time sliding

Monday, September 25, 2006

I went dancing Saturday night. I have been going out primarily to engage myself with humanity, but once the music entered me, I was fairly oblivious to everything around me, the rhythms reverberating through my body, arms, legs, hands, feet, flailing in the intricate tempos and counter-tempos of time, space and energy.

Billy was a mountain
Ethel was a tree standing on his shoulder

Some older woman informed my dance partner that my hair was unfashionable. The club caters to mature crowds, a change from the usual twenty-somethings I usually encounter on my late-night wanderings, so the very existence of hair on a male head might be considered rather uncommon. Older people often have much more to offer than the young, but mixed in with the offerings may be strong doses of rigidity and bitterness. Youth are easily impressed but unless the amazed gaze of admiration is your bag, their perspectives are limited by the limits of their experience.

My mother never liked Andy Warhol's work. He formed an oblique angle to the mainstream directions of modern art and she had been trained as a classical modern artist. Klee was her bag, baby. I had early Rothko leanings, but had no shackles of the past to toss in my encounters with Andy.

I must say that Warhol made some of the worst movies ever. Art isn't always entertaining.

Influentially, no one since Picasso has had such an effect on culture as a whole.

The Velvet Underground surpasses almost everything of the era in so many ways. It is, perhaps, unfortunate that the VU didn't have more of an influence on the progress of music.

"In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."

I have been exercising excessively, working my upper body and abdomen into something akin to strong. When it comes to making muscles, being a man rocks. Very litte effort is needed to show progress. The best part is that the regular release of muscular tensions provides enhanced physical sensitivity, making the world a sexier place.

Andy had absolutely no talent for narrative, so he lived an artistic story, substituting reality for art where art could not suffice.

I grew up near a boy named Andy Cohen. He played the drums and every time I see a young Keith Moon, I think of Andy, a little guy going nuts behind the drum set. I desperately want to play the drums, but the time has not arrived. My list of desperate desires is very, very long.

I awake every morning with an incredible eagerness to explore all the wonders I have discovered and have yet to discover. My ADD is still far from controlled, although worlds away from where I began. I leap happily from one joy to another, learning this and practicing that, organizing to create further chaos.

I appreciate organization but my first task is to mangle the organization and squeeze whatever creativity I can find in the morass. Genius comes from breaking rules. Patient cohorts reorganize in my wake, preparing the stage for my next chaotic pass.

I have a t-shirt with Warhol's Marilyn. Genuis meets genuis. Beauty prevails.

Beauty is its own form of genius - Wilde

The lovely waitress Callie celebrated her twenty-third birthday on Saturday. I told her that I would soon be forty-five and after a long look she said, "no way."

"Deal with the devil I made a few years back," I explained, "I have an aging portrait in the attic."

Invocation of devil dealings seemed to relax her, a strange response that I have often noticed in people of all types. My eX used to cringe every time I would make that joke, reversing the positive effect it often had. People just didn't joke about Satan where she came from. I'm not sure why it puts people at ease to blame the devil for my good looks, except perhaps that it undercuts my responsibility for my advantages.

I just like to invoke Wilde. He was a funny guy.

"His majesty is like a dose of the clap - a pleasure when arriving but soon a pain in the arse."

enjoy,

DC