifestyle is still our American culture. But culture also should have some lasting value, into the future. And just buying shit has no lasting value… it’s a constant struggle against the high and low tides of economic factors to maintain that bullshit.
I’ve been thinking of culture as what I practice, but in two directions – past and future. So whatever I practice regularly is my culture, and it reverberates as far forward into the future as I practiced it regularly into the past. That means, so like I’m learning banjo now (very early stages lol). But also, I had kin who came out the mountains to Amelia County back in the 1930s or ‘40s, who brought bluegrass music with them to Southside Virginia. So it’s in my familial history. But my dad didn’t play, nor did my grandfather (who I never met). But the folks before them did, extensively, so that practice maybe echoed forward to me, maybe not. But the more I practice it, the more I can connect with that practice, and carry it forward. Maybe. It might die because I find it too frustrating, who knows?
But also with writing haiku, I’ve practiced that super extensively, on daily basis even, for upwards of at least 20 years now. That’s an extensive practice. It’s part of my being, and everywhere in my life (and mind). As an individual, that’s part of my culture, but being I’m the first in my family to do that, it’s not really my culture… yet. But the events I’ve created, and sharing my practice with others has led others to practice it as well, and it spreads that culture of writing haiku. It moves from familial cultural activity to communal one instead. But I’ve put a lot of life into that, and I’d say it’s part of my identity, at least to others. (I remember when I got to do workshops in the old Richmond City Jail, and one time I showed up and one of the women students who was incarcerated, as we all stood on the line waiting for entry into the classroom, saw me and exclaimed, “Hey! It’s Haiku Guy!” The personal practice I had shared had become my identity to her.)
I say all this, because as a kid, there was a lot of country music spinning on the turntable. But it was mostly outlaw shit, and pop country was seen as weak and not relevant to our fucked up rural life. You never would’ve heard my pops playing John Denver or Glen Campbell. But 40 years later, as rural America is more suburbanized, and Wal-Mart Supercenters touch down every 40 miles or so across the vanishing country landscape, “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” feels nostalgic, for a simpler time. Or “Rhinestone Cowboy”, seems less like the embracing of materialistic bullshit urban culture that it did when I was a kid (under the influence of paternal thinking) and almost like a cry against that very world. But also, I’m applying the filters of time on it from today. And slowing it down (as I am wont to do) just adds that extra layer of fucked – “Where hustle’s the name of the game… and nice guys get washed away like snow in the rain.”
Now, strangely enough, a rhinestone jacketed dude strumming guitar would feel more authentic than the big truck driven to Costco to fill up on La Croix 12-packs. Except the rhinestone jacketed guy might just be the young adult sign of the Costco visitor, with a scraggly fu manchu mustache, cosplaying country in a different way than his dad. It’s impossible to tell, unless you get to know somebody, to see if what they’re showing as an identity is what they’re actually practicing as a culture. I don’t necessarily have time for that all the time, so I’ve been extending benefit of the doubt a lot more often lately (no time for drama), but also, the eyes always give it away to a certain extent. You can tell how real somebody is by looking in their eyes. I think. But I could be full of shit.
Thursday, April 6
L00K 1NT0 4NYB0DY'S...
look into anybody’s
eyes, and you’ll see their true
focus (beneath the surface)
eyes, and you’ll see their true
focus (beneath the surface)
Friday, December 9
BR0K3N W1ND0WS TH30R13S M0ST...
broken window theories most
often perpetuated
by them with exclusive views
often perpetuated
by them with exclusive views
Sunday, November 6
L0V3 TR3SP4SS1NG 4FT3R D4RK...
love trespassing after dark
in glare of security
lights and hidden cameras
in glare of security
lights and hidden cameras
Sunday, September 4
R3P3T1T10N 0F P4TT3RNS...
repetition of patterns
in nature as well as art
(if you’re paying attention)
in nature as well as art
(if you’re paying attention)
Tuesday, May 24
G1V3 M3 4 D1RTY W1ND0W...
give me a dirty window
to stare out all day long, so
I can think about “nothing”
to stare out all day long, so
I can think about “nothing”
Saturday, December 4
W4LK1NG W1TH 0N3 3Y3 0P3N...
walking with one eye open
to real life, but one focused
on hidden realities
to real life, but one focused
on hidden realities
Tuesday, November 23
L0V3 41N'T N3C3SS4R1LY...
love ain’t necessarily
blind, but it sees with something
better than biased eyeballs
blind, but it sees with something
better than biased eyeballs
Wednesday, November 10
SHVT W1ND0WS P41NT3D 0V3R...
shut windows painted over,
appearing non-derelict
to the developer’s eyes
appearing non-derelict
to the developer’s eyes
Wednesday, August 25
0N D4YS WH3N TH3 SH1N3 1N MY...
on days when the shine in my
eyes is dull, I worry that
it might be gone forever
eyes is dull, I worry that
it might be gone forever
Sunday, April 18
SM4SH1NG TH3 W1ND0WS 0VT 0LD...
smashing the windows out old
abandoned buildings because
I ain’t got shit else to do
abandoned buildings because
I ain’t got shit else to do
Friday, April 16
TH3 C0VNTRY CHVRCH'S ST41N3D GL4SS...
the country church’s stained glass
is just plastic film applied
to the cheapest textured panes
is just plastic film applied
to the cheapest textured panes
Thursday, April 1
Tuesday, March 9
SONG OF THE DAY: Ojuelegba
Friday, March 5
TH3 M0RN1NG M1RR0R'S SMVDG3D VP...
the morning mirror's smudged up
with hopelessness, frustration,
anger, and "fuck all this"-ness
with hopelessness, frustration,
anger, and "fuck all this"-ness
Sunday, December 27
SONG OF THE DAY: Do Ya Think I'm Sexy (Rebajada)
Lately I’ve been wearing overalls and silk boxers a lot. It feels like a good look for cold ass winter in this cold ass country house. I’m cultivating a good space heater orgone arrangement combined with heavy blankets nailed up in doorways to section off a part of the house to not waste heat on. A good country house is solidly built, and all sorts of inefficient and fucked up. And yet it doesn’t fall, like the stubborn mule-headed people who once built it. It is difficult to be both mule-headed and sexy, but I’m pretty sure my bushy blackberry beard hiding fully ripe dimple fruit in overalls and silk boxers is navigating that fine line quite nicely, at least judging by the way the rural mail carrier lady’s eyes twinkle as she stuffs ebay packages and cut-off notices into my mailbox. That’s not a euphemism. That would be a gross fucking euphemism, to be honest.
Thursday, December 10
TH3 M0RN1NG M1RR0R L00KS B4CK...
the morning mirror looks back
wearily, as if to say,
"are we still doing this shit?"
wearily, as if to say,
"are we still doing this shit?"
Saturday, December 5
N0 M4TT3R H0W W1D3 Y0V K33P...
no matter how wide you keep
the windows open, the four
walls of home might still close in
the windows open, the four
walls of home might still close in
Thursday, January 9
1T'S 4 TYP3 0F M3D1C1N3...
it's a type of medicine
to culture a space where man
and nature interconnect
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