The intermezzo

by chriseddy
click on image to enlarge

neoteXT 17

Between Black and White and Colour

He looked at me like I was a TV not working
Stuck on one channel
Mine
The look on his face said "I don't have the remote/st."
I kept on talking in the hopes that
He would tune in
Find my wave lengths
But his eyes still reflected static
His hands like a 1950's antennae
Twitching on the roofs tops of turquoise bungalows
In the hopes of getting a better picture
A better picture like the ones on the first colour TVs after being suckled on B&W
Those almost real tones
If he could remember it is like that
It is always like that
So that is what I tell him
"It's like TV, you know, from black and white to colour."
"TV sucks" he says
"That’s part of it" I say
Our words crossing vectors of meaning
He can see my horizontal and vertical hold now
See on his buttons with the labels
Unfortunately I can't stop from rolling horizontally
Flipping vertically shifting diagonally
Wanting to see his picture
With network difficulties
Snow, Lines, static sounds
I give him static
To see his movement
His eyes glaze over he starts to ramble off topic
Drunk not caring if I am the I that is there
Only then I could hear his tune separate
From the hissing
See the picture arise out of the swarm of dots
But he was not a broken TV
With substitute parts and coat hanger reception
Crossed wires and uninterrupted wavelengths
His Vertical hold gone his eyes flickering
His mouth still transmitting waves
As his horizontal hold went
His head began falling toward the wooden table
Becoming wooden TV cabinet
Slumping body
Unplugged
And tomorrow I will again
Broadcast unbroken frequencies
Some even containing an evening in memories
In new arrangements, bisecting, traversing
Avoiding horizontal planes and vertical holds
It is hard to tell them it is not like TV
Fixed lines and dots and cycles
It is some where between black and white
And colour.


more......

Trillium War Machine

Trillium warrior

This rhizomatic Trillium Grandiflorum roamed free in abundance throughout the forests of Ontario. Bringing to the spring forest floor a beauty to match that of the autumn canopy. Then in 1937 it was annexed by the state and given the structure of Ontario's provincial flower. Which resulted in it being raped and pillaged by the citizens of the land and the city. In retaliation the white trillium which lives and multiplies underground withdrew from view. And refused to bloom for seven years commencing on it being so violently ripped from it roots. The state in an effort to save the nomadic flowers and roots started a campaign to warn people about picking them. This has evolved into a myth in Ontario society that it is in fact illegal to pick them. Today the trillium blooms profusely once again in the few remaining forests. Perhaps they should go one further and free this woodland wanderer from its state duty as the three petals painted on anything relating to the Ontario government. Then future generations can greet the Trillium anew. Freed from the head cluttering structure imprinted on the blossom. Free to greet the trillium and be becomings trillium(s) . To be so close and not hear its messages of being one and all, alone and a pack, in the middle and everywhere, is sad.

NeOtExt 16

An Orbital

On the bricks,
A painted yellow star peeling,
Inside a man and guitar playing,
Outside the weather is freezing.
Past the musical constellation,
The people are walking,
Heads in the wind,
Searching the leeward doors.
The music bouncing off,
Their contracted pores,
To cold to toss coins.
Still the star keeps on playing,
To the wind that is blowing,
The notes pass the bodies,
Escape out into space.
This alone seems to please him,
Freed from rhythms measure,
Knowing that harmonies roam,
And for his nomadic pleasure,
Sitting on the sidewalk,
Alone.

MORE.......

Lesser New York

I have linked this article because it points to curatorial problems further afield than New York.

village voice > art > Lesser New York by Jerry Saltz