Memetic

This morning I feel. I feel I. The centralism is angry. A disturbed nest. Busy through the night with no rest. Coffee with this manifesto.

and the second...

The all so familiar point. Arriving at the most sought after commodity: the subject. Whatever. Exclusive or not. Emphasize a regular rhythm and conduct will be just as predictable. The malignant arrangement of dancing is the abhorrent disguise of order.

Noise is so tasteless. Ignorant and ignoble. Clearly it has no mature refinement. If the palette must search for recognition than the product is clearly not being received by the correct audience. Swine will eat anything. Even their own shit.

Patterns that oscillate bypass the true circuit. Allow the element of chaos to barrel through the door like eager dogs driven mad with excitement and anticipation. Invitation to serendipity. Focus on the practice. The ritual. The ceremonial act of the rites. Then attempt to invoke and capture. In one take. One series of moments. All is sacred and all records strive to validate this truth. No artificiality in the face of divinity. This is merely vanity. The sacrifice is in the process. the vanity is the act itself.

Learn the new language. It is mathematics. It is alpha-numeric. It is improvised. It has structure. Fundamentally, it is rudimentary. The foundation is dormant in technique. Awaken the linguistics of the open dialog between you and your instrument by practice.

Evade and escape clever eruptions that are as clandestine ...as guerrilla ... as tactical. A single distraction is enough to find the dramatic and hasty withdrawal. the empty promises of the tangential. Do not abscond from what is still in it's infancy.

Not so far away is the memory...

Not so distant is the thought...

"what is this?"

"is this art?"

"what the fuck is this?"

"are you serious?"

Let us have a paternity test. Let us have a litmus test. Clearly, there must be a line. Some point of embarkation leads to elitism and the other leads to elitism.

The swine does eat it's own shit. It does not discriminate. All is consumer top quality. Wretched is the glutton that doesn't attempt to create anything as beautiful as what it consumes. Godly is the animal who is comfortable in it's own shit and care nothing about vanity.

Let the vanity be the artists shit. Let the act of producing and excreting be the embodiment of humility. Do not admire your nature. Allows others to. Convince them to wear your eliminations as talismans. Proclamations. Advertisements. Symbols. Expressions. Valuable meanings. Let the modesty lead you to the gratification of appetite. Communion at last.

As with everything transient and material, so is appreciation. Watch it decay and assist. Nothing is as disgusting as the self deprecating person. Quickly destroy it's value and allow the half life to begin. Ruin it.

Allowing the audience to assimilate and absorb something is important. After it is inside, make it look and feel ordinary. It is desirable to let things pass through the system without attracting the attention of control devices. A myriad of sentinels wander the halls of each and every person. Regulating all that threatens immunity. Allow the art to become Mary Mallon. Famous only after the fact: typhoid mary.

Bad art is all but. Art can be either benign or malignant. Like cancer, art is neither good nor bad. It is a phenomena. The organism either consciously recognizes its utility and accepts, or keeps browsing. To stop and question whether it is or isn't ....is to be eye fucking the hooker. You have already contracted it via solicitation. The desperate appalling cry for attention captivated you. Art can use you. You are dispensable. You are indispensable.

Two monks were returning to the monastery in the evening. It had rained and there were puddles of water on the road sides. At one place a beautiful young woman was standing unable to walk accross because of a puddle of water. The elder of the two monks went up to a her lifted her in his alms and left her on the other side of the road, and continued his way to the monastery.
In the evening the younger monk came to the elder monk and said, "Sir, as monks, we cannot touch a woman ?"
The elder monk answered "yes, brother".
Then the younger monk asks again, " but then Sir, how is that you lifted that woman on the roadside ?"
The elder monk smiled at him and told him " I left her on the other side of the road, but you are still carrying her "

Illustrated.