Power = Sadness
When
Desire is
In flow
Joy is
So
Fragile
"Put down that pen
And hurry along"
November 02, 2005
October 31, 2005
October 25, 2005
October 24, 2005
July 31, 2005
Twin thoughts on knowledge
THE MORE ROOMS, SPACES, PLACES, YOU BUILD IN YOUR HEAD/THOUGHTS/MIND THE MORE TERRITORY YOU HAVE TO WANDER,STORE, AND LIVE IN.
NO GREATER LENS IS THERE THAN THE MIND'S INFINITE BECOMING.
chriseddy
NO GREATER LENS IS THERE THAN THE MIND'S INFINITE BECOMING.
chriseddy
July 03, 2005
neOteXt 20
Desire lies
I wish I heard voices in my head
Whispers shouts screams and rants
I wish the schizophrenic me
Would rise and tell me
What I refuse to know
Desire lies
A two fold story
But I just hear the one
You are reading
The all of mes
Endless thoughts
Craving more
Stirring pots
For new recipes
So this drone must continue
At least until I die
Inside I am always thinking
Desire lies
Paths of flight feel good
For all the multiplicities
The text continues that is I
A binding force
An illusion of oneness
Nevertheless
more....
I wish I heard voices in my head
Whispers shouts screams and rants
I wish the schizophrenic me
Would rise and tell me
What I refuse to know
Desire lies
A two fold story
But I just hear the one
You are reading
The all of mes
Endless thoughts
Craving more
Stirring pots
For new recipes
So this drone must continue
At least until I die
Inside I am always thinking
Desire lies
Paths of flight feel good
For all the multiplicities
The text continues that is I
A binding force
An illusion of oneness
Nevertheless
more....
July 01, 2005
June 05, 2005
neoTEXT 19
Mother Earth We
Mother Earth
Molten Iron core
Deep beneath
A skin
Of rock
My skin
Cuts
Bleeds
With iron oxide
Red
The compass spins
To the earths rotation
The geese migrating
Along
Magnetic vibration
The weak force
Emulation from Terra’s heart
Voices from the fiery center
Speak
Through my
Vein’s
Pulse
Mother earth
And I
One
More.....
Mother Earth
Molten Iron core
Deep beneath
A skin
Of rock
My skin
Cuts
Bleeds
With iron oxide
Red
The compass spins
To the earths rotation
The geese migrating
Along
Magnetic vibration
The weak force
Emulation from Terra’s heart
Voices from the fiery center
Speak
Through my
Vein’s
Pulse
Mother earth
And I
One
More.....
May 31, 2005
On Different Velocities
Perpetuation is the domain of the art museum.
Change is the habitat of the artist.
chriseddy
April 26, 2005
April 25, 2005
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......
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......
April 22, 2005
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.......
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.......
April 03, 2005
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
village voice > art > Lesser New York by Jerry Saltz
March 31, 2005
Picasso found
Guernica by Picasso found in a gargabe can in Hamilton, On. Can.
Picasso, Walks and Synchronicity.
There are interesting things that happen on aimless ambles. And our eyes and minds search out what we know out of all the unfamiliar. As you scan the immediate universe on a walk looking for meaning one can come to see and understand the world in a whole new way.
You are constantly bombarded with new situations. You run across things that relate to your own life. Things that place you and your consciousness on the bigger map of the territory you live in. And place the bigger map on your interior territory.
I always seem to find objects on these walks for some reason. And these objects relate mostly to my art making process. I have been doing this for a long time as you can see in my blog entry A REFLECTION. Synchronicity plays the part where my randomness meets my discoveries. There have been amazing coincidences a long my pedestrian journeys. One St. Patrick day I was on a walk in a neighborhood that was once very Irish around one hundred years ago. I happened to look down in the mud at the edge of a church lawn and saw a bit of white pottery. I picked it out of the mud and found it was an Irish clay pipe of the type you see associated with Leprechaun images. I had found a relic appropriate to the day.
