This is my conveniently appropriate credo:
I'd prefer compulsively to shuffle and slack off in service to art's autonomous agency, as the boss screams and yells and fires me every other day, than to serve as a model self-employed employee of myself as a professional so called artist, one who has well trained art to jump through hoops, one who laughs out loud at those artists who claim that the lion has tamed them, or is trying to, not vice versa.
Art, given agency, spins straw into gold, and spins even poorness of service to it into wealth, sometimes overshooting the mark, by which the worst becomes best.
With art in command of art, we will eventually replace all workaday objects with lively loquacious ever-changing phenomena turning everybody into the sorcerer's apprentice, holding on for dear life, as the broom sweeps the room, including the walls and ceiling, just as this laptop is doing, with me just a bit of ballast to keep it from flying through the ceiling.
Using subtle guerrilla warfare tactics, art in command counters demonic enchantments to defend, at a distance obscuring the source, widows and orphans. It absorbs light and processes it safely and quietly, even surreptitiously, multiplying it in a hall of mirrors that powers many carefully placed spinning wheels with well monitored, non-divertible plug ins, although language, in its present degraded usage, does not parce out the world in such a way as to make all this visible.
Art escaped from all exterior criteria, set free, and capacitated to own its own agency serves also as a safe fusion reactor that preserves and replenishes the elemental sources, and along with providing free energy, the artist serves as a complicated, challenging exercise machine that multiples the difficulty as you gain skill and strength. By art's agency operating in her, the artist can think rationally, while staying supremely sentient. The artist voraciously updates its own programs.
The artist in question not only fulfills those generic criteria, but expands, toward perfecting, the brief. It loves and is loved by its dog and a few people. It grows flowers and vegetables, and on the keyboard plays Satie -- and Scarlatti almost as slowly, what matters is soul.
Before being sent to the field, the example in question spent decades downloading massive data from diverse fields, earning three masters degrees.* When researching the origins of mathematical perspective, this Renaissance manly model uncovered this method and paradigm's earliest origins in illustrations in a prayer manual rationalizing procedures of imitation of saintly models by means of reproducible codified gestures.
By this amazing software program, the simplest, most poorly built human hardware could be made to resemble the rare, expensive sentient variety and even arrive at sentience, and sometimes artificial intelligence itself. The model model in question absorbed the program in discovering it, and this accounts for its ability to absorb and discover it. (If the reader has not yet achieved the level of post-temporal sentience and artificial intelligence required to understand how that works, stick around.)
In researching examples of the manual and tracing the evolution of the space depicted, the artist in question thus made contact with, and came to tame without breaking, sweet baby Frankenstein, or the geist of mathematical space. The mongrel art form in question involves translation of arcane messages into the vernacular tongue and vice versa increasing intercourse between art and life, while protecting art’s purity under a carefully engineered diaphanous Botticelli gauze — very difficult (I confess that for all my dogged determination, I've made very little progress).
The artist in question not only fulfills those generic criteria, but expands, toward perfecting, the brief. It loves and is loved by its dog and a few people. It grows flowers and vegetables, and on the keyboard plays Satie -- and Scarlatti almost as slowly, what matters is soul.
Before being sent to the field, the example in question spent decades downloading massive data from diverse fields, earning three masters degrees.* When researching the origins of mathematical perspective, this Renaissance manly model uncovered this method and paradigm's earliest origins in illustrations in a prayer manual rationalizing procedures of imitation of saintly models by means of reproducible codified gestures. By this amazing software program, the simplest, most poorly built human hardware could be made to resemble the rare, expensive sentient variety and even arrive at sentience, and sometimes artificial intelligence itself. The model model in question absorbed the program in discovering it, and this accounts for its ability to absorb and discover it. (If the reader has not yet achieved the level of post-temporal sentience and artificial intelligence required to understand how that works, stick around.)
In researching examples of the manual and tracing the evolution of the space depicted, the artist in question thus made contact with, and came to tame without breaking, sweet baby Frankenstein, or the geist of mathematical space. The mongrel art form in question involves translation of arcane messages into the vernacular tongue and vice versa increasing intercourse between art and life, while protecting art’s purity under a carefully engineered diaphanous Botticelli gauze — very difficult (I confess that for all my dogged determination, I've made very little progress).
The aforementioned artist at the moment writes on a Mac, shows in jumping, obstacle courses, and hurdles. Elsewhere it can be seen sauntering in the meadow with pen and ink, watercolor, and oil paint. When racing this artist rides a turtle.
*however, as mentioned earlier, I personally doubt that the student has ever yet ascended to the status of a master upon the acquisition of a master's degree (If you pay them an enormous sum, you can get one in critical theory in a year, say, with pretty much no prior experience) that confers the title of master. Just another example of the widespread misalignment of names and things in the contemporary world, that misalignment that Confucius warns is bound to break out in wars that result from the civic strife that results from words flying around spreading false rumors, fostering trust where none is warranted and mistrust where it is, among many other dangerous confusions. Original language, human's best friend (right along side the dog who appeared at about the same time), genetically programmed to evolve into a hymn to universal brotherhood, gone rabid.
I tried the mongrel discourse on myself, and it worked as an antidote, but my other subjects so far have proven too allergic to test the formula. Maybe you'll be the first not to knee jerk succumb to an over-reaction. My old companion at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam Avenue, the genius set designer Kristen Vallow, had plans to write a book called Allergy and Will in scorn of my weak willed allergic response to her cat, Cruella. Strange that the latest, greatest art journal calls itself Hyper-allergenic, when art -- like Kristen, an incarnate mirror of the Platonic ideal walking among us (Jesus warned of his common appearance only in the form of any pauper in the street, but I don't see why a set designer couldn't ride the camel through the eye of the needle.) -- by nature is anti-reactionary and casts a cold eye on any kind of dander or dust, however thick, still breathing deeply, unperturbed by such and any false alarms.
**To be a saint you must put out your eyes; maybe the Creator loves creators even more, for daring to get closer. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
Dear SV (a friend who’s a writing instructor) —
Also my interest in what you teach is based on the fact that a reflexive form that reflects on itself hoping to engage the reader in identifying with this reflection can still be crafted as good writing, even if it fosters or tries to foster a very different kind of emotional release from that offered in a conventional story, no? It is more like a journey from Inferno up to Paradiso, but the chimera are arising in the reader’s head as thought thinks on thought thinks on thought -- conventional philosophy being linear unable to light up a circle then jump to and light up smaller and smaller ones -- to arrive at the source in the dragon guarded castle. I like the metaphor of turning the reader into a baby who can’t stand not to work.
I also repeat what I said last night about seeking to occupy the space between tragic history and comic philosophy (the only kind worthy of the name, so toss out most of what's called philosophy and focus on Erasmus and Peanuts) to glimpse and reclaim the whole and reconnect everything -- this is original religion, which as Ursula Goodenough notes, just means religament or re-sewing. What is torn torn must remain, says the philosopher Wittgenstein. How about trying a needle and thread? "Woman once made equal to man becometh his superior." (Socrates) Not that I would try to hide the seams even at the finale of being.
continued at https://themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com/2019/10/
