Itemized Obstructions

1. Unentitled

1. Weddings, Weeds & Worms: an alphabet afflicted by artifice

2. Borders, Bricks & Binaries: a codex of cocks & cunts

3. Edifice, Artifice & Ursonate: actionable comics vs. bankable barbarism

2. Day of Beauty / Night of Ugly

Excuse me, but I have a few opinions I’d like to air. Assholes, elbows and opinions, right? A metaphorically fecund bouquet. We’re none of us very eager to smell the air from inside one another, whereas our own flatulence is never offensive to ourselves. Pet farts gross me out the worst, personally. But here, let’s go through the motions of communicating.

Today is a Saturday, the dirty grey day after Black Friday. Black & White art has always floated my goat’s boat better than art of Color, with its weepy, plangent emotional snares. This is true for books & comics, but right here I specifically mean to talk about planar art, parallelograms all as flat and splattered as Clement Greenberg’s sanitized aesthetic. Which is to say, art that hangs on walls. Which is to say, with a playful dismissive snobbishness all my own, Wall Art.

Having committed to a deprecation of the Wall Arts in favor of art for reproduction, a certain degree of scorn for the appalling market in unique objects has unavoidably accompanied my agenda. I have lately let myself hate that world, an extreme position which, I confess, has no particular origin story to support it. It’s a world I’ve only brushed up against once or twice myself, with indifferent result. I’ve felt put-upon by the quaint provincialism that seems to have hooded the head of fine art, within my lifetime. But I’ve not been kicked in the balls by painting as I’ve been by my more beloved media of choice.

So, having come clean with my hatred of Wall Art, I feel compelled to wrestle with its stupefying bulk. As ever, my overweening yen is for all the things that unaccountably repulse me. Here are some ugly rectangles for your beautiful, banal homes.


3. The Screen Age

I absorb an embarrassment of television programming. “I use the computer to watch the t.v.,” quips Nomen Novum, one of my favorite Atlanta performers. Sometimes my laptop’s screen will work, and I’ll be able to compartmentalize the two visual information landscapes amiably. Mostly, though, I have Project-Free-TV or Netflix or HBOgo going on behind the TextEdit page I’m writing onto. Or the InDesign booklets I’ve been compulsively making for the past year and a half or so. “It’s insane, this guy’s taint!” sayeth Mr. Show, and indeed it is rudely true.

The rest of the world seems to have discovered what I’ve found within the past few years, which is that nowadays, all the essential imperative mythmaking of our age is happening on television. That’s where we host the realtime autopsy of our body social. A century ago, the novel was proven to be an incomplete system by James Joyce in his Finnegans Wake Theorem. Of course, novels still find us where we live, and the huff and bluster of authorial harrumphing goes on as it ever has, and books of raging beauty will continue to appear for as long as there are assholes who arrogate the unpleasant duties of godhead for themselves. “Art is in its essence arrogant,” Le Corbusier notes in characteristically crisp copy. Yet the zeitgeist is elsewhere.

4. The Future

I yearn for the promise of the Platonic. I contain multiple Socratic conversations and workshop a cosmology not for its truth value but for its capacity to surprise. If I can fit another world-expanding plot twist into the augmented reality I spy from behind these Panglossian goggles, I’ll happily spend another day in this body, in this world, in this shooting bough of probabilistic storylines upon which I lunch and along which I lurch with neither grace nor malice. It may be that I’ve already jumped branches in my ascent of our fruitful tree. Who can tell a crossroads from a mood swing up here in the verdant cockpit? All these tangled limbs, all these variegated stabs of green thrust from their parental branches of assured viability, each seeking and competing for the light of the sun with spazzy, blind jazz-hands of vital storytelling.

5. This Page Intentionally Left Bank

A. Reality is always scripted.

B. Reality television represents the domestication of the human.

C. Reality is a much-maligned word. It needn’t be. It describes exactly what we
think it means in the millionth of a second before we begin to internally
object to its uncomfortably catholic range of assumption. It is the conception of
an ether, not the provable physical manifestation of ether.

D. There is a place for these kinds of words, which describe:
1.) states,
2.) polar dynamics and
3.) verticality in a topography of ontologies exactly like our geographical globe.

6. The Genesis of Book

In the beginning, the word was broken.
It broke into three pieces:

1.) This is the shit.
2.) This is shit.
& 3.) ‘This’ is an anagram for ‘shit.’

This is the triple-chocolate ice cream cone of delight we like to call dialectics.

Dialectics is more vulgarly itemized as 1.) Thesis. 2.) Antithesis & 3.) Synthesis.

A philosopher named Hegel uncovered this species of ontological coprophage (shit-eater).

7. ? (!)

…something something—“T.V. hit Missing Here, a violent mélee continuum contagion meme, passed along within a snowglobe of ‘let’s talk about the negative space to an obsessively-horror-vacui’ degree of busy, bizzy byzantiniuum.

The skewered mandala of man, one bead impaled upon an abacus graph, as merely a bladder between two sphincters, is of course lifted entirely from the canonic Index of Mediocrities, while the virgin sense of self is total Westarm Warmall Worldarama -dynasty prime-grime self-blowbanging PoPo-of-MoMo identity-geometrium level of television impabularum [pitch].

AKA the Platosphere [alias Plato’s Retweet]), based upon the free-trade beliefecosym-branded Anal Pastries slurred as “Syllyjismrhetorikillumotherfuckerist meta-artisenalismishnessistsm” by such single-selved  idiotms as last year’s passé generation.

They embarrass us now with their Helvetica bland of Etsystsch Eyeronika emblazoned in stark characters across their forearms, so full of stymied story-arcs as to pull off a plasma state of existentially-aggravated Sad(o)Mac-ed booty-challenged Bra(I)ned [brain + brane + raid + parenthetical (like this) ‘I’ + brassiere [b/c of the incident described in the Apocyphal sections of my Auto/Bias/Opic called “The 1982 World’s Not Fair,” sealed until the lapse of actuarial integrity blend of Shep-Helf Theory. hidden assets while kicking rocks.  digestive enzymes

[left as is JKJ ATL 11.15.14]

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