The picture above, Guernica by Picasso came to me on one of my wanderings. I was strolling in the Portuguese neighborhood when I saw Guernica jutting out of a garbage can. I was affected by it immediately. This heroic masterpiece by Picasso that is not only massive in significance but also in size made this little dog eared copy seem even more relevant. And that it was soiled and from a home also added to its signification. Since that day about six years ago it has occupied a space on the wall above my oven.
The book in the picture below about Picasso's Guernica was found about a month later at an old book section in a local thrift store. A book not only found in Hamilton but with a forward from a local University. It seems that this arresting creation of Picasso's has now become an event webbing around the globe and into the very fabric of everyday life. A painting that has a life of its own.
To see some of my found object art link to Canadian Porcelain Company or Owen Sound.
March 30, 2005
neOteXt 14 & 15
Look up it
There are no meanings of words
In the dictionary
No fixed designations
For Aardvark or jelly
Sorry, if you’re close
You are probably wrong
Because text in not
Found in etymologicals but in song
The meanings are wind,
And skin and across.
Sky and eye,
Together tumble toss.
The mouth and the water,
Bend down to the lake.
The body and the gravity,
Now text for situations sake.
Microdissidence
Only a certain part of me
At certain times
Will I let from the cage
That I built
To keep me safe
From the me
That I am
And to protect
Those that see
My multiplicity as one
Creating
My
Cage, my safe, the structure
So inside safe
My nomad can wander.
more......
There are no meanings of words
In the dictionary
No fixed designations
For Aardvark or jelly
Sorry, if you’re close
You are probably wrong
Because text in not
Found in etymologicals but in song
The meanings are wind,
And skin and across.
Sky and eye,
Together tumble toss.
The mouth and the water,
Bend down to the lake.
The body and the gravity,
Now text for situations sake.
Microdissidence
Only a certain part of me
At certain times
Will I let from the cage
That I built
To keep me safe
From the me
That I am
And to protect
Those that see
My multiplicity as one
Creating
My
Cage, my safe, the structure
So inside safe
My nomad can wander.
more......
March 26, 2005
Nomadic Easter Thoughts
The problem with every revolution
is that its success marks its own end.
As the revolution succeeds it dies and
is resurrected as the newest state structure.
"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine."
Anonymous Negro spiritual.
Enlightenment means as much to carry the light as it does to generate and maintain the light. The becoming enlightened person acts as a relay beacon. Similar to the beacons in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, that sent a signal from from rocky crag to mountain peek and beyond relaying the "message". But this time the message is vast and ever changing with infinite speed through out history/memory. A landscape populated by people not in a line but in a great web, geographically and time wise. Sending and receiving each light in ever shifting ebbs of understandings. This rhizome like picture of human history's part in its own enlightenment illustrates the miracle that all knowledge truly is. It is not the library structure, or book structure, or even sentence structure that has kept enlightenment alive and burning. It has been the active hearts and heads of people keeping the fires alive for future generations. As it has been kept through out time, added to and taken away from. Like the running torch lighter at the Olympic games only this time everyone is a beautiful kouros speeding in space and time, all lighting the way for each other with signification. Knowledge seems to exist as much between us as with in us. The more a person scans the horizon and perceives the torches, the signals built by others, the broader the territory of our combined knowledge becomes.
Chriseddy
There is no communication with only one.
One becomes two as soon as you leave a mark.
Nomadic Art
Attention Artists
If you are intellectually driven. And interested in an exploration of nomadic art then please come and join us at Nomadic_Art. A site for artists to theorize, share, and enlighten each other in our singular quests into the creative process. What does all this mean? That's what we are working on and need your help.
If you are intellectually driven. And interested in an exploration of nomadic art then please come and join us at Nomadic_Art. A site for artists to theorize, share, and enlighten each other in our singular quests into the creative process. What does all this mean? That's what we are working on and need your help.
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