The Art of The Blind

you know why I don't make new posts every day?

Well first it would be to boring for me....but more importantly, well or more outstandingly,  I keep thinking I have something to say, and then I find out I don't.  Especially with this computer...I mean my god, you get on one of these and you immediately wanna go see what Lisa Thatcher has to say about the films...I actually didn't know so many keep getting made, and especially, that is if you believe her, that films of interest keep getting made. And I don't even go to many as I sort of find them all sorta dull and dun to me.

Of course what do I know.  Well nothing, really absolutely nothing.  There are an ocean of painters just like me living on the margin of humanity, working the dirt really, loosening it up for the magnificent painter who is to come.  It's what it takes, always has.

The title is from Picasso of course describing painting.  And Cocteau says Without resistance there is nothing.

Think of the poets.  And certainly not just those in print,  but the Lennons and Dylans, that guy in Radiohead.  But of course there is Ai (may she rest in peace), WS Merwin, Laura Kasischke, and great number of others, and not all in English mind you, but great French, Chinese, Japanese, poets in Urdu, some linguistic twist of English, Spanish, and all languages of the world.  And for all these great ones, there are thousands upon thousands of marginal poets on every piece of dirt on the earth....and each of them is loosening the soil planting their poems like peat and manure to fertilize it, keep it ripe and ready for the next Cendrars, the next Virgil, Villon, Rimbaud...

And that person is here, now existent in this world for some short number of years...!  And the next Picasso is also here doing his thousand upon thousands of drawings, ready to contribute his/her vision to the great happiness of mankind...

And speaking of poets, I must touch again on Jenny Holzer, for it suddenly occurred to me that she is not at all an "artist",  but a poet incognito,  a new Mayaovsky, who while he was in charge of the giant  electrified signboard board in Moscow, would put up his poems and announce them to all of Russia, for even the millions of illiterates in the streets around it would have them told to them.  And the same for Jenny's work, for as she gently puts up her briefest poems for us modern illiterates in electric letters, they too are told to millions of us, photographed and announced...

The Death of Painting

What to do? What to do?   I think I know I think this should work.  But if it doesn't well I will know I've been a fool and that it is someone else, a much closer friend than I thought, and god this will be a terrible price to pay.  But I will do it if I must.

I don't want to.  One thinks and thinks about this stuff.  One gets depressed one gets very sad very determined.  One loses one's health, on loses his since of reality, one loses his mind.  And then he does it.

What is possible, I mean all that is possible must occur.  It seems so unlikely, so insane,  so far from the truth, so far from creation.  One circles the world and then back again.  Here we are.  Again. and again.

Let's make a movie of it.  The Terrible Mistake.  A Fool's Errand.  Let's Kill Some People.  The Mistaken Dead Man.  The Art of The Blind.  I'd hate to have to make movie names.  Seems like an art in itself to me.

All beings in the world are strung on the Lord as pearls on a thread.  Like pearls on a thread or rays of the sun we are all children of God.   -The Bhagavad Gita chapter seven verse seven