Go into the supermarket,
see the British pork.
See the British beef;
see they way they squawk.
In the summer, sun goes up,
then where does it go?
Hanging in the sky like a fookin’ UFO.
The Cantersticks Tales
Art
The Scream Of The Reader
The Scream Of The Reader
The demands of others are paramount …
Relentless, they are – in sickness and in health.
Unyielding in their vying for your attention.
Be warned …
Yes! Yes! A story!
A story of infinite glory!
Have you ever met a spineless wonder?
How about a spec of thunder?
“To each his own”, says the needy,
mainly to brave the trickling pity.
But wait for the punchline; it will come in time.
Continue reading
Exercise Your Right To Tune Out
Is there some statement to be made?
A statement on what, exactly?
A social statement?
An artistic statement?
A fashion statement?
Some say that what’s needed is “perspective”.
More perspective … or more perspectives?
Hmm …
Perspectives are like opinions …
and opinions are like assholes;
everyone has got one.
If you don’t like the message,
exercise your right to tune out.
Continue reading
My Modicum Of Free Sentiment
“My Modicum Of Free Sentiment”
Where is America, you white devil?
Down in old glory, in a helluva
blinding blitzkrieg of bling.
And you, my flaming sullen Greece,
not so far behind,
with nothing to the table
did you bring?
Ah yes, democracy,
in which all votes go to the usual swine,
and to their constituents
trickle down the usual piss, vinegar and aftershave-cum-wine.
Snakeskins
This old snake has shed many skins.
He can not take them back.
In fact, he has no desire to.
Was the old snake comfortable in his old skins?
Yes, sometimes for a while,
but in time they grew old,
lost their vitality and betrayed him.
And so, he slithered away from them naked.
Old acquaintances still ask,
“Where have you gone?” and
“What is this new look of yours?”
They spit “We hardly recognize you anymore!”
They grew so comfortable with this or that old skin of his
that they took it for granted.
But this old snake understands all too well;
it is just his old skin they want, not him.
And so he answers “That was just an old skin.
It is gone and I am born anew, again.”
Some say the snake is just a trickster and a fake!
The snake says “No. You mistook me for my skin.
But it was just my skin not my nature.
I have always been just a snake.”
The lesson:
Never chew over dead skin; you will get skinned.
For skin, like clothes, makes neither the man, nor the snake.
In fact, this old snake isn’t even a snake!
He is, after all, just a cool cat and a Dadaist-cum-Sartrist!
Dada Ausfahrt
How does one make a Dada Ausfahrt? Blend the following ingredients together: friendship, Christmas, exorcism, a psychedelic rock jam, balloons, farmer blockades, Lord Byron poetry and dada. But first, one must go to war.
Yes, it’s a dirty old shame that inner and universal peace is won only by waging war with the universe. At least, this is what happened to me and how I eventually created my new film, Dada Ausfahrt. I kid you not.
Continue reading
Love Erupt
Love hides well in the shame of misplaced givings.
Love cowers in the face of a brutal ‘no’.
Love whispers from the dying throes of embers.
Love runs for sanctuary …
… and surrenders only when ambushed.
In the hope of what might be …
With the wish of things to come …
And the passion of a haunting desire …
Will dissolves …
… and the orderly becomes disordered.
Only then is love consummated.
The mind agrees and the heart nods in kind.
And the soul breathes a gentle flame.
Erupt appropriately at your discretion.
Lucky You!
Lucky You!
Scratch-off ticket puncture wound
Admit one launch to the moon.
Holy triptych revelation
Cryptic moog insinuation.
Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!
Cornbread fiber simulation.
Stem-cell taco face the nation.
Germinate your chocolate soldiers
Rover red send June right over.
Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!
Laughing haha tour-bus
Magic dada mackeral can of war.
Abstain from your apathy, it’s
live and learn and then forget it
Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!
Yellow matter mustard leaking
Lyrics rip-off no redeeming
value-added taxidermist
Lather, rinse, dial ‘9’ for service!
Ride on … write off. Ride on … write off.
Ride on … write off. Ride on. Lucky You!
Lyrics: Jay Leonard Schwartz (ASCAP)
To Open Twentysomethings
Dear Twentysomethings,
Stop worshiping 30-40somethings who are desperately trying to act like they are still 20somethings but who are managed by 50-60somethings who are forever stuck in middle-management and who are being paid by 70-80somethings to distract you until you grow old enough to get sucked into their system and a world which they continue to control.
It’s your life and your world. You can take control of both but only with:
#OpenBorders
#OpenMarkets
#OpenSource
#OpenData
#OpenSociety
#OpenGovernment
#OpenPockets
#OpenHearts
#OpenMinds
#OpenLove
#NoRulez except one: there are no exceptions.
