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
“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.
“Sol But No Rhythm”
For the first time in months, I sat on my balcony,
in my woolen clothes, and drank in the Sun.
Sol … but no rhythm …
Please understand,
I am NOT patient; I am stubborn.
Please don’t confuse my smile for my defense mechanism.
An inner storm always rages; it is a force of nature.
I cannot control it … but it is who I am.
And yet, I am too stupid stubborn to come to terms with it.
So I think to myself …
“why hide when you can simply masquerade?”
Forever the cat, dreaming he was a dog.
Forever the dancing baton in a requiem.
Forever an undressed window looking out into the foreign.
Curtain-less.
Shameless.
Soul but no rhythm.
Poisoned by white tempo …
with increasingly fading vision …
and the buzz of white noise in my ears.
Not even sure when my heart skips a beat or two,
but surely it must …
Death, always advancing, never seeking an element of surprise.
And me?
Too stubborn to accept the calm before the storm.
A misappropriated cliché:
That which doesn’t harm you, kills you.
Soul … but no rhythm …
Why aren’t I Miles Davis?
A better question yet …
Why aren’t I Jay Schwartz?
Yet Another Declaration of Dada Independence:
Time is a fungus; it has no soul.
Existence is but a mathematical equation; I’m poor at math.
Experience is soon forgotten.
Practice makes mistakes.
Dadaists embraces perfunctory perfection. Continue reading
You have reached the ‘Call Center for Existential Obscenities’.
Please hold.
When only the obscene can be seen, taboo fears require puritan counter-measures.
Indifference fuels the irrational and the self-absorbed.
The helpless mutates into a victim of necrotic tendencies and can no longer transmute.
– If you would like to ‘call for help’, please stay on the line. Continue reading
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.]
‘An Outing Of Vanity’
Forgive me vanity for I have sinned.
Those who know 12-step programs are wont to say “just be honest and tell your story” and you will be heard and accepted. OK, so here it goes:
My name is Jay Schwartz. I am a 52-year old American who lives in Greece. I’ve spent most of my life pleasing others at the expense of my inner-peace and have created havoc and chaos in my existence, and in those of some others as well. Continue reading
Cocktails With Reality … just another play in one part
Cast: Artie, Biff (the stiff), Cupid, Dada, Frank, Gaius, Hark (the angel), & Popcorn
ACT I:
– Narrator:
Meanwhile, on the edge of a cafe rooftop …
-Popcorn:
Live and learn and become stubborn … because reality, sanity and fulfillment are neither found in Judeo-Christian work ethics, nor are they found in western or eastern pop-psychology cliche. They are only found in the pursuit of happiness and with self-actualization.
– Biff (the stiff):
What time is it?
– Hark (the angel):
God watches the clock but takes cares of him/her/it/___/self (ves).
– Biff (the stiff):
Time to get back to work.
– Popcorn:
The time is not ‘now’. It never was, relatively speaking. Live in the ‘now’ because there is no time like the present.
– Artie:
For the artist, time is not a commodity; it is both a resource and part and parcel of an energy-renewal cycle … so is money.
– Biff (the stiff):
I’m late, as usual. And, I’m getting shorter.
– Frank:
Life is less about ‘what you make of it’ and more about finding a balance between what you want and need to do … and what you can bring to the world to help and encourage others to do the same.
– Cupid:
Screw you! The fuck you know …
– Gaius:
I can be honest in telling you that I’ve made a mess out of my life trying in earnest ‘to do’ the right thing … and also in trying to do the ‘right thing’ by people who are more part of my problems than the solution.
– Popcorn:
The long and short of existence is not found in ‘making ends meet’. There is no ‘means’ in ‘the end’.
– Biff (the stiff):
Oh happy day! The end is nigh! Curses! I’m not sweating enough …
– Gaius:
Some people are brought into this world only to make others happy … but others would rather live in misery and dump on the ‘happy makers’. The tragedy: having the devalued existence of a clown that everyone kicks as he passes by. Fuck all you bastards! LOL.
– Artie:
There is nothing sadder in life than ‘wasted potential’.
– Dada:
Life is a dada commute. Time to transmute!
– Biff (the stiff):
Will someone please bury me?
– FINIS –
EPILOGUE:
– Hark (the angel):
What is it you don’t get? Life goes on until it doesn’t. FINIS.
– Dada:
Viva Dada! Roll the ‘take no’ credits.
Accommodating Commodes
Oh Accommodating Commodes…
My, how you have reconciled your fate.
Conditioned to forgive and forget
so that you may be visited again by bum dignitaries
and crowned with their indignities.
Where is your individuality?
– long ago flushed out and smothered
with the loose vowels of holy rhetoric
by those up on high …
Do you take heart in knowing that at the tail end of your existence
you will have dutifully served your function …
without cracking under the excretion of your karma?
What is this righteousness you feel
in extending a policy of laissez-faire to the derrière?
Perhaps you fancy yourself a grand pedal-stool of sorts …
a throne in the company of the elite …
… a noble, yet humble, reflecting pool to moonbeams?
Oh accommodating commodes …
Alas, there is no virtue in self-repression.
And in the end, … I must confess …
you are just full of crap.
Whee! A Charade!
Life’s parade goes on in the streets below … and so each day we rise … and step back into the costume we have woven for ourselves out of the tattered pieces of our psyche and circumstances … some borrowed, some stolen, some just created from scratch to suit our prefabricated identities … and most bought on sale.
We learn to move, but we are conditioned to march. “Step quickly to the pulse of a silent beat or be trampled”, a bullhorn screams in our heads, “Left foot, right foot…”.
Most ignore the broken bodies of would be hand-walkers staining the gutters along the route. The odd streaker is quickly censored. Cut to a commercial.
Life goes on; move it or lose it …
Note: This is not ‘dada’.
Loitering Words 