Art... The true beauty of it is not in the technique so much, I don't think, its in the intent. That's just me though. You know, despite the most horrifying section of my passage through this place, in which all I see -morning, day and night- is dark, ironically my eyes have sharpened to beauty. No, no, come on... I'm not talking about broads... well, yeah broads... but I'm talking about the beauty of being able to feel the intent of a work of art. As if, though exposed to art all of my life, I am just now discovering it. It's not just new dimensions for the admiration of art and chicks that have opened up, but just, like, flowers, and birds, and trees, and the beauty of the whole natural world is being revealed to me...
The hypersensitivity that has become the norm since I have discontinued my loon-candy has become crippling, yes perhaps (physically speaking); but on the other hand, if these new eyes of mine are just some pleasant collateral damage from my abrupt, Fuck-You discontinuation of my 7 year relationship with Effexor, and Risperidone and a regular Ativan regimen, then I welcome it. Be it as it may, I feel as if I am more like 'myself' than I have ever been before. Too much so, in fact...
Or maybe these are my new eyes, seeing the world for the first time after having 'wiped away the goo, once having emerged from a cocoon'. (Major reference. Inside thing.)
I dedicate this post to the young lady who inspired it. I will not be so bold as I can sometimes be and call Krooklyn Kim a friend because often times guilt tends to transfer via association (though I would very much like to consider her one.) Kim is a new acquaintance of the Misanthropaganda Wolfpack. She is a remarkable woman, a true artist, and an ill Brooklyn Punk chick, whom was kind enough to share this photograph with me. Through this simple scene that she assembled as a piece of temporary art, I was moved into action... into words. I found it instantly inviting, and then I identified with it -with the intent. Also, it brought back certain ritualistic memories of my not-distant-enough pagan past. I asked Kim, "do you have a title for it?" Negative response. "Kim, may I title it?" Affirmative response.
So I named it: "In Hopes That You Would Come".
"Damn, that's appropriate!" Relief came over me that I did her work justice. Joy filled me that I connected with the intent. I took her reaction as evidence of that.
Here is the original work that she submitted. In hopes that it can enrich someone as it did me, I have posted it, first, in its original form...
"In Hopes You Would Come"
Thank you, Kim. Bolts!
The day that Kim shared her piece, I continually went back to my phone to view it, to reflect on it, and on the title that I immediately associated to it -my intent. I wanted to transfer my intent, in turn, in the only way that I have at my disposal and a poem came of it. Unbeknownst to her, I took some liberties with her image and gave it the Misanthropaganda treatment, not as an improvement of any kind, but rather as transference. I hope it's okay... because like anyone who would associate with Misanthro -Krooklyn Kim WILL stab a motherfucker! This poem is called "If... Or When".
(just because I was listening to Chet Baker's version of "Almost Blue" when I wrote this. If you'd like, I recommend you do the same as you read it...)
If..
or when...
Just hang with me, OK?!...
(sigh)
[inhale]-[exhale]
wait...
FUCK!...
Now I can't...
It's just-
it all wants to come out at once, and I really need to get through this...
It's overdue...
(sigh)
I can't...
I've been hurting for too long...
It's all going to come out wrong...
If or when I do this.
If...
or when...
Just bare certain things in mind...
That I have been dreading this moment in time...
The time to lay all my cards on the table...
First the Hermit, then the Lovers, then the Fool, then Death...
If or when the prophecy comes to see its day...
Well...
We're the ones that make them be...
[unknowingly]-[but willingly]
If or when I ever tell you that this is the last goodbye,
then that may be the time to admit how much I've cried.
More than a man should admit to before relinquishing all of his pride...
(sigh)
How I've cried, and cried, and cried...
If or when these thoughts ever reach you,
perhaps this will teach you to not be so cruel...
[unknowingly]-[but willingly]
How silly of me, I thought you were filling me
(while slowly killing me)
I am just your cherry-flavored savior in the oddest of ways, getting it all off of my chest...
hand on breast...
knife on neck.
This one blown, next life on deck...
If or when that day does come.