PS: For a new word order, resistance is not futile; it’s just life.
Do something with it.
Call it your own.
Or call it ‘Dada Youth TV’ if you like.
Words.
Substitute Sales
“Substitute Sales”
I have no peace of mind.
I have no piece of mine.
I have no peace of mine.
Substitute rooms for sale …
My dreams have become bothersome,
both in fact and in fiction.
They betray me with the truth;
a false reality I denied long ago.
Substitute coffee for sale …
And what am I to think of love?
The most loving remains unloved.
The zealot slowly bleeds to death
of ruptured rapture.
Substitute hearts for sale …
There is chaos in the world.
You know it. I know it.
We like to think saner heads will prevail.
Bullshit.
Substitute moons for sale …
Everything must go.
All sales are final.
Dada Dentistry: Stereoscopic Trans-Dental Meditation
Stereoscopic Trans-dental meditation is …
what happens when you drill into both sides of my mouth; life bites; art bites back.
My art becomes a temper-tantrum.
Clueless observations make for subjective guess-work.
Our ethics have been perverted by environmental occlusion.
The economics of our societies lead to psycho-dental trepidation.
Requiring an anti-inflammatory, life goes on.
But MEANwhile …
The hipster takes refuge in subliminal advertising.
The avant-garde spit new life into prunes.
Fashion-martyrs have become functionally obsolescent.
The law is lewd.
The lascivious are saints.
The humanist is old enough to care less.
The artist no longer watches TV.
The muse sleeps at the office.
A senile poodle defecates in room full of bibles.
The hierophant beats the dog with a mop.
The Antichrist is a rube.
The harmonica playing flautist is flayed alive.
Death has become a born-again chocoholic.
The truly political have been prefabricated.
The conservative eats a hidden taco and revises history for attention.
The liberal’s heart bleeds out … again.
The anarchist is a racist.
The hurried are prodded to wait.
The content are forced to want.
The cultured cultivate no pearls.
The elite munch on champagne flutes and sleep naked on canapes.
The poor digest their worries.
The immigrant is a small-world-traveler.
The toothless smiles the most.
No one knows the truly retarded
… but everyone has an opinion.
Do you know me the way I know you?
Probably not; you hardly know me.
Life goes on.
And in the END …
The loved and loving wait for the departed beloved.
Art regurgitates what nature can’t stomach.
The hierophant is dead.
God save the queen.
Everyone is an American.
Daedalus was not a dadaist, nor was he a dentist.
[Subliminal Advertising: Only Dada Venduza can bring a SMiLE.]
Seance For An E-Ghost
Seance For An E-Ghost
Created in a digital moment …
Here and then gone …
Errant misgivings …
Reaching for what was …
Realizing you’re gone and have left nothing …
I wonder now what happened …
Sighing, longing for the presence perhaps taken for granted …
Here and then gone …
Errant misgivings …
Reaching for what was …
Realizing you’re gone and have left nothing …
I wonder now what happened …
Sighing, longing for the presence perhaps taken for granted …
Time passes obviously …
An ache bellows for words not yet read …
Yearning desperately for fragments of short-term memories …
Lord, I am dazed and confused …
Oh, how I miss you …
Return.
Wherever your are … I hope you are rusting in peace …
Good Mourning, Dada: Nurturing The Contrived Nature Of Concrete Art
Eat your chocolate wash your brain
dada
dada
gulp some rain.
– Tristan Tzara
I’m constantly amazed at the capacity some people have to fail as human beings, or more specifically as products of nature. We have such great inherent artistic talent, and yet we are so often contrived in our behavior. Nurturing, for some, is done selectively and with ulterior motives. Efforts to save the planet come only after we’ve all but destroyed it. The art of being fully human remains lost to many who are kept afloat by a flotilla of prefabricated and standardized ‘paint by the numbers’ ideologies and conventions.
I write this on the heels of my mother’s recent passing, so as I let the tides of emotion wash over my head, I’m a bit vulnerable to the often groaned about process of grieving. Whatever comes comes; whatever goes goes – the good, the bad and the inane. Good mourning to all, I say, especially to me.
Therefore, I have resolved to refuse any attempt to self-repress my emotions or self-censor my thoughts during this period of bereavement. Mind you, this doesn’t say much, since on almost any given day this notion is ‘par for the course’ for me anyway.
The Gist and Jest of Jazz and Death
“Over all, I think the main thing a musician would like to do is give a picture to the listener of the many wonderful things that he knows of and senses in the universe.”– John Coltrane
“I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.”
