Category Archives: art

It Just Doesn’t Matter

Accepting and striving counterpoised. It all reminds me of Tripper’s speech, in the movie Meatballs…

That’s just the attitude we don’t need. Sure, Mohawk has beaten us twelve years in a row. Sure, they’re terrific athletes. They’ve got the best equipment that money can buy. Hell, every team they’re sending over here has their own personal masseuse, not masseur, masseuse. But it doesn’t matter. Do you know that every Mohawk competitor has an electrocardiogram, blood and urine tests every 48 hours to see if there’s any change in his physical condition? Do you know that they use the most sophisticated training methods from the Soviet Union, East and West Germany, and the newest Olympic power Trinidad-Tobago? But it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. IT JUST DOESN’T MATTER. I tell you, IT JUST DOESN’T MATTER! IT JUST DOESN’T MATTER! IT JUST DOESN’T MATTER!

And even, and even if we win, if we win, HAH! Even if we win! Even if we play so far over our heads that our noses bleed for a week to ten days. Even if God in Heaven above comes down and points his hand at our side of the field. Even if every man, woman and child held hands together and prayed for us to win, it just wouldn’t matter, because all the really good looking girls would still go out with the guys from Mohawk cause they’ve got all the money! It just doesn’t matter if we win or we lose. IT JUST DOESN’T MATTER!

It doesn’t matter…at least, the thing we were all supposed to want. This is not nihilism, but a rejection of some external definition of winning and losing in favor of some other acceptance. 

Detractors will appear. Critics and well meaning sages may offer unsolicited comment.

Settling? Perhaps. So what? 

I know what does matter to me most of the time, and it is different than it used to be.


Naked

“The loss of mystery occurs simultaneously with offering the means for creating a shared mystery.  The sequence is: subjective – objective – subjective to the power of two.”

 John Berger,  Ways of Seeing, Penguin Press, 1972.


Frame

This frame doesn’t fit the image,

where the living oils penetrate deep into the scene,

imbibed directly through the taught canvas skin,

pulled through a thousand pores by an internal gravity,

tattoos in pigment and electric spark,

flowing through a million capillaries, thrumming,

performing mysterious alchemy in the depths within,

building motion in the surface trails of strokes across

the indigo sky, the sapphire sea, and

the golden knots adorning the purple cloth,

dark as midnight, of a sultan’s turban.

 

Still, like ill-fitting shoes, the frame is misplaced construction,

constriction chosen in an alien space, apart and irrevocable,

defining the rigid boundaries of this world,

giving nothing but distraction and discord to

the gathered gallery, the librarians, and the art collectors,

fixing the horizon at the edge, building a ceiling on heaven,

and stunting the arc of the breeze over the rye fields,

a shallow window, a cellular prison, a selfish governor,

that keeps the gravity from pulling you in

whole.


Bridges (reposted)

Ancient art in arched
Construction
Stones, hewn, stacked
Laboriously and slowly
Approaching
The moment of truth
Falsework removed, shores
Released
Arch settles, key locks
Feet, hooves, and barrow
Wheels
Move bank to bank
Implicit faith in achitecture’s
Angels
_________
Reposted from 2015