Some performances were long. We raged past the show and burrowed furiously into the night. Other performances were lonely and quiet, intimate, with soft conversation and relaxed acceptance of letting the flow be. On the last night, our voices rose and fell in play with one another, harmonizing at their own accord to the perfect pitches, intervals, frequencies.
Here is where I am calling out all abled allies of Los Angeles: this is your chance. Your chance to put your body where your mouth (er, status update) is. To move away from the computer, away from the phone, away from your wonderfully crafted Facebook posts which condemn gun laws, homophobia, and Islamophobia, and participate in a public demonstration in support of the LGBTQ community.
Found out my friend Ryan passed away last year. We met at the Canoga Park Art Walk a few years back…I typed him a poem, he showed me his drawings. Young guy. Potential. We stayed in touch, hanging out and talking, reflecting. The last time we talked, he told me he was focusing on recovery.
Joseph Gibbons, a former MIT professor, robbed a bank under the pretext of desperation and art. Recording it all with a video camera, he claims his criminal behavior was inspired by the poet Arthur Rimbaud. Rimbaud believed “a poet had to descend into the depths of all that was bad and report back.”
Last week, I came across a page from Claes Oldenburg’s “Unattendable Lunches.” It’s such a mysterious text that I have yet to find the full version online.
Mobius Percussion is a group of four innovative musicians coming together to build something spectacular as they ascend into the realm of performance and art. Their renditions are visceral vesper reminders from long forgotten dreams. I was taken by their music to a multitude of places…I was, and continue to be, enthralled by the lofty experience Mobius offers.
Most of the people I typed for at last year’s Artisanal LA event have blurred together in memory. Even still, there is one fellow I have no intention of ever forgetting. He came over with a friend. She wandered off to take pictures as he and I began to talk. At first, we did the basic Typewriter Poetry dance. He asked about the project, I answered with my usual bases covered. Soon, something shifted. He sat down on the floor. I halted my work on another person’s poem. We dove into our hitchhiking and traveling stories; afterward, he shared his love of robotics and electronics with me.
“As We Peel Back The Layers Of The Artist’s Anticipated Level Of Engagement, We Find Numerous Sources Of Radical, Inclusionary, Destructive Creation Visions Reconstructed In Such A Manner That One Would Have To Lack All Sensation In Order To Dehumanize Such An Authentic Rendition Of Our Given Subjective Realities”
What is art?
There is a very specific dance I think most of us miss out on. That is the art of delayed gratification–or, in this specific case, letter writing and snail mail.
Yesterday, a wonderful present arrived for me. I wasn’t expecting it, and that certainly added to the initial gasp-love-beauty-dizzy-shock sensation. It’s a sensation I usually associate with making intense eye-contact with a brave, vivid personality. In the haze of it all, my mind struggled to catch up and rearrange the circumstances.
An epiphany: I had received my letter from Remi.
A Galentine’s Day inspired poem. The original prompt: “That moment of excitement when you’re so passionate about what your talking about that you have no choice but to scream, squeal or just fall down dead.” I loved this prompt because I know exactly what you mean, so I hope this Read more…