Termination Shock
It was four ten am, I’d finished the last piece for the show, and with eyes crossed, reached for the fixative, which clear coats the delicate elements of the collage. I shook the can for at least a minute, and daftly sprayed. The bow shock of my exhausted, mental heliosphere found a deeper ellipsoid, as the interstellar wind smashed its apparent chaos upon my canvas, in glaring bright silver spray paint. I let up on the nozzle, completely perplexed. Ten hours of work, gone in an instant. In a finale of the roving mind, I’d switched off, and absently grasped the wrong can, stood there doubled over in shock, ground up, paralyzed and raving inside ... hit the table with one mighty blow. The thin stem of a martini-glass leg punched through the oak hardwood floor; the table collapsed and spilled its wet contents onto ...
Termination Shock : The turbulent gray area where the velocity of our solar wind drops, as it feels the effects of the interstellar winds, which are, and swirl the forces of other stars. The band had been mobbed by girls, the producer told us; we nearly had to run, at several points. "Uh huh." I’m staring at my pants. The floor was a touchdown catastrophe ... do you know what time it is? I ask him. Uh, sorry. I keep forgetting the zone change. Doesn’t matter. I’m fucked anyway. You okay? Not particularly. Sorry to hear that. The phone rings all day for people who don’t exist who want to fill out surveys and buy useless things which become their own rocket science, and I’m meditating on the increasing palatability of dog food. Increases in animal meal technology are my new old age social security, seeing how art has backstabbed my happiness, and financial well-being. Well, that’s a drag. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have any money either. Yea, but you’re in Europe, partying every night, and surrounded by girls. He laughs; Yeeah man, sheet happens!
I’m so on edge, the slightest problem elicits thunderbolts. Breaking a shoelace is a shuttle disaster. Your backpack hooked on a doorhandle ... my god. Walking about at snapping point, zero money and security ditto, manic with ideas in a paucity of time or materials to finish them ... it’s a romantic torture without reprieve, slowly grinding us into dust from which we came. It’s a tension of extremes which swing the harmonics of alternating poles, vibrating under the current of things. He doesn’t sound the depths of the heliopause, where the boundary of an individual’s unique solar system becomes unclear. I think of all those trim, beautiful, boyishly-devastating, small-chested Parisian girls, and find solace in their imaginary arms. Crying shame, they’re wasted on those big-boobed porn-hungry sluts he’s repping. The crap is peeling the actual finish from the floor, as I carefully spatula my flunking grade up, and decorum keeps me from wondering if it might just be better now.
Since art is suffering, and passion is suffering, what isn’t surrounded by, or in a state of suffering? The weeds suffer when I pull them because I’m suffering trying to get a paycheck so I’ve become a gardener faux this week. The lawn suffered when I mowed it. The house owner suffered when they saw what I’d done to the floor, which made me suddenly suffer with the momentary add long range suffering of never doing anything correctly, or at least, to my ultimate satisfaction. Now I’m beholden to the generalized yoke of nonspecific suffering, radiating from all sentient, and non-consentient ‘un sentient’ entities. I’m glad for the tour updates, by one hand, and on the totally opposite other, I’m depressed by them. They highlight how I suffer, because I’ve felt those highs. I crave the heights I’ve experienced, contrasting them through the lens of my pants, and the hole in the floor, which was nearly a piece of art, I could have sold.
Why do you do art, if it makes you unhappy? Good question. It’s only the rude awakening after art, which is proven difficult to deal with. Like a one night ... no, that’s a bad simile. I never have those. Like love perhaps, if you must. In one night, it’s easy to be grateful, and grasp an event without judging it, no matter how wasted you were. It’s the repetition of pain which sears us, and ruins our innocence. Anyway, I’m thirty, and thirty is stultifying if passion in fact, invests you in misery. Don’t rain on my parade; I’m going blindly into the crucible, assuming I contain the essential essence of what will transcend this base metal world the masses hide in, or blithely inhabit. Well said. I like that sibilant flow to the tunnel light, as the goods train approaches. Don’t forget to throw yourself to the wall, right as rapture hits you. The transition can be bloody, and somewhat intense.
It’s good to know risks, and good to ignore them. I’m told I ride my bicycle like a maniac, but to me it seems normal. If I considered the pavement at 40mph, hurtling between crawling cars, I’d make a fatal mistake, sooner or later. Some people approach rock climbing, or insanely-strong drugs with this demeanor. I appreciate this sentiment, though I have great difficulty manifesting it. I trust I’ll be okay; safety equipment is for those who’re afraid they’ll go down. How droll; party’s over already?! It’s just getting interesting. That’s why I wear helmets. That’s why I don’t. Same argument elicits different thunders, and differing echos; depending on what fist hits whose table, the floor may or may not collapse. 1.) Trust and courage. 2.) Unnatural faith, and constant awareness. 3.) Acts of love forge the basis of self, which withstand lament better than suffering.
