the artful dodger

Art is never finished, only abandoned. -Leonardo da Vinci


I've always felt like one of that crew maybe even the one oliver reed played, these irish overly clever half finished half baked thieves of nothing, just enough to get by, and me with my skinny yet always flabby body skin so pale and thin as to be that of an ancient, what my sister calls our frog bodies, no hair (ah what's for anyway) and broken missing teeth like the lead singer of the pogues, yet relieved of any talent, simply endlessly putting out xeroxes of others inspired work, copying others sincere and breath takingly  inspired and totally open confessions.

And I,  I lean against the muddy lamppost waiting for them to come by, and in quick undisturbed movements taking the notes from their pockets and calling them mine, there's no signature on them, why not, you can say anythin' that you want I won't confess, I was standin' there waitin' on a friend that's all.

An I've got my eyes open for new threads,  like when jonathan stroud has bartimeaus confused by a three-legged stool thinking it's another demon in a very clever disguise,

 what an outstanding scene, brilliant beyond me of course, but not for long  -I'm watching for him to walk by on his way to the studio.

And it was because of Jonathan talking that I found out about Grettir and I bought the book too, a story beyond belief, a time in the distant past that exists in the future and you may think he made it up I don't.

And in that book is a wee bit at the end about his cousin an it was strange because instead of being in iceland where the book takes place it is in turkey where it's hot and then (a thousand years ago it was written even) it's the center of the world and all good icelandic thugs went there to guard the king, and me too, and he cuts off a man's head an has to explain himself to the king which he does in grand style.

And this is what we do today, endlessly, take a man who lived a long life and used delicate dentist like care, phrased confessed his inner self to the world. Then we get some great new writer with a chip on her shoulder and an AGENDA, and get her to chop his reputation to bits, that takes care of that, and we will crush you again if somehow you stick your head up again, even though you've been dead for 30 years already.

My god, look at the idiot agendas of the new SMART professors,  -artists as translators, writers in the digital universe, blah blah blah does blsh blsh blsh, christ it never ends, know nothing no nothin, stick our heads under the blanket and don't put it out again ever.

Yet there are always us out there, eatin thin mustard soup, but always lookin for a whale to beach, and we will get there, and strip it to the bone, and we'll take the bones too, we know this from melville and grettir, all parts of the whale have value, and I can use them for painting, and I will too.

Upon seeing the painting "The Monk by the Sea," Heinrich von Kleist, a contemporary of Friedrich's, wasn't thinking about peace of mind or romantic ecstasy. It reminded him more of an apocalypse "in its uniformity and endlessness, as if one's eyelid were cut off."


“When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.” -- Mark Twain