– Woody Allen
As a writer and someone who tends to ‘feel and think’ his way through life, I have certain subjects I often feel compelled to write significantly about since they intensely stir the very core of my existence. Today, I’m referring to jazz and death – the former with love, the latter with fear. Time to connect the dots.
Please note that this essay is not the big magnum opus I plan on writing one day on these topics, but merely my attempt to broach related issues of an existential nature (breathe, breathe, breathe). In fact, I’m quite aware that in all likelihood I will probably never write what I’d like to, since I’m mindful of the fact that any attempt to do so would fall short … simply because jazz and death are both larger than life. Moreover, descriptions of jazz are just as elusive as rationalizations of death. Most literature provides the gist, but misses the jest. That’s where I come in.
Dada Bing Dada Boom: The Art Of Human Ineptness
“What we call dada is foolery, foolery extracted from the emptiness in which all the higher problems are wrapped, a gladiator’s gesture, a game played with the shabby remnants… A public execution of false morality.”– Hugo Ball
“Dada aimed to destroy the reasonable deceptions of man and recover the natural and unreasonable order.”
– Hans Jean Arp
The other day I found a large dead cockroach laying upside down in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the post office. It was a variety of which I had rarely seen in the years I’ve lived here in Salonica, but very close to the type of palmetto bugs that are the norm in Miami, where I was born. I had no idea how it had gotten there, but I nonetheless had the distinct feeling it must have fallen from the sky. It certainly hadn’t mailed itself to Greece.
The sight of it took me off guard and I pondered its possible existential meaning for a few moments before I continued down the street towards a distant bus-stop. While riding the bus, I thought about the life of a cockroach … and its end, whether by poisoning, being cannibalized by other bugs, or falling victim to a crushing flip-flop. I confess trying to find some Zen-like answer for its sudden appearance in my life at that particular moment. In truth, I never found an answer, and in fact I still have no idea why I even feel compelled to write about it in this post.
It was just one of those insignificant transient moments in life that shake you to your very core. In the words of ‘Billy’ Shakespeare, however, it was really just ‘much ado about nothing’. Yet, even today, it’s still hard to just let go of the significance of that ‘unprocessed’ moment … because it remains an insult to both my ego the super-ego. (Note: the id conscientiously objected to comment.)
A Phoenix Imploding
A Phoenix Imploding
Fanning the flames of a prodigy’s inferno, self-pity looks on as art burns.
Anger consumes reason.
Bitterness ignites the mind-set.
Consumed with the rage over jilted aspirations …
The eye stutters …
The tongue is blind …
Speaking in volumes of disdain, spitting dissension.
Wracked with spasmodic thoughts on unfinished words.
Impotent intentions char on slow burn.
Wisps of smoldering passions dissolve into ‘misforgivings’.
A primal scream of guttural inflammation belches forth raw talent.
“Such a waste” cries a vanishing muse …
Choking on bile …
Lashing out in all directions …
Twisting, jerking, shrieking, mourning the living and grieving over stillborn dreams.
A phoenix imploding.
Why so much anger?
The will to cause such pain.
Too busy blaming ancestral arsonists to reach for a glass of water.
Choosing instead to smother candescence with incendiary fury.
Burn that ‘self-loathing’ down …
……………………………………………………………………
Suggested Viewing
Suggested Reading
Musically Yours
Musically Yours
There are times when there is vision in the music
… but not when the music itself presents a vision
… or is even visionary itself.
Oh say can’t you see that some chords unravel and some scales are unbalanced?
Have you ever met an arpeggio that unfolded into a non-linear arrangement of an unsequenced rhythm?
I have … and was seduced by it … willingly.
The I In Me They Never Bothered With
The I In Me They Never Bothered With
They see my gender.
They see my color.
They see the clothes I wear.
But …
They want to know my ‘likes’.
They want to know my contacts.
They want to know my religion.
They want to know my income.
They want to know my sexual preference.
They want to know my political affiliation.
They want to know my citizenship.
They want to know my heritage.
They want to know my family and lineage.
They want to know my genetic code.
They want my body.
They want my soul.
They want my spirit.
They want my blood.
They want my conformity.
But …
They don’t want my mind.
And they never once even ask my name.
The Impetus Of Impediment
What is the nature of the luxury which enervates and destroys nations? Are we sure that there is none of it in our own lives?
– Henry David Thoreau
As beautiful as simplicity is, it can become a tradition that stands in the way of exploration.
– Laura Nyro
I lie in the living room, a song in my head. My guitar sits across the room, silently resonating a song from long ago. It yearns for something new. It beckons me to come and create something more than I can, at present. I stare at it with loving disdain, unmoving and unmoved.