Termination Shock : The turbulent gray area where the velocity of our solar wind drops, as it feels the effects of the interstellar winds, which are, and swirl the forces of other stars. The band had been mobbed by girls, the producer told us; we nearly had to run, at several points. "Uh huh." I’m staring at my pants. The floor was a touchdown catastrophe ... do you know what time it is? I ask him. Uh, sorry. I keep forgetting the zone change. Doesn’t matter. I’m fucked anyway. You okay? Not particularly. Sorry to hear that. The phone rings all day for people who don’t exist who want to fill out surveys and buy useless things which become their own rocket science, and I’m meditating on the increasing palatability of dog food. Increases in animal meal technology are my new old age social security, seeing how art has backstabbed my happiness, and financial well-being. Well, that’s a drag. If it makes you feel better, I don’t have any money either. Yea, but you’re in Europe, partying every night, and surrounded by girls. He laughs; Yeeah man, sheet happens!
I’m so on edge, the slightest problem elicits thunderbolts. Breaking a shoelace is a shuttle disaster. Your backpack hooked on a doorhandle ... my god. Walking about at snapping point, zero money and security ditto, manic with ideas in a paucity of time or materials to finish them ... it’s a romantic torture without reprieve, slowly grinding us into dust from which we came. It’s a tension of extremes which swing the harmonics of alternating poles, vibrating under the current of things. He doesn’t sound the depths of the heliopause, where the boundary of an individual’s unique solar system becomes unclear. I think of all those trim, beautiful, boyishly-devastating, small-chested Parisian girls, and find solace in their imaginary arms. Crying shame, they’re wasted on those big-boobed porn-hungry sluts he’s repping. The crap is peeling the actual finish from the floor, as I carefully spatula my flunking grade up, and decorum keeps me from wondering if it might just be better now.
Since art is suffering, and passion is suffering, what isn’t surrounded by, or in a state of suffering? The weeds suffer when I pull them because I’m suffering trying to get a paycheck so I’ve become a gardener faux this week. The lawn suffered when I mowed it. The house owner suffered when they saw what I’d done to the floor, which made me suddenly suffer with the momentary add long range suffering of never doing anything correctly, or at least, to my ultimate satisfaction. Now I’m beholden to the generalized yoke of nonspecific suffering, radiating from all sentient, and non-consentient ‘un sentient’ entities. I’m glad for the tour updates, by one hand, and on the totally opposite other, I’m depressed by them. They highlight how I suffer, because I’ve felt those highs. I crave the heights I’ve experienced, contrasting them through the lens of my pants, and the hole in the floor, which was nearly a piece of art, I could have sold.
Why do you do art, if it makes you unhappy? Good question. It’s only the rude awakening after art, which is proven difficult to deal with. Like a one night ... no, that’s a bad simile. I never have those. Like love perhaps, if you must. In one night, it’s easy to be grateful, and grasp an event without judging it, no matter how wasted you were. It’s the repetition of pain which sears us, and ruins our innocence. Anyway, I’m thirty, and thirty is stultifying if passion in fact, invests you in misery. Don’t rain on my parade; I’m going blindly into the crucible, assuming I contain the essential essence of what will transcend this base metal world the masses hide in, or blithely inhabit. Well said. I like that sibilant flow to the tunnel light, as the goods train approaches. Don’t forget to throw yourself to the wall, right as rapture hits you. The transition can be bloody, and somewhat intense.
It’s good to know risks, and good to ignore them. I’m told I ride my bicycle like a maniac, but to me it seems normal. If I considered the pavement at 40mph, hurtling between crawling cars, I’d make a fatal mistake, sooner or later. Some people approach rock climbing, or insanely-strong drugs with this demeanor. I appreciate this sentiment, though I have great difficulty manifesting it. I trust I’ll be okay; safety equipment is for those who’re afraid they’ll go down. How droll; party’s over already?! It’s just getting interesting. That’s why I wear helmets. That’s why I don’t. Same argument elicits different thunders, and differing echos; depending on what fist hits whose table, the floor may or may not collapse. 1.) Trust and courage. 2.) Unnatural faith, and constant awareness. 3.) Acts of love forge the basis of self, which withstand lament better than suffering.
posted by daresaycom at 2:08 PM
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