Can you handle not knowing?

Dwight D. Kronersveld had spent most of the night putting cigar bands around the larger, errant dog turds around town again. And I had to decide whether what meaning, or barring that, what emotion, I was going to assign to this. I filled a large scientific beaker to the top with explanations and drank it down. Immediately the back of my head began stinging as if the tentacles of a Portuguese Man of War were tangled in my medulla oblongata. I rinsed out the beaker and topped it off with a boiling mass of fresh anxiety. Down it went. Naturally, I sweat it out over the course of a most unpleasant hour. I had some old depression lying around, so I put that in and mixed it with some furtive paranoia beads I found rolling around behind the couch. Boy was that a mistake. I spent two days on a step ladder watching my neighbor make some kind of dark red jam through a dirty window. In time, it became abundantly clear that if I was going to live with the elusive Mr. Kronersveld's actions, I would have to accept their mystery. I left the beaker empty on the table. A family of spiders moved into it.

(Untitled watercolor. Robert H. Cumming)

Awoken to truth, the day dreams...

Let a splinter work itself out (rather than digging around in there for it and causing all kinds of undue suffering). Magic!

("Maiden and Unicorn" Domenichino, 1602)

Taking Shit Mountain by Stradivarius...

This morning one man in a shit brown shirt
walked home with his shit brown coffee
and a roll of toilet paper for his love's
shit brown asshole.

Some shit brown road workers
hollered at him
pointing out the timely links
that connect coffee to TP.

A parrot vomited behind a bush.
a noise that could vaporize the bones of a condor.

Upon arriving home
he realized that the shirt
was chocolate
the coffee
was delicious
and his love's asshole
was a rose...

He handed her the tissue
and they smiled kindly in the Monday
Cauliflournia
sun.

You dig?

CG Jung had a fine-sized mid-life crisis without which the world could not possibly have embraced the stone-cutting, shadow-loving sage we know of today.

"The focus of these critical years," said Carl, "simply had to be a struggle with my narcissism: the loss of idealized others and the absorbing of surrogate selves, the pride and grandiosity in the sphere of the self, and the resulting periods of narcissistic rage."

Only by entering the psychic labyrinths where his buried narcissism lived and ruled, by poking holes in the resistant crust around his own blind spot, and seeing the beast at work, could that alchemical process occur by which Jung taps into his most vital essence and emerges as a truly independent theorist (and human being).

(Herzog: Lessons of Darkness)

See Papa G's sculptures in action...

Papa Gazpachot has an art show of his animated found object sculptures up now. If you're in NY, find your way to ALLI. It's definitely worth the trip!

(Richard Gachot's "Ice House" studio in New York).

Fimping...

I've invented a new form of advertising. It's called "Fimp Advertising" which is of course a contraction of "First Impression." How does "fimping" work? It's all about empowering the individual to choose their own brands and to advertise in the intimacy of their own homes. Their own beds actually. The "fimper" signs up with a brand of their choice and is sent a pair of little logos or ads mounted on cardboard, each about the size of a large postage stamp.

Keep these "fimp cards" by your bed and then in the morning when you wake up next to your sleeping beloved, hold the fimp cards about two inches from their sleeping eyes. Then with your elbow, knock the side of their head. Upon opening their eyes the first thing they see will be the fimp cards. Bingo! We all know how important first impressions are! Your beloved is guaranteed to think about the brand in a strong new light. Mission accomplished!

RIP Graham Leggat...

Friend, mentor, catalyst, film champion, suave man of mystery, and science fictions. You will be missed.