Yes, yes, it often seems like the hardest thing to do is that which we know we ought to do but which requires effort: our labors of love so to speak. Due diligence suggests we apply some elbow grease and put our backs into the matter at hand. Conventional wisdom says nothing about waiting for the ‘perfect time’, however.
It comes to pass that we reach a point where we realize we need more, oh so much more, to sustain our passion, enhance our vision, nurture our idealism, and facilitate our expression. At this point, we begin to wrestle with the contention that it’s not enough for us to rest on our hollow laurels or innate talents. And so with reluctance, we knowingly resign ourselves to the reality that we need to transform ourselves in order to thrive. Yet, agreeing in principle is one thing … doing is another.
Walking On Eggshells, Sticks And Stones
Censorship ends in logical completeness when nobody is allowed to read any books except the books that nobody reads.– George Bernard Shaw
If you want a vision of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – forever.
– George Orwell
Let’s pretend it’s kindergarten again and time for ‘show and tell’. Today, I’ve brought ‘my opinion’ to share.
Now, if that makes you nervous, so be it. However, know that I say that because only you can decide for yourself what offends you or incites you to violence. Hopefully, this post will do neither, but obviously it’s really up to you. Trust me, I understand.
These days, there is a rash of global protests, some violent, over a pretty lame anti-Islam film titled ‘Innocence of Muslims‘ produced in the United States. The zealous condemnation of the film by Muslims have triggered a rioting frenzy, including attacks on U.S. diplomatic missions and consulates, and resulting in at least 14 deaths and the murder of U.S. Ambassador Christopher Stevens in Libya. This morning I awoke to a steady stream of ‘Twitter tweets’ suggesting that the protests were spreading like wildfire … and so was discussion of another form of righteous indignation: censorship.
Oh, how some have forgotten their kindergarten lessons: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
The High Art And Crime Of Limb Jerking: Free Pussy Riot
“Without freedom, no art; art lives only on the restraints it imposes on itself, and dies of all others.”– Albert Camus
“I thought the church loved its children … It turns out the church only loves those children who believe in Putin.”
– Maria Alekhina
Running within my veins is an international blend of blood cells owing their existence to a somewhat mixed and muddied heritage that is one part American, one part European and one part Russian. These days, my blood – and not just the Russian part – is boiling, especially after witnessing the conviction of 3 young women, members of ‘Pussy Riot’, an anonymous Russian feminist performance art group/punk rock band.
A few days ago, Maria Alekhina and Nadezhda Tolokonnikova, both young mothers, as well as Ekaterina Samucevich, were sentenced by a Russian court to two years each after being found guilty of “hooliganism motivated by religious hatred”.
If you haven’t heard the story, here are the basics: In February of this year, the artists performed a ‘flash performance’ of their song titled, ‘Punk-Prayer: Virgin Mary, Put Putin Away’, at the altar of Moscow’s main cathedral. The stunt lasted approximately 30 seconds or so before the group were forced from the church.
Yes, the impromptu politically charged exhibition obviously rubbed many folks the wrong way – especially those it was aimed at, namely Russian President Vladimir Putin and church leader Patriarch Kirill, a staunch supporter of Putin’s re-election campaign; strange bedfellows given the supposedly formal separation of church and state.
Incredibly, the Russian court chose to dismiss the obvious political and personal aim of the song, as well as the artists’ actual testimony, and instead categorized their actions as essentially a ‘religious hate crime’ and act of ‘social disorder’. In this last categorization, the court referred to “devilish dances” and ‘limb jerking” (insert long pregnant pause here to collect your dropped jaws).
I Told You I Was Trouble: Amy Winehouse RIP (1983-2011)
I cheated myself,Like I knew I would,
I told you I was trouble,
You know that I’m no good,
– Amy Winehouse, ‘I’m No Good’
He walks away,
The sun goes down,
He takes the day but I’m grown,
And there’s no way, in this blue shape,
My tears dry on their own.
The sun goes down,
He takes the day but I’m grown,
And there’s no way, in this blue shape,
My tears dry on their own.
– Amy Winehouse, ‘Tears Dry On Their Own’
What the hell’s the matter with you?” is a question that’s often been fired at me point blank in varying contexts, by an even more varied collection of people. Parents, sibling, employers, and colleagues have all hurled this inquisitive barb in my direction. My answer? Well, in general, I’d suggest that the question is moot.
To be honest, I think it’s a strange question, because more often than not, it’s a question that’s asked through a veil of perception that gnaws away at the inquisitors’ sensitivities… or expectations. In fact, I’d argue that it’s not really even a question, but more of a statement of exasperation, spoken by a chafed few who have yet to fathom that there are just some things, situations or people that they can’t control in life.
Loitering Words 